What’s on my mind? We were in “Wel-l-l-come, Costco shoppers!” No megaphone-totin’ maniac would ever dare get in the way of Costco shoppers with a mindless little message like that. S/he’d be flattened by the stampede heading into Aisle 59, where a large sign cautions: TOILET PAPER IS NOT A RETURNABLE ITEM.
(If ever there were such a suicidal numbskull, 45 seconds after the trampling, some managerial type would be screaming over the PA: “CODE RED! CODE RED! CLEANUP IN AISLE 59! STAT!”) Although Costco’s the Wild West of grocery stores, none of that happened. This did.
The only way we can shop at Costco and feel safe during the COVID pandemic is to head the line, double-masked, when the doors open at 8 am (I’d feel safer in a hazmat suit, but you can’t have everything).
With fewer people in the aisles and a stick-to-the-list mindset, we’re in and outta there in 15 minutes - 20, tops. Chicken was on the list, so we raced to the chicken aisle, loading up on breasts, legs, and thighs. By the time we were done, even our fellow shoppers wanted a cigaret.
But what was this? Duck wasn’t on our grocery list, but there it was, sittin’ pretty at truly extraordinary prices. I and 5.3 million other Costco shoppers instantly deduced these limbo-style (how lo-o-w can you go?) prices followed the traditional Chinese New Year’s celebrations (online, rather than en masse) at which duck is usually served. Thus, the bargains.
Himself tried to bag a duck. Literally. You know those green compostable bags in the meat department you can never open? Himself ripped one of those bags from the roll above Costco’s chilled chickens.
Tearing off the bag was child’s play. Opening it required a PhD in Bag Sciences. Himself’s advanced education had skipped that particular degree. Himself is an expert in the “finger-snap” bag-opening technique, and in the “licked finger technique,” but - concerned that the “licked finger technique” might precede an unfortunate “touch produce” incident - he didn’t dare use the tried-and-true “lick”method. The result: Himself couldn’t open the #@!% bag to put the #@!% leaky bird inside.
It was then that a helpful Costco employee sauntered by.
“Rip it!” she said. “Give the bag a little tear and it’ll open like magic.” So Himself did and it did. He stashed the duck in the bag and we raced from Costco to our car.
Himself’s a little deaf (Let me whisper so he can’t hear: HIMSELF IS A LOT DEAF).
So when, buzzing home up the freeway, I saw the ripped- off square of a green compostable bag dangling from the stubble on Himself’s chin, I said nothing. Better to do that than yell: “Himself! THERE’S A MMM-FFF HANGING FROM YOUR MMM-FFF!”
“WHAD-YA-SAY? WHAD?”
“THERE’S A MMM-FFF DANGLING FROM …” Too risky, in traffic. I’d wait until we were home.
But then I forgot and Himself opened the door to our friend Mrs. H, who offered a socially distanced hello, so I stifled. And then I forgot again, perhaps assuming the bit o’ bag would fall into his lunch or dinner. I forgot even as the sliver of compostable je ne sais quoi flapped like a flag in our nightly hot tub. And then I suddenly remembered what it was. After all, the $#@! thing was green as a shamrock.
“Himself …” I began. “There’s a mmm-fff dangling from your mmm-fff …” That, without a doubt, is what he heard.
“WHAD-YA-SAY? WHAD?”
Upon which the steam of the hot tub loosened the green-as-a-shamrock bit o’ bag that immediately floated off and down the tub’s filter.
I rolled my eyes. I love this man. I truly do. Best to say nothing. My mind drifted to Costco: “CODE GREEN! CODE GREEN! CLEANUP IN AISLE HOT TUB. STAT!”
© Nicole Parton, 2021
