Tag Archives: Dollar Store

Valentines I’ll Never Send

To the cliché box of assorted chocolates:

I’m have mixed feelings about you, to be honest. I’m not big on sweets to begin with, and unless there’s a map of your assortment on the lid, it’s always a gamble with you. There are really only three or four really good flavors which means that my anticipation of biting into a caramel or a chocolate cream could be met with the disappointment of sinking my teeth into the one filled with what I assume is neon pink Play-Doh.

If you so choose to continue to hide your best work, I will so choose to continue sticking a toothpick in the bottom of each piece to try and determine the flavor. All’s fair in love and chocolate.

To people who don’t say thank you when I hold the door open for them:

I will yell “You’re welcome!” as loud as I can because it’s important to lead by example. At least give a courtesy head nod. It’s really not that hard. I only bring this up because it could be an indication or a repeated behavior—not thanking people for letting you merge, walking by when people bless you after you sneeze, or as we’re talking about today, relationships.

 valentines

In other words, I’m a helper. YOU’RE WELCOME.

To the person who invented lasagna, pizza and basically any Italian food:

I hope at some point a very important person sat you down and told you, “You are a great human being.” True, I’ve been scorned by a lover a time or two by eating it too soon and burning the roof of my mouth, but love hurts. However, I can’t hold both a grudge and my fork, so today–I salute you.

To employment:

Okay. I know we’ve been taking a break, but I’m totally ready to hook back up again. I don’t want it to be boring, unhealthy and mundane like it was before, but I also don’t need fireworks every night. Something steady, something dependable, something that challenges me and uses my skills in a creative and constructive way. You have my number, so please, feel free to use it.

To the guy at the Dollar Store buying a felt rose, condoms and potted meat:

I’m not sure if I should be disgusted at this unique combination of purchases or admire you for your effort and optimism. The fake rose is admirable, but if you are in fact planning for a romantic evening with someone other than yourself—as your purchase of condoms instead of lotion and Kleenex would suggest—the addition of potted meat is quite troubling.

Putting aside the fact I only eat plants and would rather eat the metal pot than the “meat” your potted meat contains, the Dollar Store does offer a variety of other edible creations that might help to set a more “romantic” mood—canned oysters (aphrodisiac!) crackers or even a cupcake mix (chocolate!) might be a better solution.

And condoms from the Dollar Store? Remember that you get what you pay for, and take note of the woman behind me the other day who filled her cart with at-home pregnancy tests, ovulation kits and Cheetos. Sometimes you should spring for the upgraded model, my friend.

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Letters I Probably Won’t Send

 

To the Man at the Dollar Store who kept asking his wife how much something costs:

It’s $1. Everything is $1. Beware, as your wife looks annoyed and might just throw a dull off-brand pair of kitchen shears into the cart. Sleep with one eye open.

And to your wife? Take a deep breath and count to 10. Thousand.


To commercials targeted at women:

While I understand the marketing idea behind making everyday situations appear a million times more exciting than they actually are, most of us are not fooled into thinking that using a whitening toothpaste will in fact make our teeth so white that our smile could land a husband or a small aircraft or that wiping up spills with extra-absorbent paper towel makes us want to sing.

I also don’t invite friends over to watch me dance with a miracle mop and then eat the yogurt you pimp out that the reaction of women in commercials would have me believe contains orgasmic properties and not just probiotics.

As for expressing my individuality, I don’t need to do it through pink pens or  feminine hygiene products packaged in bright colors with cool patterns, but thank you for the suggestion.


To the sock that falls out of the laundry basket as I’m walking up the stairs:

You might not think this is a big deal and that you deserve some “alone” time away from the crowd, but you have to understand the implications of your escape.

As I bend down to pick you up—basket full of laundry in my arms—it’s inevitable that at least two other items from the basket will also jump ship. I also have to pick up a towel and/or a dishcloth that has fallen while I’m down there to pick you up and the cycle just goes on and on.

You can see how distressing this is, and quite honestly, your behavior gives me reason to believe that you are why the divorce rate of my socks is increasing. Let’s work on this, little buddy.


To the cashier who said, “Enjoy your evening!”  as I left the store carrying my box of Q-tips and a bottle of oven cleaner:

I think it goes without saying that I’ll do just that.

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