I wrote earlier in Schmancy Shopping about the joys of grocery errands in the exquisite environs of the San Francisco Ferry Building. On Saturday, R Man and I plan an expedition to the polar extreme of such refined consumption – we’re off to Costco. Part of me squirms at the very idea of crossing that threshold, feeling as if being there makes me personally and solely responsible for global warming, but I need a six-pack of dental floss, a pallet of paper towels and a gross ton of spaghetti sauce.
I’m fascinated by the giant extended families plodding through the aisles there blocking my way. How are you going to get all those frozen chicken wings and twelve kids into one minivan? Maybe they secretly plan on leaving granny in the parking lot and hoping she doesn’t find her way back this time.
Also, we always get to play a lively round of Spot the Mos. It’s terribly amusing scoping out the other queer couples engaged in such domestic bliss. Who needs to get married? We have a joint Costco membership.
Mmmm. I’m already dreaming of a five-pound tub of salted cashews.