I moved out of my parents’ home 12 years ago. Since then, I’ve lived in three houses, two townhouses and four apartments. Not once have I purchased a sofa. No couch, no chaise, no settee, nothing. My last place in Hawaii was a one-bedroom apartment. I had lived in a studio prior to that move, so for the first time, I put couch shopping at the top of my to-do list. I dragged my sister around the Island to every furniture store I could think of, but still came home empty-handed.

Don’t get me wrong, there were a few pieces I liked. I took pictures and made notes, but I just couldn’t decide on one. As silly as it sounds, it felt like such a commitment. There were just too many options! Colors, materials, sizes, styles … The choices were seemingly endless.  It wasn’t like I was choosing a blender or a lamp that I could easily throw into my trunk and return if I changed my mind. I would most likely have to hire people to lug it up to my 11th-floor abode — and re-hire them if I decided to get rid of it. What if I loved it in the store, but hated it once I actually saw it in the space? Or what if I liked it for a couple of weeks, then decided I just couldn’t stand to look at it every day anymore? Needless to say, I lived there for two years, sans couch.

Once I moved into my Louisville apartment, I started considering a couch purchase again. But that idea got squashed rather quickly once I made plans to move to New York in a year. I thought, why bother putting too much effort into this place if I know I’m not going to be here for long? Well, plans changed — as they often do — and I’ve now been in this apartment for 26 months. That’s right —  I’ve been in the same space for two years and I STILL don’t have a couch.

Some might say I have commitment issues, though I disagree. Because I’ve finally decided that I’m almost-pretty-surely-fairly-certain that I’m going to move forward and just get a damn couch. Or a chaise, actually. I found one I really like! It’s currently sitting in my Amazon cart as I type this … And that’s where it’s been for the past three weeks.

Don’t worry, I’m gonna get it. Eventually. In the meantime, I’m enjoying something else I’ve never bought for a home — a doormat. A “Thug Life” doormat, to be exact. It was inexpensive, and I know I’m not going to get sick of it because, like other things, I had it saved in my Amazon cart for several days before I actually bought it. Seeing it made me laugh every single time I checked my cart, so I know it’ll bring me joy when I get home every day. See? I’ve committted to something. Baby steps.

Disclaimer: This post is not meant to be offensive. I’m not offended by the experiences I’ve written about and I’m sharing them for your amusement. If you find any of this offensive or think I’m being racist, you don’t know me very well and should stop reading this blog. 

I’m not an attention seeker. I like being able to go places and do things without people paying me any mind. When I first made the decision to leave Hawaii for Colorado, people said things like, “Oh, no one will even notice you. You’re brown. They’ll think you’re Mexican.” Friends and family members assured me that I’d be able to blend in while in good ol’ Colorado Springs. Surely not as seamlessly as I blend in while in Hawaii, but they were positive my looks wouldn’t be a big deal. Boy, were they wrong.

People in the Springs definitely noticed me — and they made it obvious. I had a few awkward experiences with people blatantly staring — doing a full-on head-to-toe assessment — presumably trying to figure out what the hell I am. I didn’t feel discriminated against or anything; just highly uncomfortable.

In Louisville, KY, people still notice me. But they’re not rude about it. In fact, many of them are vocal and have no qualms about making comments or asking questions, which I love. So here, I bring you some of my favorite “ethnicity encounters,” as I like to call them. Enjoy!

• An Uber driver kept looking at me through his rearview mirror. Finally, he asked where I was from. When I told him I was from Hawaii, he said, “I knew it! I knew you were Polynesian, but I didn’t know which kind. I mean, I knew you weren’t Samoan, ’cause Samoans are BIG.”

• I had a very similar experience with another Uber driver. But his response to me being from Hawaii was, “Yeah … OK. OK. You look like you’re from the ocean.” I took it as a compliment because obviously, he thought I was a mermaid.

 

• Encounters with random people on the street are even better because I never see them coming. One day, I was walking my dog on our usual route when a man approached me with a very friendly “Hey!” He put his arms out as though he was going to hug me. I quickly stepped back and said, “Um. Hi.” He looked at me for a second, seemingly confused. I think we both realized at the same moment that he had mistaken me for someone else. “My bad,” he said. “I thought you was my homie from the dee argh.” Now I was confused. “The what?!” I asked. “The D.R.,” he replied. “Dominican Republic?” Oh.

 

• Another time, I was walking along the same street and a woman got a little too close to my face, peering at me very intensely. “Are you Native American?” she asked. “Huh?” I replied. “Um. No.” She stared into my eyes and said, “My grandmother is Native American.” I wasn’t sure what that meant or how I was supposed to respond, so I just kept walking.

 

• During my first conversation with a woman I’m still in contact with (but shall remain nameless), I asked what brought her to Louisville. She said that her husband got a job here, so their family relocated. Then she leaned across the table, looked me in the eye and said, “My husband is Mexican.”

 

Ha! I guess someone did think I was Mexican after all! 😆

 

 

I started this blog as a way to share my experiences and adventures when I left Hawaii. But life got busy — as it is apt to do — and like many passion projects, it fell by the wayside. Recently though, I’ve been thinking more about how much I miss telling my stories here. So, the blog is officially back! And if you’re reading this, I thank you.

For the most part, my posts have been all about funny and/or silly things I’ve gone through along my journey: I saw snow for the first time! I discovered dollar stores! I accidentally flirted with a guy I thought was gay! This post is different — but I promise to get back to the funny stuff next time.

My first year and a half in Louisville often felt like an extended vacation. I was just prancing around, taking advantage of new opportunities that came my way. The answer to every invitation was a resounding, “Yes!” Want to check out new restaurants, bars or coffee shops? Yes, yes, yes! Want to attend an event or concert, or go on a road trip? Yes, yes, yes! I tried to soak up every new experience like a kid on a field trip. But in 2018, that field trip came to an abrupt halt.

In less than a month’s time, I’d broken up with the first guy I dated outside of Hawaii, lost my one consistent freelance writing gig, and had someone I saw on an almost-daily basis pass away suddenly. After all these things happened, I sat quietly, staring down at the city from the window of my 25th-floor apartment. And I came to a realization: SHIT JUST GOT REAL.

It became apparent that I wasn’t “new” to Louisville anymore. I’d formed real relationships with new people, gotten accustomed to my day-to-day activities, and felt every emotion under the sun. I was constantly thinking about what would come next — like if I’d move out of the state once my lease was up —but I’d failed to realize that the adventuring, vacation mode of my move had ended. I was living the life that I’d established here. It was time to look at everything a bit more seriously and make a conscious effort to ensure I was building the life I wanted to live.

So, I committed to participating in a program that requires me to be here for another year. (I had previously withdrawn my application because I wasn’t sure if I’d be moving before the year was up.) Though the fun and adventures won’t end — and I’ll always have travel plans — I’m going to focus on what’s happening in the here and now, rather than what could come next.

It’s like Jim Elliot said: “Wherever you are — be all there.”

 

I never thought I’d have to actively try to meet people. Making friends always happened organically, because I was—as I’m sure most people were—constantly surrounded by other humans. It started in grade school and continued on into high school, college, and the working world. Then one day, I moved 4,000 miles away from the place I’ve always called home and realized that I won’t be able to grab a few drinks with my coworkers on Friday nights … because I don’t have any coworkers.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I love working from home. I love being able to run errands, walk my dog or spend an hour on Facebook whenever I feel like it. I love being able to stay awake until 2 or 3 a.m. without worrying about how much sleep I’m getting, because I know I have the freedom to wake up at noon if I want to. But after being in my new apartment for a month, the fear of turning into Johnny Depp in “Secret Window” forced me to create a profile on meetup.com.

I browsed through the various types of meetups: book clubs, hiking groups, scuba diving organizations. The list of grownup play dates went on and on. I searched for a dog-specific group, but the only thing available was a Shih Tsu meetup. I didn’t think its members would appreciate me and my mutt joining their crew (even though Koa is 1/4 Shih Tsu!), so I kept looking.

Finally, I came across a group called “New 2 Lou.” It was for any and all Louisville newbies. It seemed perfect—broad enough to include all kinds of people, with meetups at new locations every month. I RSVP’d for the next gathering, which was going to be held at a new brewery, 10 minutes away from my apartment.

Now, if you know me, you know that something like this is NOT my idea of fun. I have no problem speaking to a crowd, being on T.V., going on a sales call or giving a presentation. But immersing myself in a social situation with no definitive goal gives me anxiety. Plus, I had my worries: What if it’s just a bunch of sleazy guys trying to hook up? What if I end up surrounded by people trying to sell me Nerium, or Amway, or whatever the hell it is people are selling nowadays? I decided that the best way to approach it was like the first part of a sales call: My goal was simply to get to know the person/people.

Before I knew it, the day had come. I walked into the brewery, checked in, and grabbed a beer. As soon as I had my IPA in hand, I scanned the crowd. A bunch of people were already engrossed in conversations and others were awkwardly standing around, looking like they didn’t want to be seen. But then, I spotted him, with his fitted tee and perfectly groomed eyebrows: the only gay guy in the entire group. I was ecstatic! Gay guys are my favorite people to chat with because (1) they won’t hit on me, (2) they either won’t judge me or will be honest about their judgements and (3) they’re usually very easy to talk to.

We made eye contact, walked toward each other, and began with the typical “getting to know you” questions: What’s your name? Where are you from? What brought you here? We sat at a large, round table and continued the convo. Everything seemed to be going OK, until about five minutes into it. I had said something that was only mildly funny, but he was laughing—hard. It oozed of too much effort. I replayed the last five minutes in my head, analyzing his body language, mannerisms and word choice, then realized—with horror—that he wasn’t gay! He was a straight, metro-sexual guy who probably thought I found him attractive, since I had walked past every single other person, making a beeline for him. It was awful. I had to abort.

Soon enough, he said he had to go to the restroom. My chance to escape! Or so I thought… He stood up and left both his phone and beer on the table, saying “I’ll be right back.” I sat there, contemplating how horrible of a person I’d be if I dug out and left his stuff on the table. But before I could make a move, three other guys swooped in and made themselves comfortable in the empty chairs at our table. By the time Mr. Metro returned, the rest of us had introduced ourselves. I quickly learned that all four guys actually lived in Indiana—not Louisville—and each had been there for two or more years. New 2 Lou? I thought. None of you fakers are new to Lou! (Indiana IS very close; it’s literally a walk away from Louisville. But still… two years?!)

I spent the next 30 minutes working on my second beer, while answering questions about Hawaii and listening to them drone on about nothing I was even remotely interested in hearing. Then I had to wait for each of them to show me their photo of a sunset by the Big Four Bridge, because “Everyone has a sunset photo of the bridge.” Finally, I was able to make my great bathroom break/escape. I’d had enough. I did not make a single friend or potential work connection. Annoyed, I walked the quarter mile on the above mentioned bridge back to Louisville.

Though my first meetup.com experience was less than ideal, I’m not gonna ditch the whole thing. I think that it’s a great concept and I know the person who founded New 2 Lou had good intentions. But I think I’ll pass on their next gathering and join a hiking club instead. Because you can’t fake a hike.

When you live in the same place for 30 years, you develop a huge pool of people you can count on for just about anything you need. Friends, family, coworkers, ex-boyfriends … at any given moment, there are many shoulders to lean on. If your car is in the shop, someone will give you a ride. If it’s cold, someone will loan you a sweater. If you’re not feeling well, someone will cover your work—or at the very least, remind you about the deadline you missed while you were out sick. You even have a professional pool: your go-to manicurist, dog sitter, plumber, etc. Whatever you need is only a phone call or text message away.

Once I moved to Kentucky, my pool shrank drastically. In fact, it isn’t even a pool anymore —it’s more of a puddle. The funny thing is, I didn’t realize this until I had to transport my boxed, Amazon-ordered bed frame from the mail area into my new apartment. The box was MUCH heavier than I imagined, and I couldn’t even move it an inch.

Thankfully, I had heard professional movers were going to be around the next day. (Since the entire building is undergoing a renovation, movers come in every couple of months to install new appliances and such.) So, I spoke with the property management team to see if I could enlist a couple of people for my personal move. Not only did they tell me it was OK, but they said the movers could assemble my bed frame, too. It was perfect!

The following day, two movers brought the box into my apartment, opened it up, and just as I thought they were going to get to work, they announced that one of the pieces was broken. What’s more, is it wasn’t just any piece—it was the middle board of the base, the very center of the foundation. Since there was no point in working on a bed frame with a broken part, they left while I made a phone call to request a replacement piece. The package was going to take seven to ten business days to get here, which meant my mattress would have to reside on the floor for a while longer.

A week and a half later, my replacement board arrived! Since it was only one piece, I was able to carry it upstairs myself. But, who was going to put the frame together? The property manager wasn’t going to hire movers again for another six weeks! I thought about calling my puddle of friends—all two of them—but decided I’d better save the favor-asking for more important things. Then I thought about doing it myself, until I remembered the time I tried to put my breakfast nook together: After 20 frustrating minutes, I had given up and pulled out my phone-a-friend card. Though my nook was considerably more complicated than my bed frame, I decided it was still probably safer to have someone else do it.

So naturally, I did what any other person in my position would do in 2016: I went online. A quick “handyman” Google search led me to Thumbtack, a resource for just about any professional service you could imagine. “Consider it done,” read the website’s headline. “From house painting to personal training, we bring you the right pros for every project on your list.” It seemed easy enough.

Within ten minutes, I had completed my request and received three quotes for the job. I reviewed each person’s profile, then replied to a handyman located in a town about half an hour away. (It seemed like a bit a commute to me, but he DID know my zip code when he sent his quote.) After a couple of messages back and forth, we scheduled a date and time for my bed frame assembly.

A few days later, Caleb from Shepherdsville arrived to take care of the unfinished project that had been laying on my floor for three weeks. He was professional, considerate and efficient. He was also nice enough to let Koa force him into playing a few rounds of fetch while he worked. My mattress finally has its home! And you know what? I think I just found the first person to put into my professional pool—er, puddle.

 

 

“What the hell is in Kentucky?!” I’ve heard this question—or variations of it—from friends, family, even complete strangers. My favorite bit of commentary came from one particularly animated Uber driver, after I’d spent the day doing some exploring in Louisville. “WHY would you leave Hawaii to come here?,” he asked. “I mean, Louisville’s cool, but it ain’t fuckin’ Hawaii!!”

He’s absolutely right. Louisville is NOT fucking Hawaii. I’m very aware of this fact. I miss things about being on Oahu every single day. I have a friend (the same one from the text conversation above) who thinks it’s funny to send me beach photos so I can see what I’m missing. I think about the ocean, EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

I also think about the fact that when I went home in May to wrap up my move, it scared me to see how quickly my niece and nephew were growing up—without me. I had been gone for only four months, but my teenage nephew’s voice had changed and my niece had become a full-grown child. All traces of baby and toddler Kaylee were gone.

There are people, places and experiences that I will miss. There’s no doubt about that. But my decision to move from Hawaii to Kentucky never involved comparing the two states. The point wasn’t to move somewhere better; I just wanted to move somewhere different. I was born and raised in Hawaii, attended college in Hawaii and never moved anywhere else. (Unless you count leaving Wahiawa and moving to downtown Honolulu, which, to be fair, is quite a change.) Now, I’m living in a state that borders seven other states. There are a million and one things to do around here that I haven’t done yet—but I intend to.

 

After being in Louisville, Kentucky, for a couple of weeks, I decided to check out the rental apartment market—just for kicks. Would I have a similar experience to the one I had in Colorado? Lots to choose from in lots of sketchy areas, or units getting scooped up so quickly I wouldn’t even have time to check them out? I hopped onto rent.com to take a look.

There were lots of places available—as expected—and every photo looked great, per the usual. I read the descriptions and saw two buildings I thought looked promising. Using the website’s auto-fill form, I easily sent off two inquiries with the click of my mouse. Less than five minutes later, I received an email—which was quickly followed by a phone call. Whoa, I thought. Someone is either REALLY desperate or gets a REALLY high commission. Or maybe she just enjoys her job…

Whatever the situation was, I had my first showing scheduled for 11 a.m. the very next day. Cate, the sales manager, was just as nice in person as she was on the phone and via email. As she showed me around, I walked past “hard hat only” areas while she explained that the construction was all part of a $10 million renovation project. Once completed, every single unit in the 29-floor building would be renovated. There would also be new amenities, including a rooftop pool, fitness center, yoga room, movie theater, restaurant and dog park. (A fitness center AND a dog park?! Whaaat?) I played it cool, but I was impressed. After all, my apartment complex in Hawaii didn’t have very many amenities, except for a pool—which I stopped using after my coworker and I saw duck poop floating around in it.

The actual unit I was interested in hasn’t been built yet, so she showed me a model, which was adorably decorated and made me miss working at Hawaii Home + Remodeling Magazine. Keeping in mind the fact that an actual rental would be completely empty and NOT decorated, I focused on its true features, like the granite island on wheels. It was movable, adjustable and had storage underneath. Pure genius! I loved it.

 

 

As we left the model unit and headed back toward her office, Cate told me that residents are encouraged to decorate their space as they see fit, and are allowed to paint, put up wallpaper, drill holes into the wall, etc. “Really???” I asked. (This was unheard of in Hawaii! If you dare to put a single nail into a wall, expect to have a nice chunk of change taken out of your deposit when you move out.) “Yeah,” she replied. “We want you to feel comfortable, so you’ll want to stay here.” She then proceeded to talk about about the 24/7 concierge. “He’ll always be in the lobby, in case you ever need anything,” she said. “The goal is to run the building like a hotel, so you always feel like you’re accommodated.”

Hmm…, I thought. A concierge? Who would want to live in a building that’s run like a hotel? Who wants to be in a place where there’s always something to do, and always someone you can call if you need something? Um… ME. That’s who. I would definitely like to live in a place that’s run like a hotel.

Obviously, I was sold. Two weeks after arriving in Louisville, I decided I liked it enough to stay for a bit. I submitted my application and put a hold on a soon-to-be built apartment. That’s right—I’m moving to Kentucky, y’all!

When I was getting ready to move to Colorado Springs, I was told it would be “so easy” to find an apartment to rent, because places were cheap and plentiful. After doing a few searches on Craigslist and apartments.com, it sure seemed like it. There were lots of places to rent, they were much cheaper than anything in Hawaii and most of them were dog friendly. Many of the complexes also had amenities I wasn’t used to seeing. Heated indoor swimming pool and fenced dog park? Yes, please! Things were looking good. That is, until I arrived in Colorado and seriously began looking for an apartment.

I scheduled my first showing and a friend took me to do a drive-by of the place. The actual buildings of the complex looked great—but the surrounding area? Not so much. The houses around it were rundown and we saw several sketchy-looking characters walking up and down the street. I couldn’t imagine walking my dog there twice a day. I canceled my showing and moved on to the next one. Unfortunately, it was just another nice building in another rough-looking area, which equaled another canceled showing.

I had one more place I wanted to check out. Third time’s a charm, right? Wrong! Before we could do a drive-by viewing, I received an email saying that the showing was canceled—the apartment had been rented. I continued my search, emailing yet another leasing office. By the time I got a reply (the next day), the apartment had been rented. They wouldn’t have another unit available until next month. What was going on?! It seemed to me that there were two types of rentals: the super cheap ones that no one actually wanted, and the average cheap ones that were getting snatched up in what seemed like minutes after they were posted. I was getting frustrated.

I moved on to searching for a room rental. It would be less of a commitment, giving me more time to find a place I REALLY wanted to live in. I set up a Starbucks meeting with a guy who had a bedroom and bathroom for rent in his three-bedroom home. Once I decided he wasn’t a psycho, I visited the place. It was in a nice neighborhood, and the bedroom/bathroom setup seemed ideal for my dog and I. The owner was OK with the short-term arrangement, so I decided to move forward. He said he’d send over a lease agreement.

Several days passed, and no word. I wondered if he’d changed his mind. Finally, I received an email from him—he wanted my information to run a credit check. Um… what? I had offered to pay two months’ rent upfront, since I was only going to stay for two or three months. Why would he need to run a credit check? I was extremely hesitant. Several years ago, my information was stolen and sold to someone in Bucharest. (Seriously. I didn’t even know where Bucharest was until it happened.) I decided not to reply right away. I had to think about whether or not I was going to cooperate with this so-called credit check.

Fortunately, a text message I received later that night made my decision easy. My best friend in Louisville, Kentucky, asked me to come visit her. “You can stay with us!” her message read. What would I do? I could (a) consent to a credit check to live with a total stranger for a few months or (b) visit my best friend and her family, while checking out a new place I’ve never been to. The decision was obvious. See ya later, Colorado!

 

 

It’s been six weeks and two days since my arrival in Colorado. Sadly, after more than a month, my body is still on Hawaii time. Most nights, I go to sleep around 2 a.m. (11 p.m. Hawaii time) and wake up around 9 or 10 a.m. (6 or 7 a.m. Hawaii time). For the most part, this has worked out in my favor. I get a glorious eight hours of sleep in, and by the time I’ve walked my dog, made my breakfast and checked my emails, most of the people I do work for are just getting to their offices in Hawaii. I feel ahead of the game!

If I absolutely have to wake up earlier, I simply adjust my sleeping schedule accordingly. (I can make myself sleep pretty much anytime, anywhere, if I want to. Ask anyone who has traveled with me—they think it’s hilarious. I’ll be having a conversation with them one minute, then I’ll look at the time and say, “Oh, I need to go to bed. Goodnight.” About 30 seconds later, I’m out cold.) But even after nights of forcing myself to sleep earlier, I’ll go back to my regular schedule, naturally getting tired around 2 a.m. and waking up around 9 a.m. I just can’t seem to get in tune with the mountain time zone.

I know … BOO-HOO, right? Poor me, who doesn’t have wake up early to get dressed and drive to an office every morning. Trust me, I’m not complaining … I’m simply sharing.

Anyway, this morning threw me for a loop. I woke up and looked at the time on my phone: It was 10:34 a.m. I couldn’t believe it—how did I sleep for so long? It didn’t even feel that late. I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed and got dressed. As I put my dog’s harness on him in preparation for our morning walk, I glanced up at the clock. It was 10:30. Wait—what?! I must’ve been half asleep when I checked the time on my phone, I thought to myself. I headed out and didn’t think about it again until I got back and started to make my breakfast. The time on the microwave and stove were the same—but the time on the cable box was an hour ahead. What was going on?! <Key “Twilight Zone” music.>

My friend walked into the kitchen. “Did you know,” I began, “that the time on the cable box is different from the time on the microwave and stove?!” Unfazed, she answered, “Oh yeah, the time went up an hour last night. We didn’t fix the clocks yet. The cable box changes automatically.”

The mystery was solved: daylight savings time. That thing that has been printed on every calendar and planner I’ve ever owned, but I never paid any attention to it because it doesn’t “exist” in Hawaii. Looks like I’m going to have to start paying attention to it now, because it definitely exists in Colorado. Guess it’s time to fix the clocks.

Despite seeing signs all over the store stating that everything is a dollar, I walked over to my friend and asked, “Is everything really a dollar? You’re sure?”

It was my first time at Dollar Tree and I couldn’t contain my amazement—a store where literally every item was just one dollar?! This was definitely going to be an experience I couldn’t get back home. In Hawaii, the closest thing to Dollar Tree was probably Price Busters, which closed down a couple of years ago. But even there, most items were priced well over $1.

I began walking up and down each aisle, observing the inventory while taking note of items I might actually buy (Bounty paper towels) and things I’d probably steer clear of (no-brand face wash that was made in China). Then, just after the toy aisle, right before the office supplies, I spotted them: books! Real, new, hardcover and paperback books! (A note to those who don’t know me very well: I own a Kindle and a Nook, but I can’t rid myself of my book addiction. There is nothing in the world that can replace the feel of pages between my fingers while I’m reading a good book. The same goes for magazines—I’ve never been able to get through a digital edition.)

I had to be sure the books were real and fully intact. I picked one up randomly, quickly flipping through the pages to make sure none were missing. Then I stepped back to look at the area as a whole. These books weren’t one-offs, a random bunch of unwanted reads. No; in fact, they were organized—young adult, fiction, cookbooks, etc.—and there were multiple copies of most, like you’d find in Barnes & Noble. I excitedly began picking out the ones I was going to buy. I found my friend a few aisles down and requested price confirmation again. Holding the books up, I asked, “Are THESE a dollar?” She looked at me, slightly weary, replying, “Yes … I’m pretty sure everything is a dollar.”

Long story short, we shopped, we paid, and I confirmed: Everything at Dollar Tree does, in fact, cost a dollar. Actually, let me clarify: Most items are $1, but some are even less. There are also 2 for $1 deals, as well as some $0.89 goodies, like candy bars.

I’m still fascinated by the concept—and I’m not the only one. Several others have written about the many wonders of dollar stores, including what it’s like to live off of dollar store food, things you should and shouldn’t buy there, and how to get things for free from dollar stores by using coupons. I don’t think I’ll start doing extreme couponing or buying all of my groceries there, but I’ll definitely go back. I mean, why not? Every book I got is selling for more than $10 each on Amazon. As you can see in the photo above, $10 can go much further at Dollar Tree.