Running out of Ikeas

Woke up, checked out of Saratoga Springs, and my mom drive me to Costco on Waterbridge Boulevard…just to find out that it’s a “Business Costco” now and doesn’t carry food (“except,” as their greeter pointed out, “for restaurant, food truck or vending machine routes” – none of which do ME any good).

I told her that we should’ve gone back to the condo and dropped off my luggage first so we had space to put stuff in, but nooo “oh, what are you talking about?” (waving towards the full trunk with both of our luggage in it).

“I’m talking about the fact that there is no more room back there for groceries and whatever else you end up getting.”

“There is PLENTY of room for stuff in this car. Now just get in the car, we still have to check out and find this Costco.”

Apparently, a 2015 Honda Civic and a 2009 Chrysler Town & Country have the exact same storage capacity. How did I not know that?

Come out of the store nearly an hour later and – surprise – there’s no room in the trunk so we have to cram everything into the back seat so it doesn’t fall over or roll under the front seat. Once again, it’s my turn to “navigate.”

Get back to the apartment, unload the car, mom opens my freezer and declares: “Oh my God, it’s EMPTY. Get in the car, I am taking you to a ‘real’ Costco, and we’re not coming back until you fill this fridge up…”

I get in her rental car, buckle my seat belt (safety first) and as soon as she gets in the car she asks:

“I’m starving. Where’s a restaurant we can eat at?”

“You mean like the immediate area, on I-Drive or near the mall?”

“The mall – and it has to be something GOOD. I don’t care where we go, but no fast food or food courts – I want a REAL meal.”

I’ve been to the Mall at Millennia exactly three times so I’m obviously an expert on this. Did I mention, it’s 2:38 in the afternoon?

“Let’s see there’s a Cheesesteak Factory inside the mall.”

“Eh, no.”

“There’s also a Johnny Rockets.”

“I said ‘no fast food.’ Maybe, I’ll just get meatballs at Ikea…”

Ikea? I thought this was a FOOD run.

“Oh, yeah,” she continued. “That means you have 8 minutes to figure out which furniture you want.”

I don’t recall even asking for furniture. Oh right, SHE said I “need” a “pull out sofa” for my “guest room.” I lived in Baltimore for SIX YEARS without one, and not one of my zero “guests” complained about it.

So we go up the stairs to the café, and walk around the side to the entrance just to find out that side is “closed” and we pretty have to go all the back around. I look at the menu hanging behind them, I want the Swedish meatballs, but not the mashed potatoes as a side (so I never liked mashed potatoes, sue me). I ask the young woman behind the counter if the sides are “set” and before I can ask the second part of the question she answers “yes.”

Not happy with her answer but faced with no other choice, I order a bland chicken tender meal (which is apparently part of their “Kid’s menu,” but that doesn’t make me feel better about it). I had to wait for a new batch so at least it was hot, and as I picked up my tray, I saw a sign advertising different sides for your meal.

After finishing our meal and bussing our own table (not sure why that surprised me), mom circles around the cashier lines and heads towards the exit to the showroom. She walks ten feet into said showroom, looks around bewilderedly saying:

“What the…? Why are we in the Children’s section? Why is this arrow pointing away from the furniture?”

“Because this is the ‘exit,’ the ‘entrance’ is back that way.”

“No, it’s not. That’s the way we came in.”

“I know.”

“Fine, you lead,” she said shoving the cart towards me exasperatedly.

Somehow, I suspect that was goal from the onset.

Anyway, Ikea sofas come in three styles: Ugly, uncomfortable or both. Oh, and you can choose any of a half dozen garish slip covers to make it look like a Swedish hipster threw up all over your living room.

I wasn’t sure if I should tell this part or not. I’m not even sure HOW to tell this part…but I’ll start by saying that Ikea is a big store with rows and rows of every unpronounceable furniture and textiles running along both sides of their bright white corridors.

As much as I tried to focus on JUST sofas or just TV stands, it was just too much of too much. Hundreds of sofa, loveseats, futons, and chaises sometimes rows of them hanging on the wall. Suddenly my mom appeared directly behind me and asked me if I decided on a new sofa yet.

“No”

“What do mean ‘no?’ You’ve been farting around in here for the past twenty minutes.”

“I mean ‘no,’” I said. My voice broke. It’s a reaction to stress, and I do anything to avoid that happening in public so of course my mom alleviates it the only way she knows how:

“What the hell is WRONG with you? Why the fuck are you talking like that? God, do you know how embarrassing that is?”

No, why don’t you draw attention to it so all the other shoppers can stare at me too. Not like that would make the situation harder – especially since she refuses to take a squeaky “I don’t know” as a serious answer.

“You CHOSE to talk like…um, whatever the hell THAT is, for a REASON. That means you can chose to STOP doing it.”

Um, no. The only way to “stop” talking like that is to keep talking until my body or brain or whatever is in charge of that sort of thing decides to sort it out. Yelling at me in public over it does not move it along any faster.

Finally, she throws her hands up in the air and storms off exasperatedly. After a minute or two of chattering to myself my voice returned to “normal” (which I’m told is like that of a GIRL 25 years my junior).

It was already after 4pm when we left Ikea. Fortunately, the next stop was only a five-minute drive away. Even better – it was a “real” Costco. Aside from a medical-office sized cup of some bland so- I mean “Sparkling Water” and a cracker with salmon dip – there was nothing remarkable about the experience.

We leave the second Costco, and it’s pitch black and raining. Just as well, I wasn’t planning on going to the parks tonight anyway…

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Categories: adventures, Autism, family, florida, holidays, Orlando, sensory processing disorder | 1 Comment

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  1. Pingback: A broken blogger | Life in the Uncanny Valley

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