To the Man in front of me at the Dollar Store buying a fake rose, chapstick, K-Y Jelly and three servings of Armour 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 K-Y Jelly 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 K-Y Jelly 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. Prevention is key, my friend.
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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