Red Hot Mutha'

So I get Baby V all suited up, fed, diaper changed and I drive the 30 minutes or so to Costco in White Marsh. I get him out of the car, struggle to put on that damned Infantino thing so that he can ride on the front of me like some high-tech kangaroo and manuver myself to the super size carts which only seem to have three working wheels. I drop my wallet twice trying to get the membership card out of it to show to the door person who I know is just there to scare away any potential terrorists who want to purchase styrafoam cups in bulk. I go to where the baby formula and diapers are (near the pet supplies!) and discover they're out of The Jumbo Box of Pampers Cruisers Size 3, so I have to settle for Huggies, which I don't like. Trying to lift a jumbo size box of diapers while having a baby strapped to you is no small feat, but we do it anyway. I grab a box of formula, six bottles to a pack and lug them to the cart. To this I add a tub boasting gallons of baby detergent, which is way too expensive if you ask me, but I really don't want to be responsible for an infant outbreak of eczema. As I try to push the cart one-handedly, I almost topple a display of shampoo. I've got to drive the cart with one hand because baby V has recently discovered his toes and I don't trust the Infantino to hold him if I let go all the way. What's a few velcro straps going to do? He's really trying to get at his feet. I'm feeling quite smug as I've found the line with the fewest people. The guy in front of me only has a dozen fold-up tables on his pallet and it's not Saturday so there are'nt mass quantities of people here trying to feed their families off the free samples of meatballs and powerbars. I finally get my turn, hauling all the stuff onto the belt and dropping the Amex card in the process. Baby V is still going for his toes, slightly knocking me off balance, but I grab the edge of the register and manage to get the card to the woman behind it. The cashier graciously lets me know that the credit card isn't mine. I say I know, it's my husband's. I wipe the slobber from under V's chin. (Is it possible for him to be teething at four months?) I wait while a manager is shouted for from behind a counter somewhere. "You can't use the card. See, it says on the back here that it's non-transferable." Non-transferable. She says it to me like I'm three, not thirty-three. I explained that I've used it before. Three times. "That's because you just got by. It's the credit card company's rule, not ours. They might not get paid." I look at the total. It's somewhere near nintey dollars. I imagine American Express going belly-up, laying off employees by the hundreds. "It was that woman at Costco. The one who used her husband's card to buy the baby formula. She did us in." I'd be hated by thousands of hard-working Americans for forcing a credit card company to go under. Whatever. I pulled a Chief Joseph and declined to fight it, mostly because baby V was starting to get antsy.
In the future, I will go to the cashier who looks the most sleepy and the least caffienated. I guess that's how most things work: (hold your ears baby V!) if you don't get caught you just might get by.