Fun With HQ At Ickyeah.

HQ and I made a decision that we had both been avoiding; a trip to the blue and yellow prison that asks its inmates to give back to society by assembling furniture. Storage items were needed, a list was drafted, maps and layouts were studied and an escape plan was hatched.

Ickyeah is doing well despite the economic situation, probably because it successfully traps customers for hours in its one-directional "you must walk through all sections before you are permitted to exit the premises" policy. Quite brilliant actually, because what they are selling is ugly and cheap.

HQ: Okay. We split up. I look for decorative laminated particleboard, while you look for functional laminated particleboard.

Me: Got it.

30 minutes after HQ's clever plan, I am wandering aimlessly in the children section pondering whether I can fit on the sculptural plastic rocking horse. HQ calls me.

HQ: Where are you?

Me: I am playing with a toy rabbit named Fijorgensnorf and am surrounded by freakishly tiny people. Get me out of here. Pleeeeaase.

HQ: Follow the yellow brick road blue arrows, get to the home organization area. I'll meet you there.

After an Ickyeah associate prevents me from going the "wrong way", [Seriously? I cannot go back the way I just came?], I finally get to where I am supposed to meet HQ, but cannot find her.  I try calling her, but Ickyeah is blocking my signal. Oxygen-deprived, I notice that I am pushing someone else's cart and left mine somewhere in the Ickyeah labyrinth. I am beginning to worry that I may never see HQ again, when I hear the following store-wide announcement:

"Antares, please come to the play area, your mom is looking for you."

Oh. No. She didn't!

"Antares, please come to the play area, your mom is looking for you."

Oh. Yes. She did!

After I trek through kitchens, bathrooms, the "restaurant", the Sahara and Sweden, I show up in the play area where parents get to abandon their children in a pool of colorful balls. I can see HQ cracking up when she sees what I am holding. Clutched tightly to my chest is a stuffed toy that looks like a broccoli mated successfully with an icecream cone.

*Childish grin*: "MOM! This is Smorjebijork, can I have him?"

The associate, who is standing next to her, is looking at me with a mix of confusion and horrified pity, HQ is doing her bathroom dance and I finally get to go home. After we scan our own purchases, we escape with candles (not on the list), pillows (also not on the list!) and crap items with more Umlauts than they produce in Sweden.

To be assembled...