Last weekend I thought I was going away. When that didn’t work out, going to IKEA somehow surpassed maintaining my sanity. Instead of doing what any New Yorker should have done with her beautiful weekend afternoon– relax– I ventured to a place where no one would otherwise go Red Hook, Brooklyn to satiate my desire for sh*t I needed affordable home goods.
I should have been better mentally prepared.
Before Summer 2008, the sole IKEA store in the Tri-State area was located In The Middle Of Nowhere, New Jersey. This made it especially inconvenient for NY residents to schlep across the Hudson and partake in the Swedish delicacy. I’d visited that location only once, it turned into a family trip.
13 years later I found myself in the middle of what many anyone with 6 brain cells would call Hell.
-Waiting for the shuttle bus at Borough Hall was obnoxious enough. Let alone the old Negro yelling into the crowd of 5 he’ll “go home with you and assemble the stuff you buy same day”. It wasn’t the audacity to have business cards for this “service”, it was the fact that people took them.
–Don’t sit next to me on the shuttle bus. Especially if you’re fat. There’s just not enough space.
-It’s not Toys “R” (sorry, no backwards R on the keyboard) Us. No reason to have your kids crawling around the store. Especially when they have a containment chamber supervised childcare area on the premises.
-That yellow bag prompts you to pick up way more sh*t than you intended. Learned that the hard way.
-WTF does any of this say.
-Not even 5 minutes into entering the store, one dude picked another man up, right behind me. F*ck me.
-None of the store goes in order. Why the f*ck did I go from the bedroom to the kitchen?
-You need to be drunk in order to tolerate this
-Does anyone work here??
-Don’t ever direct me to the “shortcut”
-Why isn’t the sh*t in English? For 10 minutes I stared blankly at a timer located directly in between the “Bathroom” and “Kitchen” sections. Was it a clock? Was it a meat thermometer?
-More than 3 consonants consecutively placed together to create one word should set off a warning signal to all Americans.
–Why isn’t there a bar here?
-Wheeling 16 parts of one mirror around just doesn’t make sense.
-If you manage to navigate passed all the morons who actually like this place, you’ll (finally) proceed to checkout.
-They overcharged. I got even.
-I couldn’t get away fast enough. Problem is, IKEA didn’t want me to get away either. Apparently there are 2 separate sets of shuttle buses:
1.) Goes to Borough Hall (my stop)
2.) Goes to Smith-9th Streets (wtf)
They park in the exact same f*ckin spot. Guess which one I got on.
15 minutes later, I found myself at the useless Smith-9th Street, wearing my enlarged blue bag & a frown. As I shuffled up the block I noticed a bus. I asked the driver one simple question:
“Do you go to Borough Hall?”
His reply: “Yes”
I got on.
15 minutes later, I was still on this f*ckin bus.
20 minutes later, I was still on this f*ckin bus.
22 minutes later, I was back in front of IKEA.
“Why didn’t you tell me this was going back to IKEA?”
“Oh, You didn’t want to go to IKEA?”
“No!” I ended that interaction with my trademark blank stare.
And almost hit him with the blue bag getting off.
Finally the escapade ended.
When I got home I had to assemble the lamps I bought. I’d rather pay the extra $1.67 if this means they’ll send it to be “made in Taiwan” first.
I also got a few of these:
Until I saw this. Two weird ass screws and some f*ckin string. I ain’t hardly MacGuyver MacGruber. Wtf do these 4 things have to do with each other?
Needless to say, I’d had enough at that point. I threw them in the corner & decided to buy some American sh*t to hang those “Malmas” up with.
Beware. Ikea is a circle of hell. Worst part is, I have to go back for more Malma mirrors.