By Tim Sanders

I had originally planned to write this week’s column about Jane Fonda’s July 23rd promise to protest the Iraq war by touring the country in a bus fueled by vegetable oil. I think the country she’s planning to tour is ours, not Iraq, but with Jane you can never tell.

I found the notion of Jane sputtering along in her Mazolamobile humorous, but eventually I shelved the Fonda column. Why aggravate the Fonda fans out there? Some of them may carry squirt guns filled with Tabasco sauce.

So instead, this week I will address the grave thrift store threat which millions of innocent husbands face today.

My wife loves America’s Thrift Store in Roebuck, Alabama. Wives all over the state love America’s Thrift Store. As far as I am concerned, they are absolutely nuts!

America’s Thrift Store is a huge yard sale under one roof, where women can go to find things other women with the thrift store syndrome have discarded because they must make room in their attics, closets, and basements for the new crop of thrift store items they purchase every week. It is a sickness, not unlike the eBay addiction which has debilitated so many American households.

A couple of weeks ago Marilyn and I visited my cardiologist in Birmingham for my annual checkup. On the way home Marilyn said "You know where I want to go?"

I knew immediately it wasn’t the Harley Davidson dealership in Trussville. She wanted to go to America’s Thrift Store.

Thrift Stores, flea markets and the like are trendy now. There are even television shows about people who spend their entire lives traveling to thrift stores, yard sales and flea markets, looking for values. "WOW! Lookit this, Brenda! What a deal!! A genuine vintage Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs commemorative plastic lunch box for only $5.99!"

My father was a survivor of the Great Depression, which in turn made me a survivor of thrift stores. Dad loved nothing more than purchasing used items at bargain prices. When I was very young, we did a lot of our shopping at the Goodwill Store in Muskegon, Michigan. Dad always found something there; a suit, a nice alligator purse for Mom, and invariably several pairs of "perfectly good shoes." I did not like the Goodwill Store. Something about buying previously owned shoes didn’t appeal to me. I had no idea whose feet had been inside those things, and I certainly didn’t want to catch the incurable hammer toe virus.

No, I wanted my shoes all shiny and new and hygienic, and preferred going to Sears & Roebuck. At Sears they had those neat X-ray machines–wooden fluoroscope consoles with upper viewing ports–where you could actually insert your foot and see what damage your Red Ball Jets were doing to your foot bones. As I remember it, my foot bones always looked green, which may or may not have been a bad indication. I spent a lot of time entertaining myself with those machines. There are probably hundreds of thousands of aging baby boomers hobbling around today with feet the size of casaba melons due to radiation damage from those old Sears do-it-yourself X-ray machines.

But at any rate, I have assiduously avoided thrift stores since I’ve grown up. After fifteen minutes in a thrift store, I start to twitch. That is why when we visit America’s Thrift Store, I always try to extract a time limit from my wife.

"If you’ll promise to only spend half an hour in there, I’ll just wait in the van. Okay?" I’m the eternal optimist.

"HALF AN HOUR!??!! Why I’d just be getting started in half an hour!"
And then comes my second really dumb question: "But dear, don’t you know what you’re looking for?"

"Among other things, I’m looking for a hair curler, like that one I broke, which nobody makes anymore. I think I can find one, but I’ll certainly be in there for much longer than half an hour!"

So, I know that once inside, she’ll be there for at least two hours, and possibly four, her shopper’s head swiveling at warp speed. I remain in the van with the motor and air conditioner running, watching the fuel gauge drop. The radio is no help. For some reason, all I can find on my dial are country music stations, talk show hosts discussing the hidden occult messages in the insidious new Harry Potter book, and that nauseating Hip Hop racket. Not an Oldies station to be found. After twenty minutes or so, I open the windows and turn off the ignition, to rest the engine. Hey, I can stand it. After all, it’s only 90 degrees out there.

Eventually I relent, lock the doors, and head inside the Temple of Doom. I make a quick tour through the building, which I believe may have once served as an indoor football stadium. I am looking for Marilyn, in hopes of hurrying her along. I finally find her near the front of the store. "Almost done?" I ask.

Of course she hasn’t worked her way back to the front of the store; she’s still on her first circuit, working her way toward the back of that immense Palace of Previously-owned Paraphernalia.

"C’mon," I say. "I’ve covered the whole store, and it doesn’t look a bit different from the last time we were here."

But she’s already found that elusive, out-of-production curling iron–the one that fits her head so well.

"There’s no telling where that thing’s been," I tell her. "You’ll think it’s a bargain six months from now, when all your hair falls out."

"Oh, I’ll wash it thoroughly before I use it." Then she shows me some of the dog toys she’s found. And the bracelet. And the necklace. And the shirt, and three books, and some chrome things you put silverware into. And she’s only made it through the first couple of aisles. I become discouraged and head outside to the van again.

I return in about forty minutes, and occupy myself looking for some old Motor Trend or Cycle World magazines, which for some reason the coliseum’s magazine section doesn't carry. Marilyn has worked her way back to the women’s jacket section. She’s acquired a second shopping cart.

Again I trudge out to the van. According to the van’s digital thermometer, it is now 93 degrees. I figure the heat index puts it at around 145. The radio talk show host is discussing young, attractive female teachers who take advantage of pimply teenaged boys. Reprehensible things like that didn’t happen when I was a kid. At least if they did, none of the other guys ever let me in on it.

Finally, after three hours, Marilyn returns to the van. She has a whole lot of stuff, much of which she didn’t realize she needed until she saw what a bargain it was. She is quite proud of herself. She’s saved about $150, she says.

"I wish we had a giant thrift store in Cherokee County," she chirps as we finally head home.

I’m glad we don’t. If she were to save us that much money on a regular basis, we’d have to take out a second mortgage.