Inflation hits more than bargain stores

When an Old Navy store finally opened in the Spokane area, my daughters displayed the exultation that ought be reserved for the Second Coming.

To those who don’t keep up with the modern retail world, Old Navy sounds like a store that peddles jerry cans and fisherman slickers.

While in the Army, I was taught contempt for sailors and all things Navy. My first sergeant often reminded us of Winston Churchill’s terse description of old Navy traditions, specifically, “Rum, the lash and sodomy.”

I still avoid any place with the name Old Navy.

But I cannot say the same for a merchandising phenomenon billed as the Dollar Store.

I would have kept my distance from the Dollar Store except that a certain dominant female suggested we leave the gently flowing Spokane traffic and turn into the parking lot of the Dollar Store.

I muttered my objection.

“We need some candles,” she said, preventing any reasonable rebuttal.

Silently protesting, I trudged behind her into the store.

There were cookie cutters and other items for sale, but many wares were not easily identifiable by a rookie. I was curious but did not ask about anything.

Even the most ignorant male instinctually knows that if he asks about a mysterious item, he may end up owning it.

We pressed on. Up and down the aisles. Junk to the right of me and junk on the left.

While shuffling behind the master shopper, I exhaled a very low whine, the kind of whine that seems to have no apparent source. It drives her nuts.

It wasn’t long before my cagey mind observed a contradiction. I cleared my throat loudly and held up a bundle of beach towels while pointing at a sign that said “3 towels for $5.”

My spouse rolled her eyes in a very unflattering manner. If she had given me the acknowledgment that I deserved, I probably would have left it at that.

“Some of this stuff costs more than a dollar!” I fairly shrieked at her.

“I don’t work here, Einstein. Tell a cashier.”

Her response sounded like a dare to me. And my name is not Einstein.

Clutching the offending bundle of towels, I wended my way toward the clerk.

But my mission was sidetracked when I spied thousands of long narrow dishes.

Those dishes were the answer to a diet problem contributing to my premature departure from this veil of tears.

The problem? My Big Pappa Size George Foreman Indoor Grill does not have a drip tray. When things are really cooking, the grease overflows the grill reservoir and drips out onto the countertop.

My solution had been to slice a baguette lengthwise and set it under the grill spout to absorb the overflow grease and juice. (I discovered this solution on an obscure Internet site.)

Unfortunately, I regularly fell to temptation and placed the healthy grilled meat on the greasy baguette, devouring them both.

This was an egregious violation of my low-fat diet and a glaring failure of the healthy living that George had promised me on TV.

Only a long narrow dish with high sides would fit under the Foreman. I had found it. It could save my life. Soon the pounds will be melting off.

One day recently, when I was about to use the dish to make myself a greaseless hamburger, my wife announced, “Not now, Julia Child. We’re off to the Dollar Store.”

My name is not Julia.

Hoping to stay home and cook the burger, I paused and looked off at the horizon as one does when recollecting faded memories. Then I queried, “Do you remember those 99-cent stores that were around when we were kids?”

“Yeah, OK?” she answered.

“Well, the 99-cent stores back in those days always kept their promise that items would cost 99 cents or less.”

“What’s your point, Sherlock?” The self-declared thrifty shopper could not appreciate the grim irony of the situation. And my name is not Sherlock.

“Don’t you see?” I chided, “You’re being duped. They changed the name of the store so they could inflate the prices to a buck and then they still don’t keep their promise!”

She threw the car keys at me and announced, “And we’ll stop by Old Navy. You need bigger clothes, Tubby. Your butt is bustin’ outta those pants.”

My name is not Tubby.