IKEA: The New Target

Deception. Cheating. Hypocrite. Adulterer. Liar. Poser. Valueless. Amoral. Me.

I got my children early from school, canceled the tutor appointment and left my zip code. From the beginning of the afternoon tryst my values started to peel away.

My son was shoveling sand under the slide with his 4-year old friend; my daughter was swinging as high as she could go and singing in a loud voice – happy children finding fulfillment in simple activities, my ideal.

With the promise of a snowcone, I rip my children from harmony’s hand and lure them into the car. Why did I feel the need to involve the children in my amoral behavior?

My daughter sucked her thumb and stared out the window as the car fired onto the toll road - the new toll road that I opposed a year earlier. Sellout that I am, I paid $1 and sped onto the empty road. With no traffic the car jetted to the suburbs at a constant speed of 70 mph. My mind was spinning -why was I doing this?

Exiting in the midst of Bed, Bath & Beyond, Marshalls and Prime Outlet Mall, the car rolls to a stop in the parking lot. I kill the ignition and we sit still. “What does that say, mommy?” asks my daughter. “IKEA,” I reply.

All that I despise about America - suburbs, big box stores, cheap crap, consumerism, driving – I am modeling and promoting this to my innocent children.

Why? That is still an unanswered question.

When we go into the store, the bright and stunningly cheap sofas grab my attention. My children, however, are wildly delighted by the play center that is smack dab in the middle of the furniture section. I shop, think, plan – the children play – never do they bug me to hurry or leave. They are having the greatest time sitting in a chair with a roll down cover that creates an egg effect.

We move to the next section, the children’s section. I weep. Such cute, clever and cheap decorations! Promptly, I toss two inflatable floor pillows in the shape of a turtle ($15) and hedgehog ($15) into our cart.

Frenzied, I grab a pop-up igloo ($9.99), a pack of colored paper ($4.99), a dragon wall organizer ($14) and light fixture ($14) in the shape of the sun to hang in our playroom. The children are rocking on horses, swinging on swings, playing in tents -we are a gleeful threesome.

Following the big arrows on the floor we move to the next section, which is the café. The children gravitate to the little table and chairs under the Japanese lanterns where a children’s movie is playing on a low hanging flat screen.

Always needing a snack, I go to the cafeteria-style line. Again I weep for joy. The usual fare at a place like this would be hot dogs, chicken nuggets, crapola. Not at IKEA!

I pick-up a healthy and tasty plate of gravlox for myself, and for my meat-loving son, I happily purchase a plate of meatballs.

As we snack in the adorable kid’s area, I notice that the café sells jars of baby food– how many times have you been out with the baby and had nada to feed them? Those IKEA geniuses also had a bottle warmer, fresh fruit and no sugar added juice!!

After our snack my son’s extra clean colon needed immediate evacuation. Our merry group traipses into the family bathroom. Wiping the tear from my eye, I sit in an upholstered chair while my son takes care of business.

When I read the sign that says “free diapers in case you forgot yours”, I almost burst from delight, not that I needed a diaper, but I was so happy for the person who needed this hospitality.

Outside the bathroom I repeatedly thank the custodian for such a nice experience. “This is so well planned. Thank you. This is a great place.” She looks at me with that familiar I-don’t-speak-English-but-you-look-like-a-nice-person look. I pat her shoulder and give her a mock hug.

How much better can this place get? The kitchen, lighting, garden and textile sections continued to provide fantastic finds and interesting entertainment for the children.

However, three hours have elapsed and we are getting tired as we peruse the “as-is” section. I know my limits and the limits of my children who are getting hungry and tired. We grab a hammock (we don’t have two trees even remotely close together) and head to the massive check-out center.

This is where the story takes a nasty turn.

Only self-check stations are available. Hmmm. I have an ENORMOUS cart of crap that is spilling onto the floor. How will I manage to scan so many bulky items? There are three young employees standing at the end of the checkout section.

They must be getting ready to open a full service register, I think. Nope. In fact, they stare at me as my son hits the feet of an older customer with a long roll containing a paper tablecloth – that I don’t need.

I start to come unglued. Screeching at my son, I force him to apologize to the old bitty who looks at me as if I am an irresponsible mother. I don’t know about you, but I feel rage when judgment comes my way. I try to ignore this feeling and sit my son underneath the checkout counter and dare him to move.

The freaking scan gun doesn’t work. Continually I point and click. Fucker isn’t working. I poke the “help” button. Teenage girl comes to my register and is smug as she makes the scan gun work. She leaves. The scan gun doesn’t work again. I bang it onto the register. Whoops. Rage came. I’m a little embarrassed plus I’m scared the manager is going to come and make me leave my three-hour haul.

Later my daughter confirmed that a piece of the scan gun flew off when I hit it. I try to regain compose and manage a tight-lipped smile at the sneering old hag next to me…as if she has figured out how to use the self-check!

Teenage girl comes back and with no comment nor an apology for Ikea’s faulty scan gun, she haughtily scans my item and starts to leave. “Wait! Obviously, I do not understand how to use this piece of …equipment. Can you give me a lesson?”

Surely, teenage girl did not make the IKEA self-check policy, and I know it will get me nowhere to insult her or the store in which she works. I stop myself from commenting. BUT it comes out anyway, “Uh, should I have taken a class before I came here? I just didn’t know there was going to be so much manual labor involved.” Whore gives me a pity smile and walks off.

My sweet daughter is bagging the merchandise like a madwoman. She does not want to see the wheels come off the cart in public. It makes me sad that she is living in fear of me making a scene. That little face was enough for me to calm down and help her bag our 12 bags of utter junk.

When we get home I take my sleeping son from the car (it’s now past bedtime) and my husband expresses shock and worry over my consumer berserkism. Continually he asks me what is wrong with me and why I felt the need to travel 20 miles out of town and buy 12 bags of nonsense.

The checkout escapade is starting to fade and the memories of the 630 square foot model stocked with IKEA products fills my mind.

Excitedly, I recount how the efficiency and economy of IKEA appeals to my very core. Then, I start unpacking our new placemats and 1,000 new napkins and explain to my confused husband that IKEA is the new Target.