“A great marriage is not when the ‘perfect couple’ comes together. It is when an imperfect couple learns to enjoy their differences.”  Dave Meurer

In four days, I will have guests.  Tired guests, guests that have crossed half the world to come see me.  I suspect they will not only be tired, but a bit stinky too.  Might want to give them a bath.  They will certainly want a bed.  Hmmm… guests.

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Sometimes I have visions of what it would be like to be the lady of a grand country manor house, complete with huge roaring fireplaces and secret panels.  To stand at the massive oak front door and greet my weekend guests, directing each to their room:

“Oh Demi and Ashton, so lovely you could make it.  Please, make yourselves at home.  I have prepared the Blue Room in the East wing for you.  I hope you find everything to your satisfaction.”

Yeah… something like that.

Reality is a WHOLE other picture.  At the risk of ending a 20 year veteran marriage, I collected Dear Mr Husband from the airport last Friday night, hugged and kissed, asked if he was hungry, then whisked him off to IKEA.  He didn’t even see it coming. 

“But you did say you were hungry!”  I am pulling my most winning, big-eyed, puppy dog, innocent  look.

“Sure, but this isn’t quite what I had in mind!”  I start moving him faster toward the big yellow and blue sign because I can see that he is starting to put two and two together, and coming up with Swedish meatballs.

It was cruel, I know.  He didn’t deserve it.  But I was desperate.  Guests need beds… and I don’t have enough.  Normally I would just smack down the credit card on the keyboard and have it delivered.  But not even my cajoling emails could convince anyone to deliver before the guests arrive. “You have left it too late, madam.”  Nuts!

I know, I know… I can hear you saying, “But you are such a power frau, Lulu, why didn’t you just do it yourself?”

Something odd happens the moment I walk into IKEA.  My brain turns off, well not OFF, per say, more like I seem to mimic a small child with ADD who has just drunk a gallon of red slushie. 

“Oh look.. nice chair… hmmm if I had that shelf, I could put up that picture…huh, oh that one is even better, and if I lived in 35 square metres, I could have the bed in the kitchen like they do here.. oh and I need more plastic cups… oh and look at all the candles.. oh, quick look over here… and at this … and hooks… and that nifty little doodat….”  It is sad.. really sad to watch.  Distracted by the shiny lights, I have, on almost every occasion, come home, dazed, confused and empty handed.

He walked, with purpose to the sofa bed department (if you can call it a department, rather a stop on IKEA version of the Yellow Brick Road), he selected, he pushed the cart through the checkout (after a 45 minute wait in line), he arranged delivery … then he stalked to the car and didn’t talk to me for at least 3 minutes. 

He is a good man.

The guests have a bed.

I was made to sign, in blood (ok in red slushie), a promise never to hijack Mr Dear Husband to IKEA, ever, ever, again.

…til next time, that is…


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