Mrs. G. has called into question and cast aspersions on Mr. G's character on this very blog at least three times regarding his inability to go to Ikea without kicking up a fuss or, on one occasion, launching a verbal smackdown in the Billy Bookcase aisle. If Mrs. G. recalls correctly, she wanted the birch veneer and Mr. G. wanted to mow down innocent customers with his flatbed shopping cart because he felt trapped in a death maze, a Swedish tomb.
After three attempts to shop together at Ikea, which resorted in them storming out of the store and screaming at each other in the car all the way home, Mr. G. had had enough. Mrs. G. told him to suit himself but then went on to challenge his manhood and compare buying a Billy Bookcase with him to watching Ingmar Bergman's Seventh Seal over and over while being eaten alive by chiggers. Thick skinned and unmoved, he declared, for the sake of their marriage and his heart health, he would never enter an Ikea again. He's been true to his word.
Yesterday, Mrs. G. went to Ikea alone to get a new slipcover for her Ektorp Ikea couch. She didn't want to dilly dally -- just get the slipcover and get out. She remained calm as she wound her way around and around bedding, lamps, fake plants and kitchenware to get to the sofa quadrant of the store. Placid, unruffled, Mrs. G. waited 28 minutes for the salesperson to finish up with another customer and push one computer key to print out the warehouse receipt Mrs. G. needed to retrieve the slipcover from a man behind a counter a half-a-mile away. Her forbearance started wearing thin after she trekked to the warehouse retrieval counter and got in line behind seven people to pick up a slipcover she should have been able to pluck off a shelf, without assistance.
The line was moving molasses slow and, 50 minutes into what should have been a a fifteen minute errand, tops, Mrs. G. picked a fight with herself.
If you think my dumb ass is going to stand here in this line for one minute longer, you have lost your ever lovin' mind. This is some bullshitting bullshit and I am about to walk out of this store if I can ever find the exit, Mrs. G. said (out loud) to herself as she waited in line another 20 minutes until the man behind the counter -- wearing suspenders and a back brace -- handed her the two pound box with the slipcover in it.
Never again, never again, Mrs. G. screamed at the top of her lungs chanted as she drove home. When she pulled up in her driveway, Mr. G. was in the garage working. She walked over, hugged him and wholeheartedly apologized for calling him a dickweed in the Billy Bookcase aisle at Ikea four years ago.
You Ikea lovers just keep on loving it, clearly you're made of stronger stock if you can walk into that neurosis inducing distribution center and not duke it out with a loved one or yourself. Seriously, it's all yours. Even the meatballs.
Update: *m* sent the link to this video and Mrs. G. had to add it.