At Costco this weekend, J talked me into dropping a 4-pound bag of trail mix into the cart. He likes to eat it at work, driving around in his truck, and I was too hungry and in a hurry to argue.
The first 5 minutes in the store were fairly amusing, as Maia decided to spit up all over the floor, with J quickly deflecting with a "hey, what's in that aisle over there?", allowing us to remove ourselves from the scene. But I can only deal with shopping at Costco for about as much time as Matthew McConaughey can deal with wearing a shirt. I might have been appeased by the free mini-quiche samples but there were never any ready when I walked by. And then there was J, wandering off to look at shorts and glass balls for your garden and strange electronic devices, leaving me to stand with the cart, bouncing the baby and smiling politely at comments like "what aisle did SHE come from?" In the end, as usual, we left having spent well over $100 more than I had wanted us to.
And now that bag, that ridiculously gigantic bag of trail mix, is sitting on top of my refrigerator, taunting me. I recently re-joined Weight Watchers because breastfeeding was not the magic post-partum weight loss trick I was promised, so there's no way I can sit with that bag of trail mix in my lap and eat it by the handful like I really want. People, do you have any idea how excruciating it is to measure 3 tablespoons of trail mix from a 4-pound bag? I'm here to tell you, it HURTS.