Saturday is the very best day to do your monthly grocery shopping trip at Sam’s Club. How do I know? Because everyone else on God’s green earth thinks so too. I mean, where else can you pack 500
sardines customers armed with 200 or more oversized grocery carts, and a smattering of flatbed carts suitable for oversized cargo. Or a really large appetite.
A genuine bonus, though, are the sample vendors stationed at the end of each aisle. This is the one place that my children will try nearly anything. Eye of Newt? If it’s at Sam’s, it must be delicious. We experience nearly every vendor when we shop. And try NOT to fall into the trap of buying whatever it is they are peddling.
Last Saturday, I nearly fell into that little snare. When we drove up, I noticed a nice little display set up out front where the hapless customers enter and exit. It was a table that had Girl Scout Cookies neatly stacked in rows. My heart skipped a beat. As we drove by I scanned the various varieties. Yes, there they were, the Thin Mints.
I noticed something else that I found a little disturbing. There were no Girl Scouts. The booth was run by a band of middle aged (a term I can use since I’m among them) women who looked as though they were no strangers to the delights of Girl Scout cookies. (Again, me too.) Just sayin’.
I wondered out loud, “They are gonna want cash, right?”
Fiddledaddy confirmed my suspicion. Three dollars and fifty cents. I began rummaging through my wallet. In the mean time, we found the perfect parking space. An empty one where we could still be considered in the same county as Sam’s.
Fiddledaddy began to plant that seed of doubt. “Are you sure you want to do that?” Referring to the fistful of pennies I was clutching.
As you know, I was the recipient of a box of Thin Mints more than a week ago. A box that was completely emptied within 24 hours. I was the only one who dined on those cookies. I did not share.
And I paid the price. The next day I had the face of a teenager.
And not in a good way.
Staring at the bathroom mirror, I counted three rather largish pimples, and one spot on my chin line that could only be described as a hematoma. Or a goiter.
Not pretty. Emme looked closely at it, “Mom, I think it’s cancer.”
Great. I’ll be the first person in history to die from ingesting a box of Thin Mints. Without the benefit of chewing.
Mustering all the will power available to me, and that’s not much, we decided to duck into Sam’s through the “carts only” entrance. (You know, the opening that’s just big enough for a cart to fit through.) And avoid the Girl Scout wannabes and their cookie stash altogether.
There were no samples available to me that could take the place of those delicious Thin Mints. I thought about them the entire shopping trip. After the children had their fill of cookie pieces, 1/8 of a breakfast sandwich, pasta and chicken in a pill cup, plus other forgettable delicacies, we checked out.
Again, approaching the exit, my palms got sweaty. I touched the jaw line hematoma that was only now beginning to heal. Yet, the Thin Mints were just steps away. In a panic, I made a sharp right and exited out the “carts only” entrance. Hitting my head on the low roof.
A close call, to be sure. Avoidance has always been my best coping technique.
But, I keep thinking of excuses to go back to Sam’s.
And it ain’t for the samples.