buying in bulk
My mother sent me to Costco today to return one item and buy dinner and I was reminded of just how ludicrious Costco is. I mean, everything is ridiculously large from the moment you pull up and grab a cart that's large enough to seat two children. The entire store seems to be a scaled up replica of your typical grocery store and just the idea of it is laughable. At least, until you get inside.
I don't know how to describe how things change inside a Costco, but you start by strolling down the aisle thinking, "Who really needs a gallon size bottle of lotion?" and "Do people actually buy 1000 count boxes of pencils?"
But then there's a shift in your mind. You start considering the implications of that 64 oz. bottle of ketchup. Your family does use a lot of ketchup, after all, and it's not like it's going to go bad right away. It makes sense, financially. Plus, you won't find yourself running out to the store the night you make hamburgers because you used the last of it up with last night's french fries. Hey, you can even keep the old smaller bottles and rinse them out for easy dispensing!
Once you've hit that point, there's no going back. You're suddenly buying a 120 pack of ergonomic folding chairs because, my god, the savings!, and you're left to explain this all to your mom when you get home because you were using her debit card. (You see, your extended family is too cheap to pay for four separate CostCo and BJ's memberships, so instead there's one for the whole family and the card is passed from one house to the next and you're constantly impersonating your aunts and cousins, but saving each family $40 a year.)
"We might need the chairs!" you explain. "For company!"
"That's what we have those brand new couches for, you dipshit!" she says. She doesn't even mention the kitchen chairs, the dining room chairs, the patio chairs, and the chairs that you bought when you were going to redo the dining room a few years ago and never got rid, so now they're clustered in various rooms, clashing with the decor.
You try to explain to her the economy of it and how they're apparently really comfortable and how normally they're $12 per chair, but by buying them together, they were only $4 per chair and you saved so much money.
She doesn't get it, of course, so the next day you find yourself back in the warehouse, returning the chairs and promising not to buy anything more expensive than a candy bar, but you know she secretly understands. You've seen her come home with a fourteen-pack of olive oil. It's just a matter of time before she sees things your way.
***
For my part, I purchased only the instructed two-pack of pork tenderloins as well as a paperback copy of The River of Doubt, as it's my goal in life to know everything possible about Theodore Roosevelt. I also returned a box of AirHeads and was unsuccessfully in procuring a roasted chiken for dinner. Overall, I think I came out just about even.
Now, the pool calls my name.
I don't know how to describe how things change inside a Costco, but you start by strolling down the aisle thinking, "Who really needs a gallon size bottle of lotion?" and "Do people actually buy 1000 count boxes of pencils?"
But then there's a shift in your mind. You start considering the implications of that 64 oz. bottle of ketchup. Your family does use a lot of ketchup, after all, and it's not like it's going to go bad right away. It makes sense, financially. Plus, you won't find yourself running out to the store the night you make hamburgers because you used the last of it up with last night's french fries. Hey, you can even keep the old smaller bottles and rinse them out for easy dispensing!
Once you've hit that point, there's no going back. You're suddenly buying a 120 pack of ergonomic folding chairs because, my god, the savings!, and you're left to explain this all to your mom when you get home because you were using her debit card. (You see, your extended family is too cheap to pay for four separate CostCo and BJ's memberships, so instead there's one for the whole family and the card is passed from one house to the next and you're constantly impersonating your aunts and cousins, but saving each family $40 a year.)
"We might need the chairs!" you explain. "For company!"
"That's what we have those brand new couches for, you dipshit!" she says. She doesn't even mention the kitchen chairs, the dining room chairs, the patio chairs, and the chairs that you bought when you were going to redo the dining room a few years ago and never got rid, so now they're clustered in various rooms, clashing with the decor.
You try to explain to her the economy of it and how they're apparently really comfortable and how normally they're $12 per chair, but by buying them together, they were only $4 per chair and you saved so much money.
She doesn't get it, of course, so the next day you find yourself back in the warehouse, returning the chairs and promising not to buy anything more expensive than a candy bar, but you know she secretly understands. You've seen her come home with a fourteen-pack of olive oil. It's just a matter of time before she sees things your way.
***
For my part, I purchased only the instructed two-pack of pork tenderloins as well as a paperback copy of The River of Doubt, as it's my goal in life to know everything possible about Theodore Roosevelt. I also returned a box of AirHeads and was unsuccessfully in procuring a roasted chiken for dinner. Overall, I think I came out just about even.
Now, the pool calls my name.