IKEA Trysil Wardrobe: 0/5 Stars

“What do you think is the best way to do this? Do you think it’s going to fit?”

“Well, it’s hitting up against both the door frame and the wall.”

“Okay, let’s try it one more time. I’ll back up with it now.”

“Alright, I’m going to lift it again as you push it forward.”

“How are we doing this time? Is it going to make it?”

“Nope, we’re having the same problem again.”

This conversation that I had with my family and my friend Chris perfectly captures the dismal sense of helplessness that dominated every moment I spent with the IKEA Trysil wardrobe.

It all started a few months ago, when my parents decided that they were finally going to have the carpet in their bedroom replaced. It had been there for 30 years, and it was time for a change. They figured that this would be an opportune time to replace my mom’s wardrobe, which had deteriorated over time. Unsurprisingly, this was another terribly crafted IKEA wardrobe.

There were two options for the new wardrobe. The first involved paying a professional carpenter to build a beautiful, durable custom wardrobe. The second would be to purchase another IKEA wardrobe, which my dad and I would assemble. Neither of us are adept at construction, so this was a bit of a gamble. Guess which one they chose.

Packaged in four boxes slightly smaller than the average door, the pieces were quite bulky. They somehow avoided my gaze the entire time they were stored in my garage, from September until January.

My father and I started the arduous construction process on a Sunday. Looking at the 68-step instruction booklet, we could tell that this was not a one-day job,especially with our general disdain for and lack of skill in assembly projects. We worked for three long, tedious, and frustrating hours on Sunday, but eventually stopped.

On Monday night, we resumed the project. It was even more taxing after a day of work. The instruction booklet diagrams are minuscule to the untrained eye. If you are lacking in technical proficiency like me, then you may also need to revisit the diagram several times before confidently placing a screw.

Securing the flimsy wooden backing to the unit is the most infuriating task that an IKEA booklet has ever forced me to do. The diagram instructs customers to place and install brackets evenly across the back of the unit at unspecified intervals. It’s a good thing that the instructions specified the precise quantity of each type of screw, because we nearly installed the wrong hardware. After the side was secured, we then began the arduous task of securing the flimsy wooden backing in the middle of the unit. The screws were either too dull (or small) to penetrate the backing and the wardrobe, so we gave up, and accepted the potentially disastrous consequences.

Finally, the dreaded moment of truth had arrived. It was time to flip the wardrobe from a prone position to a standing position. Up until this point, we had been working in my living room, where there was more space to work and lay out the materials. We wanted to move the wardrobe into the bedroom before we added in the drawers, shelves, and other heavy components that were not essential to its structure, so this timing was ideal. Before moving the wardrobe, we shifted the bed and the other furniture to create some open space.

On the first attempt, we moved the wardrobe on a series of dollies in an upright position. It was, of course, too tall for this approach, so we regrouped and laid it on its side. After one short burst of energy, we quickly realized that moving the wardrobe into the bedroom without assistance was impossible. It was time to call Chris.

Given that it was about 9 pm by the time he arrived, tensions and tempers were high. On the second attempt, I pushed the wardrobe forward while Chris lifted it. In what seemed like a joke that only God had the sarcastic sense of humor to make, the wardrobe was just too wide to fit between the wall the wall and the door frame. We tried a third time, but to no avail — the wardrobe kept getting stuck on the wall. It wasn’t going to happen.

We had some options to consider.

To me, the answer was clear: we should force the wardrobe into the room, pushing past the obstructive wall, and accept the sheetrock damage as an operating cost of sorts. We’d already come this far, and I did not feel like spending hours disassembling and returning the unit. The damage would be noticeable, but easily repairable for a skilled handyman. Patching the wall would cost about $150 (at most), making the total cost of this option about $400. Everything would be back to normal. We would have a wardrobe, and a wall. I spent about ten minutes trying to convince my parents to deliberately damage their wall in the name of IKEA, clothing storage, and free time.

The second option, which I then verbalized to them, was much less appealing. We would have to take the wall unit back to the living room, disassemble it, and return it. Then, pay the aforementioned carpenter friend of ours to construct a new wardrobe. This option, compared to the $230 IKEA wardrobe, would cost at least $1,000–4 times the original amount, plus several more hours spent in the disassembly and return process.

My parents looked at me in disbelief.

“Oh no, we wouldn’t return this. We would probably just put it in the garage or give it away or something.”

“Are you kidding me?” I incredulously exclaimed.

“Yeah, that’s way too much effort. Maybe we can put it in the garage, and you can have it one day?”

Why would I ever want this wardrobe? Not only would it be a constant reminder of this low point in my life, but it would also be horribly impractical for a male. It’s an enormous waste of space, and there’s no conceivable way that I could utilize it enough to justify its obnoxious presence.

My parents refused to return it. But I had an idea.

“If Chris and I take the time to disassemble and return it, can we use the money to throw a party?”

“Sure!”

They met my unreasonably absurd request with absolute enthusiasm. Despite this crazy turn of events, I still advocated for the wall-damaging route. But to no avail. Defeated, yet with a healthy dose of optimism, we moved the wardrobe into the garage and re-arranged the bedroom furniture.

When I initially decided that I would be writing a review in the form of a rant, I envisioned that it would end here. I soon found that this process would be eventful until the end.

Chris and I made plans to disassemble and return the wardrobe on the following Sunday. My other friend Eddie offered his dad’s van as a way to transport the wardrobe without spending the time to disassemble it. Bingo.

Before we returned it, though, I wanted to clarify that IKEA would accept a partially assembled wardrobe. I googled “IKEA” to find the number of the local store, as one does. This came up with a phone number with an 888 area code, which I found odd, but called anyway.

The first time I called, the automated message told me that the operator was busy, ending the call with an apologetic (yet firm) “goodbye”. These things happen. I called back, but to no avail. It wasn’t even that I had been left on hold by customer service for 20 minutes; I never even had the option to wait for a representative.

Stranded, I desperately utilized my newly gained search engine expertise to find a local store number. Thankfully, I was able to find a number with a Nassau county area code. The menu did not have a “customer service” option, and only instructed me to enter my party’s extension. I tried three times before connecting with a human. First, I tried 0000. Then, 0001. When I realized this was clearly not the correct pattern, I tried 1000. Success! The extension I had dialed connected me to somebody in either upper management or HR, and that person connected me with a customer service representative.

“Do you accept partially assembled return items?”

“Yes, as long as all of the pieces are included.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Whew.

I called Eddie to take him up on his van offer. We loaded it into his van, and set off on the next leg of this ridiculous journey.

The parking situation at Broadway Mall was terrible. All of the parking spaces that were a reasonable distance from the entrance were filled, and we didn’t want to lug the wardrobe from the Chick-Fil-A parking lot.

Instead of parking, Eddie backed his van up to the entrance. I then grabbed a flat cart, on which we placed the now-vertical wardrobe. I moved it inside while Eddie parked the van across the mall.

With renewed confidence, I moved the rickety cart to the front door while Eddie parked. I navigated through a dense crowd of seemingly brainwashed customers, who seemed altogether removed from the reality that they had just traversed a forest of consumerism. When I got to the door, the wardrobe was just too tall to fit inside. I called inside to ask for assistance, but the “greeter” retorted that “there are people outside to help you.” I quickly found the only person who seemed to have an idea of what was going on, and he helped me to return the wardrobe to a horizontal position. We brought it inside the door, across the store, and to the return desk. As I gave him a dollar for his efforts, he told me that I just needed to take a number.

I was confused. Was I at the supermarket, or a multinational furniture retailer?

He confirmed my worst suspicions. Indeed, there was a ticketing system akin to the deli queue process. They were serving number 36, and I just grabbed the ticket for 99. He said the wait could be as long as 2 hours, so it was best that I just parked the wardrobe along the wall, out of the way.

If you’ve ever waited an absurdly long time with like-minded people, in the DMV, a hospital waiting room, or at a restaurant, then you already understand the hopeless commiseration that I shared with the other former IKEA customers. Multiple people entered and asked if I was waiting on line, and I begrudgingly reminded myself of the immense waste of time that was this ticketing system by explaining it to them. One man, who had grown tired of this bureaucratic process, gave up. He gave us his ticket, number 93. Nice. I paid the favor forward by giving my ticket to the couple waiting behind us.

The time passed slowly but surely. Eddie joined me in the waiting area, where we condescendingly examined the artwork, considered getting ice cream, and discussed other trivial matters. Eventually, it was our turn to go up to the register.

Luckily, the end of this arduous process held no hidden variables. The customer service representative seemed just as frustrated as us, and was eager to finish the transaction. It was boilerplate, really. I produced the receipt, she scanned it, and returned the money to the credit card. For a moment, it seemed like we might even be reimbursed for the delivery fee as well, but that did not come to fruition. Still, we had received the money, and spent the rest of our Sunday tired out from this endeavor.

TL;DR: The wardrobe didn’t fit, and the return process was a nightmare. Instead of using it, definitely just return it and convince your parents to have a kegger instead.

0 out of 5 stars, would not buy again