Open Letters Love Amy

Because the Internet is easier than buying stamps and I will just lose your zip code anyway.

Category: Places

An Open Letter To the Whole Foods At Third and Fairfax

Dear Whole Foods at Third and Fairfax in Los Angeles,

I’m trying this new thing where I only buy produce and four dollars worth of olive bar from you. We’re two weeks into this new relationship and things had been going really well. A friend told me about the feta stuffed olives so things were only going to keep getting better. You didn’t have much selection for grapefruit, but I can deal. I decided not to count each carrot individually and got in one of the two 12 items or fewer lines, waiting under a minute for my turn. This has literally never happened to me in your store before. In the last two years I’ve never not waited at least five minutes for service. Especially on a Sunday afternoon. I was so happy.

Then Yolanda ruined everything.

No checker has ever given me such a dirty look for bringing my own bag. In her defense, she had already opened a paper bag for my groceries – I mean what a hassle! It’s not like she can’t ever use that bag again all day! Especially not for the gentleman in line behind me. He’ll want to carry his 12 items to his car in his hands for sure. For a store that banned plastic bags and is all about up-selling your reusable ones, this seems like a strange attitude to have.

Then I had the gall to try to pay with a one hundred dollar bill. Now again, in Yolanda’s defense, that’s got to be annoying. But I know that Liz Lemon agrees with me that a one hundred dollar bill is STILL AMERICAN MONEY. You are a Whole Foods. This isn’t a farmer’s market stand or small Mom and Pop store with one register and maybe two weekly trips to the bank. Despite your best efforts to present as a local neighborhood place, your own website says that you have over 310 stores and brought in more that $10 billion in the 2011 fiscal year. Surely you can break my Franklin.

But it’s this last part that really gets to me (and to the aforementioned gentleman behind me).

As Yolanda rang up my produce she visibly became more annoyed. Yes, there was nothing in my basket that had a barcode. That’s because everything in your store that has a barcode seems to cost at least fifteen dollars. I was buying PRODUCE because you sell lots of organic produce and that was what I wanted. I also wanted a ton of feta stuffed olives because that is one snack which (unlike the whole thing of Oreos I ate yesterday) doesn’t make me feel completely ill after eating. As she put each of my fruits and vegetables on the scale/scanner thing, I began to worry about the bruising. I picked each of those items because they didn’t have bruises, but this wasn’t going to be the case once Yolanda was through. Tomatoes don’t come in a protective plastic container. They will break and leak juice all over everything if you slam them on to the scale and many other types of produce will not be quite as fresh once they have been manhandled.

When Yolanda took off in a huff to find me some twenties in exchange for the hundred (WITH WHICH I WAS PAYING FOR MY PURCHASES), my new friend in line behind me even made a comment about how careless she was being. “Whenever I see that, it just gets under my skin,” he said. It also seemed to be getting under my tomatoes’ skin.

It’s nice that you go to the trouble of putting up chalk drawings of farmers all over your store, but it would be nice to give you my money and have you give me produce that has not been fought with. Next weekend it might be back to the Larchmont market for Amy, unless of course I’ve slipped into some kind of sodium overdose come (is that a thing?) from all the olives.

Love, Amy

9/24/2012 Update: Raul and Solomon at this location have provided me with a $50 gift card so I can keep buying olives and, as it turns out, tons of coffee ice cream and pears. These are the things I buy when I feel rich.


An Open Letter To The Ross At The Beverly Connection

Dear Ross,

Look, I didn’t mean to spill all that frozen yogurt in the shoe section. I promise I am sorry and you clearly saw that I did my best to clean it up. I love you and all your bargains please don’t ban me for life. It would only hurt you because we all know that Erica and I are singlehandedly keeping you afloat.

Love, Amy

P.S. I definitely saw a Pink Berry container in the kitchen gadgets so clearly I am not the only frozen yogurt offender.

An Open Letter To My Shower

Dear Shower,

As much as I hate to break it to you, lest I shatter your self-confidence, the only reason I am still using you every day is to procrastinate writing another 15-20 minutes. Somedays I go to work, but when I don’t, we both know that I’m here at home with you all day long. The only places I might go are King’s or Plancha and those people love me enough that they could care less if I have showered. So I’m not doing it for them.

I’m certainly not doing it for me – all I need is a quick face wash at your buddy the sink and I’m good to go. We both also know that I write almost exclusively from bed, and those blankets and pillows are the least judgmental friends I have. Not doing it for them either. You are just a way for me to feel like I’m not wasting time while I waste time.

Thank you for your services.

Love, Amy

P.S. Clean yourself, Mr. Lazy.

An Open Letter To My Bedroom

Dear Bedroom,

WHOA GUY!!!!! How about the light in here today, am I right? It’s amazing that just by opening up the blinds a ton of light comes in. Who knew?! Add to that actually opening one of the windows (just a crack, we can’t get too crazy yet, gotta ease into change, am I right?) there’s fresh breeze blowin’ in from the alley, which surprisingly doesn’t smell like homeless people. How nice!

Only problem with all this light and fresh air is that it gives me this strange feeling, starting from within, making feel like I should get out of bed and maybe do something. I know, I know. Listening to the Smash soundtrack on Spotify and cuddling up with my blankets and pillows and the NYT Crossword Puzzle app is technically “something,” but now I’m feeling like, I don’t know, being in public or something. I’ve heard it’s something people do sometimes.

Please don’t be too worried about me while I’m gone. Enjoy the light and breeze and I promise to come back soon. I haven’t completely lost my mind. I still know that all that stuff in my Hulu Queue isn’t going to watch itself.

I’ll rejoin you later today with stories of far away lands like WeHo and Santa Monica and – try to not have a heart attack – Silverlake. You can try to tell me that Fonuts has LaMill coffee and is less than 100 steps away from you, but there’s something special about drinking it in it’s home.

Hold down the fort while I’m gone.

Love, Amy

An Open Letter To Dunsmuir and Detroit Streets

Dear Dunsmuir and Detroit Streets,

Hey, so I’m the girl who drove down both of you the wrong way last night. I’m really sorry about all of that. I had driven like fifty city miles and another fifty something on the freeways earlier in the day and was just trying to get myself and a friend from All About the Bread back to his house for an evening television extravaganza (and homemade cookies, OR SO I THOUGHT UNTIL I FOUND OUT MY “FRIEND” HAD EATEN THEM ALL LIKE THE LITTLE JERK HE IS). I was in a post-meatball-sub state of mind and there was no parking anywhere. Please forgive me for my wrongdoings. It won’t happen again because the lack of cookies was the final straw and I’ve ended this friendship, leaving me no reason to ever come near you again.

Love, Amy

P.S. Not to damage your sense of self or anything, but who the hell puts one way streets in your part of town?