Dear Wheatsville

It’s Tolly. Remember me? I know, it’s been a while. But I remember you. I still have a co-op membership and everything! I continue to get your cute little newsletter in the mail, informing me about grapefruit varietals and exciting new hydraponics methods and whatnot. I thought about you today, after Lyssa told me about your grand expansion opening, and said to myself, “you know? I could really go for some texturized soy protein right now. Wheatsville, here I come!”

Ah, Wheatsville… never disappoint.

After successfully maneuvering around the seemingly endless road construction on Guadalupe to venture into your doors (seriously Wheatsville: is the City of Austin erecting an alternative living community below street level in front of your shop, or something?), I strode over to the “Lifestyle” section, where one can peruse your store’s non-edibles. You know, soap, toothpaste, henna hair dye. Anyway, the Diva Cup – the “award-winning, revolutionary alternative to tampons and pads!” – immediately caught my eye. And how could it not? Like an exuberant school teacher, you had taken the time to post a laminated feature article from some newspaper in front of the Diva Cup’s display. “But what does it do?” I thought. “Will this cup truly make me a Diva?”

The answer, according to you Wheatsville, is a resounding YES! Yes, we here at Wheatsville are eschewing the likes of disposable tampons and pads! We are GreenDIVAS, bitches!!! But, dear old friend Wheatsville, let’s take a moment to consult our resident expert Beyonce Knowles for some trusted diva insights, shall we? Because, according to B, “a diva is a female version of a hustla,” and since fifteen in her stilettos she been struttin’ in this game, so I think she would KNOW.

Now, not to be the semantics police or anything, but I think we may want to think twice before we go around evangelizing the “Diva”Cup, Wheatsville, since in my opinion, there could perhaps be a better brand name for a product that promises diva-ness merely by reaching up into your bizness to collect all your lady fluids. Um……is it also making me sick with benjamins I can’t spend? Because if not, that’s just false advertising. Since it can be used up to 12 hours at a time, I propose we call it the “Fuggedaboutit Cup,” or if you still want retain that whole hip-and-sassy-20-to-40-year-old-female-demographic thing, we could call it the “BFF Cup” or the “Hey Girl! Cup.” Just some thoughts.

Oh but Wheatsville, that wasn’t all you had in store for me! Not two moments after I encountered the Diva Cup, did I wheel around to see this guy’s orgasmic face staring back at me:

WHAT is going on here. I’m not referring to the man’s rather aw-yeah-that’s-it facial expression; I’m referring to the fact that someone has apparently dismantled a whisk and is peddling it as a massage device.


I know the recession is bad and everything, Wheatsville, but even I – a naive little 20-something with latent, deeply buried hippie tendencies – can see right through this. Ultimate Head Massager? I’ll just walk into my kitchen and see what my utensils can do, thanks. Let’s rid the shelves of this joke and make room for the much more practical Slanket.

But the real reason I’m writing, Wheatsville, is to present to you my petition. Right now, it’s just a petition of one, but I am confident that I am not alone in my long-suffering plight.


Wheatsville, do you know how excited I was to attend your expansion opening today, only to see that you hadn’t come to your senses and adorned your generous buckets of nut butters with complimentary sample spoons? For the love of God. Those spoons are about as big as my fingernail. I remember back in 2004, when I first started dating R., and he introduced me to this exotic new world of bulk peanut butter, almond butter, cashew butter, WALNUT butter –

“Wait – walnut butter?!? That exists??”

“Yes,” R. said. “They just grind up walnuts, rather than peanuts.”


And so I did. How? Well, I walked right into Wheatsville with R., plucked a teensy little spoon out of a little cup, and dipped it into a near swimming pool-size vat of walnut butter. It made my tastebuds quake with ecstasy. I bought some on the spot.

Eventually, I guess everyone caught on, and you know those co-op types, Wheatsville…..sometimes they get a little too co-opy. Taking bigger and bigger spoonfuls out of the nut butter barrels. Reaching their hands into the nearby granola bulk bins. I totally don’t blame you for taking away the sample spoons (especially since we all cleverly started stealing real spoons from the coffee section, and using those for our samples instead…heh!!).

But that was a long, long time ago. We’ve learned our lesson. We’ve lived without the nut butter samples. For how long? Oh, only about four freaking years now.

So on the morn of your grand expansion opening, Wheatsville, I think we deserve a second chance. To do it right this time. To sample nut butters without greed. Do it for the children. Save the whales. Bring back the f-ing sample spoons.

Your friend and loyal co-op member,