I don’t want to point fingers or name names, but you-know-who is why I shop at Costco myself.
If this certain someone goes, we’ll probably be pushing a cart so loaded you can’t see through it.
I remind him that the reason we went into Costco was because the pharmacy prices were good when we self-insured.
Well, that and for the chicken on the grill.
If I had to choose between prescription drugs and grilled chicken, I would choose the chicken.
It reminds me that we also drive for cheap gas.
We do. Except gas can be expensive, as in, “While we’re here for gas, why not run in and pick up a few things?”
The last time we went to get “a few things” gas was $17 a gallon. We cannot afford to save all the time.
In a recent lapse of sanity, we went to Costco together.
I explained that when you shop at a warehouse, you have a list and you stick to it.
You don’t have to wander and browse. Scroll through to find 12 kilos of cashews, evergreen shrubs and a seven-piece sectional sofa.
He said he didn’t hear me. I said in that case he should go straight to the hearing department.
We got what we came for and then started browsing.
Not just browsing; it was completely meandering. Wandering. Drifting. Roaming. Walks. From giant HD TVs to vitamins in gallon bottles.
“Look! Lime Jalapeno Tortilla Chips!” he exclaims.
It was the size bag you would take to a family gathering.
“Ghiradelli Brownie Mix!”
We would need a forklift to get the box into the cart.
Then came the samples. Garlic Kielbasa. “You can’t say no to garlic kielbasa,” she says.
“No, but our doctor would.
He says it with the enthusiasm of distant tribes when they first see a Polaroid picture.
It’s a huge bag – a bag the size of mulch.
“Ask yourself that,” I say. “Will I live long enough?”
Pretzel chips are in the basket. His father lived to be 97 years old. Apparently he plans to outlive him.
“Tiramisu!” He’s a kid in a candy store.
i’m freezing It looks tempting.
“When was the last time you made tiramisu?” he asks.
“Six individual servings,” he notes.
I put my foot down – the one with the running shoe. “No.”
We sign off and I calculate the cost of gas per gallon.
We get home, unpack and open the fridge to cook something for lunch. He joins me as we stare at the pile of leftovers staring back.
“You know what sounds good?” I’m thinking. “Tiramisu.”
(Lori Borgman is a columnist, author, and speaker. Her new book, “What Happens at Grandma’s House,” is available now. Email her at [email protected])
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