Tag Archives: BJ’s


Oh, honey! That ain't gonna be big enough!

I love me some shopping in bulk.

Shopping in bulk makes me go boom. Yes, I’ve already established my first love is, and always will be, Target—my life, my passion, my love! Shopping warehouse style is not the light, bright, “cheap chic” social hour shopping experience of Tarjay. Still, something about buying in bulk puts some bounce in my butt. Something about cradling a 36 pack of individually wrapped cookies in the middle of a suburban concrete shopping jungle makes me wanna shout, “SNACKTASTIC!!!”

The warehouse club? It’s momma’s playground.

Warehouse “clubbing” (Yeah, new rules. New definition of clubbing. What? People call me ma’am now. I can’t go into a real club anymore. Come on, you know I’m more Irish pub anyway.) is pure shopping A.D.D. Or is it A.D.H.D.? Either way, it’s sensory overload in the biggest, most funtabulous way. It’s awesomeness in a box. A big, big, biggity big ass box. Everything is bigger. And better. And did I mention bigger? How do you not get sucked into paying a few bucks more than you would at a regular store to get a much larger quantity of something? This is to speak nothing of the vast range of goods and services all housed under one ginormous warehouse roof for your shopping convenience.

Leather furniture purchased in conjunction with a 200 pound drum of pretzels and a 30 pack of beer is what I call EEEE-fficient? And well? The ability to test out the sofa with beer and pretzels in sight? Now you are singing my song! Take THAT Ethan Allen!

Like Tarjay, there’s a $100 cover charge–$200 if you don’t keep your head down and your wits about you. When you walk in the door and grab two supersize boxes of diapers and a box of wipes (Sorry environment, I double pinky swear I’m so getting you back when everyone in this joint is potty trained!), you’re pretty much there. And that’s before you sample the jalapeno/artichoke/dip/spread on the new!/flatbread/toasty/bread/thingys or spy the 500 count daily mega vitamins for women–totally worth the price. (Health before wealth!) Speaking of 500 count? Give me summa those 500 count thread count sheets! (Oh, you’re dead to me Bed, Bath and Beyond, you’re so dead to me. But thanks for playing!)

 “I just know if I get some cute new workout pants it will really inspire me to get my Richard Simmons on,” I whisper out loud. “But, build me up butter cup! Is that a vat of olive oil the size a gallon of milk? A must have for a gourmet chef such as myself!”   Barefoot Contessa? You better put some shoes on woman, because I be coming for you! Fresh herbs? Bring it. I have  a year’s supply of EVOO and cumin for $14.99! And Giada, watch your back, girl–you and your beloved pancetta (I’m sorry, I mean, pannncheeet—ttaaaahh.) Yeah, me be getting some of that in bulk. So suck it!

30% off books? Should we take one more whack at the crock pot? I mean, 1,001 crock pot recipes for only $9.99–there’s gotta be something good! (Yeah….probably not..remember? Nothing good comes out of a crock pot!) 50% off cards? Oh squeeeee! Happy birthday to meeeee!

Need new tires? Have them put on while you snack on a  jumbo dog or ice cream while you shop for…face cream? Ray-Ban polarized sunglasses? Small appliances? Big appliances? And more! Oh, so much more! Deeeep breaths….deeeep breaths. Wait! I know! A yoga mat!

Every day could be a party at the warehouse club. With all the free tasty treat samples, they’re halfway to margaritaville!  Just uncork some of that wine in aisle 12 and call momma a cab! Who needs a club? Crank up the Bose in aisle 7 and we’ll get this party started. Sorry Pauly D, we’re beating up the beat without you, bro!

The worst part is, I’m so club crazy I have memberships to two different warehouse clubs. Costco I love for produce, meat, antibacterial wipes, and diaper wipes. Their frozen fish and wine is fab too, and last time the hubs got “lucky” there….no really, he did. But why do I have on dork jeans from Kohl’s today, but my husband is sporting Lucky jeans? Costco! Over the years, we’ve bought….a swingset.. a fridge.. a tv, too… oh, Costco, I’m just sooo in love with you! (But seriously? Selling fridges? That is kinda akin to a drug dealer selling you a container for your stash, no? I mean, I ended up buying so much meat, frozen fish, and drinks at Costco that we needed another fridge for the basement to store said bargains and OH, LO AND BEHOLD, crafty Costco happened to sell just the perfect one….I believe that’s called entrapment!)

But BJ’s, sweet BJ’s, I love you, too. So I guess I’m all about the two timing and some might even call me a warehouse ho. (Harsh, but true. I will slut around for the best deals.) But BJ’s is closer to my house, and carries diapers, food, and drinks the kids like. It also takes coupons. They send out their own every month–good ones too for like $1 to $10 that really add up–not these piddly ass buy five and save .35 cents nonsense—BJ’s plays to win on the coupon front. They also take  manufacturer coupons (but we all know how well those coupons usually turn out for me…remember?) But seriously, last week BJ’s sent me a friendly email saying based on what I purchased last year, I saved over $1,000 on grocery items alone. Whoa. If I saved a grand, what the hell did I spend? I know they thought they were being all smarty pants sending me that, but ho’ing it up big ain’t cheap apparently! Perhaps I should re-examine the thrill of buying in bulk?

And I will say I’ve figured out the hard way a bargain ain’t a bargain unless you really need it. I’ve been “Costcoed” and “BJ’ed” before. Have you? You get home and realize it’s not really cool to have two giant bottles of salad dressing that you don’t end up loving or 4,000 of the wrong size garbage bags. So I guess the lesson is, “caveat emptor” or let the buyer beware. Or I should say, bulk buyer beware! But… as long as you know the rules going in, oh what fun you’ll have playing the game!



Filed under Awesomeness, Mom-ness, Retail Therapy, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!, Suburban Madness, Yo! It's a girl thing!


It finally dawned on me. I live in a frat house.

I didn’t plan to live in a frat house. I didn’t want to live in a frat house. When I got married and bought beautiful furniture and excitedly brought home paint swatches and fabric samples, I wanted to live in a picture from Better Homes and Gardens.

Three boys, two houses, countless hacked up baseboards and dinged walls later, I realize that’s a virtual impossibility. I’ve come to grips with the scratches on my china cabinet and the dents on my fridge and my oven (FINE! I might have accidentally kicked the oven when I burned the chocolate chip cookies one pregnant night.) What? I had a craving!

 My coffee tables are bare; my kitchen table, sadly naked. Most of the household accessories….have indefinitely retired to the basement. My tv stand is missing the doors because someone tried to hang from them, or on them, or…yeah, I actually don’t even know what he tried to do to them, but suffice it to say….the stand is now shabby chic minus the chic. Thanks fellas!

Then there’s the leather couches. When I say the leather is buttery….I don’t mean because it’s soft…I mean…they really might be buttery on any given night. Twice now (how dumb am I that there was even a second time?) I’ve left a stick of butter out on the kitchen counter to soften, only to find my two year old smearing it into the leather couch.  They’re scratched and worn and are slowly becoming discolored in places (that we bought them off the cement floor at BJ’s Wholesale Club in conjunction with a pack of diapers, a 500 pound drum of pretzels and a 30 pack might exonerate the boys on that one…..)

I can deal with all that. I’m totally over the whole Better Homes and Gardens thing. That’s not real life. Hey, if I’m not gonna look like I walked off a photo shoot (please see, “THIS IS JUST NOT RIGHT”), why should my poor house be expected to? I know my home isn’t my own now, nor should it be. A home with kids should be lived in and be comfy–and hopefully still look relatively good, too. I want my house to be a fun place where my kids feel like they can bring their friends, where everyone feels welcome.

When I had my third ultrasound and realized I was having another boy, I knew my visions of pink and green sundresses were over. There would be no Princess Barbies or patent leather Mary Janes. With no pink on the horizon, I thought I prepared myself for a life of Transformers and Spiderman, mud pies and bugs (help). It hasn’t been hard—they’re adorable, easy to love, and so much fun….despite the occasional broken picture frame or culprit dancing on a table.

I can sort of wrap my head around this place turning into a little boys club. But I did NOT sign up to live in a frat house!

The other day, when my four year old said he had to go potty and I heard some major hooting and hollering coming from the bathroom, I realized you can never really be prepared. I’m really in for it.

My son was on the toilet while my two year old was stomping up and down (think Lucille Ball in the grape crushing episode) with his brother’s Power Ranger tighty whiteys on his head as they both laughed hysterically.

“YUCK!” I shrieked. “Get those off your head. Disgusting!” I admit it though, it was kinda funny, in a completely gross/ wrong Vince Vaughan/Will Ferrell movie kind of way.

But I had to ask myself, if this is what they’re doing NOW, what’s next? And what is this house going to look like when I have three teenage boys? And never mind look…what’s it gonna smell like? EEWW. Febreze…I’m so very sorry I trash talked you in my coupon post!

A  girl’s gotta put her foot down sometimes. And today, was one of those times.

I was changing my two year olds diaper—something I’ve done more times then I want to know— and he started hollering to his brother in the other room, “Come see! Look at dis! Look at dis!!”


He was trying to show off his poop! He was proud…of his poop! (And if he’s that damn proud he can show it off in the toilet and not in a diaper, thank you very little.)

That….is just not right. All of sudden I have a frightening flashback from college. One of my housemates from college recounted a story to us girls that her boyfriend’s roommates at Harvard showed off their #2’s to each other sometimes! (At Harvard they do this. At Harvard! Don’t you kind of think you’ve done something right in the child rearing department if your kid gets into Harvard? But no! Guys are guys and if some of society’s most intelligent are doing this at Harvard then can’t I logically deduce all hope is lost?)

 Yet, I still assumed I would never—could never— raise such a son!  But he beat out the Harvard boys by about 20 years.

This just proves…..that my two year old is more advanced than a Harvard undergrad….or…that a  Harvard undergrad has the maturity of a two year old… or….doing foul stuff when you’re a boy is just inherent!

I think I’m just gonna put all my cute accessories in a pink padded room in the basement….moms of boys….feel free to join!


Filed under Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, TMI? Says who!