IKEA, I will never darken your doors. Never, not ever.
In fact, if I bring home anything else that has instructions in the box, I may be divorced.
It all started years ago shortly after we married, I decided I had to have a baker’s rack and brought it home for Lamar to put together.
Lamar, who had a nasty case of road rash following a bicycle crash two days after we married, loaded the thing up and took it back to the store and swapped it out for one that was already put together.
Considering how painful it was to put on britches just to go in the store, he displayed his distaste for products requiring assembly.
“Don’t go buying cheap furniture that has to be put together,” he has said.
He’s a man of few words so for him to make such a proclamation was a pretty big feat.
I ignored it, of course, and brought in a few things that have required power tools. He has not been too happy with me, either, but has obliged, giving me a heavy sigh and a hairy eyeball all the while.
What can I say? I live in a small cabin with little storage and a lot of stuff.
I decided I needed one of those corner shelf thingies to go in the shower to hold my extra shampoo, conditioner, body wash, deep hair conditioner, extra soap, soap that smells good, soap that cleans well, soap to soften, soap to moisturize, shaving cream for sensitive skin, shaving cream for irritated skin, shaving cream that smells like flowers, and shaving cream that has some kind of chemical to keep me from shaving my legs every day.
Like I said. I have a lot of stuff.
We wandered around Bed, Bath, and Beyond for 40 minutes, looking at all the possibilities.
I found a corner shelf thingy and was deciding which finish I wanted when my dreams were ceremoniously dashed.
The corner shelf thiny needed to be put together and was $49.99.
“For 50 bucks, that thing better wash my back,” I muttered.
“I got an idea that will save you a bunch of money,” Lamar said.
“What?” I wanted to know.
“You quit putting so much junk in the shower. No one needs that much shampoo, conditioner and all that other junk that ends up falling on my head. Just put one bottle of shampoo, one conditioner, one bar of soap-and do you really need body wash if you have soap? Just leave all that stuff outta there and you won’t need a corner shelf thingy and I won’t have to put one together.”
Did I really need body wash if I had soap? What in the world was wrong with this man? Was he out of his ever loving mind? Did he not know that you washed with the soap first to get clean, then you used the body wash to make your skin soft and luxurious and smell good? How could he even suggest I not have soap and body wash in the shower?
Lamar had a near death experience then and there in Bed, Bath and Beyond and didn’t even know it.
“I want a corner shower thingy and I am going to get one,” I declared.
Maybe not a $50 one, but I was going to get one.
Finally, weeks later, I remembered my declaration in Walmart. I found one with four shelves that seemed big enough to put all my shower goodness in for $19.99.
Yes, it needed to be put together, but for $19.99, it was a bit more reasonable.
Lamar groaned when he saw what was in the buggy.
“Don’t get something I am gonna have to put together,” he pleaded.
“I will put it together myself,” I said resolutely.
I was able to figure out some stuff, surely I could figure out a shower corner shelf thingy.
But I couldn’t.
I dumped the contents into the floor and studied the instructions.
For some reason, the pictures labeled the pieces, but the items themselves were not labeled. Nothing matched up on the instructions either. The instructions didn’t make any kind of sense and I am pretty sure they were in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Lamar watched me from the couch, silently, then turned up the volume of some documentary to drown out the clanging metal sounds.
I thought I had managed to put it together, until Cole asked me what I was supposed to do with the two pieces lying to the left of me.
I realized I had the shelves on wrong and the pole was upside down. How did I do that?
“There should be a pole in it with a spring so you can fit against the tub and ceiling,” Lamar advised from the couch.
I am not sure if he was amused, felt sorry for me or was just glad he wasn’t sitting amongst 57 pieces of cheaply produced metal.
“This one maybe?” I asked, holding up a piece with something loose rolling around inside of it.
He said nothing, just frowned and turned back to his history documentary, because finding out about the downfall of a civilization is far more important than helping put together a corner shelf thingy.
“Maybe it will fit anyway, without the springy pole,” I said.
I wasn’t too sure, but wasn’t about to ask him to help when he had invoked an embargo on putting stuff together.
I was defeated and felt pretty pitiful, being bested by something that proclaimed “easy to assemble” in big, bold letters on the front.
“I will finish it for you tomorrow,” he said, not even looking up from his program.
But the next day, Lamar met the same frustration I had.
“Last night you had leftover pieces, today, I don’t have enough!” he said.
He told me there were supposed to be some whatchamacallits that were not included, too.
I decided to just take it back.
Maybe Lamar was right and I could make do with one shampoo and one conditioner in the shower. Or just one shaving cream.
When out antiquing – I did have $19.99 plus tax burning a hole in my pocket – I found a cute little table I could use in the bedroom. I texted Lamar. “Should I get it?” I asked.
Minutes passed. I knew he wouldn’t care – especially if he didn’t have to refinish it. But maybe he was mad at me for the corner shelf thingy after all.
“Do I have to put it together?” was his reply.
“Get it. Get everything you want as long as it does not have to be put together!”
Finally – a win-win for both of us – and no assembly required!