You have seriously harshed my mellow. As a SAHM/struggling writer, I get very little time to browse fabric stores. This past Saturday, our family had an astrological convergence the likes of which we’re highly unlikely to see again this century. Whitney, apparently delirious from the notion of Florida destroying Alabama’s national championship hopes, said the most aphrodisical words I’ve heard in a long time: “Honey, why don’t you go out this afternoon? Luke and I will stay here and watch the game.” (Have I mentioned that watching a game with Luke is like setting a herd of rhinos loose at Bloomie’s?)
Under normal circumstances, I, compassionate wife that I am, would’ve declined his generous offer and insisted on taking the boy with me so the hubster could enjoy the game. This time? Not so much. I was out of the house so fast I had to brush my teeth in the car.
An entire afternoon sans Luke. I was almost giddy from the notion of spending hours looking at, well, notions. Alas, this was not to be. For one thing, the fabric cutting line was eight people deep. To be fair, this was not your fault. You had three people cutting. It’s Christmastime in the big city and you’re the only decent fabric store for miles. (Strange that Atlanta doesn’t have more fabric stores.) Besides, somebody, somewhere needs camouflage stockings hung by their chimneys with care. (No, I’m not making this up.)
I wasn’t even particularly perturbed by the twenty people waiting in line by the registers. I had snacks and plenty of magazines to read while I waited. Nope, the problem was cinnamon brooms. Yes, you heard me correctly. Cinnamon brooms. See, let me you in on a little secret. NOBODY LIKES THOSE DAMNED THINGS. Probably because they smell like butt. If people liked them you wouldn’t still have a store full of them. I’ve never seen anyone buy one. Which is a good thing because I’d probably beat them to death with it. Anyone that dumb should be eliminated from the gene pool. I know for a fact that there’s no cinnamon in them. For one thing real cinnamon doesn’t smell like butt. Further, real cinnamon isn’t cheap. If you used it on those stupid (Yes Luke, I know I’m not supposed to use that word, but they deserve it) brooms they’d cost a lot more money. Which really doesn’t matter because NOBODY LIKES THOSE DAMNED THINGS.
I was in your store for at least an hour. By the time I got out I had a screaming headache and my nose was running like brides at Filene’s. I, like 95% of the population of the southeastern United States have allergies. The last thing we need is to be in a hot-azz store full of sweaty people buying camouflage fleece while being asphyxiated with fake-azz cinnamon. That is all.
Roslyn Hardy Holcomb
3 thoughts on “Dear Jo-Ann Fabrics,”
Camouflage stockings are scary and have no place during Christmas.
I got to be at Hancocks a few weeks ago sans kids and I wanted to dance.
It’s unbelievable. I actually got to go to the bookstore by myself yesterday and you’d think I’d just been released from prison!