I went shopping yesterday. I am aware that some people enjoy a day of buying stuff but not me.
Spending money makes me anxious. My stomache gets all ooky and my palms sweat. That's because I'm cheap. I'm a miser.

A skinflint.

I had a dream last night that I found a stash of gold coins and mounds of black pebbles that I somehow knew where industrial grade diamonds. I filled the front pockets of my Levi 501's until they were overflowing with loot and then waddled off to sort it all and seal it in zip-lock bags.

Now that was a good dream.

A much better dream than the one I had once about Witchy-Poo and her two henchmen, you know, the furry one with all the arms and those freaky faceted eyes and the other one that looked like a man-sized hunched over vulture that walks and never flies. The henchmen would kidnap people and tie strings around their necks. Then the witch would come around and chop off the the people's heads and make apple pie out of them.

But I was talking about shopping.

My first stop was the tennis store. My sister and my son waited out in the car because to them, tennis store = boring.

I needed some grip tape for my racquet and this cool hand lotion that keeps your hands from turning into slimey disgusting amphibian hands so your raquet keeps flying from your grasp and hitting the court with a really loud noise and then you have to say, "Whoa, sorry. I'm a salamander."

"I need Dry-Grip lotion." I tell the guy behind the counter.

"We don't carry that." He said.

"I bought some here a couple of months ago." I say.

"No you didn't." His eyes narrow.

My mind raced. The atmosphere in the store became heavy as if storm clouds were threatening.

"Yes I did."

"No you didn't."

"Did."

"Didn't."

Cleary this was a worthy opponent. I handed over my $4.80 for the grip tape and backed toward the door.

"Did!" I yelled as I ran out. I may have lost the battle of the Dry-Grip but won the war of the last words.

The next stop was a small specialty shop that adds to the unique flavor that is Portland, Oregon.

Cuffs-n-Stuff.

They sell handcuffs - and bullets - and bullet proof vests (there was a baby sized bullet proof vest in the corner but I didn't want to ask) - and tasers. You can get your own taser for only $999.00.

Maybe I'll ask Santa.

I was there for the pepper spray. There is a pitbull on my street with a mighty hunger for wienerdogs and the people attached to their leashes and I wanted to make sure the next time we got together he would remember me for a long time.

But what kind should I buy? The florescent fashion model? The one disguised as a Sharpie pen?
To deal with that brindle bundle of bad breath I settled on a red metal number that doubled as some sort of weapon that when applied to pressure points on an attacker's body caused extreme pain. The sweet little blonde girl that worked there explained this last part with a Shirley Temple grin.

Unsettling.

And then we were off to the lawn mower store. We just moved after being in our last house for almost eighteen years. In all those years I had used a push mower but now people were telling me I needed a power mower. The new yard is bigger, they would say. You're getting older.

Hey. I had a neighbor on my old street that push mowed her lawn until she was eighty-six years old. I would see her out there and get all mad because then I would have to go out and mow my lawn even though I really didn't feel like it and was hoping to put it off for another day or two.

The row of power mowers was daunting - the sales guy more so.

"Here's the baby you want." He patted its black handle like it was the fender of a sketchy used car.

I looked at the price tag. $379.oo.

I used my best trick. I lowered a head and scuffed my toe and pitched my voice a bit higher to give the impression my IQ was thirty points lower.

"I dunno, I'll have to ask my husband."

Makes for a perfect getaway every time.

Al's mower shop is where I've gotten my last two mowers. We walked past the row of grimy vintage models and the old Russian woman carrying the Forever Twenty-One shopping bag and entered the world of gasoline fumes that makes Al's a huffer's heaven.

Inside it's all plaid shirts and work boots and old guys 'splaining the merits of six blades versus five complete with a incongrous blast of Destiny's Child from the tattered speakers. I found a mower.

A push mower.

When I got home, I made a half-hearted attempt to work in my studio, but I was creativly used up. Shopping is draining. Instead I grabbed my pepper spray and went out to take my new mower for a spin.

And wait for the pit bull to show up.