ikea, you’re dead to me.

My boyfriend is annoyed with me because I was such a negative force at Ikea. I’m not sure there are any original ways to complain about this birch veneer prison, but I can’t help myself from giving it a shot.

I think this is the 5th or 6th time in a row we’ve gone there and said, “We’re never coming here again!!”

There’s some part of my brain that tells me, “Oh, it should be easy to pick one of those up at Ikea.”

I would like that part of my brain to be electrocuted.  I think it would be doing me and society a favor if we put that one section of grey matter in front of a firing squad.

Ikea is like going through security at the airport. It engenders the same level of confusion, anger and powerlessness. Airports offer the illusion of safety by putting on their “security theater” just as Ikea stages all of its terrible furniture in ways that make you think you could TOTALLY live in a 500 square foot apartment. Airports and Ikea use the same wool to obscure our eyes from reality.

It takes a good 10 minutes of meandering through the quaint streets of Ikea before you realize you’re on the no-exit boat ride in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Everything looks so pretty until you touch it and suddenly a creepy guy with an umbrella pops his head over your shoulder to tell you, “It’s all edible. Go ahead, have a bite.” Ikea is selling you a state of mind, not a living room. Unfortunately, for me, that state of mind is a mixture of “I need a Puang chair” and “F*#! this place.” So, to negotiate those two halves, I combine complaining with oohing and ahhing. It’s a disaster for anyone with me. “Oh look at that awesome wall unit! Too bad it probably comes in 7000 pieces AND IT CONTROLS THE MEDIA!.” It’s a roller coaster. I get it.

The Ikea theater comes to  a screeching halt when you enter the “Marketplace.” It’s like walking into the prop department after a performance of The Lion King. All that beautiful scenery and staging comes from a bunch of numbered bins in a giant warehouse. It’s like that scene in all futuristic movies when the hero stumbles upon the robot factory and sees all the spare arms and legs and necks and voice boxes. Usually the next scene involves the hero taking a blow torch to those “damn heaps of metal.” We, as the viewers, are totally into it because we were just reminded that the robots have no soul.

In order to alleviate what I think is a heinous lie and disservice to the customer, the Ikea flow should be reversed. Upon entering, instead of seeing a bright shiny kitchen, you’re met with the giant warehouse of boards and screws and wrenches. Then you’re treated to a small one act play where a husband and wife attempt to put together a dresser and end up getting a divorce that same night. Afterwards, a nice lady approaches you and says, “If you’d still like to shop here, we’re offering a 15% discount on the Fjordenfargen table.”

Oh and where’s my complimentary cocktail made by an old Swedish woman as I finally jump through the effen escape hatch?!?

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2 thoughts on “ikea, you’re dead to me.

  1. leann payne says:

    I think that was pretty original! I’ve had alot of those same thoughts but I have never been able to articulate it that way!!! bahahahahahah you are too funny

  2. Nancy Gorrell says:

    Elderly Swedish ladies offer you Glogg, I am sure there is an umlaat somewhere in this computer, but I don’t know where. I am unsure of the spelling of either of those two words, but ask Max about great uncle Al and the deadly glogg he made at Christmas at Nana’s; it has aquavit in it, and I’m sure that it would take the pain of Ikea away, or at least knock you on your fanny.

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