The Costco Experience

I have a love/hate relationship with Costco. I love it because they carry a really good block of cheese that is a staple at my house for virtually every meal. I hate it for every single other reason in the book.

I hate it because it turns me into something I am generally not. A hateful angry person who wants to violently throat punch someone/everyone.

I hate that the parking lot is always full. Wednesday mornings at 10:00 am, Fridays at noon, Sunday afternoons at 3:00 pm, fucking full. How is that even possible? It’s not, but yet somehow it is.

I hate that when I do finally find a parking spot, my dumb goddamn bus of a van doesn’t fit in that spot, but guess whose Smart Car does? Go to hell jerkwad and take your stupid matchbox car with you! By the way, you’re an embarassment to the entire human race.

I hate that the carts are so big and heavy that it takes a herculean act of God to push them around even when they’re empty, which of course mine is not and now my tennis elbow is going to flare up for at least two weeks and I’ve never played tennis in my life.

I hate that they have the freshest and most reasonably priced fruit within a 50 mile radius, thereby making me a complete idiot if I choose not to buy my produce there.

I hate the samples. I am always hungry. I try them all. I bought a bag of quinoa that supposedly was grown at the end of an actual rainbow because in the store it tasted like a tiny slice of heaven. It tasted like literal shit at home, and now I am stuck with a 10 gallon bag of it that fits in nary a kitchen cupboard and as a result has found its home from now until the end of time as a ginormous eye sore on my kitchen floor that my kids attempt to kick around from time to time like a makeshift non-rollable soccer ball. Perfect.

I hate that my husband loves it. He is not a shopper. He hates spending money. Some might call him a “penny pincher” (a.k.a. Mr. Tight Ass). Bring him to Costco and he is like a kid in a candy store. Our checkbook is open and the possibilities are endless. He walks up and down every single aisle meticulously looking for our next smart buy. “Seriously honey, those are NOT designer jeans, trust me!” He buys them anyway and a couple of non-wrinkle business shirts made out of bendable cardboard to boot.

I hate that my husband thinks I should buy everything there. I could go to the mall and spend a hundred bucks on clothing and/or home goods and he would question every purchase I made with a slight judgmental head tilt and a “do we really need that” glare into my soul. I could spend $1,000.00 on the same exact pile of shit at Costco only in bulk form and he would give me a high five for being such a wise shopper.

I hate that every time I go there I spend a minimum of $300.00, and that’s not including the booze.

I hate the old people that come just for the free samples. “Seriously, there is nothing in your cart! You are not fooling anyone! Get the fuck out of my way!” I know what you’re thinking and you could not be more wrong. I’m actually a huge fan of the elderly. I sometimes wish I was one just for the simple fact that I would be that much closer to never having to shop at Costco ever again.

I hate that even in the middle of summertime I have to bring a thick coat and mittens just to be able to enter their ridiculously large walk-in cooler. Newflash! No one besides maybe a hungry eskimo enjoys ambling into a elephantine sized refrigerator for a bit of a stroll and I need butter, 97 gallons of fucking milk, and I think my heart is actually slowing to a complete stop right at this very moment as a direct result of the sub-zero temperature in this room that can only be described as the dumbest idea ever.

I hate the judgmental look that I get from the liquor store cashier after she excitedly asks me if I’m having a party every time I buy 6 bottles of wine and a case of beer. “Seriously? Do we have to go through this every single time? How can you not recognize me? I’m in here every week. There is no party and now I feel bad about myself, so maybe go fuck yourself.”

I hate that it makes sense to shop there and because I’m not a complete moron I have to keep doing it.

I hate that they don’t bag your shit.

I hate that it takes me 25 minutes to unload every item single handedly from the cart into my van because they don’t bag your shit.

I hate that the people that work there are generally very nice people thereby making me feel like a total asshole for hating them, and their smiles, and their parking lot, and their carts made for real life giants.

I hate that we spent $450.00 dollars there today and then went to redeem our ice cream purchases for the kids at the food counter and the food service lady told my husband that we didn’t pay for 1 smoothie, 1 frozen yogurt, and 1 sundae, but rather ordered 1 smoothie, 2 frozen yogurts, and zero sundaes…for a difference of thirty fucking cents!

I am not the type of person that typically chooses to create a scene in public. I was raised to avoid conflict at any and all costs. My husband on the other hand would pay you to argue with him on most days, yet for some reason on this particular day chose to just stand there frantically digging in his pants pockets for loose change to make up the difference.

“Really honey? You’re not gonna argue this one? We just spent $450.00 in this god forsaken store and I’m pretty sure we’re leaving with a kid that is not ours and the jeans you bought have pleats and are stonewashed and I’m fairly certain are going to lead to marriage counseling and/or divorce if you choose to actually wear them in public. More importantly, is it really out of the realm of possibility or reason to suggest that maybe she just throw a couple of complementary strawberries on the frozen yogurt cup and call it a day?! Here’s an idea…maybe say something to them YOU GINORMOUS COWARD OF A HUMAN BEING!!! I’ll be over here with your balls cowering in a corner and swallowing my feelings like a good little girl.”

In a perfect world, I would’ve ripped the hairnet off the lady behind the counter and punched her in the face while angrily screaming at the top of my lungs, “Give us the goddamn strawberries bitch! It’s not going to take much for me to stop shopping here.”

(Thought cloud.)

On second thought, “Keep the strawberries and thank you kind lady. If anyone can pull off a hairnet, it’s you.”

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