Size Matters

Yesterday, I was reminded that I'm not the only one going through this whole empty-nester thing. Enjoying a beautiful late summer morning with the Sunday Tribune, I found a compatriot soul in John Kass. He's the Tribune writer who holds the coveted page two spot where he editorializes on life in Chicago. I've been moved by his pieces on gun violence and entertained by his dissection of Illinois politicians and read his musings whenever I get the chance. But this time, it wasn't his column detailing his empty nest journey that caught my eye but an image accompanying the text. It was a picture of a lonely quart of milk standing sentry in an empty refrigerator. It looked just like the one I recently bought. (Except my fridge didn't look half as clean.  Those out-of-date condiments and leftovers that should have gone out in Thursday's trash collection take up a lot of room.)

I had never bought a quart of milk before last week. Even when I was single, I bought a gallon. I used to drink tons of the stuff, pouring it over daily cereal or downing it after late-night chocolate chip cookies. And the kids? They used to drink enough to get me occasionally thinking about the benefits of tying Bessie up in the back yard. But now that I've cut back on carbs (good-bye, Mini-Wheats; hello, veggie omelets) and taken up drinking tea with my greatly reduced sweets consumption, and my dairy-loving offspring have checked into other accommodations, a gallon of milk wouldn't stand a chance of ending up anywhere other than the sink.

Unfortunately, my husband is no help in this department. Born and raised in Europe, he finds it odd that anyone past the age of twelve finds milk remotely palatable. (Even Kate Hudson in that "Got milk?" campaign couldn't sway him.) And he wouldn't dream of putting anything less than Half and Half in his coffee.

I wouldn't mind downsizing so much except I hate paying so much more for so much less. When I know that I can get a gallon of milk at Costco for $2.38 it kills me to pay some grocery store $1.68 for a quart. It goes against every fiber of my being to give up a bargain just because my tax deductions have flown the coop. Thank God it won't impact my purchases of toilet paper (we're set until 2017) or laundry detergent (ditto) and I just bought a bottle of Shout that should take me to the grave but those damn perishables are another story. Maybe I just need to stand outside Costco with my gallon of milk, my three dozen eggs, my four pounds of strawberries and a few empty containers.

If I can find three other empty-nesters, I should be able to turn a nice profit on the deal.

Don't Stand. . . Don't Stand So Close To Me

I have never used this blog to tell any of my readers what to do but that's all going to change today. If you see me standing in line in the mall, in the grocery store or at the DMV, do not, I repeat do not under any circumstances, get behind me. No doubt I would enjoy talking to you during the interminable time I am about to waste waiting in line but I wouldn't want to put any of you through that torture. Because no matter how I try to scope out the available cashiers, I will inevitably be standing behind a) someone who needs to search the deep recesses of her over-sized bag for her checkbook, coupons, or exact change, b) someone who picked up the one and only item in the entire store that doesn't have a barcode, c) an unhappy customer who "needs to speak to the manager", d) a mom who has to send her kid back to Aisle 12 for something she forgot or e) all of the above.

I'm not kidding.

Yesterday I was in Costco. I had four items in my arms including a package of aluminum foil that weighed roughly the same as your average toddler. I looked for others who had made the trek to the cavernous superstore for less than a month's worth of supplies and found a line with two customers ahead of me. The elderly couple right in front of me had wine, yogurt and bottled water so they looked like a safe bet and the woman ahead of them was already loading her half-filled cart on the belt.

And that's when the fun started.

She started arguing about returning a box of Keurig coffee cups for a different brand and the cashier had to ever-so-politely inform her that she couldn't do that at the register. They went back and forth about why it wasn't an even exchange and why she couldn't perform the transaction. Oh, but it didn't stop there.

After that discussion was over, the customer waited at the end of the belt until everything was paid for before loading any of it back into the cart. And when she finally paid (with pennies, I think) she deposited every item into the cart as if it were made of glass and/or TNT with a speed rivaling dripping molasses. Meanwhile, I stood there, arms aching from my ten pound package of aluminum foil, watching the two lines on either side of me move through four or five happy customers who had done the smartest thing they had done all day.

They hadn't chosen to get behind me.

I've Got a New Drug

Consider this blog a public service warning. If you consider yourself a fan of food with the dangerous salty/sweet combo, do not, I repeat, do not venture into your neighborhood Costco and succumb to purchasing the ginormous (but, then again, what isn't ginormous at Costco?) container of Sea Salt Caramels. And if you are walking past one of those friendly, smiling purveyors of free samples, keep walking. You won't just be saving yourself $8.69 and a few hundred calories. Trust me.

It's not the first time that Costco has reeled me in with their goodies. I've purchased one of their $17.00 mousse-filled sheet cakes for every major party I've thrown in the last five years. My freezer is full of every variety of bread from their bakery and their two inch thick NY strips have occupied a prominent place on our grill this summer. But this is different. This is scary. I'm a person who doesn't even like candy all that much and now I find myself breaking into a cold sweat whenever I start to see the bottom of the container.

So, until I get sick of them, I've decided I have to at least ration them. I'm happy to say that I'm down to two or three a day but my expanding waistline and I have decided that's not good enough. If this keeps up, I may be forced to hire a hypnotist to hit me with a dose of aversion therapy before I can set foot again in that warehouse. If you know a good one, please let me know. My container is almost empty.

Saturday Shopping

I must have been out of my mind. For no good reason, I went to Costco on a Saturday. I didn't really need anything. I have a relatively flexible work schedule and could easily have waited until Monday. So why did I do it? I did need to fill up my car but I could have pulled into the gas lanes, filled the tank and left without anyone getting hurt. But, no. I had to park my car in the next county and go inside.

I thought we were in the middle of an economic crisis. The swarm of humanity roaming the aisles of Costco would seem to say otherwise. Shopping carts loaded with Duggar sized boxes of cereal, kennel sized bags of dog food and peanut butter jars capable of lasting an entire school year met me at every turn. I headed for the bakery section but, as luck would have it, the bread I wanted was nowhere to be found. Weaving in and out of traffic, I helped myself to a sample of organic, sparkling pomegranate juice before coming to my senses and hightailing it out of there. And what did I leave with? One rotisserie chicken, a carton of half and half, and a bag of brussel sprouts. At least my husband is going to eat tonight.