IKEA — It’s Swedish for “HAHA! Fuck You!”

Shopping at IKEA is an exercise in mind-fuckery for me.

I’m an analytical type. I like lists. Especially bullet lists. It’s the only way to shop. With my list clutched firmly in one manly hand, I’m in, laser focused on the three bulleted items. And then back out, before the enemy has even noticed me.

I’m a shopping Ninja.

IKEA has that focused-shopper shit figured out though. Cunning Swedes. Because IKEA is all about twisty, turny pathways, with “one way” arrows painted on the fucking floor — specifically and maliciously design to thwart the plan-ahead shopper.

So here we are. All of us shambling after one another with our carts. And our blue IKEA bags (you know, in case we get lost and forget what store we are in). It’s like we are on a demented version of Disney’s “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride”.

No “in and out” Ninja moves for me. Nope. It’s the long shuffle. I’m trying to spot the items on my list, and I can hear excited cries from all around me.

SQUUUEEEE!!!!! Dave! DAVE! Look throw pillows!! Red or Blue? NOOOO! THEY’VE GOT YELLOW!!!

OMG that’s DARLING!! We need twelve.

…ALL the curtains in the house. Every. Single. One.

But they’re on saaaaaaaale. We’ll save SO MUCH MONEY!”

I impatiently trudge.

Past the cheap looking sofas that pull-out to a cheap looking bed.

Past the blond pine kitchen tables.

Past the weirdly tiny 200 square foot complete-house-setups (The fuck? Seriously? Where are the hobbits that live like this?)

Past the entire section devoted to cushions (Dave, you’ll be unsurprised to learn, is now carrying two yellow cushions under each arm, hunched over in defeat and just wanting it to end. He can’t even look me in the eye.)

And then, finally, after roughly six and half hours, I reach the end of the ride. And I’ve only got 2 of the 3 items on the goddamn list.

FUCKING FUCKITY FUCK FUCKERS!