House of Horrors

5:00 pm. An empty house. A ticking clock. Even the dog is away, vacationing with his grandmother.

I hadn’t carried on a conversation in 25 hours and needed to get out of the house.

My first mistake was clipping coupons. A dreary Saturday while one’s husband is away is not the time to start thinking about dwindling account balances and heading out on a discount shopping tour. But I braved the onslaught nevertheless.

First stop, Kmart. The scent of vinyl shower curtains greets me, unlike the salespeople who avoid eye contact. I apologetically slink past a woman replenishing the bath towel supply.

I make two round trips through the store and decide my time is up when I hear angry price haggling coming from the season opening of the Garden Department.

Though my mind is beginning to numb, my psyche dares me for more.

Next, I choose what Mike and I have marked as the most sinister retail location we’ve ever seen, but I had to prove it. Aldi.

If you are unfamiliar with this name, I’m not surprised. It can’t be from this country, if it is even from this planet. I’m convinced it’s simply a front for an elaborate money laundering scheme.

Cars are idling outside like getaway vehicles, as though everyone entering was planning on robbing the place. Shoppers are traveling in pairs: a mother-daughter duo, clutching ice cream and microwave popcorn, the younger waddling behind her future fattened self; a husband and wife, both sporting ponytails, speaking in tongues.

I venture in, holding my breath. Boxes of discounted inventory are stacked high, slashed open with a negligent hand, yet expertly arranged to block shoppers in like a creepy carnival maze, only no fun mirrors or music.

I get close, peering inside to see what is being offered. Fit & Active Chips. Does Aldi sell products whose marketing campaigns failed miserably?

A woman is walking towards me with a slow but determined charge. It feels sickeningly intimate, frightening. Our awkward dance continues when I veer left and she lunges in the same direction. She mumbles something about needing what I need. Feeling violated, I began moving with breakneck speed for the checkout counters.

In an attempt to test the limits of my gag reflex, the store layout forces me to walk past deviant brands of marked down mayonnaise, cheeses, gardening equipment, and jogging suits.

Certain the worst was over I head for the exit, only to encounter another woman, rail-thin, swathed in pink down to feathered flip-flops, whose flesh was the most unearthly shade of grey I’d ever seen, resembling that of a hippopotamus’.

The only thing I can take away from this is that there’s something to be said for paying a premium for a pleasant shopping environment.