We went to Ikea yesterday to shop for a double bunk bed for the girls for when we move to our new place, just to see how much they were and everything.

I love Ikea. I don’t care if their stuff is not made for the fat and the crude and careless and that they charge for everything that’s not nailed down, I still love them, because it’s all we lower-middle class Malaysian emigrants can afford.

But there are exceptions. There are always exceptions.

And these exceptions are repackaged pebbles.

That’s right. Ikea is selling repackaged rocks for decorative purposes.

Come on.

And what’s worse is when my kid sees and wants ’em.

“Mommy! I want to collect these rocks!” yells Rae excitedly upon seeing them shiny brown pebbles.

“No honey. We collect rocks we pick. We don’t buy rocks,” I said, quite loudly because you know how it is in Ikea during the weekends.

A man walking past caught it and grinned at me as I ushered Rae away. I grinned back, rolling my eyes and going pppbhht.

Who here has actually bought a pack of those stones? Come on, ‘fess up.