where wildly different is perfectly normal
Where are my fireworks?
Where are my fireworks?

Where are my fireworks?

It’s just a teeny, tiny, maybe 4 inch long snippet of information.

I would have missed it if I wasn’t dividing this morning’s paper into “read” and “recycle.”

My heart stopped. My jaw dropped. I got lightheaded a bit.

I saw visions of afternoons wandering about. Visions of organization that actually turned me on.

I no longer have to be jealous of Karen or Cursing Mama or Holly.


Details to come today…


  1. My condolences. Sorry, but I can’t stand Ikea. (Although, there was an article in yesterday’s paper about how Israel’s Ikea is about 20% more expensive than in other countries. I might be more willing to put up with their crap if I didn’t feel I was getting ripped off paying nearly regular retail prices for substandard quality. I still hate the habitrail thing though. With a passion.)

  2. Um…. yay for you I guess. Never been in one. Got no desire to go in one. Seems say too trendy for my taste. I tend to decorate in late 20th Century yard sale, complimented by rustic last-item-up-for-bid auction specials. That way I don’t freak when the cat sharpens on any of it. Goody for you though.

  3. I have to agree with Robin. We had IKEA in Edmonton. I do not find it all it is cracked up to be. The furniture is made of very soft wood and the baskets easily fall apart. Honestly, it is just not very good stuff and takes a zillion years to put together. Although I do have one half circle end table from there that I totally heart.


Whaddya think?

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