When I was growing up, we didn’t have an IKEA. We had a SEARS catalog that came every year in the mail, full of dreamy items but with normal names like couches, sleeper sofas, bookcases, curtains and cabinet handles. And sometimes, when life got fancy, we went to Sears. To see the dreamy items. And well, dream.
Note: That Mike Brady. Such a hunk.
But I grew up, yes. And I graduated from Sears to IKEA, a place where Americans go to pretend to live frugally and with less stuff. But ironically, IKEA is a place to buy stuff that probably nobody really needs in order to live small, but we Americans are an eager bunch. And so we buy KLIPs to sit on and FAGELBOs to sleep on and EXPEDITs to organize with and MERETEs to hang at our windows and GODMORGONs to open our cupboards, which overflow with stuff from IKEA.
But that’s okay because you can buy actual cabinets at IKEA to hold even more IKEA stuff and make you feel even more EUROPEAN as you wrangle with the tools and the cabinets and knobs and try to put all of this stuff together in your living room, because for your convenience, it comes in flat boxes to conveniently tie to the roof of your Prius and fly down the freeway, perilously.
And all of those Swedish names come in handy as you wrestle with the ropes and the tools and the boards and the instructions without words because all Swedish words sound like solid swear words, so you can express irritation without using the actual words in front of the children.
For example: What in the FRYKEN world! (Boxes with lids, if you’re wondering).
So, I pretty much love IKEA. I love the words and the products and the daring of the perilous driving and the lingonberry sauce.
And the meatballs. Please don’t forget the Swedish meatballs.
Oleander: So, go sit outside in your IKEA POANG and tell us what really goes on backstage during a musical theater production.