Many years ago, as if in a tale of lore, I heard of a land of wonderment called Ikea, where happy Swedes or Swiss or whomever made highly space efficient furniture in very bold, solid colors. Women, in particular, regaled me with descriptions of the splendor and magic within Ikea’s walls. I never went. I had a condo for nine years. It got decorated when my Mom went shopping for me around Christmas. If not for Christmas, I would have had two old couches and a big screen TV only.
I finally got to go recently. I should have worn workout clothes, since Ikea is about 14 linear miles by the time you meander that cold, solid colored labyrinth. I was starting to fade out of consciousness looking at cabinets with words that had those double dots over the a’s and o’s when I realized they had food. Food? In a furniture store?
My fiancee – “Do you want to eat here?” Me – “Do they serve alcohol?” Her – “No.” Silence. Her – “We can get drinks later.” Me – “Let’s eat here.” Glad we figured that out. Note to Ikea, if you herd people into a indoor steeplechase for six hours with no way of exiting, outside of taking a path of peril and trying to blaze your own trail through the wilderness/pillow section, please put some Swedish booze somewhere. I’m sure you have some glacier vodka or pickled herring juice. When I find the checkout line in a month, I’ll make sure they hear my idea.