An auspicious looking manila envelope housed an offer for a free, two month trial membership at BJ’s—our local jumbo store. Now, I should tell you that in my mind, I am the sort of girl that shops at five different grocery stores in an effort to save 17 cents on mozzarella cheese and score a BOGO deal on the cardboard sugar cereal that Kellan insists on eating for breakfast. [This, despite my ominous weekly warnings that it will one day kill him dead.] Of course, in my MIND, I am the sort of girl that cheerfully rolls out of bed at five AM to run, but alas, the very best I can muster in the wee small hours of the morning is a sad sort of drunken stumble towards my beloved coffee pot.
I digress. The POINT, friends, is that I am decidedly not that girl. Call me lazy, but in spite of my very best intentions, I never make it to more than one grocery store. Mo stores, mo problems.
Since our fateful move to Albany, Kellan has made a habit of occasionally mentioning that maybe, we should purchase a BJ’s membership. Now, this feels precisely like the sort of adult thing that a twenty seven year old woman might do, right under flossing and mopping the floor. Delightfully, I have made it twenty seven years managing to avoid all three. Only the sweet baby Jesus knows where on earth my husband came up with this idea, because it certainly didn’t come from me–the very idea of PAYING to shop at an extra store makes me want to drop kick a golden retriever. I’d managed to successfully dissuade him for a year and a half…until the aforementioned envelope arrived.
Now. Even I couldn’t argue with a FREE TRIAL, though I was still rather baffled as to what two childless people might do with a five year supply of EVERYTHING. Alas, I am a sucker for anything that doesn’t cost me money, [most notably the toothpicked samples of kung pao chicken gratuitously handed out at the mall], and so on a Sunday afternoon I girded my loins and drove to our local BJ’s.
I walked into the cavernous, windowless warehouse and immediately started menopause. I was, conservatively, not a day less than 20 years everybody’s junior. The dimly-lit exit was guarded by a foreboding looking, blue-vested woman that in a former life, might have served as the middle-aged athletic director at a small women’s college in Vermont. She looked like she was fresh out of prison—or possibly, just about to go back in. The pungent stench of cheap hot dogs hung thick in the stale air as an ever-growing mass of humanity milled about the aisles, carts precariously overflowing. A kindly Indian woman working at the customer service desk did her utmost to lock me into a fourteen month membership. I gulped weakly, and stubbornly held my ground– That’s very sweet of you, but if I make it out of here without getting shanked I am never coming back.
This was my shot, my piece de resistance, my trump card for the next seventy years should Kellan ever choose to bring up a BJ’s membership again. [I already did that. Wa-BAM!] I was determined to make the most of it. Thus, I decided to go big.
The strategy was simple: walk down every aisle, and follow my heart. Jumbo bag of chocolate chips? Come to Mama. Sixteen tubs of Lysol wipes? IN YOUR FACE SALMONELLA. Twenty pounds of flour? Let’s make like the Amish and bake our own bread! Ten pounds of walnuts? DON’T THINK YOU’LL FIGURE IT OUT LATER.
Y’all, I did work. That store didn’t know what hit it! I left significantly poorer, but with enough toilet paper to last us a month of Sundays. [And really, who can put a price on that kind of peace of mind?]
Am I alone, here? Do you stop at multiple stores? And hypothetically, what might one do with enough Crest mouthwash to fill a bathtub? Help a sister out, because after my Sunday-haul, Kellan thinks that this is the best idea ever.
…not that we’ll need to go again for a good five years or so.