Blunt Wit

Sometimes I take small liberties with the truth in my blogs. Poetic license, so to speak, nothing egregious, just some embellishment around the edges. Some fictional imaginings to spice up my otherwise dull life. With this one, however, I’ve added no accouterments. It is the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

So our kitchen table is on her last leg, literally. If she were a horse we’d have taken her out back and shot her. My father, who was visiting a while back and is handy with things like ailing tables, put a second stud screw through the leg to fasten it tight. Thus bolstered, I thought she had a few more years in her but no… she has pulled up lame yet again.

So on this dreary, rainy day we headed to IKEA. Note I typically mispronounce it ‘Ick eee ya’ (as in icky) as opposed to the supposed correct ‘Ay key ya’. I think IKEA is Swedish for ‘you’ve got a meatball stuck in your throat’ or maybe that’s just the sound you make when you do. Anyway, I’m not so fluent in Swedish. Our mission was merely reconnaissance for a new kitchen table. Or so I thought.

First problem hit us before we even reached the parking lot. A huge sign on the side of the road read ‘autos turn to park in 800m’ and ‘over height vehicles 1200m’. So tell me this, when the hell did we start using the metric system in the good ole US of A.

I’m actually quite used to metrics having lived several dog’s lifetimes overseas. But like some foreign language you are required to THINK in metric. You can’t be translating back and forth. I mean who besides Einstein has time to do all of those funky calculations in their head. Especially while driving in the pelting Californian rain.

And I’m in an SUV. Is an SUV classified as an auto or an over height vehicle? Would I have to stop and measure it? Would I need to measure in meters or feet? While thus spazzing-out thank goodness I noticed the mini-van in front of me turning into the auto turnoff so I followed figuring that if his or her top sheared off I’d just come to an abrupt stop and back out.

Once in the store, I immediately got sucked into the IKEA cheap eats café laden with subsidized goodies to get the unsuspecting clod jacked up on meatballs, cheap wine and European coffee for their ensuing consumer frenzy.

Thus slightly inebriated, highly sugared and over caffeinated I sauntered into … the maze. If I’d been smart enough to carry my cinnabun with me, I could have left small crumbs along the path and maybe, possibly have found my way out. As it was, the place twisted and turned in a confusing blur of blind furniture alleys. I’m telling you not even mice chasing overripe cheese would have gotten out of there. Even with the funny arrows on the floor supposedly taking you to some promised land or the cash register, you’re always getting lost. The maps make little sense. I guess they figure if they confuse you enough you’ll buy something, anything just taste sweet freedom.

Needless to say, wandering in this furniture desert, we eventually came across the “perfect kitchen table” like manna from heaven. I was not so gently persuaded to buy it by my spouse. So much for reconnaissance. At least we finally had our ticket to freedom. That, my friends, is the secret. Once you’ve decide to spend your hard earned cash, the road to salvation and the cash register lights up with alacrity. Life is but a maze to be navigated.

Have you ever felt lost in the maze of life? How did you ever find your way out?