Yesterday as my handsome Gray and I sat at breakfast enjoying smoked kippers and pastries and quoting choice passages of Chaucer to one another, we thought it might be fun to have another Sunday Adventure. Recall that we ambled over to Snohomish last week for pie and antiques? Well, this week we decided to go to Issaquah and Gilman Village.
In its heyday, Gilman Village was a wonderful collection of shops and galleries and restaurants, but the economy or the changing nature of Issaquah (a town that has grown rapidly over the last ten years) has made Gilman Village into a shadow of its former self. We stopped for a brief lunch at Julia's and wandered around, not particularly satisfied with our experience. One of us, and I purposefully forget which one so that I will not be driven to revenge-- one of us, I say, suggested we might go to Costco, not far away.
In my 11-year career as a military wife, one of the staples of life was the commissary, the military base's equivalent of a grocery store. One of my children aptly renamed it the CommisScary, and for good reason. We had to fortify ourself with courage in order to do our shopping. We made sure we were fully caffeinated, fed, diapered and rested. It was a bonus if we were all in a good mood. The vehicle's trunk or cargo area must be clear of toys and graham crackers, and a list must be made.
When entering the commisScary, we had to show our military ID, and when we eventually paid for our goods we had to show it again. I suppose there was a good chance that it could have expired between the time we entered and the time we left, so this was a valid practice.
I learned to plan my meals two weeks in advance so that I would not have to hit the commisScary too often. My list was organized the way the commisScary was laid out, so that I would not have to backtrack, a challenging proposition because the aisles were laid out so that there were limited directions in which one's cart might travel. Cart? Did I say cart? I meant carts, with an 's', because we always filled two carts. I tuned out the sounds of little kids whining and crying and fussing. I ignored the exasperated pandering of grown women trying to bargain with their children, and I achieved my objective-- filling my two carts and crossing off everything on my list-- so that I might go to the last step, Standing In Line.
It seemed that no matter what time one went to the commisScary, there was always a line. Yes, I said line. Singular. There were multiple checkstands, but customers were ordered to stand in a single line, which was designed to go around the outside walls and often went all the way around the vast store and back again. This meant that the lucky shoppers who were selecting meat and dairy products, produce or canned drinks had to dodge in and out of line-standers, who often bared their teeth and growled in the misguided belief that the produce-selector was attempting to cut ahead of them in line.
These were the days before cell phones, before handheld games and mp3 players, even before Walkmans. We often stood in line for over an hour while our ice cream melted and our Yucky Charms began to stale. Many of the commisScaries didn't even have scanners, and so we would wait while hundreds of customers put their food on the belt and dozens of experienced cashiers with nimble fingers rang them up.
Luckily, there were baggers, who also carried your goods to the car and loaded them-- but you were expected to tip them. At the time, ten cents a bag was the going rate. I would gladly hand them their $3.00, wearily climb into the car after settling the latest round of arguments and go home where, if I could have afforded it, I would have made myself a large drink and floated off to margaritaville.
Where was I? Oh yes. Costco. The commisScary of the average citizen.
There are many obvious similarities between Costco and the CommisScaries, the first being the requirement for ID. Beyond that, I'd say that comparing Costco to the CommisScary is tantamount to comparing a rabid wolf to a toy poodle.
There is no organization to the traffic that swarms over Costco. I found myself dodging carts, people, and kids and often being shoved out of the way or brushed against as other people, not looking where they were going, aimed for some destination for which the direct route was through my ribs. Children cried, pleaded, whined and sang without a second's notice from their parents who understandably pretended they had no children.
I found myself approaching a panic attack and sat down on one of the chairs for sale to put my head between my legs, only to find that the chair had been loaded onto a cart and I was headed toward the checkout stand. I leapt off and attempted to find my husband, but he was lost in a sea of swarming consumers and the shelves were piled so high with electronics and vitamins and paper towels that I could not spot his iron gray curls from above.
I ran into the Reebok stairclimber, ricocheted toward the brand new antique bookshelves and careened against the thousand boxes of frozen lasagna. Finally I found my mate among the pig's ears. I grabbed him and the cart and we ran for the checkout stand, where in an amazing twist of fate we did not have to wait for long. There was no bagger, no bags, not even boxes. We took our purchases out to the car ourselves, glad to be alive, appreciative of our freedom as Americans to choose our own grocery stores. We now have 30 meals worth of pork tenderloin, 20 steaks, 120 rolls of Charmin toilet tissue, and various other necessary items in like amounts. Now I understand why one is forced to buy large lots at Costco. You have to have time to forget the trauma.
At home we held each other close and promised never again to go to Costco. Thankful for our narrow escape, we called the Haggens to tell them we had learned our lesson and would be back at Tops for our groceries in the future.
At home I took up my needles and lost myself in Rona's Hill.
Posted by Sheila at January 31, 2005 09:19 AM Posted to | TrackBackYou are a stronger one than I. Although I once went inside a Cosco I could never imagine withstanding it long enough to buy anything. I can't even manage Wal-mart-- I think it may have something to do with how high the giant shelves tower over the wee shoppers or something. Target, I can do.
The sweater is looking good! Very nice colors.
hah! i love costco! did you check out the fabulous wine selection?
Posted by: vanessa on January 31, 2005 12:27 PMMy mother had a list in the order of the commisary as well, my Dad used to go around with her and write it up each base we went to and then type it on the computer and print them off for her. We too filled two carts (6 people, my Mother refused to shop there more than once a month!).
She used to keep us entertained by allowing us to pick items, flavours of soup, boxes of cereal etc, plus she didn't take us shopping between the ages when we were able to sit in the cart until we were able to walk around and not cause trouble.
Costco is a nightmare (even here in England), we gave up our membership because we always bought stuff we didn't need so it didn't save us any money!
Anna
Posted by: Anna on January 31, 2005 12:31 PMMy mom wrote her shopping list according to the commissary lay out as well, and we would slowly snake our way through the aisles. I remember one post's commissary had this weird set up for the line (singular there, too)... it kind of reminded me of the way they corral cattle towards slaughter.
I was most grateful for the post commissary while growing up an Army brat... there's something slightly comforting in knowing that no matter where you lived in the country you could always find the brand of peanut butter you like. (Even today, my parents have been known to have friends out East ship them Peter Pan Peanut Butter cause you can't find it here in CA.)
I also remember waiting anxiously for the day I could become a comissary bagger. Sadly, by the time I met the age requirement of the base we lived on there was a huge waiting list... it was a highly coveted job... you didn't get paid, hence the tipping, but the tips could be great. The last trip we made to a commissary (the one at West Point) after my Dad got out saw a $50 tip going to the bagger who bagged everything and got us out to the car cause we had like 4 carts of stuff (good thing my parents drove a Suburban).
Posted by: Liz on January 31, 2005 12:59 PMSheila,
I've been reading your 100 Things. I've gotten into them like reading a best-seller novel! What's going to happen next?
Thank you for taking the time to share your life with us readers!
ugh...Walmart is a nightmare too, as well as any big store like Target around the holidays. I enjoy hearing other people's commisscary adventures! I hadn't thought about the fact that we could count on having the brands we were used to no matter where we were, that's a good point. I just wish the big stores now would take some cues from the military systems management and instill some kind of order.
Lynn, don't worry, I won't leave you all hanging. My adventures in Colorado will be forthcoming, but I need a break every so often so that I can enjoy life in the present :-)
Posted by: Sheila on January 31, 2005 01:40 PMWEll, Costco has been pretty good to my family so I can't complain. That company has fed, clothed, housed, birthed and comforted us for the last 10 years. Can't believe Franck has worked there that long already!! I guess I don't have problems with the organization of the stores because I have the general 'inside' idea for how it's supposed to work.
I remember the commisary as a kid. My grandmother would have all us kids go through the catalogue before she went to see if there was anything we needed. We used to call it the PX. I hated it. It gave me headaches. Toys R Us does the same thing.
Take care
Posted by: kim on January 31, 2005 10:28 PMKim, the PX (or BX for you Air Force types) was the place to get clothes, hardware and other types of things you find at Target with no sales tax. The commissary is the grocery store where you're charged a "surcharge" instead of taxes.
I actually bagged groceries at our commissary in Bad Kreuznach to supplement the babysitting. My mom filled two carts, too! Even living in metro Atlanta, my mom still makes the trek (>30 min) to the commissary when there is a 24-hr grocery less than a mile away from her house. I definitely remember the days of melting ice cream, but mostly because Mom always saw some Korean woman she knew and had to stop and chat.
Worst commissary experience ever was sitting in the van in the parking lot with my sister. We'd both just gotten our wisdom teeth out at Ft. Gordon in Augusta, GA and Mom had to stop by the commissary before heading back to Atlanta. We tried to sleep until we had to change out our gauze and realized it was in Mom's purse. I was not a pretty sight staggering around the building, finding her chatting with the random Korean lady she ran in to.
And all this time I thought only I hated the commissary.
Posted by: Melissa on February 1, 2005 12:27 AMI haven't been to a Costco in years but the store I can't do is Wal-Mart - the aisles are narrow, there are mountains of stuff in the middle of them, and everywhere you try to go, someone is standing with their cart. I go at 9am on a Sunday if I must, because then I can at least move around the store without feeling like there's nowhere I can go. Sam's Club is the same, I plan a whole morning around hitting it at the exact time necessary to remain sane.
Posted by: CarolineF on February 1, 2005 05:52 AMow, ow, ow, Melissa! My teeth hurt just thinking about your ordeal!
Kim, I think that Costco does most things right. I know they negotiate a hard bargain with vendors, they keep costs down, they have great bargains, they are well managed and have a great variety of products. The byproduct of all this is they have lots of customers, a good thing for them (and for you!) I just don't have the temperament to deal with obstacle courses while attempting to shop-- the obstacles which are, of course, people, always changing position and seldom looking where they are going :-)
Posted by: Sheila on February 1, 2005 09:16 AMI am still living the commissary nightmare. My husband told me one time when I was complaining about it that it was my job to go because I enjoyed it...HA! He pretty much refuses to set foot inside there. The commissary at FT. Lewis had arrows on the floor to indicate the direction you were supposed to go. Man, the looks you would get if you went the wrong way. Some little old ladies would even take you to task if you dared go the opposite way.(lots of retirees shop there) It really sucked if what you needed was at the other end of the aisle and that's all you needed on that aisle. I don't know if it is still that way but it was when I left 2 years ago. CommisScary is a great name for it.
Posted by: Teresa on February 1, 2005 12:15 PM