Monday, November 9, 2015

Late To the Party

"Oh, Janice. It's so delightfully plebeian how you buy your Manwhich cans one at a time."

Afternoon Readers,

I haven't checked in for a bit, but I've been waking up for days in a universe where the Royals have won the World Series. My brain's still trying to process the amazingness of the whole thing, but as Husband's been waiting for this moment for pretty much his entire life, we're soaking in the experience and planning on naming the new baby World Series Kellerman.

It's the right thing to do.

Speaking of Kellerbaby, the countdown stands at only one day until she gets here. That's correct, we're finally at the very end, and I'm eager to waddle towards the finish line. Free pudding, people waiting on me, and watching whatever I want on TV for three days? Yes, please. It also means some uninterrupted blogging time. Who wants a live report on just how the cafeteria gets the jello-to-whip-cream ratio just right? Where they store the 100% cotton hospital gowns? I'm on it.

Before I can head to the hospital, however, my brain has been in overdrive, trying to check everything off my to-do list.

Bills paid sort of time? Check.
Toilets cleaned. Kind of.
Shopping for things I don't necessarily need?

The last one needed to be addressed. Luckily, my sister stepped in to remedy the situation. "So, you want to go to Costco with me?"

I nodded. "Sure. I've never shopped there."

Dead silence. "Um, get your shoes on so you can join the rest of civilized society."

Yes, I live under a rock. But, even so, I'd heard of Costco. I just never shopped there for whatever reason. It was the final punch on my suburban mom card I'd yet to earn. Which was sad, because I only needed one more click and I could turn it in for a free infinity scarf.

"Ok, here's your card. You show it to the doorman and remember to give it to them when you check out. Easy."

I pocketed my new piece of white plastic and nodded back at my sister. "Great power. Great responsibility. Holy crap, is that a three-foot-tall case of salmon?"

She motioned toward the giant doors. "You haven't seen anything yet. Try not to hyperventilate when we get to the cheese."

For the three of you who've never set foot in a Costco, I can only describe it as a giant warehouse filled with wonder and super-sized cases of the ethereal. It's not a place where ordinary servings of chips dwell. Oh, you just want one package of bagels? Shut up, and get the hell out. You better have your hand on the 150 count bag or forget about bagels forever. It's cute you even thought you liked bagels before. Show some dedication. The five pound tub of cream cheese is to your left.

At first glance, it's easy to think the huge cases of pretty much everything you've ever had a food dream about are over-kill. But that's only until you see the prices.

"Hey, it says these are 3.99."

My sister nodded ."Yep, you wanna head to the bakery?"

"But there are seventy-five Pigs In a Blanket in here."

"And?"

I shook my head in disbelief. "That's a ridiculous amount of pigs to stuff in a box. Maybe we should tell someone. It has to be a mistake."

"It's not."

"But what if it is? That's enough hot dogs rolled in dough to feed royalty. All for the price of half a car wash. Someone could be tagging all this stuff wrong."

She placed a gallon of cider in the cart. "All of it?"

I looked skeptically at a box of eighty quiche for five dollars. "All of it. This whole operation could just be a front for funding illegal arms trad- Oh my gosh."

"What?"

"That ham's only ten cents a pound."

Now that I'm thirty-one, there are so few things that excite me. Heading to a club at 11pm? Pass. Memory foam bath mats for ten dollars? Treat yo' self.

"It's so soft."

"Paige, it's a bath mat. Why are you rubbing it on your face?"

"Soft."

"Mmm k'. Maybe we aren't ready for the non-food items."

Oh yeah, did I mention Costco sells things like coats? Right next to the five dollar pumpkin pies. I'd say it's completely unnatural, but.... America.

Once you're sucked into the experience, there isn't time to think, only that brief span of time where you're wandering ridiculously wide isles, muttering things at strangers like, "But if I buy the leggings, how will I bring home that 2000 count box of fruit snacks for the children?" That is, if you can even find your way back to any offspring you left at home. By the end of the trip, everything was relative. I stopped an elderly woman perusing  seventy packs of croissants.

"I need your honest opinion."

"Yes?"

"If I traded in all three kids I already have, do you think I'd have enough credit for that new refrigerator and two of these sheet cakes?"

"Honey, I don't know."

"But you have to know. That one comes with cream cheese filling."

"Um."

"It's fine. Go back to your rolls. Don't forget the chicken salad. Aisle ten for four bucks. Wait.... are you having like half of France over for dinner?"

It's imperative you bring a lifeline. If I'd happened to wander into Costco without someone to pull me back to reality, there's a good chance I would still be there, either living under a stack of goat cheese or figuring out how to drag a new fire pit to the parking lot and Tetris-ing it into the van.

My sister patted me knowingly on the shoulder. "Ok, we have to go."

"But..."

"I know it's hard to not want to build a fort out of the thousand-count diaper boxes-"

"You don't know my life or what I need."

"But if you don't move you don't get lunch for a dollar fifty."

"I think I just had a heart attack."

So, I totally get it now.  I get the appeal. The cases of everything. The cheap hot dogs. If this is what my thirties bring, then sign me up and put my face on the id. Because I'll be going back. Probably a lot. After all, if I'm going to cash in my suburban mom punch card, I can't think of any other place that will sell me infinity scarves at three for ten dollars.

Until Next Time, Readers!


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