I'm Quitting Costco

I hate Costco. 

Maybe that's not quite accurate.  I hate mosquitos, going to the dentist, and mayonnaise.  I detest Costco.  I'm pretty sure that if Dante's Inferno had been written in the 21st century, Costco would have been in there as the tenth circle of hell.

I got my Costco membership in 2006, when I was pregnant with my first child.  A baby book had recommended joining for its low-cost diapers and formula.  Always looking for bargains, I hoisted my gestating self into my local Costco and forked over the enrollment fee.  They snapped my picture, plastered it onto my membership card, and I was officially free to buy anything I wanted in inconvenient, enormous sizes.  My membership allowed my husband to join as well; after I got home, I reminded him to stop by there at some point so he, too, could pose for his mug shot.  "I'm not going there," he told me.  "You don't have to do it today.  But at some point, just get over there, ok?"  I answered.  "No, I'm not ever going there," came his reply.  To which I responded, "Look.  I know it's no picnic.  But you're going to have to go there eventually, to pick up diapers or something."  And he countered with, "You don't understand.  I am NEVER going to Costco."  Exasperated, I ended the conversation, but I should have followed his thinking.

Costco makes me crazy.  When we're running low on toilet paper and cat food, I pencil in "go to Costco" on my to-do list, right in between "get more organized" and "schedule pap smear."  And I find every reason under the sun to put it off as long as possible.  (The toilet paper long gone, we're now wiping with newspaper.)  I feel my blood pressure rise at the mere mention of the place.  And just driving to it makes me wish I had a Xanax.  

Costco also makes other people crazy.  You can see it the moment you pull into the parking lot.  Cars nearly run over pedestrians, but you almost can't blame them; people are pushing carts piled so high with institutional-sized vats of ranch salad dressing that they can't even see where they're going.  Inside the store, traffic patterns are no better.  I've recently adopted a crazy-eyed, "take no prisoners" mindset when pushing my cart around the giant warehouse.  Basically, I don't stop for anything but goods for sale.  Children, grandmothers, people lingering a little too long at the display of 64-count toothbrushes: they're all liable to be smooshed by my cart if they don't jump out of the way in time.  And I hate that.  I become a crazy person myself when I'm there.

But the customers are only part of the problem; the other part is the employees.  Are they getting some amazing benefits, like free health care?  Or (more likely) are they indentured servents?  Because the whole place has the aura of a third-world labor camp going on.  I've peered into the eyes of the workers, hissing at me to flash my ID, or ordering me to move my cart up more quickly in line.  These are the eyes of the undead.  They are lost and soul-less; were they always this way?  Or did they accidentally wander in here, where someone gave them a W2 form and an apron and sent them to work?  On the other hand, the overly-motivated work there, too: a friend recently recounted her own miserable Costco experience to me, in which two children approached a demo table for cake samples, went back for seconds, and then actually had their hands slapped away by the woman handing out the samples.     

And just in case you thought you'd leave the place on a bright note, the big sign at the exit reminds you that Costco thinks you're no better than a common criminal.  "We check your receipt to make sure you are not over- or under-charged for anything," my butt.  First of all, if you under-charge me for something, that's your own damn fault, and secondly, Costco, whatever: you want to make sure I'm not stealing anything.  Because that epitomizes your glass-half-empty philosophy.  You think we're a bunch of low-lives, and you'd rather not deal with the likes of us.  But we're suckers for what we think are bargains.  And we're willing to pay you for them.

Well, no more.  I'm buying my toilet paper at the grocery store from now on, one measly roll at a time.  I don't care if it does cost me a dollar more that way than to buy it in inconvenient 32-roll cases, it's saving my sanity.  See you later, Costco.  I'm taking two cake samples on my way out.

An original DC Metro Moms post.  Diana talks smack about other things that annoy her over at Caffeinated.