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How do you say “I’m screwed” in Swedish?

March 27, 2012 2 comments

Ok, so here’s how it played out. I had it planned down to the minute. Not sure who I could trust anymore and fearful of word reaching the wrong person people, I confided in no one.

7am: woke up, got the girls dressed and off we left for gan. Things should have gone smoothly but then Niv, after months of saying goodbye without a whisper of a fuss decided that this morning was the perfect morning to throw me a curveball. Hell and conflagration! Precious minutes were lost providing nurturing motherly comfort and dire threats of punishment.

Got home, raced to meet a couple of deadlines. Changed my clothes into appropriate gear: stylish yet comfortable for the grueling marathon ahead. I needed sustenance too, but not just anything would do. I required something light and yet nutritious – just the right combination of carb and protein to provide me with enough energy to make it all the way through without a taking a break. In the end, it was a humble wholewheat turkey sandwich that proffered the perfect aliment for my arduous journey.

At 11:00 I left the Hod. My heart was racing with anticipation I am not even kidding you. By 11:20 I’d pulled into the parking lot. And there it was looming above me, filled with the heady promise of sweet satisfaction: approximately 20,000 square meters filled to the brim with flat-pack assemble-it-yourself-while-ripping-out-your-hair furniture.

Leaving the bright sunlight behind me, I hurried in. And oh! Klippan! How I’ve missed the sight of you in the entrance display. I took a moment to breathe it in before heading up the stairs. The breastfeeding room caught my eye.  “Not today, old friend”, I smiled conspiratorially, “today, it’s just you and me”.

I headed up, chills skipping down my spine. How do I begin to describe it? How can I find the words to explain how it felt as I walked the floor plan free and unfettered? No oh-please-oh-please-why-won’t-she-stop-screaming baby in a sling, no chasing after feral girl children down the aisles. And hark dear friends, HARK! Do you hear the voice of my beloved? Can you hear him sweetly hiss in my ear “YOU DO NOT NEED THIS. THERE IS NO WAY IN HELL YOU ARE GOING TO BUY THIS” and “25 NIS FOR A COUCH? WHY IS IT SO EXPENSIVE?” and “DON’T. EVEN. LOOK.” and “DON’T STOP IN HERE WE DON’T NEED ANYTHING” and “OH MY GOD ARE YOU CRAZY? WHY WOULD YOU WANT THE 500 NIS CUPBOARD IF YOU CAN GET THIS HERE BUTT UGLY ONE FOR 495?

Can you hear it? No? NO? Well, NEITHER COULD I. Because he’s sitting in an office as I write this blissfully unaware that our marriage is at risk. The only sounds around me were the rustle of flat-packs being pulled off the shelves and other couples engaging in some good old Ikea rage. But not me, not today.

Oh readers, it was heavenly. A glorious two and a half hour brisk and happy stroll through the Swedish version of heaven, with nothing but the very real threat of divorce between me and my Alseda,  my Dragor, my Bran, and my Fillsta.

So now as I sit here at home, sated and exhausted, surveying my takings.  And while I wait for the sound of Hiroshima turning the key in the door, I have to wonder: was it worth it? Were Eivor and Knuff, Skubb and Dvala worth that very specific and peculiar combination of hot and cold terror sweat now pricking my forehead? I’m afraid only time will tell (17:00 to be precise – he comes home early on a Tuesday). Do you think Ikea will pay my lawyer’s fees?

 

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