Elizabeth (NJ) was rude to me.
ELIZABETH!!!!
I went to IKEA last week. In Elizabeth - Craphole of the United States. Seriously. Imagine every rotting, mosquito and capo-corpse-infested, methane gas-filled, dead-souled swamp you’ve ever been to. That’s what Elizabeth is like.
There’s an IKEA there! It’s pretty much the only reason to go (besides, you know, Newark International Airport). It was the first IKEA in the NY Metro area, (and maybe the first in the US?), and it is fucking monstrous.
I had the (great) pleasure of accompanying two very well-dressed and pleasant young men last Sunday to Elizabeth (in a Zipcar, nonetheless!) to purchase furniture, tealights, and other nonessential essentials. Granted, I should have known better than to go to IKEA on a Sunday. Especially in Jersey. But what choice did I have?? Two well-dressed and pleasant young men! Plus, the opportunity for meatballs. Mmm… lingonberries.
At any rate, driving to Elizabeth is kinda like driving away from heaven. You’re in Honolulu… then suddenly you’re in Spokane… and then you’re in Pittsburgh. Blergh. Once you get there, however, there’s always the promise of lingonberries at the end of the road to entice you forth, into the Den of Swedes and Allen Wrenches. What you fail to remember, however, is after you go through the pretty, pretty showroom, and after you’ve picked out your Malms and Linnarps, your Bjornbaks and Condoleezas, you have to go to the warehouse. Where it is no fun. But serious. The warehouse is no fun. I’m talking Asian-dad-sleeping-on-display-lawn-furniture kind of no fun. Because once you’ve navigated your way through the aisles of death, (I can only imagine an espresso finish Malm falling off a top shelf and squishing me like a latke), you get to the lines. Oh my God, the lines. The checkout line is fine. I expect the checkout line. Please, you’re talking to a guy who spent three-fifths of his childhood in line at Costco. It’s the lines after the checkout line. You know what I’m talking about, that dismal waiting area where good people go to die. The place with the soul-crushing slatted wood benches. At first, when you sit down, you feel as if you’re comfortable, and happily watch the monitor nearby spouting Swedish nonsense. Fifteen minutes later, you’re starting to get antsy, so you send your friend/boyfriend/girlfriend/child/old-decrepit-mother/dog/Linnarp to get you a 25-cent hotdog and some fish-paste from the refreshment stand. ‘Don’t forget the Lingonberry Juice, honey!’, you shout. Thirty-Five minutes later, and your other is still not back… you begin to wonder if you’re being held prisoner, or at least being monitored by some Dharma Initiative-type experiment. Your other returns, not with the hotdog and fish-paste you asked for, but with a bakers’ dozen cinnamon buns, two soft-serve cones, and a jar of lingonberry preserves. (They drank the juice because they got thirsty walking the mile and a half back to the waiting area.) They have no recollection of buying all of that food, but they’re pretty sure it only cost them $2.50-ish. You finally get your furniture, (seriously… what were they doing back there? Making the wood pulp?), and load it up into your ZipCar, and head back to Manhattan… Thank God.
The worst part is that Elizabeth kind of belches at you as you leave. Those of you who’ve been there will recognize this. It’s the smell just as you’re getting back on the 95 to get to Manhattan. It’s vile, but all you could do is blame your well-dressed, pleasant carrmates for beefing. There’s no use in blaming Elizabeth. She doesn’t care.
The moral of the story is that IKEA is wonderful. Especially when accompanied by two well-dressed, pleasant gentlemen. Getting there… that’s half the battle. Look up cost-benefit analysis on Wikipedia.
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Are you involved in a threesome? Also, what are you doing going to IKEA I thought you were leaving me and NYC?