Every Mom Is A Working Mom

I actually did earn a Master's Degree. Just because I only use it to stay home and blog doesn't mean I am worthless.

I am an unpaid, full-time employee of my children. There are the days when I can’t believe I left a job I truly enjoyed and was good at to stay home. In my previous life, I wrote and edited scientific literature for the Department of Energy. Occasionally I got to travel to DC, wear a suit, pass through security clearance with my government badge, and take meetings about exhibits and displays for government conferences. I loved flying into Dulles, taking a cab to my hotel in Dupont Circle, and carrying a briefcase. But, as much as I loved my job we didn’t “need” the money and my premature son did need me. So, I walked away.

Ten years later I am still (technically) unemployed. I am an unpaid, working mom. Most days, I’m more than fine with that. Yes. I cook and clean and manage the house. But, I also have the freedom to climb the stairs at Red Rocks in the morning and then meet a friend for lunch if I want or to drop the kids at school and head up for a half day of skiing occasionally. It’s a fairly substantial perk. The lack of paychecks sucks, but the freedom of being my own boss (at least when the kids are in school) is awesome.

I have a deep respect for paid, working mothers because I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to balance a career with being Mom and all that role implies. There are weeks when I am exhausted from all I have to juggle, and I have forty hours more per week to do it in than a paid mother does. And, a single mom? Well….she is more powerful than Superman. I am in awe. I only wish some of the paid moms I’ve encountered appreciated my situation as much as I appreciate theirs.

I wish there was some way that I could relay to others that just because my blonde hair is in a ponytail and I’m wearing yoga pants at drop off does not necessarily mean that I am an uneducated bubblehead with nothing better to do than figure out what snacks to serve at a 2nd grade Christmas party. I’m happy to help out at my boys’ school. In fact, as an unpaid, stay-at-home mom I honestly feel it’s a requirement because paid, working moms can’t get away to volunteer as often as I can. It’s my small contribution to society and the whole “it takes a village thing” that no one wants to admit is actually true.

Yes. I am an unpaid, stay-at-home mom, and I know that may not seem impressive. But, I am an integral part of American society. Maybe my master’s degree sits in my craft room instead of in a corner office. Maybe I don’t get paid for what I do. But, if I didn’t do what I do, it might be more difficult for paid moms to do what they do. It all works out. We moms, both paid and unpaid, should try harder to cut each other some slack. I’ll tell you what. If you promise to give me credit for being intelligent, useful, and greatly underpaid, I’ll stop making those annoying, handcrafted, overachiever Valentine’s Day favors for the classroom party. That way, neither one of us has any reason to feel inferior.

 

Posted on by Me 4

Pockets Full of Fish

A memoir about escape, discovery, relationships, and opportunity.

“You can avoid having ulcers by adapting to a situation; if you fall in the mud puddle, check your pockets for fish.” ~ Author Unknown

One of my challenges to myself for 2012 was to spend a bit more time reading from books. I read plenty in a normal day, but most of that is done via the internet. As an English major at CU, I spent four years with my nose buried in actual books. I continued reading like a fiend after college and through graduate school. After becoming a mother, however, I found less and less time for reading books. I had to grab a bit of reading here and there, and I got sick of dragging out a book only to read two pages and have to put it down again. I eventually gave up, but I have missed it.

Yesterday I started reading a hardback I checked out of the Columbine library. (Yes. I am old school. I don’t have a Kindle. I still go to the library in person to check out books. Shocking, I know.)  Anyway, I saw this book recommended on one of those lists that you see everywhere that tout the “must read” literature. This particular list was 30 Books Everyone Should Read Before Their 30th Birthday. Okay. Okay. I realize I should have read this book over 13 years ago before I turned 30, but 13 years ago the book didn’t even exist. It was published in 2005.

It’s called Honeymoon with My Brother by Franz Wisner. The gist of the story, as I’ve been able to gather from the book jacket and the 60 pages I’ve cruised through so far, is that Franz was dumped by his fianceé just five days before their wedding in 1999. In a situation that is painful, not to mention embarrassing, Franz went for the glass is half full approach. He hosted his friends the weekend of his would-be wedding and let them comfort him when he needed it most. Then, brokenhearted but trying to move on, Franz asked his brother to join him on what would have been his honeymoon trip to Costa Rica. While there, the brothers decided that they should extend their trip and travel the world while they still have the opportunity. And that is exactly what they do. For two years they traveled, eventually hitting 53 countries across Eastern Europe, South America, Asia, and Africa.

Even without finishing the book, I know I like this guy. When faced with what would flatten many people, Franz chose to see his circumstances as opportunity, his misfortune as a gift. I am all too guilty of being that glass is half empty sort of gal. I sulk. I wallow. I whine. Eventually, I move on, but not without giving up too much time to purposeful misery. I need to pause briefly when I perceive what might be a change for the worse and then adjust my attitude before moving on. Who knows? Maybe if I uncrossed my arms and stopped pouting long enough after falling in that puddle I might just find those fish in my silver-lined pockets?

Posted on by Me 2

My Brain Was Abducted By Aliens

Someday I might be a great pet.

“Will there be another race to come along and take over for us? Maybe martians could do better than we’ve done? We’ll make great pets.” ~ Porno for Pyros

Last night, hubby and I watched a film with aliens life forms. I actually selected and had Netflix send me a movie about aliens. For years I avoided alien movies because of post traumatic stress disorder. No, I am not going to recount a tale of my own abduction into an alien ship where I experienced the dreaded alien probe because that did not happen. At least not yet.

But, when I was in sixth grade, I had an absolutely certifiable science teacher who taught a unit about extraterrestrials. I am not kidding. Thank you, Mr. Marcus, for showing us photos of cow mutilations and crop circles, for playing a recording of War of the Worlds without telling us that it was a performance based on a book and not an actual event, and for sharing with us photos of supposed unidentified flying objects. Seriously? I was an impressionable 12 year old with a vivid imagination. What were you thinking? Thanks to you I spent at least six months having bad dreams. (I still remember some of them, by the way.) Thanks to you even ET freaked me out. Thanks to you I was in my mid-20’s when I finally steadied my nerves enough to see Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Thanks to you I will never be able to watch Cloverfield, Body Snatchers, or even Cocoon. Okay. Maybe I’ll watch Cocoon someday, but I’ll probably never see District 9, which is too bad because I understand it was a fairly decent film. Yes, indeed. Thank you, Mr. Marcus, for scarring me for life because you wanted to share your fascination with the supernatural with a classroom filled with six graders. I bet you are retired and living in Roswell now, happy as a clam in your shiny, silver double wide, while I still suffer from the after effects of your teaching.

Anyway, I was reasonably impressed with myself for watching that alien movie last night without losing it. And, when I had to pause the movie and go downstairs to put my laptop to bed, I was proud of myself for holding it together in our dark house and walking back up the stairs even though I wanted to run because there could be an alien downstairs waiting to bite my head off once I let my guard down. Doesn’t matter if I had to give myself a little pep talk to work through that moment of fear, to take each step deliberately and without terror. I made it. I even turned the movie back on and finished it when I got back to bed. I consider that real progress…approximately 31 years in the making.

I kid about this now, but once it was quite real to me. There was a time when I couldn’t drive down a dark, isolated road at night without wondering when my car would suddenly lose power and I’d see the bright flash of light from a UFO. Since that time, however, I’ve been able to put a few decades worth of distance between me and those memories. I also found peace by reasoning that if aliens have been abducting scores of us and yet haven’t invaded, they must realize we’re not worth the trouble. They’re probably waiting until we’ve killed each other off so they can take over Earth without having to deal with unstable life forms on this planet. Or, if my worst nightmare (literally) comes true, then Perry Farrell of Porno for Pyros will have predicted it correctly and we’ll all become pets. Given my natural inclination toward random acts of mental terrorism from figures of authority, I’m sure I’ll make a wonderfully obsequious pet for some alien.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted on by Me

Fast Car

My friends and their old school cars circa 1986.

“Just take your fast car and keep on driving.” ~ Tracy Chapman

In the first quarter of the Bronco playoff game with the New England Patriots, I couldn’t take it anymore. Overwhelmed by a stuffy head, I drove out in search of Sudafed. When I am feeling my worst on a Saturday night, there’s nothing I appreciate more than a seven mile drive to a 24-hour pharmacy to purchase decongestant. (Thanks, meth lab operators for providing me with that convenience.) Anyway, I handed the pharmacist my driver’s license, signed my life away, took my contraband box, and pulled out on the road toward home. That’s when it pulled up alongside me on this moonless night, sleek as a shadow. My midlife crisis car. A black Chevy Camaro.

I own a very pragmatic and cushy Lexus SUV, perfect for endless hours of driving the boys around and trekking through snowy Colorado winters. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I love my car. It has never failed me. Still, I often think I could trade it for a black Chevy Camaro.

When I was in high school, my mom was going through her own midlife crisis. She bought a 1986 red Chevy Camaro. I got to drive her car occasionally to and from work and sometimes to a movie with friends. That’s when my love affair with the Camaro began. Admittedly, the 1986 iteration of that vehicle was not its most attractive, but when I turned the key in the ignition that beast purred for me. It was fast and fun to drive. That car bridged a gap between my mom and I during some difficult times. It was our baby. Unfortunately, some jerk stole it for joyride purposes one day. When it was found, it was so badly damaged that the insurance company declared it a loss. I remember going to the impound lot to help my mom clean it out. We both cried. My mom went back to a dull sedan, and my fun was over.

Later that year I developed a crush on an older man (okay…he was only four years older) who drove a late 70’s model black Camaro, and my love affair with that car was rekindled. So what if that particular cute, blonde guy never wanted to date me? He drove me around in his car occasionally, and that was something. I still remember sitting in the passenger seat and cruising down Broadway with the t-tops off on a gorgeous summer day. Pure joy.

Tonight as I sat at that street light, glancing longingly at that shiny black car in the next lane, it hit me. This May I will be the same age my mom was when she got her Camaro. Certainly that must be a sign, right? Sometimes history repeats itself. Would it be insane for me to trade my reliable SUV for a gleaming muscle car? The Camaro gets better gas mileage than my SUV, costs less, and the 323-horsepower would make the trip to the boys’ school infinitely faster. Sure there’s still the snow and ice of a Denver winter to deal with, but we do have those 300 days of sunshine too so it should balance out. My husband got his midlife crisis car last year, a cadet blue Toyota FJ Cruiser, so that should factor into my ability to choose a new car. Besides, I think I would look pretty cool driving it.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get my midlife crisis Camaro. Perhaps it’s one of those dreams I’ll never realize. But, sometimes, when one pulls up next to me at a stoplight, I secretly imagine myself in it. I imagine that car would make me feel 18 again. It might be worth the trade.

 

Posted on by Me 1

Artificial Turf

Isn't it always greener somewhere else?

“One of the reasons that we deal with insecurity is that we compare our behind-the-scenes with someone else’s highlight reel.” ~Steven Furtick

I saw this quote on a friend’s Facebook page a couple weeks ago, and it’s been stuck in my head ever since. I am incredibly guilty of making this mistake. I will hear about a friend’s fabulous career and rather than feeling glad for her, I’m annoyed. Oh, sure. I’ll act pleasant enough about it on the outside, but inside I’m full of doubt. How did she end up with such a fabulous life while mine is so, well, dull? I’ll feel cheated that she gets to travel for work while my biggest excursions are my tri-weekly trips to Target.

It’s sick how these thoughts can permeate my life and make me feel worthless. The truth is that I have no idea of the inner workings of my friend’s life, of how she balances extended hours at work with time for her family. For all I know, perhaps she sees my freedom and the extra time I get to spend with my kids as the better deal. Don’t we always want what we don’t have and don’t truly understand?

“Why, oh why, do I look to the other side when I know the grass is greener but just as hard to mow.” ~ John Butler Trio

This is the curse of a Facebook world. As busy as we all are, sometimes the most we see about a friend’s life comes from their Facebook status updates. Facebook is a repository for the highlights reel in our lives. We post about the exciting things we are experiencing because we want to share our best with everyone. We don’t often post about our depression or about how exhausted we are from trying to have it all. What is displayed, instead, is a group of photos from a summer trip to Italy and, from that alone, we allow others to formulate an opinion about our life, one that most likely does not reflect our daily reality.

When I get overwhelmed by the comparisons my mind wants to make between my prosaic, behind-the-scenes reel and someone else’s exciting highlights reel, I try to remember that Facebook is filled with façades. We retouch our lives the way we retouch our photos.

I have a great life and I’m sure there are those who see my highlights reel, the things I post on Facebook, and think I’ve got it made. And, it would be stupid not to admit that my life is pretty great. Like others, I do mask my difficulties more often than I share them. I do look over into other people’s yards and wish, occasionally, for something greener and more lush. Deep down I know, however, that all grass is the same. We all fight weeds and have to water constantly to keep it healthy. That friend whose life seems idyllic? Remember that there is only one reason their yard looks so lush and green. It’s artificial turf.

Posted on by Me 2

{{{Hugs}}}

Luke is the best hugger I know.

Sometimes my kids teach me the most amazing lessons. Oh, sure. Most of the time they simply make me feel I should be wearing a straightjacket. But, occasionally, when I least expect it, something brilliant comes from one of them. In those moments, I get a glimpse of why I have the two children I have.

Today, Luke came home from school with a D grade on a phonics test. The test needed to be signed. This is not his first poor grade in this particular subject, so I was not surprised. He’s been struggling with his “special sounds” for a while. To that end, I made something along the line of 75, two-sided flash cards with the sounds and their key words on them. I spent hours one night on this task as it required me to glue two index cards together so you could not see through from one side to the other. We try to take a few minutes a day to review a set or two of cards to familiarize him with the sounds. Given his 66% on this particular test, we probably need to augment our practice time.

As he’s handing me the paper to sign Luke casually says, “I told her maybe I’d be doing better if we worked on the sounds at home.”

Desperately trying to suppress the lava flow of anger that was rising from my ruptured heart, I said, “What? We HAVE been working on them at home. Why did you tell her that?”

“I didn’t want to get in trouble,” he replied.

Are you kidding me? You don’t want to get in trouble so the easiest thing to do is rat Mom out as the weak link? My own son had sold me down river. Now I really was angry. If I hadn’t been working with him, then fine. But to have put in personal time on this only to have him blame his deficiency on me was truly aggravating. Then, I did something completely uncool. I had a little bit of a Mommy Tantrum. I’m not proud of it, and I won’t go into details. I will admit that it ended with my stomping up the stairs and shutting my door a bit too loudly to put an exclamation point on my annoyance.

I sat in my room for a few minutes and tried to regroup. I knew Luke was downstairs feeling horrible about his lie, just as I was upstairs feeling miserable about my unnecessary tantrum. I took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked back downstairs, avoiding eye contact with Luke the entire time. I could tell he was looking at me, but I also knew he was teary eyed. If I saw his sad little face I would back down. No. I would not cave. I deserved an apology.

About thirty seconds later, Luke walked over, wrapped his arms around me, and squeezed tightly. I sat down on the floor and pulled him to me and we hugged for a solid minute. Although I no longer cared about the apology, he told me he was sorry and that he didn’t know why he told that lie. I told him that he is a good kid with bad moments and I am a good mom with bad moments. Sometimes our bad moments coincide, and we hurt each other. Then, with childlike innocence and sage-like clarity he shared this wisdom with me:

“The only cure for sadness is a hug.”

So, I hugged him again.

 

 

 

Posted on by Me 1

Show Me The Money

Luke...preparing to be a trillionaire.

This morning I was rushing to get the kids ready for school. Still under the weather from the effects of some alien germ brought home by my children and trying to get out early because of the snow piling up outside, I was in no mood for interruptions as I barreled through my usual routine. I was in the process of making lunches when Luke surprised me.

“Mom, isn’t today clean the toilet day?”

Shocking, right? I was amazed both that he knew it was Wednesday and that he realized that meant he needed to clean the downstairs bathroom. He’s 8. So proud.

A couple weeks ago I proposed something new to my boys. They were already earning $5 a week allowance for doing the basics (clearing their plates, putting their clothes in the hamper, cleaning up their toys, and taking out the trash and recycling). But they were looking for a raise, and I wasn’t about to give them more money to do so little. Instead, I offered them each an extra $5 a week if they were willing to clean one bathroom a piece on both Wednesdays and Saturdays. I don’t know why it took me so long to realize that although I can’t afford to pay a cleaning service, I can certainly cough up $10 a week for the opportunity NOT to have to clean two out of the three bathrooms in our home. My children could be my tiny maids!

“So, is it my day to clean the bathroom?” Luke pressed.

“Today is Wednesday, so yes.”

“YES!” came his enthusiastic reply, which was accompanied by an actual fist pump. Was this kid for real?

He ran off to the bathroom and returned with the toilet bowl cleaner, which he needed me to open because it’s childproofed. (By the way, we should be putting toilet bowl cleaner in Cars and Princess Barbie wrappers to entice kids into thinking cleaning the bathroom is fun. Come on. We’re missing out on child labor, and companies are missing out on an entire market of avid consumers.) Anyway, a minute later he was scrubbing the inside of the toilet. Then he pulled out the Clorox wipes and cleaned the inside of the sink and wiped off the toilet seat. After that I noticed he was wiping off the granite counter with a wet paper towel. And, then for the pièce de résistance, he got up onto the counter to clean the two bathroom mirrors. I haven’t been this proud since he first learned to use the toilet!

He then emerged and reminded me that after he cleans the bathroom on Saturday he’ll be needing his $10 allowance. Ahhh…there we have it. The motivation. Here I thought he was merely being a very responsible, helpful little boy. Nope. Like a pirate, it’s the money he was after. I should have known that. When he was 5 and saw The Empire Strikes Back for the first time, I asked him which character he liked best. His response? “Han Solo because he’s just in it for the money.” Luke is the only kid I know who, when asked, will happily tell you that when he grows up what he would like to be the first trillionaire. At 6, he told us “I’m ready to grow up. I want to get a wife, have some kids, and just get on with my life.” He is a boy with ideas and ambition, and I know he will be wildly successful someday.

Some people might find it offensive that Luke is financially motivated. Some might deem it shallow and assume we’re sending him the wrong messages. Truth is that he’s always been this way. He’s great at math and he likes money. There are worse directions he could be headed. And, you know what? A clean bathroom is a clean bathroom, and it doesn’t matter what motivation caused it to become so. Someday Luke is going to make a top-notch husband because he’s a hard worker who isn’t afraid to get dirty to make his dreams come true and he cleans bathrooms. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Posted on by Me 6

The Pickle

There's rust on that there lid!

Today Joe got out a jar of pickles. He set it on the counter and then strong-armed it open. Good for him, I thought, admiring his initiative. I waited to hear the sounds of him devouring the sour snacks, but none came. I turned around to see Joe, who usually dispatches pickles with relish (pun most definitely intended), curiously inspecting the jar. He was eyeing it from all sides. His face showed clearly something was amiss.

“What’s wrong?” I inquired.

“I think these are bad,” he replied, nose crinkled up.

“Do they smell bad?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Although I had no idea what a jar of bad pickles smelled like, I had to investigate. I sniffed the jar. Smelled just fine to me.

“There is nothing wrong with these pickles,” I asserted with confidence.

With a very dubious look, Joe bit into one. “They taste funny.”

I took a bite. “Ummm….they taste like pickle, babe. They’re just fine.”

He was still inspecting the jar. And, that’s when I saw it…the object of his consternation. There was a bit of rust on the outside of the jar where the lid had been attached.

“Are you worried about this spot on the jar?” I asked.

“I don’t think it was sealed correctly,” was my ten year old’s response.

“I heard the jar pop when you opened it, sweetie. It’s fine.”

“Is this the freshness date?” he asked, still examining the jar.

Trying hard not to lose my patience, I told him it was not a freshness date but that I was absolutely, 100% positive that he would not meet an untimely death from picklitis or some other ravaging, pickle-borne illness. Isn’t it enough that my spouse is food paranoid? Now he’s tainted my son? I can’t tell you how much food we throw out because hubby decides it’s questionable, but I can tell you it seems like a lot. Another food sniffer is NOT what we need in this house.

I am not all that paranoid about food. This morning I ate a container of Greek yogurt that supposedly expired on November 23rd, and I’m still here to tell about it.

Joe did finish the pickle he started, probably more out of fear that I would strangle him if he didn’t than out of any confidence I instilled when I told him they were fine. I won’t be one bit surprised if that child refuses to eat another pickle from that rust-dotted jar. Once food fear has taken hold, there is no cure. At least you stand a chance of recovering from salmonella or E coli. It’s too late now to save Joe. All I can do is hope Luke doesn’t become infected as well.

Posted on by Me 4

Selective Memories

Where the boys and I nest on sick days

My boys are home sick today with bad coughs. So, I have had the luxury of being freed from my normally harried Monday routine of errand running and house cleaning. Today it’s all about my sick little guys and making sure they rest. So, this morning while they were watching part of a movie, I was able to get some reading done. My friend, Melissa, posted a link to this very wise blog article. In it the author writes about how often she is approached by older women who remind her to treasure every moment with her young children because their youth is ephemeral and someday she will be sorry she didn’t enjoy it all while she had the chance.

I can’t recount the number of times I’ve been talking about my trials with my children and some well-meaning but totally out-of-touch person admonishes me to enjoy every second because soon they’ll be gone…as if I don’t know this already. I do. And, I feel troubled that sometimes I want to escape this phase they’re in and move quickly on to the next one. It’s hard to enjoy every second, though, when in that exact second perhaps Luke is puking on me and the dental hygienist or Joe is having one of his ADHD meltdowns that I can’t get him through fast enough as we struggle through his math homework.

At three o’clock this morning, as a matter of fact, I was having a really difficult time treasuring the fact that impulse-control lacking Joe was stumbling into our bedroom every twenty minutes to report his temperature, which was approximately 98.6 degrees each time, mind you. It was hard to enjoy the fact that I was treated to three fewer hours of sleep than I normally get and that as I desperately tried to cling to the last little bit of sleep available to me my youngest crawled into bed and was literally coughing right in my face. How could I possibly NOT savor these precious moments?

I understand how an older woman, with children grown and gone, could look back on the early years of parenting wistfully and with great affection. The human mind is wonderful at softening memories with time, making them more palatable and lovely. Remember that total creep you dated in college, the one who cheated on you while you were at your grandfather’s funeral? I bet nowadays when speaking of him you simply recount the story of how he treated you to a romantic Valentine’s Day treasure hunt that must have taken him hours to put together. Time changes our perceptions. It fades our scars. The woman in the grocery store who begs you to cherish every second doesn’t remember exhaustion. She’s had time to rest and recover.

Today, as I sit here with my boys watching movies, I am taking mental pictures and imprinting the joy and peace of this moment for future use. I know I will one day look back and fail to remember how tired and sick I was while I was sitting with them. I will recall only what a gift it was to have an excuse to sit for an entire day and love on them. And, I will miss these times. Guaranteed. While I know the negative memories will have faded, I hope I will remember the struggles, the heartbreak, and the frustrations too. I don’t want to have gone through the whole experience of life only to remember half of it.

(Oh…and when I’m older and run across a mom struggling in the store with young kids, I hope I remember to tell her only that she’s doing a great job.)

 

 

Posted on by Me 2

IKEAology

Funky spherical lamp courtesy of IKEA

We went to IKEA as a family yesterday. The true purpose of the trip was to help Steve’s IKEA-virgin parents shop for a chair. They did buy a chair too, so the mission was a success. I have to wonder, though, how it is that I can go there to help someone else shop and end up with $230 in merchandise in my own cart?

I’m not complaining. For the most part we bought things we needed — or at least could justify. We got two sets of plain white dishes (12 bowls, small plates, and large plates), two full sets of  basic flatware (80 pieces), a small table lamp, a set of 300-thread count queen-size sheets, a couple decorative pillows, a stuffed rat, two stuffed mice, and a fry pan. We had been planning to buy the dishes and flatware to replace the items we received for our wedding over 16 years ago. The sheets were on sale and the decorative pillows match our new duvet so those, although not totally necessary, were a good choice. Hubby told me on the way in that he wanted to try out one of their small fry pans (I rolled my eyes, but let it slide). And the kids paid us from their allowance for the stuffed critters. The lamp I can’t explain. It seems to have hopped in our cart when I wasn’t looking, although it does look fabulous on our bedroom bookshelf.

As we were loading the items into the back of the FJ, we were reflecting on our IKEA experiences over the past decade, the items we’ve purchased, the furniture we’ve put together, the random stuff we somehow could not leave the store without. We came up with a bunch of new IKEA slogans, all based on the idea that IKEA is simply a Swedish phrase we Americans can’t understand. For example:

IKEA….Swedish for “We have all the crap you never knew you couldn’t live without.”

IKEA…Swedish for “Our pictograph assembly instructions are actually just replicas of cave drawings.”

IKEA….Swedish for “Our stores make finding your way out of Caesar’s Palace seem easy.”

IKEA….Swedish for “We can disassemble your marriage faster than you can assemble our dresser.”

IKEA…Swedish for “Your visit for a $5 meatball lunch will end up costing you $500 in furniture.”

IKEA…Swedish for “We offer free childcare when you arrive so we don’t have to find your lost children later.”

IKEA…Swedish for “Designed by Swedes, fabricated by underpaid Chinese, assembled cost-free by crazy Americans.”

Oh, IKEA. I tease, but you know I love you, darling. Although I know the tagline for your American stores is, “IKEA…The Life Improvement Store,” I still think any one of my slogans better represents the American IKEA experience. If you ever want to use one of them, let me know. You can pay me in meatballs.

Posted on by Me