Monday May 13, 2013
Allergic to instruction manuals
But Then Again
By MARY SCHNEIDER
THE first time my partner and I went to IKEA together, we came home with a stomach full of Swedish meatballs, and a couple of bedside tables that required minimum assembly. When I saw the words “minimum assembly,” I expressed my doubts to my partner, who refused to be put off by my scepticism.
Now, he may be many things, and I’m the first person to extol his endless talents, but he’s allergic to instruction manuals. It’s not that he’s incapable of following instructions, quite the opposite. He was formerly a helicopter pilot in his country’s navy, so at one stage, he was able to digest the vast amount of information and numerous instructions necessary to enable him to fly. If you’ve been inside the cockpit of a helicopter, you’ll be aware of the mind-numbing array of dials, knobs, levers and lights, none of which serve as mere decorations.
Of course, this background makes it a little hard for me to understand his cavalier attitude when it comes to following the operating/assembly instructions that usually come with knock-down furniture, electrical appliances and electronic gadgets. His usual modus operandi involves taking, say, an electrical appliance out of its box, studying it for a few seconds, plugging it in, and pressing a few buttons to see what happens. For all he knows, there could be a notice at the bottom of the box that says, “Please don’t switch this appliance on until the boosher is connected to the tooshy! Failure to do so will result in your inability to comprehend instruction manuals.”
So, you can possibly understand my reluctance to let him assemble the bedside tables that day. Nonetheless, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings when he offered. After arriving home with our purchases, I spent the next two hours lounging on the sofa in front of the TV as I tried to drown out the sound of the intermittent muttering coming from the next room.
After my partner had obviously given up on assembling the furniture intuitively, he called out to me: “These instructions are stupid. Just plain stupid.” Followed a few minutes later by: “I think there’s something missing. We need to go back to the shop.”
Finally, just when I was beginning to wonder if I would ever get to watch a TV programme without having to listen to a running commentary about the evils of knock-down furniture, he emerged from the guest bedroom with a triumphant look on his face.
I went to investigate. All the components parts had been assembled, but one piece was on the wrong way round, resulting in two ebony bedside tables with a beige panel below the bottom drawer.
“Is the bottom section supposed to look like that?” I asked, hoping that I didn’t sound too accusing.
“Yep. I followed the instructions exactly,” he said.
“Mmm …,” I said.
“Mmm … What does that mean?” he asked.
“I think it’s what people sometimes say when they like something,” I said, not untruthfully. The operative word being “sometimes”.
Later, while he was recovering from his construction work by having a rest in front of the TV, I tiptoed off to get a better look at the bedside tables.
A quick glance at the discarded instruction manual showed me where he had gone wrong. He’d obviously failed to connect the boosher to the tooshy. Since the tables couldn’t be disassembled without damaging them, I knew I would have to learn to live with them.
Recently, we made another trip to IKEA – this time to buy a sofa. And was I in for a shock when we discovered that the sofa also had to be assembled. The following day, when it was delivered, my partner was at home, waiting.
“I’ve got this one,” he announced, as soon as the delivery men had left the house.
“Don’t you want me to help?” I asked.
“Nope. How hard can it be? There are only eight main parts.”
Three minutes later, just as I was wondering if we would end up with a monster sofa that would collapse around anyone who dared sit on it, he called out to me: “They forgot to give us the instruction manual and the nuts and bolts.”
“Are you sure?” I called back.
“No, I’m just pretending so I can get your attention.”
Two minutes later, we found the missing items stuffed inside the arm of the sofa.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?” I asked again.
“Nope.”
About 45 minutes later, our new sofa had been assembled. Gingerly, I sat on it. It didn’t collapse around me. I smiled and leaned back.
“You did a good job,” I said. “You must feel satisfied.”
“I feel only relief,” he said. “I couldn’t screw up on this one, otherwise I would never be able to live it down.”
Half an hour later, I saw him lying on the sofa with a hugely satisfied look on his face.
Check out Mary on Facebook at www.facebook.com/mary.schneider.writer. Reader response can be directed to star2@thestar.com.my.
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