I have a very serious addiction and I think an intervention might be in order. I am hooked on Ikea, big-time. I can’t resist its Swedish siren song. The smell of those cinnamon buns lure me in and then I am powerless and must acquire goods, goods I do not need, could never need, like three different kinds of hanging nightlights and a pillow that has holes for your feet to go in, to keep them warm. This is madness. Ikea, light of my life, fire of my loins! I. Kee. Ahhhhh.
Why, oh why, did they have to open one in Brooklyn? I was doing fine when the closest place you could buy incredibly affordable yet stylish furniture was in Elizabeth, NJ. But now, in my own backyard? With convenient parking? A shuttle bus, even? A playroom for the children??? Oh, Ikea, why do you torment me so? You KNOW my apartment, though more spacious than before, is still only 900 square feet. You know I don’t need a cow-hide swivel stool. Damn you, Ikea, for offering such tasty tiny meatballs at reasonable prices and even giving my kids colorful plastic flatware to use while eating them. Don’t you know you are ruining me with this conspicuous consumerism????
“That’s enough Ikea for you,” says David, “It’s like Vegas in there. No clocks so you can’t tell how long you’ve been trapped there and no cell phone reception so you’re cut off from the outside world, the realm of normalcy and self control.”
So I told David I would stop, but I just can’t. I have my eye on a cherry-red mesh office chair for just $39.99! No matter that I don't have an office. Cherry red is my signature color! This is an official cry for help.
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