Over the course of my life I have belonged to several fringe groups: The Lutheran Church, the Actors Guild, and the Depot Bar’s Wednesday night dart league to name a few. Membership has its privileges, whether it’s 25 cents off tap beers between nine and 11, full coverage on tooth capping, or salvation with a pancake breakfast four times a year. But the main thing for me is belonging to a group. I like the feeling of being a part of something. Back in high school, I once tried out for the cheerleading squad because it looked easy and they wore matching jackets. But I didn’t have “spirit” and was rooted out immediately.
Now I have joined a powerful confederation whose main objective is to change the way the world sees unit pricing. Like the Borg, I have assimilated. I scoff at your “convenience” stores. What are they but frou-frou luncheon meat boutiques? Shorter lines? How precious. Time is money and for my extra five minutes in line, I save an average of $75 a week. Bellyache all you want about suburban sprawl and the depersonalization of America, I freaking love Costco.
Yes, part of the deal is bulk purchasing. I have 60 frozen waffles choking my freezer right now, but so what? I have at least three children running around my house at any given time. Twice that many on weekends for sleepovers. If the waffles aren’t gone by November, I’ll make wind chimes out of them and give them out as holiday gifts. (Though usually I prefer to work with “found” waffles.)
As a parent, the colossal multi-paks make me feel safe and cozy all over. Looking at my 8,000-count industrial– sized jeroboam of Tylenol, I like knowing that my future grandchildren will never want for pain relief. I stopped short of buying the restaurant-style wagon wheel of toilet paper, but only just. If I could figure out how to jam it onto the tiny bathroom spool it would be mine.
The appeal of being prepared in the case of a waffle crisis or Tylenol embargo brings out the survivalist in me. Chest freezers and back up generators can’t be far behind. In fact, they sell them at Costco, and for a handsome discount too. Now, all I need is a hooded sweatshirt, some mirrored sunglasses, and a manifesto.
It’s not only the bargains that appeal to me, but the entire hoarding experience. It’s not shopping, it’s stockpiling. They have flatbed carts with all-terrain wheels — none of the quaint little Byerly’s “future customer” kiddie carts littering the aisles. This is serious business. If Junior can’t deadlift a 20-pound vacuum sack of Kalamata olives, he’s got to stay in the truck.
And I love how they make you flash your membership card on the way in and out of the compound. It creates a kind of sexy military-police urgency, like you’d better damn well get that 5-gallon drum of chocolate sauce in case you wake up in Russia tomorrow. You might be able to trade it for vodka.
But they have a liquor store at Costco too! Crates of it! Name brands! Piled to the 20-foot ceiling of a 3,000 square-foot warehouse room. The hooch annex is flanked by rolling salad bar-sized humidors that entomb several dozen brands of cigars. I poked around to see if there was a Costco whorehouse or firing range anywhere on the grounds, but maybe they saved those features for their Nevada location.
Right by the customer service desk there are stacks of glossy pamphlets advertising the Costco vehicle buying program and corporate memberships. I am merely an individual member, though I am thinking of incorporating this year, if it will net me a discount on an M1 Abrams Tank in stylish Desert Sand. I can park it behind my poetry-writing shack. Also by the service desk are the Costco sunny vacation destination information sheets. I haven’t had a real vacation for years, but with all the moolah I’m saving on cigars and chocolate sauce, I might be able to swing a four-night stay in Mexico. If I really wanted to be thrifty, I could see if Costco has an organ harvesting division. I’ve got two kidneys. I could jettison one and pay for the whole trip. I only need one for drinking Margaritas and napping in the sun. And if the operation goes wrong, they can bury me in my chest freezer and invite my fellow members over to the memorial for waffles and an all night manifesto slam.
Colleen Kruse is a Twin Cities actress and comedian. Send email to mscolleenkruse@hotmail.com
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