It didn't take long, of course, for the bloom to wear off: favorite products "discontinued," the incessant and insistent displays of balloons (potentially life-threatening to those of us with latex allergies). It would be safe to say that we are more realistic about our relationship. This is after all, business, designed to make money for private owners. Even those incredible avocados are designed to line their pocketbook rather than feed my cravings for them.
Perhaps it is because of the attractively-priced rice pasta that I turn a blind eye, but I'm wondering if we are headed to counseling or at least a gripe session with a girlfriend. I'm referring to the use of the word "exclusive."
In my mind, that term conjures up images of a social bargain: they are the only ones to offer it, and I will seek it only there. But when the neighborhood busybody posts pictures on the Internet, falsehoods are exposed. The busybody here is the FDA, doing their job with their new and incredibly transparent recall website: not only do we get the names and objects of the offense spelled out, we get pictures. And there Joe is, the last in a lineup of little Splendido tomatoes, his label proclaiming exclusivity, when the other pictures clearly tell another story.
The online Bullshitometer reminds me that advertising and politics are rife with this kind of deceit, and this label scores a perfect 10 of 10. I would be lying if I said it didn't undermine the trust in our relationship. Perhaps Joe thinks I won't come back if I knew his inner truths; or perhaps I am using him as much as he is using me.
