You walk through the displays. You fall in love with a flugenkranker. The price seems so reasonable. The flugenkranker looks so attractive and substantial. You heart melts. You MUST have it!
Then like any other relationship, reality sets in.
You can’t easily find your flugenkranker in the gigantic warehouse. Sometimes, even if you do find it, you can’t actually get to it because there are all these weird metal gates inexplicably blocking off parts of the joint.
You wrestle the boxes through the check out. There are no bags. So you pay for a stupid plastic IKEA bag for all the other irresistible items with names containing copious umlauts in the kitchen and textile areas you never knew you needed.
You pray all the boxes fit in your car. They barely clear the trunk. You know if there’s an accident, flugenkranker is going to be wedged in your skull (or a-hole) until the medical examiner extracts it.
You drag that shit in the house and start waging battle with that cheap-assed little allen wrench/skate key thing which is included along with the 800 screws necessary to assemble said flugenkranker.
You hate flugenkranker by now. You are sweaty and irate and possibly drunk. Flugenkranker leans dangerously to the left while upright but you sure as shit don’t care. If you are drunk enough, it looks completely square and level. You throw the remaining 300 un-used screws and the skate key in the trash, drag the packaging to the recycle bin and pray for the day you can afford “adult furniture.”
But no matter what, you still go back. Even when you can afford “adult furniture.” Because IKEA is like bad-relationship crack.
And no one is immune.
Which is how it came to pass that Mac was gifted a small table and chairs for his birthday from IKEA.
It came in one modest box. It’s pine (or maybe balsa wood?) and particle board. It had very few screws. It assembled with minimal sweating and time.
And for some reason, I don’t feel the least bit guilty about that. . .
Seriously, for the cost, it’s a decent little item for us to enjoy for hopefully a year or two. And honestly, we could replace the particle-board pieces with more substantial painted plywood or similar if we were so inclined.
Like all things IKEA, you want to hate it but you just can’t. . .And more importantly, Mac adores it.