Shawn and I went to Ikea yesterday (as in Sunday - rookie mistake!) and ended up in the midst of some sort of evil kitchen event. Because our marriage hasn't been tested enough lately.
We've been talking about upgrading our queen-sized bed to a king-size for ages now but to make room for a bigger bed, we need to get rid of a dresser. To get rid of a dresser, we need a closet organizer. To get a closet organizer, we need to go to Ikea. And that's where the plan stalled. Shawn hates Ikea. Hate is not a strong enough word for what Shawn feels for Ikea.
A chance sighting of a heavily-reduced king-sized bed frame forced us into action yesterday. A packed parking lot and lineups to get into various parts of the store did not deter us from our goal, nor did hunger pangs, back ache, or crazy pregnant lady tears (I couldn't choose a colour. It was upsetting.) We were on a mission.
Eleven hours (and hundreds of dollars and one giant pizza, and, uhhh, one crappy low-light iPhone picture) later, our mission was complete.
My husband rocks.