I’m not sure which level of hell IKEA occupies.
You might not think it to walk in on a bright, sunny day. The big blue warehouse reaches to the sky. Bright yellow little VW bugs sit jauntily in the parking lot, piled high with self-righteous assemble-it-yourself boxes. There are hardly any cars, because you’re here before the place opens. (You learned your lesson; the last time gave you claustrophobia.) You walk into the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee, before the doors open and read about the history of IKEA: affordable furniture for all. Flushed with caffeine and a pleasant Socialist glow (similar to arguing passionately for national health insurance), you make your way back to the entrance.
And there, waiting for the doors to open, is a herd of people revving their shopping carts. The countdown begins. The doors open; the poor lady offering free coffee ducks. And we’re off, pushing our carts past the living room displays, shooting irritated looks at people who cut us off.
My mission was to find cheap storage ideas for the closets, which are woefully inadequate, especially since I really detest the bookshelves next to the bed dripping with haphazardly folded jeans and sweatshirts. No cigar. Or at least not without paying way more than it would cost for me to build something myself, not that I would ever get around to it. Which essentially means that there was stuff I could have used, but I’m way too cheap to pay $82 for something that’s going to be stuffed in a closet, for chrissakes. (That’s another thing about this place. It’s got weird prices. $197. $74. $689.)
You know, I like the idea of IKEA. I even bought some stuff there–a couple of mugs, many candles, some magazine holders, two plants and planters–but all in all, it’s cheap furniture for that masses that looks like cheap furniture for the masses.