Imagine running to Costco for a few necessary household items -- paper towels, dog food, a 500-pack of garbage bags -- and returning with a baby grand piano. It seems an unlikely commodity in a warehouse full of more prosaic ones, but it is possible: in fact, I stood in front of said piano and considered how much more exciting my life would be -- or would look -- if it were in my living room. I began assembling a guest list for my next dinner party, but fortunately I snapped out of it before inviting too many people. And though I don’t think the piano’s brand name was “Impulsario,” I’m contemplating sending the manufacturer a letter of suggestion to that end.
Buying a baby grand piano on impulse -- with a price tag of, I kid you not, $23,000 -- probably isn’t one of the stranger asterisks in Costco buying adventures. This is because you never know what you’re going to buy when you go and are thus prepared to buy almost anything once you get there. The mentality might stem from post-traumatic parking lot syndrome, a condition in which you’re so grateful to have found a parking space in the same town as the store that you enter in an altered state of retail euphoria. This absolves you of responsibility for most ill advised purchases -- like baby grand pianos.
The economy is clinically depressed; consumers are scared of the near future and we don’t know what we’re really in for in the long run. Hatches are being battened down and belts tightened, along with other metaphors depicting our collective attempt to control or at least rein in the uncontrollable. We’re worried about keeping a roof above our head, so what do we do? We buy more stuff than could ever fit beneath it.
My buying behavior in Costco is completely different from that of other stores. For example, I’ve never gone into a supermarket to buy a roast chicken and walked out instead with a flat screen TV. And though I’m fairly certain I’d buy a piano with more deliberation than I’d give a pack of gum, I have found myself inexplicably drawn to buying items at Costco with very little forethought.
During my last foray I decided I couldn’t live without an infrared thermometer gun, even though I never knew such a thing existed before the moment I saw it. At a price of only $50 and with the pull of a trigger, it accurately measures air temperatures in every nook and cranny of one’s home. How had I managed for so long without one? Thrilled with my greatest-thing-since-sliced-bread gadget, I grabbed another and tossed it in my oversized cart for my father, who, like me, won’t even know how to turn it on (he surprises himself when he successfully starts the dishwasher).
At Costco, where prices are reasonable, choices staggering and products enormous, it’s easy to get swept up in the cost-cut frenzy. After my infrared thermometer gun find, I wandered down an aisle of faux Stickley furniture (located near a 12-foot stack of gummy worms and between the best-selling books and exercise machine aisles). The retail feng shui conceit must be that after you’ve worked out on the all-in-one-elliptical/body-sculpting machine, you’ll need to plop on your Stickley couch with the latest Nicholas Sparks novella and munch on a gross of fruity candy. After giving it way too much thought, I decided against putting a couch into the cart even though it probably would have fit.
I headed towards produce but didn’t get far before spotting a middle-aged couple, who, in a Brangelina-like fashion statement, donned matching Navy blue Kirkland ski jackets with the price tags still attached. Each had commandeered their own cart; the woman’s contained a five-foot tall ficus tree, uncountable trays of muffins and at least five infrared thermometer guns (validating my own semi-bulk buying). Sitting in the man’s cart were six barrel-sized jugs of Hellman’s mayonnaise. I scanned for matching jugs of relish, assuming he was making tartar sauce in bulk. Should I buy some, too? Shouldn’t everyone have lots of condiments, particularly in this economy? The woman noticed me staring and very graciously said, “You just can’t have too much Hellman’s!” I nodded emphatically and heaved a jug into my cart.
Heading towards produce, I got sidetracked by a tower of Honey Nut Cheerios, my son’s favorite breakfast cereal (a gastronomically fortuitous turn of events considering I always forget to buy it for him). I tried grabbing a box but couldn’t get my hand around it because it was actually four boxes bound to each other with invisible tape. My son wouldn’t be able to eat this much cereal in six months no matter how many times I’d serve it for dinner. And though he’s allegedly smart, I was afraid he’d react to a bottomless pit of puffed sugar the way a goldfish would to a jar of fish food dumped in its tank. Then again, shouldn’t I stock mass reserves of food, just in case? I tossed it into my cart, feeling safer already.
Another critical purchase, I thought as I rounded a football field-long aisle, was the 20-pack of Glide dental floss. What better way to encourage a family’s dental health than dedicating 2,000 yards of Gortex-enhanced thread to each member? I lowered the massive package to eye level: $40. Forty dollars? Was I mad? There was enough floss in that industrial strength pack (if I could claw and bite my way through the impossible-to-open plastic casing) to stanch gingivitis in a small nation. But who knows if we’ll be able to afford dental floss if the credit market doesn’t unclench? I wasn’t about to play hygiene roulette with my family’s dental future so in went the floss.
I stared into the depths of my cart: mayonnaise, infrared thermometer guns, breakfast cereal and dental floss. The anxiety I hadn’t had when I’d arrived, which began rising at Stickley furniture and deepening in condiments, was spreading to my extremities.
What did my panic mean? Was my bulk-oriented shopping a manifestation of preparing for the worst? I was queasy with the realization that extraneous buying might be part of the problem itself. On further reflection, I didn’t really believe two years’ worth of tartar sauce would protect my family from economic Armageddon, so I surreptitiously abandoned the mayonnaise (on a low shelf in the beverages aisle) and headed toward the checkout line. Gaining speed, I ditched the cereal and dental floss (on top of a sock pile), then “lost” the thermometer guns (on a display of pastel-colored women’s bathrobes). Finally, I parted with the cart and marched empty-handed towards the exit. But something was blocking my retreat: Brangelina, still in matching Navy blue Kirkland ski jackets, was overseeing a crew of employees negotiate some mammoth boxes out the door.
It was the baby grand piano.
Would they put it near the ficus? Maybe they were planning a dinner party. If so, I knew muffins and mayonnaise would be on menu and the temperature in the house would be just right. I just hoped I was on the guest list.
