Carry-out at Costco? Not me!

As I ended a phone conversation with my mother recently, I told her I was off to Costco — a nearby warehouse store. She asked what was on my list. My mother wouldn't ordinarily ask this question, but as it was late afternoon on a Friday, she was surprised I was going to venture out among the pre-weekend shopping crowds. You see, I detest shopping in these mega stores at any time...and she knows this. Plus, she knew I had dinner plans with friends that evening at their home. So no, she wasn't being nosy, she was just curious as to what on earth could get me to go to Costco when I was just about an hour short of starting my weekend. I laughed and told her that it wasn’t anything special (such as a television, or a new computer). I told her I was going for paper towels, facial tissue, and window cleaner. She said, "Oh, you're doing your windows this weekend." Again, I laughed and told her no. I explained that we were almost out of these items and that I didn’t want to run out completely. I could almost visualize the big question mark hanging over her head as we finally said goodbye and hung-up. I knew she was wondering why I didn't just wait for a better time...with less crowds. I imagined her thinking, "So what if you run out of paper towels? You can always fill in from the local hardware store or grocery store." And she would be right, as this is normally what I would do.

All the way to Costco (about a 10 or 15-minute drive), I felt guilty. Was this guilt because I felt the need to buy 36-rolls of paper towels at one time — or, because I chose to hoard a full year's worth of Windex? No. Perhaps I should have felt guilty for not shopping locally, but I do. Shop locally, that is. I make a point of purchasing specific items at our local hardware store, grocery stores and boutiques. My husband and I have discussed this subject, and we sincerely try to support our local neighborhood as much as possible — paper towels, tissue, and Windex aside. The reason I felt guilty is that I wouldn't admit to myself, much less to my mother, that these items were just an excuse. I was going to Costco, on a busy Friday afternoon, to get a prepackaged, refrigerated, jalapeno artichoke "cheater's" dip. You just put it in a shallow glass container, broil it for 20-minutes, add some Triscuits (also from Costco), and you have a great hors d'oeuvre. It's always a big hit...and the glass container needs very little washing, as there's never any dip left. Now, if I have "sold" you on this dip and you are off to buy a container or two, please wait and read on. Then if you feel the need to dash off to Costco and face the crowds, then fine...and bon appetit.

Traffic was a little congested, but I finally arrived at Costco and found a somewhat safe parking place about a quarter of a mile away. I hiked to the entry doors while dodging cars and baskets, dug out my membership card to gain entrance, and took about 35 minutes to purchase various items, including my contribution to that evening's dinner — the cheater's dip. Still feeling a bit guilty, I checked out and moved toward the two huge exit doors, which were flanked on either side by official Costco personnel waiting to check receipts.

Maybe it was my mood, or perhaps I was still a bit concussed from running into a friend's sliding glass door the weekend before. Whatever the reason, I felt as if I had run into that slider once again. Not physically, but the sudden impact sure felt the same. It made my head throb, and I was certainly embarrassed. Standing there, in the middle of the exit pathway, I couldn't move. My 36-rolls of paper towels and I stood transfixed by a new display...which was sandwiched between carpet and an assorted pile of tires. This proverbial "closed, not open" sliding glass door mocked my big bag of potato chips and put my huge container of sour cream to shame, not to mention the number it did on my extra large bag of Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies. Okay, so I picked up a few other items while I was there. Blame it on the guilt.

Back to the display. Wow. I was stunned and appalled. A bit angry too. As I stood there, unable to proceed toward the two huge doors, out into the beckoning bright light of glorious sunshine that called to me...urging me to keep on going, the other shoppers rushed to get in line for their final checkpoint. Every basket overflowed with various bulk-buy items and cheater's food. Finally, I heard a voice, and I realized it was mine. It was my wonderful little inner voice coming to my rescue, helping me through an unexpected "I can't believe what I see" situation, as it usually does. "Really?" my little voice said. "Is this what life has come to? Caskets in Costco? What's next? Drive through cremation?"

It's taken me years to discover a fitting example for the phrase "adding insult to injury." Thank you, Costco. I find caskets appropriately injurious, and I find having them on display in Costco inappropriately insulting. I've also concluded that whoever decided that we need to shop for caskets in a wholesale warehouse (where we buy milk, eggs and bread...computers, televisions and vodka) has a sick sense of humor — or is just plain stupid. Why else would they put the display on our way out? How's that for irony? "Checking out" at Costco now takes on an entirely new meaning. What about those pre-prepared hot meals they offer? Yes, carry-out at Costco can now imply that you're bringing home hot delicious rotisserie chicken...or something else...something much less appetizing.

Eventually, as my inner voice and I settled down, I started to walk away from my internal collision with these coffin samples. As I was maneuvering my basket back into the flow of traffic, an elderly couple walked up beside the display. The husband told the wife that perhaps they should stop and take a look. Her posture showed obvious reluctance...but she cautiously proceeded. This is when I felt the embarrassment. I was an intruder in what should have been a private affair. I guess that's my point. How could I be an intruder in such a public setting? Next came my anger. Then I felt a shudder course through my body and I was overtaken by an overwhelming sadness that this couple's weekly outing to Costco brought them unexpectedly face-to-face with their mortality. He looked wistful. She looked sad. Their basket was loaded with the basics, including cranberry juice, vitamins, health bars, orange juice, milk, water, fruit, paper towels, tissue and toilet paper. It also looked as if they might have a special evening planned, because there were steaks, potatoes, a bottle of wine and a yummy-looking chocolate cake sitting prominently on top of the pile. It was the cake that "did me in." As the husband took a brochure and turned toward the "final exit," I heard the wife softly say, "We shouldn’t have bought the cake. It's not good for us." Maybe it was my imagination, but I felt that their evening wasn't going to be as cheery as they had once anticipated. I felt that their hopes had been unexpectedly buried — six feet under — due to Costco's desire to provide us with everything we need (or at least, we will need someday) — in one spot, and for the right price. Too bad someone didn't consider that price and convenience isn't everything. Perhaps they did...and price and convenience still won out.

Either way, I find caskets in Costco beyond the pale — out of line and most definitely insensitive. There are some things that should never be...ever. Things that don't fit and shouldn't be forced. Like that square peg in the round hole. Yes, if we keep forcing it, or sand it a little, eventually it may work...but it will never be a good fit. And it will never be right. Plus, we run the risk of getting used to living with these ill-fitting examples of a life gone mad. Therefore, I am speaking up. I am weighing in. My answer is not to just complain. My answer is to do something about this — or rather, do nothing. As in, don't buy caskets from Costco. Lest you think I place the blame solely on those wiley "powers that be" at Costco, I don't. We take some of the blame. It's that price and convenience issue again. And we all understand supply and demand. It's key to successful selling strategies. Costco provides the supply, and we provide the demand. While certainly there will always be a need for caskets, I don’t think we should demand they be in our local mega stores. In fact, we should demand they are not. We should step up and let our money talk. Let us be heard before it's too late...and one of our relatives goes to Costco, to purchase our final resting place, without partaking in delicious and decadent chocolate cake. Whew! Almost fell off the soap box.

In closing, I want to share that I took my cheater's dip to the dinner party and it was a hit. When I told the hostess it was from Costco and that I should have made my own artichoke dip, the one I used to make, she said, "Why would you? This is great, it's easier and it takes less time, plus everyone loves it." Why would I, indeed? Did it really take less time to schlep over to Costco? No. Was it more convenient? No. Was it really as good as my dip — or better? Not really. It was just different. What about the feeling of accomplishment? We can't discount that, as we have everything else in our lives, can we? It's been a long time, but I do remember that wonderful feeling I used to get when someone complimented my homemade dip. Sure, I felt great that it was enjoyed by all...but I also felt pride that I made it myself...and didn't just "discover" it. It was mine, and no one else could duplicate it — unless I gave away my mother's secret ingredient.

So, let's do some real cooking — on our own, and in our own (not-so-inconvenient) kitchens. Let's open our sliding glass doors, step out into the sunshine and do a little shopping locally. Otherwise, we may find ourselves buying eggs, bread, cookies, chips, juice, computers, televisions and vodka in a mortuary some day. All well and fine if you're planning one hell of a wake. But, as you know, we can't take it with us. So I leave you with this modified nursery rhyme: No Triscuits, no caskets...and no artichoke dip in my Costco basket.

Postscript:

I make no promises on the cake. I'm only human. Regardless of convenience and cost, that cake is pretty darn good. Also, I think it's admirable that I refrained from any “over my dead body” references...don't you?

Dedicated to local stores, boutiques and independent proprietors everywhere (including mortuaries). May they stay where they are and continue to provide their unique supply of goods to meet our unique supply of demands.

© 2006 Teresa G. Franta