My husband hopes to go to heaven when he dies. I think he’s heading for Costco.
Widdle Baby’s beatific expression when he walks through those doors is how I imagine Bernadette looked at Lourdes when she saw the Holy Mother, except he’s staring at pallets of soap, pyramids of soup and piles of pork loin. Not to mention televisions, cheese wheels and oak-veneer filing cabinets.
Confession: I avoid almost any store because I hate to shop. Making a list, driving to town, slogging from produce to paper goods and standing in line to check out—the whole scene makes me sweat.
(I’m easy to spot—look for the woman twitching and muttering in the express lane, juggling Fiber One, dog food, canned tuna and paper plates. No shopping cart—it’s too much of a commitment. If my loot doesn’t fit in my arms, I jettison items until it does. Which begs the question: Why do I never see my minister in public unless I’m clutching toilet paper and a jug of Chablis?)
Call me a cranky consumer, but if I can’t find it on the Internet, I don’t buy it. Shoes, hard drives, clothing, rugs, art, furniture, books, shampoo, dog beds, cookie cutters, jewelry, candy molds, CDs, cosmetics, linens and food have all been shipped to our little cottage in the country.
As a young woman I longed to live in New York, but not because of the museums, theater or restaurants. It was because a great-aunt who once lived in Greenwich Village described how she telephoned a grocery store with her shopping list, and received the items before 5 p.m. Granted, then you get into the sticky wicket of tipping, but imagine—Hamburger Helper delivered to your doorstep!
But this isn’t Manhattan and that’s not my life. The reality is, I’m married to a wonderful man… who insists on stalking every aisle on every trip to Costco. I will never understand this.
Widdle says, “I just need to look at tires,” and two hours later we’re checking out with 90 granola bars, a fake ficus tree, six jars of capers (WHO EATS CAPERS??), forty bucks’ worth of vitamins, two pairs of khakis, an office chair, 75 pounds of dog food, 10 boxes of butterflied shrimp (guess who’s allergic to shellfish?) Plus eight pairs of reading glasses for Widdle and one splitting headache that’s all mine.
“What about the tires?” I croak, as the register chirps merrily towards the $300 mark.
“Maybe next time,” he says happily. “Go grab a few boxes, honey.”
On the way out, he wants to stop for a corndog at the snack bar, register for a free laptop and get a sample of engineered bamboo flooring. I stagger out praying to the gods of capitalism that we won’t return this year. But I know, and he knows, we certainly will.
What can I say? He goes with me to chick flicks and has never once called to ask, “What are you cooking for dinner?” I think this is what relationship experts call compromise.
In the meantime, if you need a few cans of WD-40 or a gallon of Vitamin C tablets, come by the house. Widdle will probably be eating shrimp on the porch. In his new khakis.
Julie R. Smith, who develops more phobias every week, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.