Fridays at Costco are NOT Tuesdays with Morrie

I sent off an article today. That hasn’t happened in quite some time, mainly because I haven’t had the heart to write something “newsy.” I can’t make myself care about making writing feel neutral for the sake of professionalism. Nope. Don’t care.

So I wrote about lessons I’ve learned from autism and I made it funny. At least it’s funny to me. The last time I sent in an article, they edited out the funny bits. If they do the same thing this time, there won’t be anything left (she said, snorting).

Anyway, it felt like victory because I wrote something sassy about a real topic and I sent it in not caring if it gets rejected. Boo yah!

I also scampered to Costco with Baby, where 11,000 hungry people with giant shopping carts plugged up the aisles while snarfing up food samples.

A few observations:

1. Food sample tables at Costco on Fridays at noon with tiny microwave ovens cranking out hot little snacks make me nauseous with the smells. I don’t want to eat those smells. I want to flee from them. I’m not pregnant, but those dumb little tables wafting seafood/Indian/Mexican/other scents remind me of pregnancy, and the old green churning feeling returns. Excuse me while I vomit in your little trash can meant for the paper cups holding the samples.

2. A group of young moms and their children were shopping together. Like they all went to the warehouse store together and were trolling the aisles in a big herd, also clogging things up, while they gave each other a running commentary of what groceries they were going to buy. I couldn’t figure it out. I maneuvered past them lickety-split.

3. The woman who checks the receipts at the door always asks me if I really meant to buy two cartons of eggs, two boxes of milk (two gallons per box), two tubs of hummus, and two giant boxes containing 54 mini chip bags. Yes indeed, I did. Why is she always so incredulous and skeptical? It’s Costco. They sell things in bulk. I’m feeding six people. And I don’t feel that I should have to explain myself to anyone. But if I really wanted to hold up the line, I guess I could give her a big, lengthy backstory about Jack and autism and morbidly picky eaters and the pitfalls of feeding someone who is nonverbal with extreme developmental delay. Giant boxes of 54 mini chip bags are known as Jack food modules.

Or I can just write it down, leaving the sample eaters, and the pack of codependent grocery shopping moms, and the line of people waiting to have their receipts ignominiously examined as they leave the store to their own business.

I heart writing.

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