They had me at free cheese

I think it's safe to say I have the soul of a hippie.  I like farmer's markets and multi-grain toast.  I carry a reusable travel mug and I am a responsible recycler, although Husband will argue that I am better at filling the recycling bins than actually walking them to the curb. It has therefore been easy to maintain a disdainful distance from the new Costco that has sprouted up in town.  I am smug in the knowledge that I don't desperately need to purchase pickles in bulk.

That was yesterday.

A friend called and offered to take me with her for opening weekend.  Thinking to stroll through the commercial debauch with the haughty air of someone who hasn't bought plastic wrap or paper towels in 5 years, I agreed to go if only to fuel the burning fire which is this blog.

A 25 minute wait at the registration desk earned us the right grab a shopping cart the size of a minibus and wait in another line to have our membership verified before we could enter the cavernous expanse beyond.  Already mentally writing about the irritation of waiting and the shameless bigness of it all, I walked through the doors wearing the poorly hidden sneer of someone who reads David Suzuki everyday.  Harrumph.

Blinking in the lights and ears pulsing from the throb of voices, I stumbled forward and nearly knocked over a tower of blenders the sole purpose of which was to make the perfect margarita.  These were stacked next to the sexiest red and chrome Kitchen Aid blenders in the universe.  Beside a big screen television that made Oprah's pores look like craters on the moon. Under an 8-person party barge river floatie suspended from the ceiling that promises to turn this summer's tubing season into a religious experience.

And they were giving away cheese. For free. On this island, where a 500g brick of Cracker Barrel can only be purchased with tears from a unicorn or the promise of your first born, the notion of free cheese left me reeling in shock.  It didn't stop me from stuffing my cheeks but I did it reeling, I tell you.

I was nearly giddy as I skipped through aisles stuffed with stuff.  The Code of The Hippie Way forgotten, I searched for the perfect thing that would forever be That Which Was The First Costco Purchase.  Remembering that Husband loved the huge double chocolate cake-muffins, so greasy the cardboard they were encased in was see-through, I thought yes, for Husband's muffins, I was willing to sell my soul and open the flood gates to the Cult of More.

Until the check out line.

"What do you mean I have to buy a dozen? They come in packages of 6.  I will happily give you this handful of money and unicorn tears in exchange for this package of 6 poorly baked, unhealthy muffins which are really just sugar and fat."

*honking noises muffled by commercial slogans and the sound of weeping manatees*

"Seriously? You won't take my money? Well. Then you may take this package of crappy, pre-baked trans-fat, shipped here in a freight truck from thousands of miles away, the fumes of which have softened the shells of baby penguins for an entire generation, and walk it all the way back across this huge box store, smug in the in knowledge that you have protected the integrity of this soul-less wasteland of a corporation. I hope you get blisters."