Or, the obligatory I am turning into my mother freak out post
I got this little promotional box of “he’s just not that into you” conversation hearts candy in the mail today with a soundtrack CD to review. The first thing I did, of course, was to try out saying the phrase with a hearty emphasis on the “not”. I’d always heard it in my head with stress on “just” and “into” with a final thud on the “YOU” so it was kind of a blow to find out that I wasn’t doing it right. I guess I should have watched Oprah the day that guy who wrote it was on.
Speaking of, I also got this neat Nokia N85 to review, too. I guess my reviews of Slankets and Cargo Comforters really put my name out there on the who to send stuff to review lists.
Back to the point, I have this box of promotional conversation hearts and on the box, the hearts have the names of the actors on them and I’m wondering if the hearts inside do, too. So why don’t I just open the box?
Because I don’t want to ruin it in case it’s worth money some day.
I grew up in a house full of things saved because they might be worth money someday. You know, like Susan B. Anthony dollars and Hummels and canceled checks from 1975 and Barry Manilow 8-tracks. Sometimes my mom would show me something, like my dad’s pay stub from 1974 when he apparently earned something like $400 a month and say “I’m going to keep this, one day somebody might want to buy it. Hey, you never know.” I gave up years ago trying to convince her that I did know the answer, which was nope, nobody will ever want it. And if somebody did offer to buy it, she’d refuse on the grounds that they were trying to lowball her.
Somewhere in one of her many china cabinets she has a stack of 2 dollar bills that are now worth less than they were back in 1986 when she stashed them there. She has urns of coins from European countries that are now worth a fortune because surely everyone else threw theirs away when the Euro came around. She has Disney thimbles from Lennox and these bells with pictures of birds on them from the Franklin Mint. One day, it will all be mine, because I’m pretty sure my brother and sister will loot the house of any real valuables before I get there and I’ll be left to try and get rid of 137 cubic feet of Ty plush (not just Beanie Babies, EVERYTHING Ty makes) and 1400 VHS tapes of every kid movie that ever came out.
You’d think knowing this would make me realize the folly of hanging on to things I’m really not that into, but no, I am envisioning in my head a collection of all the promotional swag I will be sent in my future illustrious career. I will build little shelves for it in my office and display it in cunning ways and if anyone comes to visit me they will be suitably impressed. “THIS is somebody to watch, she gets sent things! And the casual yet artsy way she arranges it shows her creative, down to earth flair. I am lucky to have met her.”
Unlike my mother who married a man who loves to buy things just as much as she likes saving them, I married a relentless pruner. He’ll let me keep my things but only if I find a home for them that isn’t on the dining room table or mantel. Why would I put my things in a closet when I know I’ll just have to take it out again one day? That just doesn’t seem efficient to me. He also really likes candy, so the fate of the promotional conversation hearts is very much in doubt.
Which is a shame, for they are inexplicably not for individual sale. What? Do they really expect people to buy a case of them? Maybe to give out at the office? That strikes me as unspeakably sad. It’s not like they are Twilight conversation hearts!







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