I Suppose I Could Just Buy One at IKEA

My mother's new rule is that I am not allowed to talk about "the breakup" . . . it was over weeks ago in her head (though at one time she thought he was cute and encouraged me to talk to him) and therefore I should just be over it. Fine.

(and that fine is said in the same tone as when I was fourteen . . . yes, the "fine" that drove you insane and made you feel like you had to get the last word in, only to be given another "fine" to deal with as soon as you stopped talking. That "fine".)

So to get over my life crisis (which is bigger than "the breakup" as I have now added some damage to it . . . damage that has nothing to do with the actual person I was going out with, therefore, now life crisis) I decide to go with my parents to IKEA. This is (and was) an enormously bad plan because there is nothing at IKEA except:

1. cute couples with cute children
2. cute couples who are pregnant
3. old ladies in packs (if they could have brought their cats, they would have)
4. gay men (also in couples, damnit)
5. Mr. and Mrs. Crabbypants yelling at each other in amongst 3 million people
6. Swedish meatballs

While the Swedish meatballs were good, and I am used to the Crabbypants show after 35 years . . . the couple-ness of IKEA, coupled with my mother's new fascination with talking about all her friends' kids who are dating, or getting married, or the cute baby over there . . . isn't that the cutest baby? Who do you think it belongs to? AGGHHHHGH!

At one point I prayed to spontaneously combust . . . but evidently you can never spontaneously combust when you just want to . . . it's not mysterious enough or something, too explainable.

So the new rule for my mother . . . since I'm not allowed to talk about "the breakup" . . . she is not allowed to talk about babies, because I do not have one and I do not foresee getting one in the next four years (which would make me 40). So now we have nothing to talk about, except maybe the weather . . . and air.