My tote bag – the dirty, faded Talking Shrimp one that I use for walks, as opposed to the nicer one I use for going out – has in it:
My bulging wallet,
An almost-empty Poland Springs water bottle (one last emergency sip, worth keeping)
My iPhone earbuds
A bunch of loose, long-ass, drugstore receipts, one of which goes with…
…A Tweezerman brand safety slide callus shaver/rasp, which is a “2-in-1 Tool For Soft Silky Feet.”
This last item is shoved halfway into its opened packaging.
One of those plastic front, cardboard back deals which isn’t as bad as the all-plastic casing electronics come in, which you need a jackhammer to open and then it will cut you. But it opens very unsatisfying-ly, half the cardboard peeling off in a messy, grainy layer and then remnants of it still stuck to the plastic. And since no corner would come away from the plastic, I had to start the peeling by puncturing the back with scissors.
All that is to say, it’s a mess in my bag, mostly because of this product I just described, which bought before a wedding two weekends ago in an ill-advised plan to make my feet presentable without running to get a pedicure. As soon as I opened it, I realized I had no idea how to use it. The only instructions included were: visit tweezerman.com for video instructions.
I didn’t have time for that before leaving for the wedding, so I went with rough feet, reminding myself that I’m not the star, the bride is, and fully intending to visit tweezerman.com for video instructions at a later date so I could take personal, at-home control of my calluses.
But I haven’t, and yesterday, Steven was on a cleaning and “do you really need to keep this” bender, presenting all kinds of things for my inspection. One was the receipt for the foot thing.
“Yes, I need that,” I said, grabbing it and shoving it in my bag, then shoving the foot thing in with it. “I’m going to take it back next time I go out.”
He gave me his “oh really” look, one he gives me every time I say I’m going to take something back.
I am, I am going to take it back.
I can’t stand spending money on something I won’t use. To me, a great dinner out that cost too much, or ridiculously expensive anti-aging cream, or $3.00 for whatever new 5-calorie “antioxidant” drink I’m into at the moment are not things that “waste money.” What wastes money are things that give me no value. Something that doesn’t really fit and I won’t wear, something that wasn’t good enough to eat or might give me food poisoning, something I’ll never figure out how to use. And so, these are the things I insist on taking back.
The problem is, I like to let these things “marinate,” if you will.
Maybe it’s the combo adrenaline-and-shame rush that comes from realizing I just exceeded the return policy by a day, and maybe the person will look at the receipt and notice, and maybe I’ll have to convince them “to please make an exception just this one time and extend a courtesy to a very, very good customer,” and maybe I’ll cry. Or maybe they’ll just ring it through, and not want to bother with the credit card, and hand me cash! The thrill.
Maybe it’s because I like to make things as difficult for myself as possible, and putting things off is the world’s #1 best way to achieve that.
To that end, Steven’s cleaning jag yesterday turned up these things that I’ve been planning to return:
A Duravit toilet lid still in its Amazon box
Steven ordered this after cracking ours (they don’t make ’em like they used to), and it’s correctly for the “Darling” model, which is quite an affectionate name for a crapper, BTW, but I guess there are different sizes of Darlings and this wasn’t the right one. Steven has declared himself incapable of returning things, maybe because he’s tired of being capable of everything else, so it’s up to me to send this monster back. Been in the closet for 2 months.
A pair of Nikes from Amazon seller GlitterKicks, still in their box
I hadn’t wanted to open them, because maybe I could just print out a label and send them back without even dealing with re-taping the box? But we had no printer paper, so I couldn’t deal with them yet. And maybe I wanted to keep these and instead send back the other ones, from Kickin’ Around? Steven kept moving this box around to places where I couldn’t escape it. Middle of the room…in front of the bathroom door while I was in there….But I just stepped over it. Looking would mean dealing. I will, I will, I will. Later.
Bad egg salad
It was from Murray’s Cheese. They’re expensive. And something about their brand builds in the promise of “super fresh.” Damned if I’m gonna put up with organic egg salad that has that “just gone bad” tang. But of course, I’ve now waited till it would have gone bad on its own, which is a point at which you’ve got big some swinging balls to bring something back. I often do anyway, because I have big taking-things-back balls, but Murray’s is out of my way, so I reluctantly agree to let Steven toss it.
Plus, if I miss it, there will be something to replace it soon enough. There’s almost always a half-eaten container of watermelon from Citarella with the receipt taped to it, because the watermelon had the gone-bad tang or turned out to be all rinds. “Whoever’s cutting this fruit has been told to cut corners.” I’m that lady who says that to the manager. I’m awful.
4 sets of Tweezerman tweezers
These were in the bottom kitchen drawer, inside a clear Container Store shoebox of makeup stuff that I’ve been meaning to take back to Sephora. Some have receipts, some don’t. Sephora’s policy is amazing, and yes I’m that asshole who takes advantage of it. But who waits two years to deal with it. OK, maybe more. Sometimes, by the time I take something back, they tell me, “we haven’t carried that line in 3 years.” I let Steven throw out the makeup (“Do you want to open this Nars thing? It’s disgusting inside. DISGUSTING.”) but I kept the Tweezers. Because you can send them back to Tweezerman for sharpening any time. They promise.
The Tweezerman Safety Slide Callus Shaver/ Rasp
You know all about this. Well, now it’s sitting next to me on my desk while I type this because who can remember a name like that? Will I remember to put it back in my bag? And then, next time I pass Rite Aid, which is a horrible place, will I remember to go in and take it back? Will I have the will to?
And so I leave you with a cliffhanger.
UPDATE: Steven just came over to me at my desk, picked up the foot thing saying “what the hell is that?” and then, reading the description, gagged and dropped it like he’d accidentally picked up a severed finger.
Do you always have like, 5 things to take back? What are they? How do you deal with them?
TELL ME IN THE COMMENTS.