Sunday, January 09, 2011
Burbage
I went to IKEA yesterday. Somehow I generally get there about once a year whether I actually need anything from there or not. Of course I always end up buying all sorts of things I have no real use for, such as extra felt pads for the bottoms of chairs or (I kid you not) a second colander. And of course it is always an insane mess at the store, with thousands of suburbanites scratching at each other's eyes and pulling out each other's hair over unassembled footstools and end tables with names like klurg and flotwil. Yesterday was, in fact, the worst I've ever seen it -- it took about twenty minutes to get through checkout, which was enough time to devour both a slice of Swedish pizza and one of those tiny ice cream cones Kirstie Alley is always spotted eating in Star magazine.
There was also a mall stop involved and good lord were the teens out in full force this weekend. I was nearly run over by several packs of them and I didn't even go within twenty yards of a Hollister store. Of course, I can recall roving up and down the mall myself at that age, with only the occasional stop at the Orange Julius or the Buckle, but what I don't understand is where their coats are. Is there a coat check somewhere of which I am unaware? Or do their parents drop them off that way in the hope that they'll die of frostbite?
Anyway, I'm alive, despite my continued best efforts to the contrary.
I went to IKEA yesterday. Somehow I generally get there about once a year whether I actually need anything from there or not. Of course I always end up buying all sorts of things I have no real use for, such as extra felt pads for the bottoms of chairs or (I kid you not) a second colander. And of course it is always an insane mess at the store, with thousands of suburbanites scratching at each other's eyes and pulling out each other's hair over unassembled footstools and end tables with names like klurg and flotwil. Yesterday was, in fact, the worst I've ever seen it -- it took about twenty minutes to get through checkout, which was enough time to devour both a slice of Swedish pizza and one of those tiny ice cream cones Kirstie Alley is always spotted eating in Star magazine.
There was also a mall stop involved and good lord were the teens out in full force this weekend. I was nearly run over by several packs of them and I didn't even go within twenty yards of a Hollister store. Of course, I can recall roving up and down the mall myself at that age, with only the occasional stop at the Orange Julius or the Buckle, but what I don't understand is where their coats are. Is there a coat check somewhere of which I am unaware? Or do their parents drop them off that way in the hope that they'll die of frostbite?
Anyway, I'm alive, despite my continued best efforts to the contrary.
