Please explain yourself.
My sister and I spent some quality / exorbitant time at your Brooklyn location, and I insist on an explanation as to how you let the following events happen.
On a side, Dorigen and I were at the same place at the same time this past weekend, which begs the question – “If you where both there, then who was running hell and/or the DorEm Answers blog?” The answer is we both deferred to our backup solutions – me, my 20 lb black cat (Virgil) and she, her diamond-padded faux Chanel purse – they do not like to share responsibilities, so no work was done.
Meanwhile, back in Brooklyn, I took this lovely shot of the Statue of Liberty, as seen from IKEA’s front door…
Now on to the chaos…
First off, we (me, Dorigen, and her husband, Jeff) immediately knew we had made a mistake in fashion accessories, having not brought some excitable toddler or infant on our day of discount furniture and home supply shopping. They are all the rage at IKEA.
Still, despite the crowds of parents disinterested in their children’s location (unless it was in close proximity to a preferred star shaped ice cube tray), the IKEA shopping experience was pleasant. I wore a tape measure around my neck, was in charge of writing down where to find tightly packed furniture in the warehouse, and we got everything we needed on the list (and on budget).
And then we tried to leave.
The many parents and their children had developed a 45 minute line at “Småland,” where we needed to exchange the locker key for Jeff’s driver’s license. The U-Haul kiosk wasn’t working and our phones did not get reception in IKEA land, so Dorigen was focused to convince a staff member to use his mega-fancy phone three times. The information that she finally received from U-Haul was that the truck she ordered weeks ago, was not actually at IKEA, but rather a mile away.
While Jeff took a taxi to a U-Haul truck that’s battery had died, Dorigen and I waited in the parking lot, with other disheveled women whose manners were lost somewhere in the lighting section of IKEA. Things got especially heated when someone’s car blocked the one ramp from the exit elevators and created a bottleneck of overstuffed carts and women who don’t stand for no mess.
A couple hours into our cold wait in the parking lot, I braved IKEA again for some meatballs.
Inside I crossed paths with a pimply hipster girl who was just wandering IKEA (oddly empty handed), frantically asking no one in particular, “Is this a store?! Is THIS a store?!” Her nonsense question made perfect sense to me, and I felt compelled to tell her, “no, this is not a store, honey” as I passed by. We shared a moment.
Eventually Jeff found another U-Haul store in Brooklyn, rescuing us from a 5 hour, “quick trip” to IKEA, and I spent the ride looking directly at this sign…
We spent the rest of the night and the following morning building furniture essentially from scratch and breaking down the largest cardboard boxes ever designed.
So, IKEA, I ask you to explain yourself. Why do you choose to create a world that insights confusion and rage in its patrons? And can you fix your damn U-Haul kiosk?!
I am still too angry to speak to you.