The relationship I have with IKEA is weirdly ambivalent. I deeply admire their business model and success. The retailer’s clear, contemporary and self-deprecating advertising appeals. Even the faux Scandinavian-named products weirdly please me. However, I cannot stomach walking through their aircraft carrier-sized stores whose layouts were designed by the most sadistic and manipulative consumer behavioral scientists.
On those few occasions when I put myself through the labyrinth I curse my decision just ten feet past the front door. No matter who you are or what you are shopping for, at best, only ten percent of what is on display is remotely relevant to your immediate needs. Yet, if you are like me, you leave the store with one of those oversized contractor flat carts not the wimpy-suburban-mommy shopping cart.
On that flat cart I have been known to pile a Klampen mirror, a collection of Rundlig serving bowls, two styles of giant
family sized laundry baskets, numerous packs of Bastig knobs for kitchen cupboards, a Galant file cabinet, a collection of seventeen scissors with different colored handles, a storage box for other storage boxes, and a twelve-seat dining room set. It may sound super convenient because I found everything I needed but on that occasion I had actually gone to IKEA to buy one bathmat that I forgot to purchase.