I love Ikea, it’s no secret, and I make the 45-mile trip to the nearest store every few months where I get my Swedish meatball fix and browse the new items and then usually end up buying something that costs less than $10 and has a name containing too many vowels for my American tongue to pronounce. It’s not so much the shopping, but the overall experience that I enjoy: food, designs with clean lines, and a meandering walk through the store.
Last week, my sister-in-law & her husband were visiting. My SIL wanted to go to Ikea. Oh yay! I’ll drive! So off we went. We had lunch, meandered the display section, picked up a few things here and there and had a good old time.
We made it through the whole store and warehouse when we came upon the seasonal patio furniture and outdoor lighting, just before the check-out lines. This year, Ikea has a bunch of really cool outdoor solar lights, in both individual lights and strands. Along with the cool solar lights are some very amusing ones, like strands of birds and flowers and two-colored cones that look a bit like buoys. Then there are these:
My SIL and I thought these might look cool placed throughout the vegetable garden. Mood lighting for the snails or phosphorescent moon stones amongst the foliage. We giggled. But then my SIL points out that they kinda look like boobs. I went from giggling to laughing. Enter my inner 12-year-old. Boob lights in the garden! (I estimate the Solvinden lights to be about a c-cup.) Boobs… garden… and the next logical step in that thought process? I’m sure you can guess where this is heading… I picked up a pair of the lights, held them to my chest and said, “You should really come down to the garden and see how my melons are doing this year. I think they’re coming along nicely.”
At that exact moment, a 20-something guy pushing a cart came walking past us and caught me in my boob light routine. We were already laughing, but this guy, without breaking his walking stride, glanced over quickly, chuckled and said, “Nice.”
My SIL and I started laughing even harder after that. It just goes to show, no matter what the outside looks like, there’s still a 12-year-old in there somewhere who appreciates a good boob joke.