A "Hole" Lot of Love

Today I returned to Mecca. DSW? Nah! The theaters of Broadway? Nope! The bedroom of Chris Evans, hottie from Fantastic Four? I only wish. I dropped by the Container Store.

This is my heaven, my oasis. When I die, I want my ashes scattered through the store; then swept up using the dust mop in aisle 6 and placed in the various plastic bottles suitable for travel (aisle 10).

This store was created for me. Things to put inside of things… that already have things. We have an Alfa closet in our hallway. All our pills are in the weekly dispenser. (Technically, mine just has 7 Advil resting comfortably inside as if inhabitating aspirin-sized studio condos.) Even the dish soap on our sink relocated from a boring plastic jug to a beautiful ribbed glass dispenser with a non-drip spout.

Today I was meeting my friend Emily for dinner. I arrived at our designated pick-up spot, which was conveniently located near the Tenleytown Metro. There resides DC’s only Container Store. Being 30 minutes early, I decided that I should go in and browse. Okay truthfully, I had to pee pretty bad and they have nice bathrooms. (You learn about nice bathrooms when your son is potty-training, but that’s an entirely new blog waiting to be written.)

I peed and that left 29 minutes of browsing and avoiding each clerk who wanted to assist me. For the record, Container Store has some of the gayest men working for them. So here I am walking through the store, picking up items that I need and then convincing myself that I already have enough magnetic soap holders made from a combination of burlap and recycled coat hangers.


But then in aisle 19, it called out and I decided it must come home with me. I rescued it much like the green parakeet in the Arlington shelter. A $15 plastic grocery bag dispenser, which could sit on a shelf right beside the cereal boxes (the label said). It would be the perfect fit in our designer kitchen. I mean the device was made of faux stainless steel and could be the illegitimate cousin of the other appliances.

“I shall call you Beatrice,” I say. I find that naming my purchases makes it harder for Larry to convince me to return them. “They are like family,” I protest.
As Bea and I make our way to the cashier, I begin reading the box and something stands out. Something I hadn’t seen before:

This product has a 10-year warranty.

What?!? That makes no sense. It holds fucking plastic grocery bags. I mean like what would I need to exchange it for? My iPod has a 6-8 hour warranty at best and twice I’ve nearly thrown it in the washing machine. What lack of functioning could nullify the warranty? And why only 10 years? It’s a hole for God’s sake. That’s it. It’s a hole in an aluminum by-product. I need a warranty for a hole?

I look at Beatrice in disgust as if discovering her family had been in prison or she’d cheated on me with the matching napkin dispenser. (Wait! I didn’t see the napkin dispenser before. Maybe I should….focus. Disgust. Anger. Resentment.)

It’s hard to realize that once you see first love in a new light, we have little, if any future. How can you feel love for a $15 hole? We said our goodbyes and never looked back.

And as I walked past the door to leave, I met Candice, my new, brushed nickel toothbrush holder. We are the perfect soul mates.