Shopping

So I've admitted here before that I am not a shoe person, that I am not a big shopper, that I'm not like a lot of women I encounter who enjoy shopping, who live for shoes, who can spend hours browsing racks of clothing. In fact, one of my first posts on this blog was a complaint about shopping (read it here).

The reality is, however, that one must shop to acquire items such as shoes. It's not like I can go to work without shoes on. Well, I haven't tried it yet. I'm not sure that anyone would notice -- but I'm not really willing to try it out either. This afternoon, therefore, I find myself shoe shopping.

I went to one of those "shoe warehouses" with my coupon in hand. I made two observations while looking for shoes: (1) women who are shopping for shoes alone are on their cell phones, and (2) I don't like most shoes. Who are these women talking to? What are they talking about? I don't get it. Do they each have accomplices in dark vans in the parking lot with uplinks to satellites and GPS for finding the perfect pair?

Clearly the women on phones had some advantage over me -- or maybe I was just distracted.

I was partly disappointed in my shoe shopping trip after a successful Sunday trip to Target. Yes, I said Target. On a Sunday.

I don't typically shop at Target on the weekend. I'm more of a weekday strategic-strike kind of Target shopper. But Dave and I had to go. After a morning of Mass and brunch, we knew what we had to do next. We had necessities that could not wait for a weekday trip. Oh, and we really needed a new surge protector.

We circled the lot looking for parking. Well, Dave was looking for parking. I like to park, not look for parking. Walking is good for you! Dave has to circle until he finds "the spot." Remember the scene in Clerks when the clerk rants about all the ladies who come in and dig through the fridge trying to find the milk that has an expiration date on it that is sometime in the next millennium? I love that bit. Dave's that way about parking spots.

Once we got into the store we each assumed our usual roles: Dave grabbed a cart and headed to the electronics section, I grabbed a basket and headed to the cotton ball, razors, and closet supplies area. We successfully rendezvoused in time for me to dump my overloaded basket into Dave's cart containing one new surge protector.

We made it through the check out gauntlet. Actually, Dave made it through on his own. I was busy putting back some shoelaces that he had deemed too short for his shoes. We met on the other side and were quickly homeward bound -- after a quick pit-stop. I had clearly drunk too much coffee.

Once at home, we efficiently emptied the shopping bags and got to the task at hand: easily and safely opening the surge protector that was permanently enclosed in that awful plastic shell packaging that is lethally sharp once you are able to penetrate it enough to rip it open.

Dave is much better at opening these kinds of things than I am. While he freed the surge protector, I crawled under our computer desk to attempt to untangle miles of electrical and USB cords and pull out the now-insufficient surge protector.

The "old" surge protector does not have enough outlets to handle our computer and peripheral electrical needs. Actually, it technically has enough outlets, they are just not configured in such a way as to handle the weirdly-shaped and otherwise large plugs on some of our equipment. This has resulted in our need to decide if we want the scanner or the printer plugged in -- which has resulted in needing to know which plug belongs to the scanner and which belongs to the printer.

With our "new" surge protector we can have everything plugged in and take advantage of the opportunity to label all the cords. I prepared tags for the cords, Dave worked as my assistant, and we set to work on the transplant. After working on untangling, sorting, labeling, and binding many many cords, we got the new surge protector set up and safely tucked back in the corner. Every plug had an outlet, every cord had a label, and all cords had their slack bound and secured away from the feet of any who sit at the desk.

I managed to bang my head on the desk only a couple of times before I was able to extricate myself from underneath it. Whew! Another big project completed. As we walked away from the desk Dave commented that we could now throw away the packaging. And then he saw it.

"Oh," he said, "they have a warranty form in here. We should fill it out. OH!!!" he said, "and they provide a warranty for any equipment plugged into the surge protector too!"

I am sure you can guess, Dear Reader, that our project was not yet completed. Dave sat down and began to fill out of the form. As is often the case with forms, we needed numbers -- and lots of them. Dave asked me to get some number from the surge protector. I crawled under the desk and looked at the surge protector now secured in it's spot like Gulliver tied down by the Lilliputians. I struggled with it. I banged my head on the desk. I got out from under the desk to turn on the desk lamp. Yes, I'm brilliant. The desk lamp did nothing to illuminate the darkness underneath the desk.

Okay. Plan B. I need a flashlight. You'd think we'd have a flashlight. Part of the reason we were so excited about a surge protector and a warranty on a surge protector is the fact that the electricity in our apartment is less than optimal. It is vintage.

Electricians and firefighters alike would blanch at the site of our electrical "system." Our beautiful, classic, 1920s Chicago apartment came with the electricity to match. I knew it was less than great when we moved in. I walked into the perfectly empty front room (living room) and admired the fireplace and built-in shelves. I could practically see my reflection in the perfectly polished wood floors. And then I noticed that something was plugged into the outlet at the center of the front wall. Huh????

There was nothing in the room. I approached the plug and followed the cord that came from it -- into a wire cover that was affixed above the beautiful baseboards and painted over with many layers of paint. This outlet is now referred to as the "Mother Outlet" as I am pretty confident that it is the one true outlet that is the source of all other outlets in the apartment that are in fact makeshift outlets created from nothing more than extension cords. Fuses blow frequently in this place.

So, with an electrical system such as this, you'd think we'd have a flashlight on hand for emergencies. Finding a flashlight to be able to read the bottom of the warrantied surge protector was important -- this warranty is our ticket to replacement equipment when the electricity final sizzles out when the kids upstairs plug in another stereo or amplifier or electric saw (I'm not kidding here -- but that's another posting).

The best I could find was one of those tiny flashlights that you affix to your keychain that serves better as a tool for not losing your keys (like the hubcap on gas station bathroom keys) than it does as a source of light. I read off every alpha-numeric series I could find on the surge protector to Dave as he filled in the form.

Whew. Done. Wait -- we need all the numbers from everything that is plugged into the surge protector?

I will not bore you, Reader, with the details of that odyssey.

In the end, the form was completed. It languishes now on the dining room table.

Oh, and I still need shoes for work.