Tag Archive | costco

Free Reusable Tote Bag Has Me Thinking I Need A Full-Time Job

My idea of fun.  Someone please help me.

My idea of fun. Someone please help me.

Of all the things I’ve admitted on this blog, I’m the most embarrassed about today’s true confession: I organized my whole week around the opening of a new grocery store.

Did you read that?  Let me say this another way.  On Sunday, I surveyed my entire week’s plans and obligations and moved them around like chess pieces so that I could attend the Grand Opening of a new grocery store two blocks from my house.  What the hell is next? Collecting coins or knitting my own fanny packs?

I was sort of obsessed with this whole “event.”  When my eyes popped open yesterday morning, my first thought was about the route we’d take from school to the store.  I reminded the kids about 10 times where we were going after I picked them up.  We know.  You already told us.

And gushing about the opening is only going to make me sound lamer, but I’ma do it anyway. Check this out: we hadn’t been in the store five minutes before we were offered samples of Naked juice, caramel popcorn, and pumpkin muffins.  By the time I reached the first aisle, I’d easily consumed 2,500 calories, picking up little bites of this and that from uniformed staff who acted more like I was a guest at a wedding reception than a patron of a local grocery store.  My kids helped themselves to chicken sausage, roasted tomatoes, and mini pork tacos.  When Simon dropped his pork filling on the floor, I let him pick it up and eat it because BRAND NEW GROCERY STORE FLOOR.

Not to speak ill of Costco, but this opening blew their shit outta the water.

My kids were freaked out that there was an actual, populated bee hive in the store next to the honey display.  The saxophone player accompanying the pianist was maybe a little over the top, but I wont’ lie– I hummed along to Careless Whisper.

It was my first grand opening of a grocery store, and I honestly hope it was my last.  I mean, shouldn’t I have more going on in my life than this?  Free muffin samples and live musak were the pinnacle of my week? Really?

When the buzz of free food and the complimentary reusable tote wore off, I couldn’t help but think this: Maybe it’s time I get a full-time job.

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7 Ways I Relieve Stress And An Elevator Pitch That Involves My Vagina and Costco

July is kicking my ass. Hard. Like with a metal-toed boot hard.  Work is stressful, we are moving early next month, my husband had surgery on his mouth (which I get to milk on my blog), my therapist is out of town for 14 days, and I am pretty sure I’m going to die of anxiety. Never heard of that? Well, I’ll be the first so you’ll see my picture in the Wikipedia entry for “very first woman to die of anxiety poisoning.”

The author. Feel sorry for me.

The author. Feel sorry for me.

Worst of all, I’m behind on everything.  Who isn’t, right?  But it’s compounding my feeling of stress to be behind on things I am normally on top of.  Dr. Phil (or maybe that old guy from Kung Fu) says you should write stuff down so you can see in black and white all the things you have to do– then you can gain mastery over the anxiety.

But I’ve never been that good at taking advice, especially when I am anxious.  I like to do things my own damn way, thankyouverymuch, and it never works, but maybe this time the following 7 things that I do to manage stress will help me manage and master it (no they won’t):

1. Pudding. Chocolate. Straight from the high shelf in the fridge– you know the one with the hinged door where you are supposed to put butter.  That’s where I hide the chocolate pudding from my children.  This month we’re going fat-free because let’s face it, I’ma be eating lots of it.

2. Nordstrom Rack. Oh to lose myself in the junked up aisles of NR.  It stills my mind to wade among Free People t-shirts and Joe’s jeans (in size 24).  Considering that one of the things I am behind on is my Nordstrom’s bill, this little activity is about to hit a big fat curtailment.

3. Sex.  Look, I am just going to say it even though you’ll all be jealous.  I have tons and tons of sex when I am anxious.  Fueled by passion and pudding, I just can’t be stopped.  Husband’s surgery is complicating this too, so I am extra on edge.

4. Lying. Like how I just said I have lots of sex when I am stressed.  See that? LYING.

5. Run.  I love to lace up my Brooks shoes and hit the pavement– running through my hood dodging the ice cream man, the thuggish kids out on the prowl, and trying not to drown in the water gushing from fire hydrants that have been illegally tapped.  Running for my life takes my mind of my problems.

6. Picking fights.  My dear friends know this about me. I get testy when stressed and I pick fights with other people, hoping the rifts in my social life will distract me from the pain of anxiety.  Luckily, I am perfectly charming when not stressed.

7. Crying. Tears, tears, and more tears.  How they flow when I am stressed. Stubbed my toe? Time to cry.  Lost the house key? Water works.  Forgot to buy pudding? I’m dehydrated from crying so hard.

Come to think of it, being stressed is a lot like having PMS.

* * *

Also, I am behind on Yeah Write’s 31 days to a better blog.  But by God, I am catching up right now.   Today’s exercise was to make a list.  (See above.)  Yesterday’s exercise was to create a pitch for your blog.  Pithy– like 150 words of pithage.  The idea is to answer the question, what’s your blog about to someone who may only be asking to be nice (and won’t really be listening). Like your mom.

The gay Outlaw Mama. Image credit: www.wbur.org

The gay male Outlaw Mama. Image credit: http://www.wbur.org

Here’s my pitch:

What the hell is Outlaw Mama all about?

ANSWER: If David Sedaris was a straight, married, mother-of-two with a near lethal-obsession with Costco and a deeply ambivalent relationship to his law degree, he’d be Outlaw Mama.  But since I went to law school, and I have a vagina, offspring, and a Costco card, I get to play the part of Outlaw Mama and give lots of advice on how not to do almost everything.

What do you think?

(Now, I’m all caught up at least on blogging. Now to pay that Nordstrom’s bill.)

Whither Preschool Graduation?

I’ve been laughing at with people on Facebook for years. For lots of different reasons.  It’s been extra hilarious to laugh at my friends posting pictures of their children’s preschool and kindergarten “graduations.”  Because ha ha ha how ree-dick is it to ceremonialize these moments?

Image credit: www.zazzle.co.uk

Image credit: www.zazzle.co.uk

As recently as March, I was snickering at someone who was waxing philosophically about the transition from junior kindergarten to senior kindergarten.

But now I am not laughing.  I’m holding a fully charged video camera and an iPhone desperate for some Instagrams of my own graduate and there’s nothing to take a picture of.

My first year as a parent to a school-aged child is winding down, so based on my reality which is shaped by Facebook and Twitter, I assumed I should prepare for some pomp and some circumstance.  I was rolling my eyes thinking about it, but I was prepping emotionally for the end-of-year festivities.

Turns out that not much is happening for my three-year old who is graduating from her first year of preschool.  Her school is acting like it’s no big deal to move from a three-year-old classroom to a four-year-old classroom.  What the what?  There’s no certificate, no ceremony, no nada.  There’s not even a sheet cake from Costco.  Tomorrow I’ll pick her up and we’ll go home for the summer.

*Yawn*

What was the point? Why did we bother showing up day after day if the end of the year was never going to culminate in a giant trophy or a crown or something ceramic?

To be fair, there was a preschool night a few weeks ago that allowed us to oooh and ahhh over Sadie’s extensive “portfolio,” consisting of leaves gathered in the fall, pictures colored around the holidays, and flowers painted this spring.  I confess there was a slide show.  When they turned out the lights, I clutched a tissue, ready to catch the tears that would fall for my grief about the inevitable passage of time.  Unfortunately, I never needed the tissue because I was too busy trying to find Sadie in the pictures.  I damn near suffered an aneurism from all the squinting.

That was a nice evening of celebration, but it wasn’t a graduation.

This year, I’m not going to get to post that triumphant picture of myself with my little graduate.  I’m going to have to wait until she’s four or even FIVE (gasp!) to have those iconic moments.

To ease the pain, I’m buying my own 3-foot by 4-foot sheet cake to celebrate.  The inscription? Congratulations, Graduate.

(You know what I really wanted to call this post? Where the fuck is my preschool graduation?  I didn’t because I am trying not to cuss and clean-mouth living is starting to gain traction.)

My Negotiation Skills Peak At Certain Times of the Month

An end-of-summer negotiation at my house went something like this:

Sadie: Mommy, can I have a cookie?

Me: You can have a cookie after dinner.

Sadie: Why?

Me: Why what?

Sadie: Why do I have to wait until dinner?

Me: Because if you eat a cookie, you won’t eat as much dinner.  It’s my job to be sure you keep things in balance.  Cookies come after dinner. (Note: In this conversation the “cookie” refers to an organic wafer that is composed of quinoa, oats and raisins. FN 1)

Sadie: Why can’t I have a cookie right now?

Me: Have you had dinner?

Sadie: No.

Me: Well, once you have had dinner, you can have that cookie you so desperately want.

Sadie: What about a popsicle? Can I have that now?

Me: No. You can have either a popsicle or a cookie after dinner.

AHHHHHH. HELP ME! I just wanted a sweet treat. Why is she talking about ovulation? What IS ovulation?

AHHHHHH. HELP ME! I just wanted a sweet treat. Why is she talking about ovulation? What IS ovulation?

Sadie: Why can’t I have a popsicle right now? (Note: The “popsicle” refers to an organic fruit smoothie that I froze and put into ice trays. FN 2)

Me: Really? Are we doing this right now?  You. Can. Have. A. Sweet. After. Dinner.

Sadie: How about a lollipop? (Note: The alleged “lollipop” was a sun-sweetened prune on a stick. FN 3)

Me: After dinner.

Sadie: Why?

Me: Because I am ovulating, which makes me feel bloated and exhausted and unattractive.

* * * * *

THE END.

FN 1: I lied.  It was a Ginger Snap cookie from a giant bag.  Not organic, sugar-free, gluten-free, or free-trade.

FN 2: I lied.  She’s referring to a box of 40 popsicles I got at Target that are composed solely of sugar and caffeine. FN 4.

FN 3: I lied.  She’s referring to the Tootsie Pop that is sitting on the counter in our kitchen.

FN 4: That was a lie; I got them at Costco. I was just trying to look more diverse.

Dear Younger Self, Stop Saying The Guys Who Dumped You Were Gay

Sometimes I buck the trends, and sometimes I drag my mom to the mall to buy Jellies and chalk-striped jeans because everyone in 5th grade has them. Today, I am hopping on an epistle bandwagon.  I am referring to authors writing letters to their younger selves.  Great examples of that appear here and here.

Ever since I saw this idea, I have been thinking of what I would tell myself.  I suck at taking advice, so I don’t want to waste my breath.  I wouldn’t bother telling younger me to embrace big concepts, like Carpe Diem or Love Your Body As It Is.  I am pretty sure she would give me a ka-pow to the kisser if I took that route.

So, I took another one:

Letter to my younger self (Hey, Mrs. Price, thanks for all those B- grades on penmanship.)

Letter to my younger self (Hey, Mrs. Price, thanks for all those B- grades on penmanship.)

Dear Christie,

Here’s some things I wish you might consider sooner rather than later.

  • I can’t believe you haven’t figured this out, but you should NOT shop for jeans when you feel fat.  Go to the shoe department and ONLY the shoe department.
  • Can you please start wearing nicer bras so you don’t end up almost 40 years old with a “lingerie” drawer full of Champion sports bras from Target? Please do some leg work; you are going to get busier later in life.  Don’t make Old Christie do everything.
  • While you are sitting around moping about being single, go ahead and start good habits around shaving your legs.  I know you went to an all-girls high school, but you’re out in the real world now and that stubbly stuff isn’t a sign of anything subversive; it’s just laziness.
  • Alternatively, you can decide to go native and stop shaving.  That’s fine with me, but this is an instance where “shit or get off the pot” applies.
  • Honey, please stop telling people that the guys who dumped you were gay.  All 7 of them.  It’s homophobic, likely untrue, and makes you look sort of mal-adjusted and sexually hostile.
  • Don’t get those two kittens because you are lonely.  They’ll be hard to get rid of and you hate pets.  And also: litter boxes.
  • Consider being proud of yourself for buying a condo on your own instead of fretting about being an “old maid who no one wants.”
  • Don’t buy your first iPod at Costco. Go to the Apple Store and have the full experience.  Plus, when it breaks down, it will be harder to convince those Apple genius people to care for your sick iPod that you purchased from Costco.  (SPOILER ALERT: You will spend 87 hours on the phone with someone in India trying to fix your Costco iPod if you don’t follow this advice.)
  • Go to your grandmothers funeral even though it’s hours before the bar exam.   Missing this will leave your mourning open for years, like a parenthesis with only one “(“.  Please.   Just go.
  • Don’t get bangs. Ever.  Ask someone who loves you to accompany you to the hair salon when you are postpartum.  Tell that someone that you are NOT allowed to get bangs.  Take that person to lunch after the hair salon because she did you a huge favor.
Bangs, a No-No

Bangs, a No-No

  • Don’t be so scared of the big cases at work.  You may not be a lawyer forever, so go all-in while you can.  Ask Tina Tchen if you can work on one of her cases.  Keep asking.
  • Have more fun.* (* By “fun”, I most certainly mean sex.  You are a good girl and denying yourself pleasure won’t make you better; it just means you have sexual anorexia.   Use safety precautions, but definitely have more sex.)

Sincerely,

Your Older Self

My Husband Doesn’t Know I Am Posting Our Texts

They say that children sap all of the spark out of marriage because everyone ends up so exhausted from the maw of modern parenthood.  I have no idea what “they” are talking about.  Jeff and I have a lot to offer new (and experienced) parents when it comes to keeping those embers hot enough to make you want to toss aside your Kindle version of Fifty Shades so you can act out scenes from Dirty Dancing while naked. (And I am not talking about the “I carried the watermelon” scene, if you catch my drift.)  All you need is your cell phone and at least one serviceable thumb to text your Beloved.

Here’s how Jeff and I steamed up the airwaves with our passion the other day when Simon and I were waiting downstairs for Jeff and Sadie get in the car for our daily weekly Costco run:

(*Jeff’s comments, texted when he was trapped beneath Sadie’s sleeping body, appear in white bubbles; mine are in blue.)

Modern Day Love Letter

Love Letter 2012

It’s totally got a William Carlos Williams feel to it, right? It’s poetic in that it seems to concern solely the prosaic details of one family’s Saturday afternoon.  But if you look deeper, you can see underneath the quotidian veneer that Jeff is sending me signals about how he plans to ravage my body as soon as (1) Sadie wakes up and gets the hell off of him, (2) I get back from Costco with Simon, (3) he rinses Sadie’s urine off his body, (4) we feed the kids frozen strawberry smoothies for dinner, and (5) I take my Zoloft.

Can you see it? Can you feel it?

Sizzzzzzzzzzzzzle.

I almost feel guilty because I wonder if we are contributing to global warming with all the heat we generate.  Just in case, I contribute to Greenpeace.

Now that I have shared this intimate snapshot of my marital relationship, I have a few requests:

  • Please don’t tell Simon I referred to him as “Son,” because it sounds so impersonal– like I forgot his name.
  • Don’t tell my kids or that freaky must-buy-organic-fruit mom that we buy our strawberries frozen.  From Costco. (And, since that secret’s out, I will disclose that we blend the strawberries with Benadryl and ruffies so we can get some sleep.)
  • Don’t tell my kids or the police that I was texting while driving, BECAUSE THAT’S DANGEROUS.
  • Don’t hate me because I keep it hot & steamy with my baby daddy.

10 Signs You May Be Addicted To Costco

Photo courtesy of www.Not2PR.com

Photo courtesy of http://www.Not2PR.com

Are you obsessed with Costco?  There are warning signs, people. You gotta get on top of them or you will find yourself thinking thoughts similar to those that Charlie Sheen has about hookers and blow.

I am here to help, because I am have been there.  Review this checklist.  If you see yourself in 4 or more of these scenarios, please get help.  Before it’s too late.

1o Signs You May Be Addicted To Costco

  1. Do you refuse to date a man/woman who does not belong to Costco? (Bonus points if you married the first man/woman you dated who has a Costco membership.)
  2. At your wedding, did you request Costco frozen yogurt (chocolate-vanilla swirl) instead of the more traditional wedding cake? (Bonus points if you begged your fiance to be allowed to register at Costco.)
  3. Did you read the kinkiest book to hit the mainstream since Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint, but all you could do was picture that magic middle section of Costco, where cheaply priced clothes sit heaped on tables? (You are very, very sick.)
  4. Have you ever written a blog post that did NOT mention Costco?  In fact, if you tried to link your readers to all of your posts where Costco is mentioned, the world wide web would blow up.
  5. When your husband/wife refuses to let you name your son “Costco” (or “Kirkland,” after Costco’s in-house brand), did you pout for 72 hours and continue to hold a grudge long after the baby was born with a name not yanked from a big box retailer?
  6. When asked what you would grab in the tragic event that your house catches fire, would you blurt out “my Costco card,” before mentioning your children, pets, or valuable family heirlooms?
  7. When other people brag about the exotic vacations bought with “miles” from their consulting jobs, do you pipe up and brag about your platinum membership at Costco without a trace of irony?
  8. When you accidentally forgot that Costco closes at the outrageously early hour of 6 PM on Sundays, did you weep openly at the doors begging for entrance?
  9. Did your babies learn to say the word “Costco” before they could say “Mama”?
  10. Does your nightstand look like this:

    Loves of my life: Simon, Sadie, and COSTCO

    Loves of my life: Simon, Sadie, and COSTCO

If you answered yes to four or more of these, you have a problem, but you are not alone.  You’ve got me!  If you answered yes to at least one of these questions, you should get some help. You know where they just started selling mental health services at cost? Yes! At Costco– right next to the house painting and the funeral services.  Check it out.