Conversations with my dad are pretty ridiculous. Thought I'd share this one with you...
Dad: Anne Marie, do you know where the name IKEA comes from?
AM: No, actually. I don't.
Dad: Ask me.
AM: Where does the name for IKEA come from? *rolls eyes*
Dad: It's the initials for the man who started it, I and K, and then something else is E, and the A is the town he's from.
AM: Amsterdam? (Yes, I know that's not Swedish. It just popped in my mind).
Dad: No. Way harder. You can't pronounce it. It's like Asnooshkavicjazin.
AM: That explains his need to name furniture like he does.
Dad: I know. Makes so much more sense now.
...pause...
Dad: Aren't you glad I know cool things like that?
AM: Yeah, dad. You're awesome.
Even though I said that last line without zeal or animation, I really do mean it.
Oh, and here's the 411 on IKEA for you. I googled it, and it turns out Ingvar Kamprad (is that even a real name?) grew up on a farm named Elmytard in the town of Agunnaryd.
P.S. IK (mr. ikea) was involved in a pro-nazi movement. Uniformity. Efficiency. Lack of oomph and personality... I can totally see it. But I'll go easy on him, I guess, because he did end up calling it the "biggest mistake of [his] life."
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