Kostko

Costco. Is this the place you love to hate or the place you hate to love? I hate to love it. Costco just makes me so angry when I have to go there. Except for some reason I always choose to go. In fact I have even suggested it. I hate having to show a card for the privilege of shopping there. I hate how they funnel you in and then funnel you out; like cows to slaughter. I hate how you have to check your groceries/supplies with the power hungry, yellow highlighting, one step below cashier employee.

But this is what I love and reason why it is hard to stay away:

1. I'm cheap, ergo I love Costco (but you have to watch or they'll sneak in something you could get cheaper somewhere else...the sneaky buggers).
2. I really like to eat the free samples of food that they have. I'll always try to hit them all. Sobeys used to be good for some free samples but I hardly ever see them there anymore.
3. I really, really like to have a hotdog and a Pepsi after shopping, while Melissa takes our items through the line.
4. Cheap gas.

Recently our local Costco has installed a set of fuel pumps with what turns out to be much cheaper gas than anywhere else. Ten whole pennies cheaper. Melissa and I decide to take our Costco card there and get some. As we pull into the parking lot we are confronted by a toque wearing, skinny, scowling security guard who is directing traffic, rather poorly I should add. As he directs us into yet a longer line of traffic I resist the urge to raise my middle finger in protest. We finally make it to the pumps and are directed by signs to enter the the refueling area in a certain direction. Already I'm going bonkers. Who really cares what direction you go into the pumps. But the best, the absolute best part are the painted lines on the asphalt that precede the pumps and direct you in; they look like little roads. All I could think of was that I forgot my passport at home. It reminded me of a border crossing. As I pull into a set of pumps I keep thinking that a smirking gas jockey is going to sidle up to my car, knock on my window, and instead of asking me if I would like a fill, ask me for my papers. I can hear the commie saying it "Papers please" with a rifle slung over one shoulder, and a fur hat sunk deep on his brow.

But I got my cheap gas. And you know what, it better be really cheap all the time. This is a completely self service gas station. You have to pump your own gas, and you don't get to go into a nice warm store to pay. You have to pay at the pump. Where-oh-where has the service gone. I figure five cents for pumping my own gas and five cents for having to pay without the pimply faced teenager assisting from behind the counter.

Next time I might just pull in the wrong direction. I did this once at SuperStore on 8th Street and they wouldn't turn the pump on for me. The insanity!