I give Jake and Kristen five years, at most, before their marriage ends in divorce. I came to this conclusion as I stood before them in line for over an hour at Ikea. It was a Saturday and all twenty five cash registers were humming at warp speed, accepting huge wads of cash from couples looking to outfit their homes with prefabricated coffee tables and floating kitchen islands. I was there for a couple of shelves to complete a book case I bought ages ago, but in addition I got a marital spat that passed the time waiting in line far more rapidly than any album on my iPod. At first I tried to drown out their argument by turning up the volume, but when Kristen launched into an operatic assault on Jake's inability to choose a five dollar pillow, I turned off the music and settled in for a matinee performance of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. I did not eavesdrop simply for the pleasures of free drama, but rather to validate a belief I have had for years; the couple that goes into Ikea is not the same couple that comes out.
If Robert Redford and Jane Fonda, wide-eyed and slim hipped in Barefoot in the Park, ventured into Ikea after a night of passionate MGM love making, they would emerge from the store as venomous and blood splattered as Michael Douglas and Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. Mark my words, there is no faster way to decimate a marriage than subjecting it to a furniture labyrinth made of deals that are truly too good to be true. If you have ever left the toilet seat up or so much as looked at another person, don't even think about going to Ikea with your spouse. It will all be dredged up before you even hit housewares.
The idea of Ikea is an endlessly appealing one. Founded in 1943 by a Swedish man named Ingvar Kamprad, it has become known for selling attractive furniture at bargain prices. When you first step foot into one of their stores, the smell of particle board in the air is intoxicating and the excitement palpable. Arrows on the floor direct you from one snazzy show room to another, each adorned with price tags that make you believe it's possible to transform your four hundred square foot shit hole into a trendy urban loft ready to grace the pages of Better Homes and Gardens. It would best be advised for couples to get out while they are ahead and simply choose one of these rooms to emulate and back up a U-Haul van to the loading dock immediately. Problems arise when one half of the couple, Jake for instance, likes the zebra rug in the swanky bachelor pad, while the other, let's say Kristen, has her eyes set on the credenza in the country cozy bungalow. How easily the smell of particle board is defeated by even the faintest whiff of marital woe. As Jake and Kristen trek from one side of the show room to the other, making decisions while getting dizzy amongst the sea of contrasting textiles, that whiff of woe quickly becomes a stench. I know this because, sadly, I've smelled it.
When Andy and I moved to Toronto we took our limited budget to Ikea in search of cheap furniture that did not appear to be cheap furniture. As many have before us, we marveled over the plethora of modern furniture pieces just waiting to be assembled. We swooned over a glass top coffee table and cooed as we sat on a squishy swivel recliner. For a brief shining moment it seemed that anything, and everything, was possible. However, by the time we hit kitchen accessories, I was bundle of nerves in desperate need of a mallet to the forehead. Andy, on the other hand, remained extremely calm, much in the same way a tea kettle sits peacefully on a coil burner before steam spews from its top.
I consider myself a patient, sane and level headed individual. Very little gets to me, including commercials that are ten times louder than the show I'm watching or any quantity of spilled milk. Yet on this particular day I have no idea what got into me. It was as if I had been bit by a rabid interior design bug and was foaming at the mouth. I was not unlike Kathy Bates in Misery, so it's a good thing Ikea does not sell sledgehammers or I would have used one. I was a total raving psychopath, unable to decide between area rugs. This dilemma had no where near the gravity of Sophie's Choice, but it may as well have. Poor Andy had the unenviable position of remaining positive around a crazy person, all the while taking notes with a miniature golf pencil. Just when I was at the end of my exceedingly taut rope, I met Billy.
Billy was extremely handsome. He was tall, sturdy, dark and gorgeous. He also came close to breaking up my marriage. I'm not sure who came up with the idea, but all of the items in Ikea are given human names. People name their children, their pets and often times their boats; however, it never occurred to me before Ikea that my ottoman might look like a Doug or my shoe rack a Rachel. Yet that is exactly what the clever executives in Stockholm have decided, in their infinite wisdom, to do. Bernhard is a kitchen chair, Karl a futon, Ingrid a cheese grater, and so on. Billy is a book case. I was so enamored with Billy that I decided we simply must have him and, if my tape measure allowed, perhaps two or maybe even three. No matter the cost, I wanted Billy in my bedroom. Thankfully, Andy was also attracted to him. It was impossible to deny his charms. But did we really need three?
"He only costs $40," I said. "Just think of all the storage!"
"But what about the shelves?" Andy exclaimed. "They are sold separately, you know."
And so they were. As it turns out, everything in Ikea is "sold separately." Add the shelves (and the legs, I might add) and Billy suddenly transformed from a $40 bargain into a $150 investment. And so it goes with the rest of their inventory. Agnes the table top is sold with Edvard, her legs. Astrid the lamp is nothing without Orvel, her shade. Billy appeared to come with nothing but insurmountable expectations and a lifetime of regret. I'm not sure how I managed to come out of there alive because I'm sure Andy was ready to grab the nearest coat hook and stab me with it. And I would not have blamed him. In fact, I would have thanked him for putting me out of my misery.
As it turns out, we were not alone. Scattered around the show room were other couples in various states of madness. One man frantically rummaged through a bin full of spatulas as if he were searching for the holy grail, while his bride lay in the fetal position on a huge chunk of shag carpeting, crying her eyes out to the point of hiccups. Another couple could be heard snapping at each other like giant turtles.
"What do you think of this lamp?" he asked.
And she fired back, "You hate my mother, don't you?!"
After we finally settled on what to buy, it came time to actually find the bloody things in the enormous maze of stacked boxes underground. I'm not sure whose maniacal brain is behind what I refer to in a spooky voice as "the warehouse," but I picture him to be a sadistic bastard named Sven, who twirls a long blond mustache and gorges on meatballs. Shopping in Ikea is only half the battle; finding what you have painstakingly picked out is a nightmare of epic proportions. The couples who have thus far managed to avoid divorce proceedings are in for another hurdle entirely.
I knew exactly what I wanted and it seemed easy enough to find Billy. He was hiding somewhere in Aisle 5, Bin 4. To Aisle 5 we went and there he was. But where were his shelves? And his feet, for that matter. We paced up and down Aisle 5 to no avail. I finally found an employee, although what they really need are marriage counselors, and he was outfitted in the colors of the Swedish flag. The shelves were not in Aisle 5, I found out, but rather in Aisle 2. And if I wanted his legs, which I obviously did, I would find them in Aisle 9. Billy was becoming more of a headache than I had anticipated. I mean, how hard would it be for him to keep it together? We zigzagged through "the warehouse" in search of a few legs here and a few shelves there until we were nauseous.
Eventually our cart was piled high with boxes of miscellaneous parts that were going to miraculously become the scenery of our lives. As I looked up at the mountain before us, I realized it was not going to fit into our truck. Not even close. That's when my knees buckled and I collapsed to the ground in a heap. I couldn't bare the thought of making any more choices and was reduced to pouting like a five year old who was denied a Popsicle. What happened, I now see, is that I turned into a "man" in every horrible sense of the word. I wanted what I wanted and I wanted it all and I wanted it now. Andy wisely suggested that I relax, put down the table leg I was inadvertently wielding, then purchase one or two items now and come back for the rest later.
"I'm never coming back to Ikea!" I proclaimed, as if I were Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes. "EVER AGAIN!"
This is when Andy knew just what to do, and his actions are the sole reason we survived Ikea. I needed a drink. Not a stiff vodka tonic or icy can of beer, but a paper cup of flat Diet Coke. My poison. He whisked me away from "the warehouse," abandoning our cart of furniture appendages, and into a safe cocoon that is the Ikea cafe. As I sipped my drink like Julia Roberts does her orange juice in Steel Magnolias, I looked around. Not only did I see a cafeteria tray heaped with salmon, a stray piece of overturned Daim cake on the floor, and some splattered mustard from a crushed condiment cup, but there they were - my god, they still existed - happy people! Gone were the cries of bickering couples, the beeping of fork lifts in reverse, and the low drone of fluorescent light bulbs. In their place were the sights and sounds of a tropical oasis. Natural sunlight poured in from the picture windows, light 80's pop escaped from the speakers, and refreshing diet soda gushed from the fountain. It was so wonderful in there that I honestly wondered why anyone would ever want to leave such a magical place.
After I was plied with a sufficient amount of Aspartame, I was able to calmly return to "the warehouse" and pare down our selections. We left that day with a kitchen table, four chairs and Billy. I did return for the rest at a later date, but this time I went alone. For the sake of our relationship, we vowed never to shop at Ikea together for as long as we both shall live. We do, however, visit often for pleasant dinner dates in the enchanted cafeteria. The fish and chips are delectable. We also find that that standing outside the exit doors is a highly entertaining way to spend the afternoon. Why pay $14 admission to a crappy Anne Hathaway movie when we can sit outside Ikea with a $1 bag of popcorn and watch once-happy couples pour into the parking lot? By this point nobody is speaking to anyone, so the action plays out like a Charlie Chaplin comedy. They maneuver their dollies of boxes, heaped high in Tetris formations, over speed bumps and through truck doors that are eventually slammed.
If your relationship can survive Ikea, it can survive anything. If he takes off to Vegas for a weekend with the guys, just say to yourself: "We made it through appliances. I can handle anything." Or if she finds a lump where a lump ought not to be, you can comfort her other thusly: "Remember closet solutions? You can beat this."
Somehow the argument between Jake and Kristen had escalated into a fierce disagreement over dinner. "Would you like pizza?" he asked.
"That means you want pizza," Kristen barked. "If that's what you want, just say it! Stop playing these games!"
I wanted to pull them aside and share with them my wisdom. Just as the luster of Ikea wears off in the first hour, so does the sheen of their product. It's simply not worth all the trouble. Our coffee table sags in the middle, the kitchen chairs wobble dangerously throughout dinner and even Billy has turned into a massive disappointment. I was back for more shelves that should have come with him in the first place. But I suppose this is a lesson every couple has to learn for themselves. I couldn't bear to listen anymore, so I turned up the volume on my iPod, paid for my shelves and walked out the door. I considered waiting outside to see if Jake and Kristen left together, but I somehow knew the outcome and was in no mood for a sad ending. So I hopped on my bus and wrote for them a happily ever after fit for a Hollywood movie. As it turns out, Jake is every bit as thoughtful as Andy and got down on bended knee to invite Kristen for dinner in the cafeteria. There they rekindled their romance over Diet Cokes and a plate of Swedish meatballs. Sauce sold separately.
If Robert Redford and Jane Fonda, wide-eyed and slim hipped in Barefoot in the Park, ventured into Ikea after a night of passionate MGM love making, they would emerge from the store as venomous and blood splattered as Michael Douglas and Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. Mark my words, there is no faster way to decimate a marriage than subjecting it to a furniture labyrinth made of deals that are truly too good to be true. If you have ever left the toilet seat up or so much as looked at another person, don't even think about going to Ikea with your spouse. It will all be dredged up before you even hit housewares.
The idea of Ikea is an endlessly appealing one. Founded in 1943 by a Swedish man named Ingvar Kamprad, it has become known for selling attractive furniture at bargain prices. When you first step foot into one of their stores, the smell of particle board in the air is intoxicating and the excitement palpable. Arrows on the floor direct you from one snazzy show room to another, each adorned with price tags that make you believe it's possible to transform your four hundred square foot shit hole into a trendy urban loft ready to grace the pages of Better Homes and Gardens. It would best be advised for couples to get out while they are ahead and simply choose one of these rooms to emulate and back up a U-Haul van to the loading dock immediately. Problems arise when one half of the couple, Jake for instance, likes the zebra rug in the swanky bachelor pad, while the other, let's say Kristen, has her eyes set on the credenza in the country cozy bungalow. How easily the smell of particle board is defeated by even the faintest whiff of marital woe. As Jake and Kristen trek from one side of the show room to the other, making decisions while getting dizzy amongst the sea of contrasting textiles, that whiff of woe quickly becomes a stench. I know this because, sadly, I've smelled it.
When Andy and I moved to Toronto we took our limited budget to Ikea in search of cheap furniture that did not appear to be cheap furniture. As many have before us, we marveled over the plethora of modern furniture pieces just waiting to be assembled. We swooned over a glass top coffee table and cooed as we sat on a squishy swivel recliner. For a brief shining moment it seemed that anything, and everything, was possible. However, by the time we hit kitchen accessories, I was bundle of nerves in desperate need of a mallet to the forehead. Andy, on the other hand, remained extremely calm, much in the same way a tea kettle sits peacefully on a coil burner before steam spews from its top.
I consider myself a patient, sane and level headed individual. Very little gets to me, including commercials that are ten times louder than the show I'm watching or any quantity of spilled milk. Yet on this particular day I have no idea what got into me. It was as if I had been bit by a rabid interior design bug and was foaming at the mouth. I was not unlike Kathy Bates in Misery, so it's a good thing Ikea does not sell sledgehammers or I would have used one. I was a total raving psychopath, unable to decide between area rugs. This dilemma had no where near the gravity of Sophie's Choice, but it may as well have. Poor Andy had the unenviable position of remaining positive around a crazy person, all the while taking notes with a miniature golf pencil. Just when I was at the end of my exceedingly taut rope, I met Billy.
Billy was extremely handsome. He was tall, sturdy, dark and gorgeous. He also came close to breaking up my marriage. I'm not sure who came up with the idea, but all of the items in Ikea are given human names. People name their children, their pets and often times their boats; however, it never occurred to me before Ikea that my ottoman might look like a Doug or my shoe rack a Rachel. Yet that is exactly what the clever executives in Stockholm have decided, in their infinite wisdom, to do. Bernhard is a kitchen chair, Karl a futon, Ingrid a cheese grater, and so on. Billy is a book case. I was so enamored with Billy that I decided we simply must have him and, if my tape measure allowed, perhaps two or maybe even three. No matter the cost, I wanted Billy in my bedroom. Thankfully, Andy was also attracted to him. It was impossible to deny his charms. But did we really need three?
"He only costs $40," I said. "Just think of all the storage!"
"But what about the shelves?" Andy exclaimed. "They are sold separately, you know."
And so they were. As it turns out, everything in Ikea is "sold separately." Add the shelves (and the legs, I might add) and Billy suddenly transformed from a $40 bargain into a $150 investment. And so it goes with the rest of their inventory. Agnes the table top is sold with Edvard, her legs. Astrid the lamp is nothing without Orvel, her shade. Billy appeared to come with nothing but insurmountable expectations and a lifetime of regret. I'm not sure how I managed to come out of there alive because I'm sure Andy was ready to grab the nearest coat hook and stab me with it. And I would not have blamed him. In fact, I would have thanked him for putting me out of my misery.
As it turns out, we were not alone. Scattered around the show room were other couples in various states of madness. One man frantically rummaged through a bin full of spatulas as if he were searching for the holy grail, while his bride lay in the fetal position on a huge chunk of shag carpeting, crying her eyes out to the point of hiccups. Another couple could be heard snapping at each other like giant turtles.
"What do you think of this lamp?" he asked.
And she fired back, "You hate my mother, don't you?!"
After we finally settled on what to buy, it came time to actually find the bloody things in the enormous maze of stacked boxes underground. I'm not sure whose maniacal brain is behind what I refer to in a spooky voice as "the warehouse," but I picture him to be a sadistic bastard named Sven, who twirls a long blond mustache and gorges on meatballs. Shopping in Ikea is only half the battle; finding what you have painstakingly picked out is a nightmare of epic proportions. The couples who have thus far managed to avoid divorce proceedings are in for another hurdle entirely.
I knew exactly what I wanted and it seemed easy enough to find Billy. He was hiding somewhere in Aisle 5, Bin 4. To Aisle 5 we went and there he was. But where were his shelves? And his feet, for that matter. We paced up and down Aisle 5 to no avail. I finally found an employee, although what they really need are marriage counselors, and he was outfitted in the colors of the Swedish flag. The shelves were not in Aisle 5, I found out, but rather in Aisle 2. And if I wanted his legs, which I obviously did, I would find them in Aisle 9. Billy was becoming more of a headache than I had anticipated. I mean, how hard would it be for him to keep it together? We zigzagged through "the warehouse" in search of a few legs here and a few shelves there until we were nauseous.
Eventually our cart was piled high with boxes of miscellaneous parts that were going to miraculously become the scenery of our lives. As I looked up at the mountain before us, I realized it was not going to fit into our truck. Not even close. That's when my knees buckled and I collapsed to the ground in a heap. I couldn't bare the thought of making any more choices and was reduced to pouting like a five year old who was denied a Popsicle. What happened, I now see, is that I turned into a "man" in every horrible sense of the word. I wanted what I wanted and I wanted it all and I wanted it now. Andy wisely suggested that I relax, put down the table leg I was inadvertently wielding, then purchase one or two items now and come back for the rest later.
"I'm never coming back to Ikea!" I proclaimed, as if I were Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes. "EVER AGAIN!"
This is when Andy knew just what to do, and his actions are the sole reason we survived Ikea. I needed a drink. Not a stiff vodka tonic or icy can of beer, but a paper cup of flat Diet Coke. My poison. He whisked me away from "the warehouse," abandoning our cart of furniture appendages, and into a safe cocoon that is the Ikea cafe. As I sipped my drink like Julia Roberts does her orange juice in Steel Magnolias, I looked around. Not only did I see a cafeteria tray heaped with salmon, a stray piece of overturned Daim cake on the floor, and some splattered mustard from a crushed condiment cup, but there they were - my god, they still existed - happy people! Gone were the cries of bickering couples, the beeping of fork lifts in reverse, and the low drone of fluorescent light bulbs. In their place were the sights and sounds of a tropical oasis. Natural sunlight poured in from the picture windows, light 80's pop escaped from the speakers, and refreshing diet soda gushed from the fountain. It was so wonderful in there that I honestly wondered why anyone would ever want to leave such a magical place.
After I was plied with a sufficient amount of Aspartame, I was able to calmly return to "the warehouse" and pare down our selections. We left that day with a kitchen table, four chairs and Billy. I did return for the rest at a later date, but this time I went alone. For the sake of our relationship, we vowed never to shop at Ikea together for as long as we both shall live. We do, however, visit often for pleasant dinner dates in the enchanted cafeteria. The fish and chips are delectable. We also find that that standing outside the exit doors is a highly entertaining way to spend the afternoon. Why pay $14 admission to a crappy Anne Hathaway movie when we can sit outside Ikea with a $1 bag of popcorn and watch once-happy couples pour into the parking lot? By this point nobody is speaking to anyone, so the action plays out like a Charlie Chaplin comedy. They maneuver their dollies of boxes, heaped high in Tetris formations, over speed bumps and through truck doors that are eventually slammed.
If your relationship can survive Ikea, it can survive anything. If he takes off to Vegas for a weekend with the guys, just say to yourself: "We made it through appliances. I can handle anything." Or if she finds a lump where a lump ought not to be, you can comfort her other thusly: "Remember closet solutions? You can beat this."
Somehow the argument between Jake and Kristen had escalated into a fierce disagreement over dinner. "Would you like pizza?" he asked.
"That means you want pizza," Kristen barked. "If that's what you want, just say it! Stop playing these games!"
I wanted to pull them aside and share with them my wisdom. Just as the luster of Ikea wears off in the first hour, so does the sheen of their product. It's simply not worth all the trouble. Our coffee table sags in the middle, the kitchen chairs wobble dangerously throughout dinner and even Billy has turned into a massive disappointment. I was back for more shelves that should have come with him in the first place. But I suppose this is a lesson every couple has to learn for themselves. I couldn't bear to listen anymore, so I turned up the volume on my iPod, paid for my shelves and walked out the door. I considered waiting outside to see if Jake and Kristen left together, but I somehow knew the outcome and was in no mood for a sad ending. So I hopped on my bus and wrote for them a happily ever after fit for a Hollywood movie. As it turns out, Jake is every bit as thoughtful as Andy and got down on bended knee to invite Kristen for dinner in the cafeteria. There they rekindled their romance over Diet Cokes and a plate of Swedish meatballs. Sauce sold separately.
Never realized it before but you are absolutely right: true-love is still wanting to be in the same room with your partner after a trip to Ikea. Beautifully written!
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