["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published September 14, 2026] 2026
My husband and I had only recently arrived in Stockholm for a two-year work assignment when I saw a casting call announcement seeking several different profiles for IKEA ads posted on the American Women's Club website by a local ad agency. Among the profiles: White couple in mid-50s with American accents (i.e. white male, mid 50s; and white female, mid 50s). Casting director has expressed an interest in blond woman.
I mean, did this have our names on it or what? (Please note it said nothing about thin.)
Now Olof and I might have consumed a bottle of wine at dinner that night before we decided to apply. At the time, I was feeling like I had spent much of the last 20 years not seizing the day. In fact, usually the days had seized me. I had too often felt like I was just rehearsing for death. More and more, I kept wondering, what happened to the fearless girl who, forty years ago, on two weeks' notice, didn't think twice about heading off to the equator in Brazil for a year without knowing a word of Portuguese.
While still legally under the influence, we forwarded our photos and bios to the agency.
We pretty much forgot about the ad until a week later when a casting lady from the ad agency asked us to come in that weekend to audition. I started to really worry. Did all the other blond Americans in Stockholm know something we didn't know? Was this one of those ads where they make fun of you? I called the lady back. "It's not a TV ad," she explained, "it's for a DVD that will be shown in our kitchen remodeling departments." I emphasized that neither I nor Olof had even the remotest acting experience. "Not a problem," the casting lady said, "we're looking more for type. The script is about a couple who can't agree on what they want in their kitchen remodel."
"Golly," I said to Olof, recalling the nightmare that was our kitchen upgrade several years back, "I 'm not sure we could identify with that."
So, wearing attire that any mid-fifty-ish couple would wear if they were going to go fight about counter tops at IKEA, we took the subway to the casting office, signed all manner of forms in Swedish, indicated our vital statistics (I lied), indicated that we would not require vegetarian catering at the shoot (if selected), would allow them to cut and restyle our hair (if selected), agreed to the salary (if selected), and were handed our scripts and profiles. The profiles were to help us get "in character." My profile was a Boston woman, age 56, grown son and daughter, who worked as a secretary for a large insurance company. I longed to live in the country but my husband didn't want the commute, so instead I was trying to give my urban home the warm cozy look I fantasized it would have outside the city. I was very, very particular about things, but also a relaxed person. ("We're dead already," whispered Olof, reading the "relaxed" part. My profile character was an avid reader of Jane Austen novels. My profile photo looked far older than I thought I did at the time, but then, if I were my correct weight, I'd have looked 90.
Olof, meanwhile, was my 55-year-old husband (why was he younger???) who managed a company that installed alarms for construction companies. But when he got home from work, he loved to relax by cooking ("Now we re really dead," I whispered to Olof, whose cooking skills consisted of boil-a-bags and deli take-out.) Olof s character also loved to read nature magazines and could expound for hours on butterflies. ("Pretend it's computers," I whispered.) Alas, I feared I had sat next to Olof's character at more than one dinner party in La Jolla.
The scripts and profiles were clearly written by Swedes. I took one look at my script and began re-writing it. I don't know anyone who says, "I want generous counter tops, big enough to bake on anyway." Olof refused to rehearse with me, wanting to be spontaneous. Or, simply refusing to have to say his treacly dialogue one more time than he needed to.
We were summoned into the audition room and had head shots and profile shots and middle-distance shots taken of ourselves (you can suck in stomachs but not, alas, chins.) Then we each had to talk into the camera and say who we were, our age, what we did for a living etc. Then we rehearsed.
The casting lady (who was extremely nice, by the way) told me to slow down. "No one really talks that fast," she said. Olof stifled a smirk. Inga did not stifle a quick kick to Olof's ankle. Then we shot several takes, looking at each other, or at the camera. The script, as it was written, read:
Woman (inspired): I want it to be spacious and light. Only genuine materials, preferably oak, even covering the washing machine! [WTF?] Generous counter tops, big enough to bake on anyway, cupboards with inside lighting.
Husband (looking a bit surprised): I prefer stainless steel. It's practical and modern. And good looking too. Why must we always be so traditional? (Husband continues dreaming:) In contrast to that, we could have some fresh colours? [sic]
Woman: But it has to be cozy! I would love to have a large dining table placed in the center of the kitchen.
Husband: No, no, a kitchen island! We've definitely got to have a kitchen island!
Woman (dejected): All right, you can have your kitchen island as long as you do the cooking!
Husband: No problem!
By the third take, we had taken considerable license with the script trying to make it sound like two actual human beings instead of Robo-woman and Chewbacca. Actually, Olof did really well in my opinion. I did far less well in my opinion. But we both had fun and it was not every day we got to do this. Could there be anything more Swedish than being in an IKEA commercial?
And no, we didn't get the parts. But I concluded I definitely had a future as an IKEA ad writer.
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The flagship IKEA store in Kungens Kurva near Stockholm
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