It's so big!
(Out of frame, sharing the same parking lot, is the Texas-Steak-All-You-Can-Eat-Buffet [I paraphrase]...clearly for the Swedish visitors. No meatballs for them, thank you.)
Watching as a hispanic blonde in stacked high heels maneuvers her way through the bathroom accessories. Later on, she and her equally blonde friend attempt to maneuver their SUV out of the parking lot, also in stacked high heels.
So many couches (tables, lamps, curtains) but no way to get them home.
I wanted this one in patent black leather, to go with my...umm...Camaro.
The Swedish Meatballs looked more durable than the couches
I fondled the cowhides at least twice. I was tempted at least twice, but resisted. One needs a loft for a cowhide, I decided.
a bit of Pytti Panna (see left) floating in the toilet I skipped over.
My sole purchase: a bag. No cowhide.
No animals were harmed by my visit, unless one counts the Pytti Panna.
"Can I buy a drink here?" I ask the cashier. "Sure," he answers. I pay him. He gives me the change. I wait awkwardly as he sorts money. "Can I have a cup?"
"Sure. Glasses are up there," he says, never looking up. Finding them, I excitedly get some Lingonberry soda, find it's suspiciously like Cranberry cocktail.
Ranch dressing in a pump! (the photo above is only an approximation. IKEA is working on its own ranch dressing fountain, I'm sure. I can't wait)
The friendly but intimidating sign on the table tells me why it's so wonderful and Swedish for me to clean up my own table. I try. I walk through the cafe, but I can't find anywhere to place my glass. I place it where I want.
"Pipi?" I hear a voice ask from the doorway of the men's bathroom. "Uh, yeah," the guy in the stall next to me fearfully answers. Suddenly, despite his answer, the men's room is ambushed. Through the crack in the stall door I can see a middle aged Mexican woman frantically cleaning. All at once, like an acrobat, she leaps up and stands on the vanity, cleaning the mirrors. The scent of some Swedish version of Fabuloso fills the air.