Those of us who took Abnormal Psych back in the day learned about Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. As such, the wry observation that someone is OCD gets bandied about a bit too casually these days.

But I submit that there is a new kind of OCD afoot, one that didn’t exist when we Boomers were in college.
It’s Obsessive Costco Disorder and I very much fear my dear husband has it. The disorder manifests in several ways. The first is an incessant need to extol the virtues of Costco. The amazing quality of the merchandise! The extraordinarily low prices! The serendipity of it all! Then there is the strange suspension of common sense. To wit: Is it actually efficient for a physician who works 80 hours per week to drive 20 minutes to wait in line for 40 minutes to save 20 cents per gallon for gasoline? (I calculate this to be about a $7.00 savings.) Am I missing something here?
And then there is the Las Vegas Syndrome. You know the one, wherein money isn’t really money in Vegas. My husband, praise G-d, doesn’t suffer from the Vegas malady, but it translates all too well to Costco. The absolute amount of money you spend apparently doesn’t matter, because “It’s such a good buy!” The fact that you don’t need 24 rolls of paper towels and 3 new sweatshirts is irrelevant because “IT’S SUCH A GOOD BUY!”
The laws of physics are apparently also suspended. Costco sells high quality shirts, you see, at wondrously low prices. And you can keep buying them and stuffing them into drawers without ever throwing existing old shirts away. And you will still have plenty of room. The shirts will not overflow the dresser, nor take over the belt and tie space, nor pile up on the closet floor. Of course not, for such is the magic of Costco.
And finally, dear Reader, there is the need to stock up on vast quantities of huge bottles and boxes of items as if the Apocalypse were upon us. This is instead of the reality that we are a couple – two people – who are blessed to have half our children and numerous grandchildren living locally and visiting frequently. But they have their own houses with Costco inventory, as it happens. So why do we need enough mayonnaise, dishwashing liquid and cereal boxes for the U.S. Army mess? Or jugs of olive oil too heavy for me to lift? Yes, we use olive oil. But I couldn’t get through this amount in six months. Doesn’t anyone know the stuff goes rancid?
For years my husband and I have had what I might euphemistically call a difference of opinion about household inventory. I’ve persisted in buying one or two small-to-medium bottles of shampoo, cold-pressed olive oil or liquid soap at a time at the supermarket. And he has continued to buy enough of everything to quarter the California National Guard if need be. You never know, after all. He has accused me of being a spendthrift, because the price per ounce of my little shampoo versus his is higher. Never mind that his once slid out of my hand in the shower and nearly broke my toe; I digress. As far as he is concerned, I spend money indiscriminately.
And then, dear Reader, I had an epiphany. Belated, I grant you, but at least it finally occurred to me. Our house was built in 1929. We still have the original kitchen, including the original terracotta tile counters and wooden cabinets with beveled glass and black hinges. I kid you not. I’ve only made two changes in the 30+ years we’ve lived here: I built in a stove (since the house came with a Bunsen burner), using tile I found in a salvage yard to match the original tile. And I put in a Sub-Zero refrigerator and freezer and had paneling made to match the original cabinetry. I like antiques and I believe in preserving as much as possible of old houses. Ours has all the original French doors, wood flooring, tile and brickwork. It’s an old Spanish hacienda and we bought it because we loved it, so why would we change it?
But while older houses of this vintage tend to have quality construction and fine architectural detail, one thing they lack that new houses have aplenty is storage space. The closets are small. The shelves are narrow. And kitchen storage is at a premium. Our so-called pantry is one shallow closet with cubbies smaller than you find in your average pre-school. The overflow goes into one garage cabinet. That’s it for all the paper goods, body wash and ketchup bottles on steroids that my husband wants to buy. The bathrooms have the original pedestal sinks – lots of charm but, alas, no big cabinets there either.
And so it dawned on me: Everyone we know who lives in a house either lives in a fairly new one, where there are huge walk-in closets with deep shelves built with big-box stores in mind. Or people live in old houses with remodeled kitchens and huge walk-in pantries with deep shelves just the right size for all the bounty of Costco.
I never had the slightest desire to remodel my kitchen. But I told my dear husband that if he wanted to spend whatever it costs these days to re-do the kitchen ($50,000? $80,000?), knock out walls and install gigantic cabinets, then we could certainly begin saving money at Costco. We could buy big jugs of anything his heart desired! All those paper towels! The shampoo! Just think of it!
Need I say, dear Reader, that since we had that little chat, I have not endured the slightest criticism of my penchant for buying small shampoo and spice bottles? But he, the dear man, still comes home with boxes full of wonderful treasures from Costco and searches in vain for a place to store them. His car does have a big trunk, though.
As I said, Obsessive Costco Disorder.

But I submit that there is a new kind of OCD afoot, one that didn’t exist when we Boomers were in college.
It’s Obsessive Costco Disorder and I very much fear my dear husband has it. The disorder manifests in several ways. The first is an incessant need to extol the virtues of Costco. The amazing quality of the merchandise! The extraordinarily low prices! The serendipity of it all! Then there is the strange suspension of common sense. To wit: Is it actually efficient for a physician who works 80 hours per week to drive 20 minutes to wait in line for 40 minutes to save 20 cents per gallon for gasoline? (I calculate this to be about a $7.00 savings.) Am I missing something here?
And then there is the Las Vegas Syndrome. You know the one, wherein money isn’t really money in Vegas. My husband, praise G-d, doesn’t suffer from the Vegas malady, but it translates all too well to Costco. The absolute amount of money you spend apparently doesn’t matter, because “It’s such a good buy!” The fact that you don’t need 24 rolls of paper towels and 3 new sweatshirts is irrelevant because “IT’S SUCH A GOOD BUY!”
The laws of physics are apparently also suspended. Costco sells high quality shirts, you see, at wondrously low prices. And you can keep buying them and stuffing them into drawers without ever throwing existing old shirts away. And you will still have plenty of room. The shirts will not overflow the dresser, nor take over the belt and tie space, nor pile up on the closet floor. Of course not, for such is the magic of Costco.
And finally, dear Reader, there is the need to stock up on vast quantities of huge bottles and boxes of items as if the Apocalypse were upon us. This is instead of the reality that we are a couple – two people – who are blessed to have half our children and numerous grandchildren living locally and visiting frequently. But they have their own houses with Costco inventory, as it happens. So why do we need enough mayonnaise, dishwashing liquid and cereal boxes for the U.S. Army mess? Or jugs of olive oil too heavy for me to lift? Yes, we use olive oil. But I couldn’t get through this amount in six months. Doesn’t anyone know the stuff goes rancid?
For years my husband and I have had what I might euphemistically call a difference of opinion about household inventory. I’ve persisted in buying one or two small-to-medium bottles of shampoo, cold-pressed olive oil or liquid soap at a time at the supermarket. And he has continued to buy enough of everything to quarter the California National Guard if need be. You never know, after all. He has accused me of being a spendthrift, because the price per ounce of my little shampoo versus his is higher. Never mind that his once slid out of my hand in the shower and nearly broke my toe; I digress. As far as he is concerned, I spend money indiscriminately.
And then, dear Reader, I had an epiphany. Belated, I grant you, but at least it finally occurred to me. Our house was built in 1929. We still have the original kitchen, including the original terracotta tile counters and wooden cabinets with beveled glass and black hinges. I kid you not. I’ve only made two changes in the 30+ years we’ve lived here: I built in a stove (since the house came with a Bunsen burner), using tile I found in a salvage yard to match the original tile. And I put in a Sub-Zero refrigerator and freezer and had paneling made to match the original cabinetry. I like antiques and I believe in preserving as much as possible of old houses. Ours has all the original French doors, wood flooring, tile and brickwork. It’s an old Spanish hacienda and we bought it because we loved it, so why would we change it?
But while older houses of this vintage tend to have quality construction and fine architectural detail, one thing they lack that new houses have aplenty is storage space. The closets are small. The shelves are narrow. And kitchen storage is at a premium. Our so-called pantry is one shallow closet with cubbies smaller than you find in your average pre-school. The overflow goes into one garage cabinet. That’s it for all the paper goods, body wash and ketchup bottles on steroids that my husband wants to buy. The bathrooms have the original pedestal sinks – lots of charm but, alas, no big cabinets there either.
And so it dawned on me: Everyone we know who lives in a house either lives in a fairly new one, where there are huge walk-in closets with deep shelves built with big-box stores in mind. Or people live in old houses with remodeled kitchens and huge walk-in pantries with deep shelves just the right size for all the bounty of Costco.
I never had the slightest desire to remodel my kitchen. But I told my dear husband that if he wanted to spend whatever it costs these days to re-do the kitchen ($50,000? $80,000?), knock out walls and install gigantic cabinets, then we could certainly begin saving money at Costco. We could buy big jugs of anything his heart desired! All those paper towels! The shampoo! Just think of it!
Need I say, dear Reader, that since we had that little chat, I have not endured the slightest criticism of my penchant for buying small shampoo and spice bottles? But he, the dear man, still comes home with boxes full of wonderful treasures from Costco and searches in vain for a place to store them. His car does have a big trunk, though.
As I said, Obsessive Costco Disorder.

At the end of June my husband and I will celebrate, G-d willing, our 45th wedding anniversary. The number seems surreal to me, but as we got married in 1970, I suppose it must be true! And so it seems like a good time to reflect upon our

marriage contract, known in Hebrew as the Ketubah.
Where to begin? I suppose with an admission: that for a long time – a pitifully long time – I believed everything my husband ever told me. After all, he's brilliant, and as far as I knew, was all-knowing. That is, until a wedding – I don't remember whose – over 20 years ago, when our oldest children were still teenagers. The wedding was at a hilltop hotel in LA, and I remember it was a beautiful, balmy summer night. The ceremony (chupah) was outdoors, as they usually are, and it was lovely – until, that is, the utter disillusionment came crashing down on me.
But my story actually starts way before that, back in the summer of 1970 when I was a starry-eyed newlywed. I was entering my sophomore year of college and wanted to add my new married name to my records. I wanted my diploma issued to my full name, including my maiden and married last names.
So I went to the Registrar of Brooklyn College, where I had transferred from the University of Michigan when I became engaged. The Registrar said that I needed proof of marriage. I produced my marriage license. That wasn't enough, she kindly explained. That only proved intent to marry, gave me "license" to marry, but apparently wasn't proof that I actually had done so.
"Well," I said, "the only other document I have is my Jewish marriage contract, my Ketubah."
"Oh, that will be fine," she said.
"But it's in Aramaic!" I countered.
"No problem," she informed me. "Just have it translated and notarized and all will be well."
Little did I know.
So I told all this to my husband, starry-eyed innocent that I was, and he gallantly assured me that he could translate it. I reminded him that it was in Aramaic and he reminded me how many years he had spent in Yeshiva studying Talmud (Gmora) in that very same Aramaic. It would be a piece of cake, he told me. And furthermore, he had a friend who was a notary public.
Oh, dear Reader, I positively swooned at such resourcefulness, and in less than a week I had the notarized translation in hand. I glanced at it as I trotted back to the Registrar. I noted that besides our names, the dates, etc., it was basically formulaic, and I took everything it said at face value. After all, it was an ancient document that went as far back as the Aramaic-as-vernacular days, didn't it?
So among other things, it said that in the event of a divorce, my husband promised to give me 36 camels, 12 goats, 14 cows and 48 chickens. Oh, how interesting, I thought. I never knew all that was in there. I wondered if he would also give me a farm to keep it all, and I happily placed the document before the Registrar. She solemnly read it, congratulated me on my marriage, stamped all her name-amendment papers "Approved," and voila! All my college records now reflected my married name.
Fast-forward now back to that hilltop wedding in LA. We had attended plenty of weddings in the intervening years, and the Ketubah is read at every chupah. It is read in Aramaic, usually very rapidly, and naturally I don't understand a word. Occasionally, I can catch the Hebrew names of the bride and groom, and the words,"Los Angeles, California" always pop out, but that's about it. Rarely is it it translated, and if it was, I had never heard it. Perhaps the microphone was off at the time. Anyway, everything changed on that fateful, balmy night . For the rabbi read the Ketubah in Aramaic as usual, but then he translated it, in perfectly audible English. I listened intently. I wanted to see if this particular bride got the same number of camels, cows and chickens, et al, or did the number vary?
And then I had the strangest sensation in my body. A frisson of foreboding. There was not a single mention of camels or any livestock whatsoever. How could this be?
I should explain that the men and women sit separately at most of the chupahs we attend, so I had to wait for the ceremony to end before seeking out my husband. I found him standing with a group of men, most of whom I knew. After greetings and pleasantries, I turned to my husband and commented that the Ketubah seemed strange to me. Why was there no mention of cows and chickens? He looked at me oddly. I reminded him what our Ketubah stipulated about camels, cows and the rest. He looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
The other men in the little circle also had odd looks on their faces. I realized they were valiantly trying to contain their mirth, their utter glee. I should explain that not only did I know all of these guys, but I had probably taught half of them high school English. So while they knew I didn't know a smidge of Aramaic, they knew I had a perfectly fine grasp of the English language. So they were not amused at my expense, but at my husband's.
Slowly the group began to fade away. The last one looked at my beleaguered spouse, shook his head and mumbled something to the effect of, "Boy, are you in for it now."
I was still all innocence though. "So why did I get all those cows and chickens and camels and she doesn't?" I asked my husband when we were alone. "And don't forget the goats."
"What on earth are you talking about???" he exclaimed. He really had no clue.
I helpfully prodded his memory. The college Registrar… The notarized translation of the Ketubah. Surely he remembered.
Oh, now he did. And he started to laugh. And laugh. "That was just a joke," he said. "Surely you knew that. I figured no one ever reads those things. What would you do with camels and goats?"
What, indeed? I was not amused. I was devastated, my starry-eyed innocence ripped away. I couldn't sleep that night. Not only had he deceived me, but he had had a false translation notarized! I am very law-abiding. As far as I knew, so was he, so what was I to make of all this? And the Registrar hadn't even batted an eye. I couldn't have been the first person to submit a Ketubah for a name change. Did she assume we were all promised camels and chickens?
It took me days to get over my utter shock. I tossed and turned at night.
I always knew my husband had a wicked sense of humor, but this? Surely this was beyond the pale!
Or was it? About four days later I had an epiphany. That translation may all have been a fabrication, but I had it in writing. Somewhere in the bowels of some pre-computer age City University of New York warehouse sits the notarized translation of my Ketubah, guaranteeing me 36 camels, 12 goats, 14 cows and 48 chickens.
Realizing this, I slept soundly again.
Realizing this, my husband has ever after made a special effort to mind his P' s and Q's. He's not taking any chances. He knows we can't divorce. Never mind community property. After all, chickens may be cheap, but have you checked the price of camels lately?

marriage contract, known in Hebrew as the Ketubah.
Where to begin? I suppose with an admission: that for a long time – a pitifully long time – I believed everything my husband ever told me. After all, he's brilliant, and as far as I knew, was all-knowing. That is, until a wedding – I don't remember whose – over 20 years ago, when our oldest children were still teenagers. The wedding was at a hilltop hotel in LA, and I remember it was a beautiful, balmy summer night. The ceremony (chupah) was outdoors, as they usually are, and it was lovely – until, that is, the utter disillusionment came crashing down on me.
But my story actually starts way before that, back in the summer of 1970 when I was a starry-eyed newlywed. I was entering my sophomore year of college and wanted to add my new married name to my records. I wanted my diploma issued to my full name, including my maiden and married last names.
So I went to the Registrar of Brooklyn College, where I had transferred from the University of Michigan when I became engaged. The Registrar said that I needed proof of marriage. I produced my marriage license. That wasn't enough, she kindly explained. That only proved intent to marry, gave me "license" to marry, but apparently wasn't proof that I actually had done so.
"Well," I said, "the only other document I have is my Jewish marriage contract, my Ketubah."
"Oh, that will be fine," she said.
"But it's in Aramaic!" I countered.
"No problem," she informed me. "Just have it translated and notarized and all will be well."
Little did I know.
So I told all this to my husband, starry-eyed innocent that I was, and he gallantly assured me that he could translate it. I reminded him that it was in Aramaic and he reminded me how many years he had spent in Yeshiva studying Talmud (Gmora) in that very same Aramaic. It would be a piece of cake, he told me. And furthermore, he had a friend who was a notary public.
Oh, dear Reader, I positively swooned at such resourcefulness, and in less than a week I had the notarized translation in hand. I glanced at it as I trotted back to the Registrar. I noted that besides our names, the dates, etc., it was basically formulaic, and I took everything it said at face value. After all, it was an ancient document that went as far back as the Aramaic-as-vernacular days, didn't it?
So among other things, it said that in the event of a divorce, my husband promised to give me 36 camels, 12 goats, 14 cows and 48 chickens. Oh, how interesting, I thought. I never knew all that was in there. I wondered if he would also give me a farm to keep it all, and I happily placed the document before the Registrar. She solemnly read it, congratulated me on my marriage, stamped all her name-amendment papers "Approved," and voila! All my college records now reflected my married name.
Fast-forward now back to that hilltop wedding in LA. We had attended plenty of weddings in the intervening years, and the Ketubah is read at every chupah. It is read in Aramaic, usually very rapidly, and naturally I don't understand a word. Occasionally, I can catch the Hebrew names of the bride and groom, and the words,"Los Angeles, California" always pop out, but that's about it. Rarely is it it translated, and if it was, I had never heard it. Perhaps the microphone was off at the time. Anyway, everything changed on that fateful, balmy night . For the rabbi read the Ketubah in Aramaic as usual, but then he translated it, in perfectly audible English. I listened intently. I wanted to see if this particular bride got the same number of camels, cows and chickens, et al, or did the number vary?
And then I had the strangest sensation in my body. A frisson of foreboding. There was not a single mention of camels or any livestock whatsoever. How could this be?
I should explain that the men and women sit separately at most of the chupahs we attend, so I had to wait for the ceremony to end before seeking out my husband. I found him standing with a group of men, most of whom I knew. After greetings and pleasantries, I turned to my husband and commented that the Ketubah seemed strange to me. Why was there no mention of cows and chickens? He looked at me oddly. I reminded him what our Ketubah stipulated about camels, cows and the rest. He looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
The other men in the little circle also had odd looks on their faces. I realized they were valiantly trying to contain their mirth, their utter glee. I should explain that not only did I know all of these guys, but I had probably taught half of them high school English. So while they knew I didn't know a smidge of Aramaic, they knew I had a perfectly fine grasp of the English language. So they were not amused at my expense, but at my husband's.
Slowly the group began to fade away. The last one looked at my beleaguered spouse, shook his head and mumbled something to the effect of, "Boy, are you in for it now."
I was still all innocence though. "So why did I get all those cows and chickens and camels and she doesn't?" I asked my husband when we were alone. "And don't forget the goats."
"What on earth are you talking about???" he exclaimed. He really had no clue.
I helpfully prodded his memory. The college Registrar… The notarized translation of the Ketubah. Surely he remembered.
Oh, now he did. And he started to laugh. And laugh. "That was just a joke," he said. "Surely you knew that. I figured no one ever reads those things. What would you do with camels and goats?"
What, indeed? I was not amused. I was devastated, my starry-eyed innocence ripped away. I couldn't sleep that night. Not only had he deceived me, but he had had a false translation notarized! I am very law-abiding. As far as I knew, so was he, so what was I to make of all this? And the Registrar hadn't even batted an eye. I couldn't have been the first person to submit a Ketubah for a name change. Did she assume we were all promised camels and chickens?
It took me days to get over my utter shock. I tossed and turned at night.
I always knew my husband had a wicked sense of humor, but this? Surely this was beyond the pale!
Or was it? About four days later I had an epiphany. That translation may all have been a fabrication, but I had it in writing. Somewhere in the bowels of some pre-computer age City University of New York warehouse sits the notarized translation of my Ketubah, guaranteeing me 36 camels, 12 goats, 14 cows and 48 chickens.
Realizing this, I slept soundly again.
Realizing this, my husband has ever after made a special effort to mind his P' s and Q's. He's not taking any chances. He knows we can't divorce. Never mind community property. After all, chickens may be cheap, but have you checked the price of camels lately?