Ikea, I Wanta.

I am a sucker for a good line. Yep, I can easily fall head over heels in love, eschewing propriety when faced with a well-dressed package and a spectacular line.

Just like tonight. We went in for a microwave cart. Sounds innocent enough, right? On our way to the kitchen area, we sat on every couch and chair that gave us that come hither look. There were many sleek, fresh and inviting pieces teasing us to betray our un-Swedish, and yet still serviceable couch and chairs.

My flesh was weak. I was a furniture-testing whore. I am ashamed. Forgive me ye old purplish-overstuffed-and-over-sized-for-the-living-room couch that I once adored. Forgive me reddish-microfiber-sleeper-sofa and one-and-a-half-sized chair that fits a one-and-a-half-sized ass, for I have sinned.

Yet I refuse to live a life of regrets even for impulsive and ill-conceived desires. What has been done cannot be undone. I've felt the rush of a new lust, and I no longer see you, my purple and reddish cohorts, as titillating enough for me.

Alas, neither my bank account, nor my Volvo wagon, was able to accommodate my hedonistic desires. So live with you I must; though I no longer feel pleasured by your embrace.

Still the wanton seed has been planted. My derriere has been cradled by the firm support of the doesn't-have-to-try-too-hard-low-profile-and-oh-so-sleek leather sofa. My eyes have wandered over it's proportionally correct arms and legs and lingered lustily on the ever-so-slightly-arched back.

The seven year itch is getting under my skin; I want you.

Let the chase begin.

Time for a garage sale.