Shopping Advice From a Guy With a Hole in His Sock
Not that I follow it myself...
For a period of time while I was in university, my daily disposable income after rent and food (food = dry pasta) was the equivalent of one coffee or one chocolate bar or one newspaper. (Emphasis on the word “or”) On a good week, my self-discipline would be strong and I could go Wednesday and Thursday without succumbing to buying anything. On Fridays, I would live a life of luxury and sit in the university coffee shop with a coffee, a newspaper AND a chocolate bar.
I’m not exactly sure how long this period lasted, or how I endured it, but I do know I didn’t feel sorry for myself. I rationalized my way into believing what I had was enough. The experience has, however, left me with major challenges when it comes to buying “things”. I can easily spend money on experiences (travel, restaurants etc.) but ask me to buy a new pair of socks because the ones I have are full of holes and I will balk. Who needs socks anyway? Some people think it’s fashionable to stick your sweaty foot straight into your shoe anyway.
I should be a better shopper. When I was 17, one of the most expert shoppers in the world, my aunt, gave me a personal weeklong course on how to shop.
In 1978, the Canadian dollar was worth more than the US dollar. (Today it’s worth about 74 cents). Everything was already cheaper in the US and the buying power of what is now known as the “Loonie” (Canada got rid of the paper dollar bills in favour of a coin with a Loon on it), made the difference even more noticeable. Since I was about to head out on what would become my “gap year” and would need a year’s worth of clothing, my parents decided it would be best if everything could be purchased in the US.
Luckily for us, we had relatives in Portland, Oregon. Even luckier, some people from our city were headed to California and offered me to hitch a ride with them to Portland.
So there I was in Portland, the week of my 18th birthday, ready to buy an entire year’s worth of clothing. My aunt had taken the week off. We were up bright and early and ready to hit all the shopping malls in the big city.
The last thing she said to me before we went out to the car was, “Leave your money at home.”
She said the worst thing that can happen to you is that you find something you really like, they have your size and it’s even on sale, so you buy it. Then, the next store or the next day, you find the same thing somewhere else at an even lower price. So you never, ever buy anything on the first day. You only buy things on the last day.
We shopped for four days straight before I was allowed to take my wallet with me. On the fifth day, we just went from place to place on a buying-without-trying spree.
It sounds easy, but it was almost like school; you had to take notes. It was actually worse than school because I never took notes in school, but when you have your tutor hanging over you, you do the work.
There’s also the question of negotiation. What do you do when the sign says: “Today only” or “Sale ends today”? If you were my aunt, you negotiate until the store agrees to extend the sale.
Another negotiation might happen if the store only has one item left in your size and colour choice. Will they keep it on hold for you for four days with no promise that you’ll come back and buy it? When shopping with my aunt, you did not leave the store until you had an agreement in place.
At the end of the week, I had a great list of everything needed to fill my suitcase. Things were looking good. When I tallied up all the “you just have to get this” items on the list, my funds were almost to the penny that I needed. My aunt was an awesome negotiator when it came to discussing terms with store clerks, and she was equally awesome when it came to convincing a teenager what was a must-buy item. My suitcase was destined to be fully packed.
The problem was, if I bought everything on the list I wouldn’t have any money left for the bus fare home.
Before we headed out on the buying spree, my uncle threw me a lifeline.
“If the weather’s good on Monday, I’ll fly you home!”
He had his pilot’s license and was a member of a local flying club.
March 26th was my 18th birthday. My cousins treated me to a day of skiing on Mount Hood. I’m a horrible skier, but I think they had fun.
It was an enjoyable day until I saw that the weather forecast for Monday was rain. If it rained, I would be stuck in Portland with no money. I knew my uncle would bail me out and buy me a ticket, but I also knew my parents would be less than impressed by my money management. I was about to depart on a 12-month trip to a foreign country that didn’t, as far as we knew, have a lot of people standing by ready to bail me out when I ran out of money. (As it turned out, Norway did have a lot of those people.)
I’m not sure if, or how well, I slept that night. I remember rehearsing and reciting my excuses and how I would plead for mercy whilst asking my uncle for bus fare. I must have fallen asleep though, because suddenly the door burst open. Uncle George was yelling: “Rise and shine, Lazybones! There’s not a cloud in the sky between here and Alaska!”
Sitting in the cockpit of the small Cessna, I was impressed by how everything seemed to be designed with safety in mind. Everything from the instruments on the panel, to the yellow lines painted on the tarmac that were designed so that if you drove with your nose wheel on the line, your wings wouldn’t hit anything on the way by. Every few minutes a controller in Seattle would call us up and let us know where to look out our window to see a passing plane.
When we crossed the border into Canada, Seattle handed us off to Vancouver control. Their instructions were to count three lakes. At the end of the third lake, we would see the runway at Penticton Airport. We had to land there to clear customs and immigration as it was the first airport North of the border.
We had counted two lakes when Penticton Airport called us up and asked if we intended to land or if we were going to do a flyby. Maps have border lines, but those lines are not painted on the ground along the border. I had started counting one lake too late.
“We;re landing!” Uncle George replied.
A somewhat hesitant ATC granted the necessary clearance.
Cessna’s don’t need much runway and although we needed a pretty steep dive down from our 7000-foot altitude, George expertly planted the plane about halfway down the runway, which left us with a full third of the runway once he’d braked and brought us to a stop.
We were told to taxi to a holding area and shut the engine down. A Canada Border Services Agent had driven up from the land border station and would clear us before we were allowed to park the plane.
The customs agent noticed the US registration of the plane.
“Are you both US citizens?”, he asked.
“No, we’re both Canadian.” My uncle did the talking for us.
“Do you both live in the US?”
“No, he lives here. I live there.”
“OK, this is too complicated.”, said the agent. “Let’s just stand here and chat and then I’ll give you the all-clear. Hopefully, I’m safe in thinking that you’re not bringing anything illegal with you.”
He gave us some paperwork that Uncle George handed off to someone inside the airport building and we were good to go.
Instead of flying the 15 minutes home, George decided it would be nice to spend the night in Penticton with my Aunt’s sister and her husband. I knew them well, they lived right across the street from a beach so many a summer family gathering had been held at their place where we spent days at the beach and evenings feasting on Kentucky Fried Chicken.
After dinner, Uncle George and Uncle Grant decided to take me out for a drink to celebrate my 18th birthday. The legal drinking age was 19, but they figured that since they were both in their forties, our average age would be enough.
The bar they took me to was one where, at regular intervals, women would appear on stage wearing not very much and, when they finished dancing, they would be wearing even less. When a server came to take our drinks orders, I said “Coke, please” and I think I still have a bruise on my shin from where my uncles kicked me simultaneously. They ordered a round of beers for the table.
Alas, I digress, this post was meant to be about shopping advice.
The shopping lessons Aunty Jean taught me three short months before I embarked on what would be an extended “gap year” in Europe, have stuck with me.
Take no money with you until the last day.
Don’t decide what you want until you’ve looked at everything.
“Sale ends today” should never be accepted.
“We don’t put things on hold” should never be accepted.
If you have something on hold, call the store if you don’t want it. (Be fair to them, they’ll be good to you.)
Take notes and make a list.
On your last day, just buy, don’t look.
My wife will tell you that although I remember this great shopping advice, I’m like most men. I don’t like to shop and I’m certainly not going to spend a week looking around for things before I make the “best” purchases.
Today, some of my socks have holes in them, but I won’t buy new ones. Why should I? Christmas will be here sooner than we think!
Written with the clarity of hindsight, the accuracy of a faded memory, and countless creative liberties, 87 Stories is a journal of how my gap year lasted four decades, made me an emigrant, an immigrant and gave me a life I never dreamed of.
In addition to my love for writing, I’m also a professor, an educator, and a consultant. I’ve been told that my specialty is saving bacon.
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