Dear IKEA:
I love you. I hate you. I love to hate you. I hate to love you.
Eddie and I entered you to get stuff to furnish an investment property. Let’s call this place a charming, evocative name — a name like “El Pozo De Dinero.”
It will, we hope, be Eddie’s primary source of income this summer.
We had to get so much. But the quantity of necessary items was inversely proportional to my amount of patience.
I lost my will to live in the lighting section.
You didn’t care. You still made me trek through bath fixtures, throw pillows and plants to taste freedom.
I have so many questions:
- Why don’t you have the entrance on the main floor?
- Why don’t you have carts on the second floor where the showroom begins?
- Why don’t you have any staff on the floor?
- Why do you have to snake through the entire damn place to get from entrance to exit?
- Why can’t you get out of the café without going through the whole place again?
- Why won’t you open another register when you have 637 people in line?
Eddie contemplates death in one of only two checkout lanes open.
Even your oft-heralded meatballs are not enough to erase the memory of this torture.
We’re not done, though, so I’ll see you in a week or so.
Your best enemy,
Beth
Observe and report 
I agree Ikea is the fourth level of hell – I refuse to go there anymore. Try At Home in Norcross. Way better and no horrific screaming child maze.
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Thank you SO MUCH for the suggestion! I’d never heard of it.
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