Three Mittens for Tim's Cat

Here's a little free tip: never shop for high-end electronics in a retail store that's advertising deep discounts on tube socks.

It wasn't entirely my fault. It was a weekend, I had an urge, and nobody was around to slap me out of it.

I was on my own. Nobody snorted and scoffed, "You can't be serious." I had no alert spouse ... no on-duty, en garde guardian angel ... no little Jiminy Cricket to bitterly tap his little cricket umbrella, shake his little cricket head, and chirp, "Where, pudding-head? You're gonna buy what, from where?"

Let's be honest. One of the downsides of being a single guy is that no one is standing by to monitor your impulsive behavior. I don't know for a fact who coined the expression, "seemed like a good idea at the time," but I bet it was a single guy, and I bet he ultimately got to that rueful state because nobody was around to kick him back inside the house.

Understand - it's not intentional, premeditated stupidity. Single guys have a conscience, mind you. We just don't have much of a memory. I suppose it's some kind of pudding-head recidivism.

Stupid done is stupid forgotten.

So, anyway, here's how I managed to mess up (this week).

It was the mid-morn of a lovely, cloudless Saturday, when I felt it begin to wash over me ... all the symptoms of an unfulfilled "new toy" binge (single guys reading this will completely understand). I had even fixated on the exact toy - an expensive pair of top-shelf stereo speakers, so that I could install them at my office at work, so that I could immediately begin not listening to them, since there are other-people-in-the-room-thank-you-very-much, and they're trying-to-get-some-work-done-if-you-don't-mind, and besides, they don't see how anyone past the age of Early Fetus can stand listening to Hall & Oates anymore, but here's a rushed, low-quality MP3 of my third cousin's brother's grunge-inspired garage band, named Furious Blistered Lesion, that has a gritty ensemble feel that reminds me of what drug-crazed ferrets must sound like if caught in a hay baler, don't you think?

But it's Saturday. Let's not drag work into this.

Because it was too early for the "real" stereo stores to be open (and because I wanted the speakers right now, rather than, say, thirty minutes from now), I eschewed patience and headed out for a quick point-and-pay episode at that shopping mecca, that We-Never-Close wonder known as Uber-Mart. ("Eschew" is an Olde English word that means "Patient? Later, I'll be patient.")

As you no doubt know, if you live on or near Earth, an Uber-Mart is a massive, invasive structure, built at monstrous expense, often requiring the store to purchase its own traffic lights, zoning variances, Papal indulgences, and Congressmen. I'm told that in America's heartland, in places like Wisconsin (which is near Earth), there are several Uber-Marts that have their own zip code.

I drove to the nearest Uber-Mart, some seventy yards from my house, which took me past twenty-seven McWendy Kings, 114 Baptist churches and fifty-eight pharmacies. Welcome to the deep South.

Granted, having to drive seventy whole yards just to get to an Uber-Mart is a bit cruel, but there it is. We do what we must. Still and yet, it's a cold, cruel world. Witness: from the Uber-Mart closest to me to the next nearest one demands a drive of over eighty-five yards ... and to get an Uber-Mart beyond that one, you'll have to drive nearly eight entire city blocks, if you can imagine such an inconvenience. And this should give you some idea of how downright Spartan things can sometimes get, here in the deep South. ("Spartan" is an Olde English word that means "Honey, we got any clean tube socks?")

The layout for an Uber-Mart is always the same: the store lurks behind a parking lot the size of a minor galaxy, or Paul McCartney's alimony payment. The twelve-umpty-acre building generally presents its patrons with two time-saving entrances, often situated in the same time zone. One entrance is for eyeglasses and groceries, and the other for gardening supplies and tube socks (plus a smaller door for "boutique" services, like dental implants, pet funerals, and exorcism catering). For some unexplained reason, about a quarter of the parking lot's prime real estate is never available for any actual parking, but always seems to be reserved for bags of peat, paving stones and fence parts.

And the fun has only begun. Nothing as ferociously vast as an Uber-Mart can exist without some level of complication. See, despite the tundra of parking and the gaping doors, it's not possible to actually get inside an Uber-Mart without first running the Charity Gauntlet. Standing between you and the Uber-Mart's alluring, air-conditioned interior, there is inevitably some emaciated waif, with eyes the size of Druid crop circles, ringing a tinny bell and hoping to guilt you into dropping a few coins in her dented, discolored collection bucket that bears a Dickensian hand-written plea like "Please help save Timmy's kitty's left leg."

The other door will be guarded by a hyperactive group of twittering juveniles selling limp chocolate bars, or raffling chances to win a double-aught squirrel rifle, so that the East Grizzle Junior High School Marching Band (the "Hayloft Mites") will have enough money to attend this summer's annual Beans-N-BBQ Jamboree and Prophylactic De-Worming at the State Capitol.

And each entrance-guarding garrison of youthful entrepreneurs will be flanked by a questionable-looking collection of middle-aged, scale-tipping diabetes candidates in lawn chairs and discount tube socks, hawking tepid hot dogs in damp, red-tinted buns.

And on this Saturday, sadly, I slipped up while running the gauntlet. I made eye contact with The Guardians, which left me with no elegant options. No graceful escape route. So I bought a hot dog, gave it to Tiny Tim's sister, pitched in to help save the cat and, I'm fairly sure, co-sponsored a Sousaphone.

Once inside, I focused, laser-like, on my original mission. I navigated to the Electronics section at the very back of the Uber-Mart complex, arriving just as the weather cooled and the leaves began to turn. I scanned the shelves and quickly grabbed a suitable set of speakers. Oh, and a jacket to ward off the Autumn chill.

Done!

And lo, less than three hours later, I hauled my six bulging shopping carts into the "Self-Checkout" zone. ("Self-Checkout" is an Olde English word that means "Okay, I tried patience, and didn't much care for it.")

Almost done! Swiped my credit card, bagged my jacket and my new set of speakers. And a rake. A box of U.S. President pencils and a flagon of hot mustard. A deluxe "50th Anniversary" boxed edition of Scrabble, some fishing lures (as seen on TV!), a tasteful area rug displaying dogs playing poker, a party-sized box of mesquite-flavored breakfast bars, a smart, faux-zebra occasional table (inlaid with a velvet depiction of different dogs playing poker), a tin of antacid tablets to help counteract having scarfed down a half-cooked hot dog at nine in the morning, an adhesive-backed closet light that plays show tunes, six army surplus road flares (you never know), a bag of ferret repellant, a back-up spare set of Scrabble tiles (you never know), a set of "Bewitched" themed picnic paper plates (featuring both Darrins), four paving stones, an emergency kit of cat-leg splints, and a solar-powered microwave oven.

And a twenty-four-pack of tube socks.