They Have Babies in Sweden, Don’t They?

by Cookie

I went to Ikea yesterday.  With my toddler.

And I just want to send a giant thank you out to whatever forces in the universe prevented me from drinking when I got home.  For reals.

Honestly, I haven’t decided if I hate Ikea or love it.  I’m finding the whole thing a little overwhelming.  Like Crocodile Dundee in New York City overwhelming.

I love the furniture, I love the prices.  I hate the crowds, and the by the time I got home I felt like I had been through hell and survived.

So me and the twee Destroyer parked in a reasonably close spot.  Good sign, I thought.  It must not be too busy.  I finally figure out the retarded cart and determined that you can, in fact, put a child in it.  In theory.  So once inside, we wandered around for a few minutes to find the elevator.  It only took ten minutes, so that puts me at about average perception and intelligence, right?

So now we’ve made it.  We’re in the actual showroom.  So I strip off our coats and hats and put them in the cart to get comfortable for a pleasant sight-seeing adventure while  I try to find some new bedroom furniture for her and some shelving to save the rest of the house from utter chaos.

Sightseeing.  Right.  Except everything looks like someone’s fucking living room, and the Destroyer cannot fathom why the hell she’s being contained in someone else’s house.

MIstake # 1.  I let it out.  And I hadn’t brought the leash.  And she hates holding my fucking hand.

So.  Off she goes.  Screaming through the aisles of Ikea.  Highly visible in her giant green tutu, thankfully, because the Destroyer has turned into a speed junkie lately.  At least I can spot her if she gets too far in that ridiculous getup.  As I waddled behind her, trying to keep up and not lose the cart, she was starting to evade me.  One kind old lady happily pointed out how hard she was to catch, as I panted and tried to hurry my fat pregnant ass up.  Thanks, you old bitch.  Maybe you could have grabbed her for me as she whipped past you, instead of narrating useless fucking information at me that I’m already aware of.

So I catch her, and put her in the cart.  Oh the horror!  So I gave her snack.  When it screams, feed it, right?

Right.  Just don’t feed it cheesies in Ikea.  They worked for about 5 seconds, until she dumped them all over the world.  Stuck in her tutu.  In the cart.  On the floor.  Please kill me.

So I did the honorable white trash thing and walked away from the mess, pretending it wasn’t me.  No one will notice my orange faced and handed child, right?

I let her out to run around again once we finally got to children’s bedding.  “NO” screamed the voices in my head.  But.I.Didn’t.Listen.

Little orange hands all over every bed linen in the universe. Which Ikea carries, apparently. Where is the exit?  OMG. There is no exit.

You want to know how come Ikea is so big and rich?  Because they trap you.  You are literally stuck going through every beautifully designed room just to try and find your way out.  Once you’re in, you’ve committed yourself to the minimum 1 hour long walk through the entire fucking store.  I hate you Ikea.  And so do mothers everywhere.  Have you ever been stuck in a store with a screaming child?  Pure torture.  Don’t they have babies in Sweden?

Miraculously, I did find a few things that I wanted to buy.  But they were from “self-serve furniture”.  Huh?  I have to go to the warehouse, find it, try to fit it in my cart with my toddler and all her shit, carry it to the car, try to fit it in the car, and then fucking assemble it when I get home.  Sober?  I don’t fucking think so.

Oh wait.  For 100$, they’ll do everything for you.  Except deliver and assemble it for you.  After you wait an hour in line at customer service to order this “service”.  With your screaming toddler.  After you escape the maze.

Fuck you very much, Ikea.   Fuck your video game-like store and your shitty service and your two cashiers on to serve half of Winnipeg.

I hate you.

Now I just have to figure out how to buy your cheap furniture without admitting it publicly or having a stroke.