Lack of Independence Day

We went to Costco today.

Because we are insane.

I hate Costco, and the day before a holiday?

Who does that?

EVERY-FUCKING-BODY.

The store was packed.  It was like a nightmare.  And guess what else?  We didn’t really need anything.  I mean, we always need stuff, but there was no Costco emergency.

Napkins and orange juice are not emergencies.  Sigh.

But Mark was all joyful.  He loves the crowds, the angry bashing of carts as people jockey for position, the samples, the stupidity.  The day before a holiday last-minute shopping stupidity.  He loves it all.  And he loves dragging all of us along with him.

Mark is perhaps mentally ill.

The girls are running around collecting samples, and here are Mark and I in the store . . .

Mark is all cheerful, “Do you want chicken and rice?”

“No.”

“Do you want bagels?”

“No.”

“Do you want that green ravioli stuff?”

“No.”

“Ooooh . . . this stuff is new!  Do you want this?”

“No.”

“We need chips.  What kind of chips do you want?”

“I do not even care.”

“Do you want refried beans?”

“No.”

“Do you want fish?  You like fish.”

“No.”

Mark is all annoyed, “We are going to get home and we are going to have nothing to eat.  And then you will be all sorry.  Focus . . . do you want yogurt?”

“No.”

“We need loaves of bread.”

“Whatever.”

“Go get some loaves of bread.”

“OK, here I go to get some loaves of bread. No one talks like that, by the way.  They just say bread.”

I return, “Here, here are your loaves of bread.”

He taps the bread with a finger, “You got wheat?”

“Yes, is there a problem?”

He reaches for various items on the shelves around us, “No, wheat is good.  We could just maybe use some . . . bagels, and some focaccia, and some breadsticks.  And some hamburger buns.”

We are bread people, apparently.

“Do you want muffins?”

“No.”

“Do you want soda?”

“No.”

He picks up a box, “This is like that stuff we bought the one time that we didn’t like, but this might be better.  Do you want to buy it?”

“No.”

“Do you want cereal?”

“We have cereal.  Listen, if you want something, put it in the cart.  Stop asking me if I want things.  I want nothing.  Nothing except to leave this store as quickly as possible.”

“Fine.  Oooooh . . . this flavored frozen coffee is good!  Do you want to buy some?”

“No.”

“We need fruit.  Don’t we need fruit?”

“Not really.”

“Do you want blueberries?”

“I don’t care.”

“Grapes?”

“I don’t care.”

“Do you want oranges?”

“No.”

And on and on and on and fucking on.

We do both sides of the store and then head into dangerous territory.  The middle aisle is where Mark is completely capable of convincing himself that a $300.00 patio heater is a reasonable impulse purchase.  Many a Costco budget has been blown with a simple 15 minute wander through this middle section of temptation.

Today?  There is an enormous display of fireworks.  All packaged Costco style . . . each collection of fireworks wrapped with plastic against a five-foot length of cardboard.  The girls each pull out a huge package and gaze adoringly at all the explosive fun they could be having if we would only buy these lovely things.

The collections?  Range from $40.00 to $150.00, and there is no way we are buying any of them.

I told the girls that we would buy them some fireworks, but I am thinking sparklers and snakes.  Maybe $10.00 worth.

There is whining and moaning and the tragic sounds of yet another of my daughters’ dreams being crushed beneath the weight of my cruelty.

I am unmoved.

Kallan drags her display over to me to show me the wonder.  Perhaps I am somehow failing to appreciate all that I will be getting for my money.  But then she is taken down, hard . . . by a paper cut.  She flings aside the fireworks and screams in pain.

As I am comforting Kallan and searching for a band-aid in my purse, I hear Maj trying to work on her daddy while I am distracted.  Mark sounds as though he is weakening, but then he is all suddenly firm, “No, Maj.  We’re not getting them.  Your mom is right.  And besides, these fireworks are dangerous.”

Dangerous?  That is weird, because that was not the point I was trying to make at all.

But then I see that Mark is all sad and tragic and paper-cut, just like Kallan.

The danger?  It is of the stupid-people sort.

My family?  They are way lame.

So then Kallan is squeezing her finger to see the blood, “It hurts like my finger is going to come off, Mom!  It hurts!  Why don’t you have a band-aid in your purse?”

And Mark is touching his injured finger to the palm of his other hand.  Repeatedly.  Like he is texting a 911 message of emergency into the palm of his hand.

“Babe, what are you doing?”

“I am trying to get the bleeding to stop.”

People?  There is no blood.  Just a crazy man tapping out morse code messages of insanity into his palm.

Maj is disgusted, “So let me get this straight.  We are going to pass up this great deal because two people in our family cannot even hold the packages without getting hurt?”

I put my arm around Maj, “Yup, we’re going to stick to the sparklers and snakes.  Anything more dangerous than that?  These two idiots are going to lose a hand.”

Maj giggles, “Daddy and Kallan are huge babies, by the way.”

Mark holds his finger out sadly so that we can appreciate the terrible wound.

The wound?  It is invisible.

He carefully pushes the cart with his one good hand, “We need band-aids.  Let’s buy some band-aids.”

We’re in Costco, so we have to buy 165 band-aids.

Whatever.

“Do you want granola?”

“No.”

“Do you want strawberry lemonade?”

“No.”

“Do you want burritos?”

“No.”

Somehow?  When we check out?

$225.00 dollars.

I hate Costco.

It makes me want to scratch my eyeballs right out of my head.

I could wear band-aids over the empty eye sockets so I don’t scare little children.

I have plenty of band-aids.