They were having a sale!

If you've been watching any television lately, chances are you've seen the commercials for the IKEA sale. People have been streaming in looking to snag fantastic deals on various homewares, and inevitably been disappointed by the sad array of junk we actually have on sale. Unless you're looking for Holiday napkins or pet supplies, we don't really have much to offer, which is astounding, given the way we advertise this sale.

As you know, I work in the bedrooms department. We actually do have a few reasonably useful things on sale - basically the whole Malm series in oak, some cabinet doors - anything that's discontinued. I think the issue at hand, though, is that given the enormous range of products that we carry, one would expect a broader sale, when in fact, we really have very little on sale. This, obviously, has bothered the customers (because if there's one thing you should know from reading this blog, it's that everything bothers customers) as much as it bothers me. People keep coming up to me and asking "What's on sale?" When I rattle off the relatively short list of sale items, reactions range from underenthused mumblings - "great, just what I need" - to violent disbelief - "WHAT? I DROVE 150 MILES FOR NOTHING?"

We did, however, have a big one-day-only sale on a wardrobe. It's a pretty basic wardrobe - three doors, hanging space, shelving. It's usually $99.99 (it used to be $99, but in an effort to increase our already disgustingly high profits, we jacked it up a whole 99 cents) but for July 5th only it was $49.99. In case you didn't already know, every IKEA product has a Swedish name. The names don't really translate to anything having to do with the function of the product, it's just a nomenclature system to identify the products. This wardrobe was called "Dombas," which is probably supposed to be pronounced "Dome-bahs," but of course we call it the "Dumb-ass." (For specific nomenclature details and other naming snafoos, check out this out.) So, as hundreds of people paraded into the store on July 5th asking "where's the wardrobe that's on sale?" I unabashedly responded "OOOH, you mean the Dumbass?" Pretty much everyone just looked at me without saying anything, at which point I would tell them it was in the warehouse, but few kindred spirits found it as hilarious as I did and at the very least, chuckled a bit.

Back to the blogging board?

I know, it's been weeks since I updated, and you're probably furious with me, but IKEA has made me want to slit my wrists lately, and coming home from work to write about work was the last thing I wanted to do. But I turned a new leaf today. I came to the realization that IKEA is just about the least important thing in the world, and getting my panties in a knot about it is just not worth it; thus, I return to mock the frivolous institution which has made me both miserable and moderately financially stable for the last 10 months.

Yes, it's been 10 months, which means I'm coming up on a year. A whole year of my life spent making beds and picking up paper tape measures and mini pencils. I promise I'll recount more tales of customer and coworker idiocy very soon, but at the moment I'm sitting in Starbucks using the free internet because I no longer have my own internet, which makes posting a little more difficult. I'm moving to a new house in a month where the internet is abundantly present, so posting will be easier then!

For now, I'll leave you with a quick story, as Starbucks is getting ready to kick me out.

The other day, this tobacco chewing back-woods He-man came sauntering up to me with his mail-order-bride in tow, and informed me he wanted a bed. I started drawing up an order for him, and asked if he needed slats (basically, a platform that replaces the box spring) for the bed. He replied "HELL YES I NEED THE SLATS." I calmly informed him that if he had a box spring, he didn't need them. "I'm trying to save you money sir, because if you have a boxspring, you don't need to buy the slats."

"YES I HAVE A BOX SPRING BUT I STILL NEED THE FUCKING SLATS."

I politely repeated that he didn't need both, and I was trying to help him, to which he replied "CAN YOU JUST TRY TO GET THIS SHIT RIGHT?"

I stared intently, and said "Whatttt did you just say to me?"

He repeated himself slowly "I SAID, CAN YOU JUST GET THIS SHIT RIGHT?"

I stared for a second, and said "I'm trying my best to help you. If you want my help, you'll speak to me with respect. If you want to be an asshole, get the fuck out of my store."

He looked at me without a hint of thought or emotion, blinked and shut his mouth. I printed off his order and sent him on his way. Then I put my head on my desk and cried for humanity. FML.

Battle ground: IKEA

For whatever reason, my work schedule has been a little strange lately. I think because a bunch of other people in the department are taking finals right now, they're requesting special hours, so my schedule got shifted around. Somehow, I ended up working the late shift on Wednesday, which I almost never do on Wednesdays, but I showed up at 2:00, ready to battle it out until 10:00. As soon as I set foot on the floor, a woman asked me where a particular piece of furniture was. Specifically, she was looking for one of the Malm dressers (if you don't know, everything at IKEA has a Swedish name - Malm, Ektorp, Expedit, etc. The names are assigned more or less at random, just used to identify products). She wanted it in black, but could only find it in black-brown. Close, but no cigar. I pointed to the other end of the department and told her where to find it. She scurried off, I stayed at my desk. Not two minutes later, her husband comes stomping through the department. He doesn't bother to come up to me to talk, but rather yells at me from thirty feet away (one of my pet peeves) "YO, YOU, IT'S NOT THERE."

My initial reaction is utter disgust for my job and pure hatred towards humanity. But I calmed myself down and politely walked over to him. He repeated "MY WIFE ASKED YOU FOR SOMETHING AND IT'S NOT WHERE YOU SAID IT WAS."

I informed him that it was indeed exactly where I said it was, they just didn't see it. He felt it was appropriate to respond "YOU CAN'T JUST STAND THERE. YOU HAVE TO DO SOME WORK ONCE IN A WHILE."

At that very moment, it took every ounce of restraint for me not to rip his hands off his body and slap him with them. Keep in mind, of course, that he's the one wandering through a furniture store at 2:00 on a Wednesday, while I was dilligently doing my job, contributing to society. Anyhow, being the sassy bitch that I am, I stopped dead in my tracks, looked him right in the eye, and said "Let's get one thing straight. If you expect me to assist you, I expect you to put your attitude away."

He immediately started getting defensive and running his mouth - "DON'T BE LIKE THAT, DUDE. WE'RE NOT GONNA DO THAT HERE. I DON'T WANNA HEAR THAT SHIT."

I silenced him and said "Sir, you're embarrassing me, and you're embarrassing yourself. Stop it now."

We continued on to the piece of furniture he was originally looking for, and of course, it was right where I said it was. Refusing to be civil, he said "THAT'S NOT IT, THAT'S NOT IT. I ASKED FOR ONE WITH SIX DRAWERS."

The chest clearly had six drawers, so I walked up to it, pointed at each drawer, counting out loud "one, two, three, four, five, six," looked him in the eye for a second, and then walked away.

To be honest, I enjoyed the whole confrontation. It's not often that I get to actively call out customers for being idiots. I usually have to just smile and nod while imagining them on fire. But since this guy was being so aggressive, I felt it not only appropriate, but necessary that I throw down with him. And if nothing else, it was an empowering start to an otherwise uneventful day.

overheard in IKEA

Customer quote of the day: "I wonder if they have the wardrobe from Narnia..."

wtf???

I'm pretty sure the Earth fell out of orbit today, at least for a hot second. My boss told me he was actually trying to secure me a raise. Like more money. Like actually more money on my paycheck. Like dollars and cents. I almost peed my pants.

I'll explain:

There are generally only two ways to earn a raise at IKEA.

1.) Getting a better job. This is accomplished in one of two ways. Either moving up in the company, or leaving the company. Firings are not uncommon within the Blue Box (a nifty IKEA metaphor I've picked up from a coworker!). To be honest, most people, after being fired, end up in better paying jobs, which makes getting fired not such a bad prospect...hmmm...
However, aside from leaving the company, one could also seek a promotion. The basic hierarchy consists of three positions:
-"Coworker" (IKEA-speak for "entry level employee" aka "peon")
-"Team leader" (or assistant manager)
-"Shopkeeper" (or Manager)
Moving up the ladder, the money gets better, of course. So, short of getting fired, moving up the ladder is the best shot at getting more money.

2.) Typically, the only other way to get more money is through the once-a-year Performance Evaluation. Every October, every coworker is evaluated by his or her Shopkeeper. Based on the evaluation, everyone is eligible for a raise. These raises range from negligible to pitiful, somewhere in the 10 cents to 50 cents-per-hour area. I guess I really wouldn't complain about a 50 cent raise. That really adds up across the hours, but I must admit, I still have a little bit of a sour taste in my mouth after my most recent (and first) evaluation. The evaluation period is specifically designated as September 1st of the last year up the August 31st of the current year. I was hired at IKEA on August 28th, and didn't start working until September, so essentially, within the guidelines of the evaluation, I hadn't worked any days withing the evaluation period. Yet, I was still required to complete an evaluation. Needless to say, I had acquired no skills or knowledge in the time that I was not working at the store, so I received a mediocre evaluation, and consequently, a mediocre raise of 13 cents per hour. Keep in mind, this evaluation was conducted in late October, so by that point, I had actually learned the ropes, and was hoping for a nice chunk of change as a "thank you" for learning everything so quickly. Imagine my disappointment at receiving a pat on the back and an extra $8 per paycheck. Excellent.

Aside from these two options, there really isn't any prescribed method of securing more money, so to be arbitrarily informed that might possibly be getting a raise, without even asking, was pretty unorthodox. I was actually pleasantly surprised at the unexpected display of generosity from the otherwise stoic and constitutional apparatus that is IKEA.

I'll let you know if the raise actually comes through. Stay tuned for the dramatic conclusion.

United Nations of IKEA

In my dealings at IKEA, I've worked with people of all different backgrounds, ethnicities, and nationalities. I like to think of myself as an ambassador to the United Nations of IKEA, a peacemaker, if you will, among the many peoples that fulfill their home furnishing needs within my place of business. To that end, I find myself working with speakers of many different languages. Generally, people speak some amount of English, at least enough to work their way through making a purchase at the store. But occasionally, I run across people who literally do not speak a word of English. It's rare, but obviously a reality of living in a major metropolitan area. So, every now and then, I have to find creative ways to assist customers with little to no knowledge of the English language.

Today was a particularly "multicultural" day at the store, with customer interactions illustrating the full range of fluency in English. Early in the morning, I was approached by an African couple, asking the price of an item. Now you know how I feel about customers asking prices...if you don't know, the answer is I don't like it. There is not a single item in the store that isn't tagged with explicit clarity. Nevertheless, I spend most of my day reading price tags to people who are either too lazy to read it themselves, or just don't understand. This particular situation turned out to be a combination of both. I walked over the the bed in question, where the couple asked me how much it cost. I pointed at the price tag on the bed, and informed them it cost $300. Then they asked how much the whole thing cost, gesturing to the mattress, boxspring, etc. I informed them that I wasn't a calculator, and that I'd have to get something to add up the separate pieces. (Truth be told, I'm fairly good with numbers, but it bothers me so much when people just use me to add up prices. So I always try to act as annoyed as possible.) So I trapsed over to my desk, got a pen and paper, and added up the prices of the bed, the mattress, and the box spring. $1300, which is a large number, but for a solid wood bed, a box spring, and a really nice mattress, it's really not so bad. They were not having it, though. They kept asking, "how much for just the bed?" and I kept repeating "I told you, it's $300." They kept asking "no, the bed, how much is the bed?" I didn't know what to say, so I finally walked over, grabbed the headboard, and said "THIS BED COSTS $300. THE SIGN IS RIGHT HERE." Well it turns out that they were asking how much the mattress cost, but didn't know the difference between a "bed" and a "mattress." Once we got that worked out, it was smooth sailing and I sent them on their way. I suppose it's fairly common vernacular to interchange bed and mattress, but I assume that most adults, when it really comes down to it, know the difference. But I'm continually surprised by people who really don't know the difference between the words. I'll give this particular couple a little leeway, though, since English was clearly not their native language.

Situation number two arose when two women, mother and daughter, about 40 and 75, waved to get my attention. I went over, and was greeted with "Como estas?" I replied "I'm fine," in order to politely indicate that I preferred English. They, however, continued in Spanish. Now, I do speak a minimal amount of Spanish, just enough to get by, so I took this as a cue that they didn't speak English, and I continued in my high-school-level broken Spanish. They were extremely relieved, and from what I could understand, they told me they were so glad I spoke Spanish. They said I must have been a good boy in school, because when their teachers tried to teach them English, it went in one ear and out the other. I laughed nervously. (I basically laughed nervously the whole time since I was only about 85% certain that I understood what they were saying, but I figured it was better to err on the side of vapid, rather than stoic, thus I laughed.) I responded, in Spanish, that I was sure I was probably butchering the Spanish, but they assured me I was doing well enough. We talked a little more, the older woman kept making jokes and winking at me, I laughed and winked back, and we had a nice chat, sort of. Eventually, through snippets of Spanish and a lot of pointing, I helped them pick a mattress and printed out an order for them. They asked me which way they should go, and I told them they had to go downstairs, at which point the older woman grabbed my hand and started walking with me towards the stairs. Her daughter took her other hand, and off we went. We had a little bit of a walk to get to the elevator, so we carried on a little bit more, in Spanish of course, so I did a lot of "si, si" and giggled at everything they said, which I think made me sort of a novelty to them, because they seemed so delighted with me. The older woman asked me my name, and told me her name was Antonia. I told her it was nice to meet her, and she batted her eyelashes and giggled. I put them on the elevator, gave them directions to the warehouse, and sent them on their way. I wish more of my language barrier experiences would be like that...

Situation number three involved a deaf guy who wanted to buy a dresser. It really wasn't an issue because he brought a friend to translate into sign language for him, so I basically just communicated through her, but I bring it up because it reminded me of another couple that comes into the store every couple months. It's a French couple, both deaf. The husband understands no English whatsoever, the wife understands enough, but has to be looking at you to understand. Whenever they come into the store, they're always shopping for a wardrobe, which is literally the most complicated thing we sell, since there are so many small, interchangeable pieces. The first time they came in, I was relatively new and didn't know all that much about wardrobes, so it took us about an hour and half, but through countless blueprints, drawings, and a healthy amount of pointing and counting on fingers, we planned out a massive wardrobe. The woman has always been very sweet and grateful for my patience, but the husband was initially pretty impatient. He used to get really worked up when I didn't understand what he wanted, but after their first visit, we had worked out a way to understand each other more efficiently, and he eventually calmed down. The last time they came in, I'm pretty sure we planned out a wardrobe in less than 15 minutes, which is pretty incredible considering we didn't really use words at all.

There have been other experiences with people of all different cultures, but one way or another, we figure out ways to communicate. But for every non-English-speaking customer who works out ways to communicate with me, there's some idiot who speaks perfectly good English but won't listen to anything but the sound if their own voice. To those customers, I say good luck, because no matter how much pointing and gesturing I do, I just can't communicate with Stupid.

Swedish cuisine

You may not know this, but IKEA actually has three restaurants. There's the Bistro by the registers where they sell the hotdogs and cinnamon buns (a winning combination), the full restaraunt up in the showroom (aka the swedish meatball buffet), and the staff cafe behind the scenes. They restaurant and bistro have a pretty fixed menu, but the staff cafe dish changes everyday, just to give us a little variety in the workplace. I'd say it's on par with your typical high school cafeteria - various deep-fried animal parts, steamed vegetables, and an assortment of sugary drinks, all for the low low price of $3. What a treat!

Occasionally, though, something particularly unrecognizable or unedible will show up in the staff cafe. Today was one of those noteworthy occasions. In honor of Kristofer's visit (I'm sure that's about the third different way I've spelled Kristofer at this point), the chef wanted to make something extra special, so of course he settled on meatloaf. Fancy, I know. Well, from what
I could tell, it was just last week's leftover taco meat with some ketchup squeezed on it. The story I got from other coworkers was that the meatloaf somehow fell apart in the oven, and the beefy mess that they served was the unfortunate result. I wouldn't normally be so bothered by it, since I can easily just go to the customer restaurant if I don't like what's in the staff cafe, but given the frantic praparations leading up to Kristofer's semiannual visit, I figured that the cafe would want to reflect the false pride that the rest of the store was putting on. Honestly, if that pile of cow came out of my oven, I'd toss it right back and microwave some chicken fingers and call it a day. But they decided to serve it, nonetheless. Apparently Kristofer (Christofer, as you may remember) ate it, probably to be polite and experience the finest in American cuisine, but it just strikes me that since I had to sit in a closet building doors for an hour to impress our visiting Swedish prince, the least they could do is serve something reasonable for lunch.

Anyhow, regarding Kristofer's visit, it was pretty uneventful. In fact, I never actually laid eyes on him this time around. I kept getting updates via the grapevine as to where he was in the store all day, but by the time he actually made it into my department to admire my various arts and crafts projects, I was off at lunch, deaperately avoiding the meatloaf surprise. I can't decide if I'm relieved that I didn't have to deal with him, or annoyed that I didn't get any credit for the work that I put in to prepare. Either way, I managed to avoid the meatloaf, so I guess I win in the end.

IKEA Fever

When I first started working a IKEA, which really wasn't that long ago, it never really seemed all that busy. Granted, I only worked weekdays for the first two months, so it was generally pretty quiet. Maybe I'd have five or six, maybe ten customers in the department at a time, and that was a lot. But lately, it's been busy non-stop, throughout the week. We're always busy on the weekends - 10,000 people or more. But after the holiday rush at the end of last year, I feel like it never really calmed back down. Sometimes on Mondays, we still have the delayed weekend crowd trickling in, but even Tuesday and Wednesday mornings and afternoons these days are just super busy. Obviously, this is a good thing for the store. More people = more money. But if there's one thing you know about me from reading any of this blog, it's that I hate stupid people. And let's be honest - the more people there are in the store, the greater chance there is that someone stupid is going to talk to me. So needless to say, I've been less than excited about the influx of customer terrorizing me at work.

Let me summarize today's events as an illustration. Every morning, the receptionist makes an announcement at 10:00 that the store is officially open for business. We open the doors at 9:30 for breakfast an perusal, but the registers don't open until 10. I clocked in this morning at 9:56 and proceeded onto the sales floor. By the time the receptionist made the 10:00 announcement, four people had already asked me how to get downstairs. Literally, within four minutes of walking into the store, while we weren't even officially open, four individual people were so convinced that they were lost, and were too lazy to read the sign that was directly above me directing them to the stairs, that they had to ask me for directions to a destination less than 100 feet away. Amazing.

My main task for the day was to build a set of sliding doors to cover a new wardrobe display. We're in a building frenzy because Kristofer (or CHRISTofer, as I like to call him) is coming this week. He's the President of IKEA North America, or something like that. Basically, he's important. Twice a year or so, he walks through the store and criticizes us, so clearly, we have to make sure everything is perfect in order to be criticized as little as possible. Thus, I've been building a lot of displays to catch his eye and make us look like we know what we're doing. Sliding doors are among the most ridiculous IKEA items to build. They take about four hours to build, mostly because every 10 minutes, a customer sees that I'm busy and asks for assistance. At one point today, I was literally standing on a ladder, holding a drill in one hand, and supporting an 80 pound door with the other, and a customer asks "Are you busy?" So I wanted to say "absolutely not. Your needs always come before my immediate safety." Instead, I took a deep breath and said "No. What do you need?" Coarse, but slightly more appropriate.

The best part of the day was when I was sitting inside the closet, attaching the doors to the frame. For at least twenty minutes, I was literally shut inside the closet, hidden from view. It was the only peace I got. Given that the flow of customers lately has been so heavy, the only way to catch a breath is literally to hide behind furniture. Perhaps I'll hide myself inside closets more often...

Back to Kristofer, though. The last time he came through, we had a similar building frenzy where I basically had to rebuild anything that was any less than perfect. He finally showed up, insisted that we put fitted sheets on all the box springs, among other ridiculous demands. Clearly, that's the dumbest idea ever. Anyhow, that day at lunch, he and his posse happened to come into the cafeteria while I was eating. They got lunch, which was of course free since they're so important, and he started walking towards me. I immediatly assume he's going to sit with me and try to chit chat with the "good old coworker," and all I can think is "What the hell am I going to say to him?" After all, his very presence had doubled my workload, and besides, he's Swedish...what do I talk to a Swede about? Swedish Fish? He keeps walking towards me, walks right past me, so close that he brushes up against my chair, and sits in the corner with the managers. I was slightly relieved, and slightly pissed off. He came all the way from Sweden and he's just gonna sit and talk shop with the managers? Dumb.

Anyhow, after today's extended sliding door building experience, I feel I've done my part to limit Kristofer's list of demands. Hopefully we can move him through and get him back to Sweden ASAP.

Customer quote of the day

"Fuck this, I'm going to West Elm."

Children are to be seen, not heard

The children's department at IKEA is really a monument to excellence in parenting. On any typical Saturday or Sunday, we'll see anywhere between 10,000 and 15,000 people, a good number of those visitors being children. So, as you can imagine, I get to experience numerous parental encounters.

My department is directly adjacent to the children's department, so I have the distinct pleasure of hearing kids scream their faces off all day. If they're in the children's department, they're probably crying because either their parents won't buy them what they want, or they don't want what their parents are buying them. If they're in my department, they're screaming because they want to go to the children's department. Either way, they're screaming. Usually, I can just get over it and ignore the kids, but for some reason, there was an abundance of obnoxious children today, just screaming their faces off, which prompted me to get sterilized on my lunch break.

But back to the art of parenting. There are really three typical parental responses to infantile noise production: ignore it, quash it, or mimic it.

While I generally agree that ignoring children is really the best policy, I have to draw the line somewhere. Countless mothers come strolling through my department with children literally siezing with anger, and they ignore it completely. One woman was asking me for help picking out a mattress while her son sat in the cart crying uncontrollably. She was apparently unaware of his existence, but I couldn't look away for fear he'd have an aneurysm. I liken it to sleeping through your alarm clock going off all night - you know it's ringing, but you pretent it's not there, and eventually, it just manifests itself as a violent dream. Except in this case, the alarm clock is a screaming child, and the violent dream is Andrea Yates. Yikes.

Then there are those parents who are incapable of ignoring their crying children - the first-time mother desperately doting on her screaming baby, the militant father barking orders at his miscreant children, or the incompetent mom publicly insulting her children into submission. The last is my personal favorite. I remember being spanked in the grocery store once or twice for bad behavior, but on more than one occasion, I've seen mothers slap their children in the face or scream obscenities to shut them up. Just before closing today, two women came through the department, one of them with a daughter. The women were talking, the daughter, no older than six or seven, walking behind. The daughter saw some display she liked and yelled "Mom, isn't that beautiful." Mom responded "SHUT UP. I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU." Like I said, parenting at its finest.

Finally, we have the parents who insist on acting like their children. The worse the kids act, the worst the customer acts. On weekday afternoons, the store is usually pretty empty, just a few customers here and there. A few weeks ago, a woman approached me with a fussy looking child in her cart. As she talked to me, the child started making noise, so the woman just talked louder. As the child got more and more out of control, the woman got louder and more irritable. I clearly had no patience for bitchy women or children, so I just got dismissive in an attempt to get rid of them, but this woman just kept talking at me louder and louder. Eventually, I just said "you know, we have child care." She was apparently so incensed by the implication that she couldn't control her child that she got all huffy and walked away. Mission accomplished.

On a side note, IKEA's child care is known for having a ball pit. Think about this, though, the next time you want to jump into a ball pit. We used to have two ball pits - one in the the child care area, and one up in the showroom. They did away with the one in the showroom after a child had explosive diarrhea in the ballpit and all the kids playing in it got coated in feces. Now they apparently wash all the balls in the ball pit on a regular basis, though if you ask me, you can never wash away an experience like diving into a pit of diarrhea.

I'll leave you with a "kids say the darndest things" moment from last week. One of the display rooms in the department has two ottomans sitting at the foot of the bed. They're small, round ottomans, just big enough for one person. A mother came in with two kids, a boy and a girl, who had clearly been cooped up in the store for too long. She told them to sit on the ottomans while she looked around. As she walked away, the boy bent over and started clenching his face. I thought he was pissed off or something, but he looked at his sister and they laughed, then she started doing the same. They sat there, bent over, making weird faces until their mother walked by them, at which point the boy yelled "look mom, we're pooping."

Dear OSHA...

Right inside the super-secret employees-only hallway at IKEA, there's a board that says "This facility has operated ____ days without an accident" tallying the amout of days we can go without something or someone getting hurt. That number had been climbing pretty high recently, so of course I had to drill through my finger at work Monday to start the count over.

Well, maybe drilling through my finger is a little bit of an overstatement, but I did have a hospital-worthy encounter with a power drill. I was attaching a safety device to a dresser (since we're so concerned with safety at IKEA), and the drill ended up in my finger rather than the dresser. Thinking it was nothing too bad, I ran to the restroom and tried rinse off the cut, but when the cut turned out to be a totally legit puncture wound, I told my mananger I was done for the day. I went to the Safety and Security office and showed them my finger. They promply swept me off to the hospital where I was pampered with the finest antibiotics and tetanus vaccines Western medicine can offer.

The downside, obviously, is the large hole in my finger, but let's not overlook the good stuff - I didn't have to lift, build, move, or drill anything today...a first in my IKEA history! Of course, since I was standing still for most of the day, I was an easy target for customers hunting for someone to bother. At one point or another, the concentration of stupidity in the atmosphere approached event horizon, and I *almost* lost my cool, but being the seasoned retail professional that I am, I kept it under control.

It seems I started a trend, though. About two hours into the day today, a coworker came rushing up to me, blood dripping from his hands. Luckily, everyone was up on their game, thanks to my practice emergency yesterday, so they whisked him off to the hospital where I'm sure they repeated the same routine, and then opened an investigation into whether IKEA was purposefully cutting off the hands of its employees.

So, for the second day in a row, our little sign read "This facility has operated *0* days without an accident." Just doing my part to maintain a safe work environment.

Things I don't need to hear about

Working in the bedrooms department, people often feel the need to share intimate details of their sex lives with me. I guess they think it will help me find the perfect bed for them? Honestly, I don't know the first thing about picking a mattress. I've actually never bought a mattress for myself, so I certainly don't know how to pick one for someone else. Ask me what the mattress is made of, or what the dimensions are, and I'm a wellspring of information. Ask me which one is right for you, and the ensuing BS that emantes from my mouth surprises even me sometimes. But back to my initial point, though, which is that people think they need to tell me extremely personal (and sometimes just gross) things about their sex lives. Last week, this guy approached me and asked me to show him a bed he could be handcuffed to. Needless to say, I was horrified and made no attempt to disguise it. He assured me he was being serious and asked me again, so I showed him this one bed that had bars on the headboard. He looked it over, then revised his request: he needed a bed that would allow him to be handcuffed to both the headboard AND the footboard. He tried to make a joke about it, to which I responded that I was uncomfortable, like really uncomfortable, but caring as much as I do about the needs of my customers (not true), I showed him another bed which had bars on both ends. Attempting to make a getaway, I started to edge away, which prompted him to strike up a conversation in which he proceeded to ask me seemingly benign personal questions: Where did I go to school, what was my major, etc. Usually, I'm more than happy to talk to customers about things other than furniture to break up the monotony of the day, but in this particular situation, I felt it prudent to keep things as impersonal as possible: short, one word answers of varying truth. Eventually he got the point and went on his way.

Next day, this super-douche with pleated pants and a bluetooth comes up to me and leads off with "Hey Ace." I immediately knew this was going to be rough. He informed me that he bought a bed from a nearby IKEA, and this it was "total shit," so he needed new slats (the things that go under the mattress instead of a boxspring) to make the bed work better. I start showing him the options and his phone rings. He of course answers it. I understand that people need to answer their phones sometimes, but don't expect me to wait around while you chit-chat. I started to walk away, so he decided it was accetable to snap at me. He says "it's a client. Really rich guy. Worth millions." I guess I was supposed to be impressed. Instead I rolled my eyes. He eventually got off the phone and reminded me that he was awesome because he has rich clients. I still didn't care. I got back to talking about bed slats, and right in the middle of a sentence, he iterrputed with "Yeah yeah, but I need something I can really go to town on, like really plow some chicks." I wanted to say "You're unattractive and middle aged. The only thing you're going to be plowing is your Toyota into a telephone pole right before you get a DUI." I bit my tongue and only said "uh, I guess they're all fine for that." He ended up buying the most expensive ones just so he could flash his American Express Gold Card.

It's a requirement then, you might guess, that every couple shopping for a bed or mattress must ask me "can this thing hold up through sex?" It, of course, gets asked in various forms, sometimes subtly worked into the conversation, sometimes totally outright. Some people like to weave it into some unrelated conversational topic that somehow arrives at something remotely sexual, which opens the door for the golden question. Some people, usually men, need no such guise and are more than happy to inform me that they have copious amounts of sex and need something that can live up to the task. Still others like to disguise the question as something completely unrelated. I had a couple shopping for a whole bed - frame, boxspring, mattress. They picked a frame they liked, found a mattress, and all they had left was to pick either slats or a boxspring. I explained the basic differences, after which they asked "we have kids that like to jump on the bed, which will hold up better?" I told them probably the boxspring, since the wooden slats would just break. They followed up with "what about adults that like the 'jump' on the bed?" and then I knew what they were really asking. Gross.

One a somewhat related note, earlier this week, a couple who had just moved to the US from France came into the store looking for a bed. They had literally just arrived the day before, so their English was just so-so. They had picked a bed frame already, and approached me to ask a question. The man asked "In France, we had a very bad mistress in our bed. Can you help us find a good mistress?" I paused, looked at the woman for a reaction, got none, and asked him to repeat his question. "We need a hard mistress for our bed." I was pretty sure I knew what they wanted, but treading lightly, I asked him to point at what he wanted. He gave me a strange look and pointed at a mattress. I chuckled and said "This is a mattress, not a mistress. I'm pretty sure you don't want any mistresses in your bed." I eventually explained the difference and they had a good laugh.

Questions???

The thing that really kills me about working at IKEA, more than anything else, is having to deal with the constant barrage of stupid questions. I'm sure retail workers in general get a lot of silly questions, but like I said, there's just something about IKEA that voids all sense or logic in the mind of the customer. The sheer stupidity and complete lack of thought that can only be responsible for some of these questions is truly astounding.

I get a whole array of questions, of course, but there are three repeat offenders. I'll describe them in acending order of frustration:

1.) "Excuse me, where can I find (insert product here)?"

I guess I can't really be too hard on the customers for this one. It is, after all, a 400,000 square foot building, so it can be pretty difficult to find some things. Plus, some things are strangely classified, so it helps to know what department to look in. Remember, though, that I work in the bedrooms department, so when a customer asks me where the beds are, I simply have no words. Really? Where are the beds not? You can't possibly be in the bedrooms department without seeing beds.

Somtimes, though, customers just get really flustered and can't see what's right in front of them. I do feel bad for the first time home owners and such who are literally buying their whole house in the store. After 6 hours of writing down Aisles and Bins (if that doesn't make sense to you, I'll explain later) it can become difficult to see what's obvious. These customers are usually so worn down anyway that they're docile enough to deal with. On the other hand, I have the customers who walk in the door, proceed directly to the nearest coworker and say "TELL ME WHERE TO FIND THIS." They're completely unwilling to do anything on their own. They won't look at a store directory, or even think about the logical location for what they're looking for. They just expect some sort of yellow brick road to take them directly there. Please, try to be at least a little bit responsible for yourself.

2.) "Excuse me, how much does this cost?"

You're probably thinking that that's a reasonable question, until you realize that every single item in the store has a very large price tag directly on it. It's one thing if the tag has been ripped off or stolen or defaced (as they often are). In that case, I'm more than happy to assist. But when someone drags me half way across the show room to look at a bed that says "$179" in huge numbers, and asks me how much it costs, I start to lose my cool. Even worse, at least once a day someone will approach me with a small item - a clock or a picture frame - holding the price tag up, they ask me how much it costs. I'll attempt to analyze customer logic: "Hmm, this tag says it costs $10, I wonder if it costs $10. I'll show that brooding salesman the $10 price tag and ask him if it costs $10."

3.) "Excuse me, how do I get out of here?"

This is another one that might seem reasonable, but when you're asked at least every three seconds, it gets annoying real fast. I'll lay out some geography first: My department is the next to last (if you walk the correct path through the store). The only thing between me and the exit is the children's department. I'll admit that the path can seem fairly labyrinthine, but there are arrows throughout the floor that point you directly to the exit, and copious directional signs that point you to wherever you might want to go. We even print maps of the store! But, since bedrooms is pretty close to the end of the showroom, by the time customers get to me, they're convinced there's no exit, so they all come crying to me, insisting that I give them detailed directions to the exit.

Generally, it's just a casual "how do I get out of here" to which I reply "just stay on the path." I do get asked with varying amounts of hysteria, though. I've had more than one customer approach me crying because they can't find the exit. I'll usually walk them to the exit just becuase they're such hot messes. One woman insisted that there was no exit. I told her to stay on the path, and she assured me that the path had taken her in a circle three times. So I walked with her to the next department where there is a staircase that takes you down to the exit. As we approached the staircase, she started to veer off to the left, which takes you back to the beginning of the showroom. I asked her "Where are you going?"

She replied, "I'm trying to find the exit."

I said, "try heading downstairs."

She responds "why would I do that?"

I paused, then as politely as possible, I said "Well, the large arrow on the floor points directly down the stairs, as well as the giant sign reading 'EXIT,' so you might give it a whirl."

She was not amused.

Then, as if that wasn't just the pinnacle of ignorance, I discovered a man who must literally be a walking temple of stupidity. The staircase between the showroom and the marketplace (where the exit is) is in two parts, separated by a small landing in between floors. It's large enough for a few bins of products, but all in all about 40 square feet. While I was heading down the stairs, I was stopped by a customer on the landing. He looked me right in the eye and demanded that I tell him how to get downstairs. I laughed becuase I figured it must be a joke. He looked offended and asked me what I was laughing at. I said very slowly "Sir, you are literally standing between floors right now. You walked down ten steps to get here. There are ten more steps directly in front of you. They will take you downstairs." He didn't find it at all funny.

Moral of the story: think before you ask.

How may I help you?

After recently graduating from college with a degree in music, I of course found myself unemployed and set about applying for every job i could find. I always had this secret fantasy of being a young professional, trapsing through the city each morning with the rush of other office workers, taking "business lunches" with "colleagues," going to happy hour with coworkers. Armed with the passion of my Working Girl fantasy, my college transcript, and my 80-somthing wpm fingers, I started interviewing near and far. I quickly discovered that I was competing not only with my fellow graduates, but also with the hordes of well-polished, highly experienced executives who had been displaced by the recession and were desperately seeking employment. Considering my complete lack of experience in anything, I quickly abandoned my Word Processing dreams and turned, of course, to retail.

At the suggestion of my good friend Ashley, I applied at IKEA, and three interviews later, I was proudly sporting my very own yellow polo shirt. I figured it would be ideal. I like furniture. I like decorating. I like helping people. This will be great!

Wrong.

The single fastest way to make you hate working in customer service is by working in customer service. IKEA shoppers are easily the dumbest people you will ever meet. I'm not singling anyone out or anything, it happens to everyone. The second any person sets foot in an IKEA store, they are instantaneously stripped of intelligence and decency. Even the most educated shopper is rendered a drooling idiot when faced with 400,000 square feet of home furnishings.

The following posts detail the utter foolishness that is IKEA.