Shop 'Til You Drop

Preparations for Bingo Night continue apace and I appreciate all the helpful suggestions from Friends of Befouled. While the costumes remain a closely guarded secret, rest assured they involve hats and wooden animals. Prizes have been purchased, and who wouldn't love a nice package of Lit’l Smokies brand sausages? A special tip of the hat to Brando for his suggestion that we continue the meat theme. "B-3, that's Bacon-3."

Of course it's not all glamor and champagne when one is preparing for an event of this magnitude. Last night found my co-chair H. and me at our local big box retailer where an employee grunted his welcome upon our entrance. We took a cart and made our way through the store, enthralled as always by the remarkable quantity of cheap crap available for purchase.

Some people seem to have trouble shopping with me. Perhaps it's because I tend to wander, especially when I'm without my kids, simply enjoying the brief delusion of being in control of my own destiny. My friend E. in particular hates the way I'll leave a cart standing in an aisle for extended periods of time while I roam through the displays, gathering merchandise I didn't need until I saw it, returning to the cart to make my deposit, then heading off to hunt and gather some more.

"Take your damn cart with you," E. will say.

"The cart is happy where it is," I'll reply.

"Yes, but it's in everybody else's way."

"If they can't figure out how to get around a shopping cart, they shouldn't be out by themselves."

And on it goes, to the bemusement of the other shoppers and the mortification of whichever of our children happen to be accompanying us.

H., on the other hand, is a shopper after my own heart. Last night it was electronics, then on to toys, then over to clothing, then a quick turn through the clearance section, and finally off to the candy aisle. Putting things in the cart, taking them out, examining and debating pointless differences between indistinguishable products. It was glorious.

Like all good things, however, it came to an end. We eventually found ourselves at the check-out counter, the euphoria of shopping replaced by the resignation and self-loathing that comes from giving money to one of Hell's subsidiaries.

"Did you find everything?" the cashier asked with no real interest.

A witty reply suddenly seemed more trouble than it was worth.

"Yes, thank you," I replied.

She finished ringing up our purchases, swiped my debit card, and handed me the receipt.

"C'mon, let's go," I said to H., who was staring blankly and somewhat sorrowfully into space. "Let's go get a drink."

We trudged to our car and loaded our purchases, which looked so meager under the damp yellow light of the parking lot. At my house we greeted my Lovely Bride, then each found a beer and settled in to watch the end of the football game. We talked about bingo, and tried on our costumes, and soon enough all was right again.