A few weeks ago, I decided that J needed a new dresser for his bedroom—something chic and European…something from Ikea! I had heard things about Ikea, like how you can buy an entire roomful of furniture for what you’d for pay a TV tray at Ethan Allen, AND…that they have a cafeteria where they serve Swedish meatballs with mashed potatoes for like six bucks! Cheap furniture and meatballs? Ding-Ding-Ding! Jackpot!
Like most Americans, I was immediately dazzled by the stylishly appointed little “rooms” at Ikea. I was overcome with a sudden urge to throw out all of my fussy custom-upholstered chairs and sofas and replace them with sleek vinyl chaises and Swedish beanbag chairs. But I was there to buy a dresser and it was time to get down to business.
This is when the dazzle begins to wear off. To get to the dresser, I am forced to wander through a maze like a lab rat searching for cheese. At last, the dresser is found. Now to find pencil and paper to write down the mysterious location of the actual thing that I want to take home. Then, it's back to the maze where I wander around for another 15 minutes down to the "warehouse" where I'm supposed to lift the 150 lb. box of dresser pieces off of a shelf that is 3 ft. higher than my reach.
At this point, I get an inkling of how utterly lackadaisical and unhelpful the "customer service" (and I use this term loosely) can be at Ikea. Some guy who is doing absolutely nothing will begrudgingly pull the thing off the shelf. And you better hope it's exactly the right one because he certainly isn't going to check it for you. If it's the wrong one, you will have to hunt down some other slacker Ikea "worker" to help you, and you'll have to look harder this time because the last joker who helped you will make sure that he isn't around to be useful ever again.
Once I get to the checkout counter, I am rung up by a cashier zombie who doesn’t bother to tell me that I, the customer, am responsible for: 1) wrapping up any breakable things I am buying, 2) finding the paper to wrap said breakables, 3) bagging all of the breakable things I just wrapped, and 4) magically possessing a bag to transport my breakable things in. After watching me juggle some unneeded but too-cheap-to-pass-up candle holders for at least two minutes, Cashier Zombie silently points to some bags that can be purchased specifically for transporting useless knick-knacks.
I then haul my stuff down to the car where I am hoping some knight in shining armor will help me heave my big furniture purchase into my minivan (in my case, my hero was my 9-year old son) while three or four Ikea employees watch through a cloud of smoke as they enjoy their cigarette break.
And that was just Phase I of My Horrible Shopping Experience at Ikea! Phase II happens when I have to do a return because critical pieces to the dresser are missing. Don’t let the poster of the fuzzy heart with open arms on the “no nonsense” return policy fool you. It’s ALL nonsense, ALL the time at Ikea.
Suffice it to say, I'm pretty sure that the interview process at Ikea goes something like this:
Interviewer: Can you look bored and make yourself as useless as possible to the hapless customers we have lured into our giant maze with Swedish meatballs?
Interviewee: Yeah, whatever (looking bored and put out, of course).
Interviewer: You're hired!
My advice: Pay more anywhere else for better quality furniture and decent service. If you must, order the damn meatballs then get the hell out.
Like most Americans, I was immediately dazzled by the stylishly appointed little “rooms” at Ikea. I was overcome with a sudden urge to throw out all of my fussy custom-upholstered chairs and sofas and replace them with sleek vinyl chaises and Swedish beanbag chairs. But I was there to buy a dresser and it was time to get down to business.
This is when the dazzle begins to wear off. To get to the dresser, I am forced to wander through a maze like a lab rat searching for cheese. At last, the dresser is found. Now to find pencil and paper to write down the mysterious location of the actual thing that I want to take home. Then, it's back to the maze where I wander around for another 15 minutes down to the "warehouse" where I'm supposed to lift the 150 lb. box of dresser pieces off of a shelf that is 3 ft. higher than my reach.
At this point, I get an inkling of how utterly lackadaisical and unhelpful the "customer service" (and I use this term loosely) can be at Ikea. Some guy who is doing absolutely nothing will begrudgingly pull the thing off the shelf. And you better hope it's exactly the right one because he certainly isn't going to check it for you. If it's the wrong one, you will have to hunt down some other slacker Ikea "worker" to help you, and you'll have to look harder this time because the last joker who helped you will make sure that he isn't around to be useful ever again.
Once I get to the checkout counter, I am rung up by a cashier zombie who doesn’t bother to tell me that I, the customer, am responsible for: 1) wrapping up any breakable things I am buying, 2) finding the paper to wrap said breakables, 3) bagging all of the breakable things I just wrapped, and 4) magically possessing a bag to transport my breakable things in. After watching me juggle some unneeded but too-cheap-to-pass-up candle holders for at least two minutes, Cashier Zombie silently points to some bags that can be purchased specifically for transporting useless knick-knacks.
I then haul my stuff down to the car where I am hoping some knight in shining armor will help me heave my big furniture purchase into my minivan (in my case, my hero was my 9-year old son) while three or four Ikea employees watch through a cloud of smoke as they enjoy their cigarette break.
And that was just Phase I of My Horrible Shopping Experience at Ikea! Phase II happens when I have to do a return because critical pieces to the dresser are missing. Don’t let the poster of the fuzzy heart with open arms on the “no nonsense” return policy fool you. It’s ALL nonsense, ALL the time at Ikea.
Suffice it to say, I'm pretty sure that the interview process at Ikea goes something like this:
Interviewer: Can you look bored and make yourself as useless as possible to the hapless customers we have lured into our giant maze with Swedish meatballs?
Interviewee: Yeah, whatever (looking bored and put out, of course).
Interviewer: You're hired!
My advice: Pay more anywhere else for better quality furniture and decent service. If you must, order the damn meatballs then get the hell out.
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