Venus fly traps aren’t all that dangerous

So there I was, minding my own business, trying to remain polite and calm on the phone with customer service. I had ordered a pair of plants online that I couldn’t find in the store and needed for my vegetable garden (I’ll be looking in another store later today thank you very much). I read the reviews, did my due diligence. Recent reviews said things along the lines of, “I was shocked at how fast they arrived and in such great condition” so I assumed that would remain the case for my order.

I was wrong.

My plants arrived 3 days after being shipped (and bounced around UPS). They were dry, wilting, and in overall bad condition. I had paid double the in-store price for them, and I would not have paid the in-store price for the wilting mess that arrived.

No worries. I thought. I’ll call and get my money back.

So I called. And got my new favorite customer service representative. At first, I was annoyed. He kept saying I had two names and then using my first and last name. And I’m like, “yeah. That’s my name. That’s exactly what I said my name was.” It was super bizarre.

But this guy wasn’t done yet.

While processing my return, he decided to keep the conversation alive and thriving.



“You ever seen a venus fly trap in real life?”

I almost choked on my La Croix. Was this guy serious?

“Uhh…yes.” I had. I’ve seen them at the store. I’ve almost bought one for Brian. And I vaguely remember one of the people at one of my old jobs had one (though I’m not entirely sure I remember who or which work *shrug*).

“Are they real big?”

“No, they’re actually pretty small.”

“So not like the movies, huh?”


“Guess they aren’t really dangerous then.”

“They’re only dangerous to flies.”

“Oh yeah, that makes sense. Well, I’ve gone ahead and processed your return. You’ll get an email with the details.”

Someone give this guy a raise.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

1979. Or melancholy and infinite sadness

Quick before you read any further! I want to know your first thought when you saw the title of this song. Got it? Great.

Last night, I was checking out after a quick trip to Trader Joe’s. A woman who I figured was close in proximity to me in age was running the register.

“Your total is 19.79.”
“Great song!”
She made a face and started humming to the music playing in the store.
“I can’t hear what it is.”
“1979? The Smashing Pumpkins?”
“What? Oh. Your total”
“Yep. Loved them.”
“Oh I don’t really know them much. I think anyone younger than me wouldn’t have known that at all.”
I bowed my head in sadness and dismay while facepalming.
“But I know Billy Cor…gan, right?”
“Yes. Billy Corgan.” Visions of magazine articles and album covers filled my head instead of photos on Facebook. Song lyrics on the inside of CD covers instead of Surreal videos on MTV instead of YouTube. I picked up my bag and started to leave, my chin buried in my chest.
“I should get points for knowing that, right?”
“Have a good night, young lady!”
And I walked out of the store wondering where to get a walker and a bottle of prune juice.
I’m okay accepting my age, but MAN was I not ready to be worlds apart from someone no more than 5 years younger than me. I remember my friend Jane and I planning our escape to the MTV Beach House, where we hoped to stay in Room 1979. It was a thing. I swear.
And now I’m just melancholy. With infinite sadness.
You see what I did there? Fine. Go Google it.
Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!