STRANGER THAN FICTION: SIDEWALK SALE-ING THROUGH THE MALL OF LIFE

My mother raised me better than this.

In our household, we girls learned not to ask or tell the price of anything. We didn't ask people if their engagement rings were real or Diamonique. We didn't brag about the low price of our name-brand clothing.

I've changed. Maybe it's because shopping has become such a thrill for me.

Marriage is expensive -- his and her contact lens supplies, his and her car payments, his and her mental therapy, etc. -- so most wives probably don't get to shop for themselves very much. When I finally get to the mall, I'm like a homeless drifter being led to a table of filet mignon.

And boy, did I dig in last weekend.

It was sidewalk sale time at the West Park Mall, and both big-girl shops, in addition to several others, dragged their marked-down, rejected merchandise into the hallways. My friend A.B., who never met a price tag he didn't like, convinced me not to mail a couple of bills and go shopping instead.

It was the first time in years I wasn't desperately trying to find a couple of outfits to cover my burgeoning rear end. Some of you girls know what I'm talking about. It's summer, so you drag out that size 14 wardrobe only to discover you've become a size 16.

In a desperate frenzy, you run to the mall and try to find some low-priced separates to mix and match until those new Richard Simmons videotapes kick in. It's not pretty.

The Other Half has been with me on a couple of those shopping trips. He sits patiently in that little "husband chair" some of the finer stores have added recently, waiting for me to emerge in the outfit that will knock his socks off. Poor Mr. Half. He can't win.

ME: So, Sweetie, how does this look?

MR. HALF: It's fine.

ME: Are you kidding? I look like a linebacker for the Cowboys in this thing! And the color -- blech! Who would even put this on the rack and charge 20 bucks for it? And another thing ...

Mr. Half just continues saying everything looks fine until the insanity passes. He's a good man, but as our marriage progresses, I'm sure he will end up at the "husband drop" in the middle of the mall. That's where all the older men sit, surrounded by packages, looking like abandoned puppies at the animal shelter until their wives come back to reclaim them.

A.B., my Saturday shopping partner, didn't take any chances with my mental state. He left me at the entrance of my favorite store and took off like a shot.

It was for the best. He didn't need to interfere with my private Nirvana.

As you may have noticed, reporters aren't really mathmeticians, but we understand general concepts. For example, there may be a skirt with the original price of $49.99, marked down 50 percent. With the sidewalk sale in effect, that skirt is marked down an additional 20 percent. What is the ending price? Cheap. That is one CHEAP skirt. Buy it.

Armed with that sort of mathematical knowledge, I moved from store to store Saturday. I bought shirts. I bought shorts. I bought candle holders, candles, earrings, sweaters and one cookie (it's OK to cheat once in awhile).

Of course, I also bought Mr. Half a couple of shirts to soothe my conscience. Then I hid the checkbook from him.

When I wear the clothes and he asks if they're new, I tell him I've owned them for years. It's just easier that way. But at work, when anybody asks if my shirt is new, I say, "Bought it at the sidewalk sale Saturday. Paid only 12 bucks for it!"

It's a sickness. If you hear me doing it, slap me. It's the only way I'll learn.

~Heidi Nieland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.