1 Star - Salad Spinner Failed to Materialize a Relationship | Ariel M. Goldenthal
I ordered the OXO Good Grips Salad Spinner with the understanding that it would manifest a relationship in my life.
The ad that aired in the middle of my favorite daytime talk show, the one that my mother claims I like because she watched it while she nursed me, showed a blissful couple cooking together. In the brief time during which my parents were married, I never saw them do that, but I assume that this ad was truthful in its portrayal of the easy way the woman leaned across the man to grab another bell pepper to chop or the laugh that played across the man’s face. The light illuminated the salad spinner and the couple’s smiles swelled when they spun the mixed greens dry and I knew what I needed.
My mother thought that buying a set of sheets for my college dorm room constituted an extravagant gift, so she was never going to give me her salad spinner, despite the infrequency with which she uses it. Hers is a Tupperware relic from the late 80s—purchased at an eponymous party with fifteen of her closest suburban frenemies.
My mother says that I intimidate men; that I am not soft enough. All my friends are happy in their own relationships, some perhaps even happy without a salad spinner, though I presume they gave theirs away after it served its purpose. When we’re out together, men pass by our table and survey our group in a more desperate and not-as-sexy-as-they-thought version of checking to see which avocado is perfectly ripe at the grocery store.
Other reviewers didn’t explicitly mention this manifestation as a function of the product, but the undertone shone through all the same. The salad spinner requires two people: one to hold the bowl steady and one to push the pump and spin the water. Centrifugal force is a relationship test.
After three weeks of evenings alone at the bar I started to wonder if I’d missed something in the ad, so I put the salad spinner in the car and approached a man I’d seen a few times before. He wore an outfit that wouldn’t have been out of place in last year’s J. Crew catalogue, and I could see his muscular arms through the shirt he’d bought one size too small just for that purpose.
He smiled when I asked for his number and ordered the right thing on our date—Frutti di mare that he pronounced correctly—but when I brought out the salad spinner, he wouldn’t use it with me, so I will never know our compatibility.
Now this salad spinner sits on my countertop, judging me. No one mentioned how the shiny white lid is both brilliant and terrifying. I can see deepening wrinkles and fresh grey hairs in my reflection. I don’t see a boyfriend. I have reached the end of the return window. This product is defective.
Ariel M. Goldenthal is an Assistant Professor of English at George Mason University. Her work has appeared in Tiny Molecules, Janus Literary, MoonPark Review, and others. Read more at www.arielmgoldenthal.com or follow her on Twitter @arielgoldenthal.