STRANGER THAN FICTION: THE THRILL OF THE HUNT KEEPS SHOPPERS COMING BACK

Our prehistoric drives to hunt and gather force us to malls and flea markets.

It happened again.

We spent last Sunday at an outlet mall.

It always starts the same way. We actually have a day off together, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and The Other Half says, "What do you want to do today?"

He doesn't want to know the right answer. He just wants me to say, "How 'bout we go to the outlet mall? Or even better, the flea market!"

Instead, I say I'd like to go hiking or visit my cousin in another town or give the house a really good cleaning.

And then he says, "I thought we'd go to the...(fill in name of shopping facility here)."

The thing is, Mr. Half can't resist a bargain. At the outlet mall, we passed a bin of name-brand socks, three pairs for $5. And they had a "lifetime guarantee" against any kind of damage.

We could lose one of each pair of Mr. Half's socks in the laundry for a year -- a distinct possibility -- and he'd still have plenty of socks. But those are just plain socks with no famous logos on the ankles.

"Look at those socks!" he said. "I'm getting some."

"Sweetie, you have about 50 pairs of white socks," I said.

"But those don't have a lifetime guarantee."

Now, a person who wasn't addicted to bargains would think, "Maybe the reason these socks are guaranteed for a lifetime is because most people aren't going to drive an hour to return a $1.67 pair of socks."

We bought the socks.

They reminded me of the day I spent in Philadelphia with my grandmother's friend Anna. We were visiting Grammy and Pop-Pop in the suburbs, and nobody wanted to take me to the art museum in the city except her. I'll be forever grateful to her for volunteering, but frankly, Anna had a little problem with spending money.

She fought with the train attendant about her senior citizen's discount. When I started to drop a dollar in the museum donation box, she shouted, "Are you crazy?!?! This place is already sucking us dry through our taxes!!!"

When I wanted to buy a soda at a corner market, she made me walk three blocks to a department store instead. "They've got a great water fountain near the formal wear department," she confided. "And it's free!"

And when I bought a dozen soft pretzels off a street cart, she told the vendor: "Those look kinda stale. You'd better give her a discount."

At age 14, an experience like that is mortifying. At age 28, I can appreciate her tenacity and possibly would consider arguing over stale pretzels. But I'm not walking three blocks for a drink of water.

Flea markets represent bargain hunting in its purest form.

Unfortunately, Mr. Half has become addicted to them. He returned from one last weekend bearing a small, plastic cube. He'd bought it to hold a small, plastic helmet with a Mizzou sticker on it. And he had 24 commemorative-yet-dusty Pepsi bottles with Richard Petty on them. They were a bargain at $1 each, he said.

Then there was The Gap Band cassette, the set of Hard Rock Cafe cocktail glasses and the empty, plastic nachos container. Oh yes, it'd been quite a day.

"Do you know how much this stuff will be worth someday?" Mr. Half asked.

We sat down and discussed the law of supply and demand. As long he kept demanding this worthless crap from stall renters at the flea market, they'd keep supplying it.

It reminded me of this show on television where a girl explains to her boyfriend that flea markets provide an outlet for our prehistoric drives to hunt and gather. The boyfriend just kept eating his ice cream cone with a far-away look in his eyes.

It's the same look Mr. Half wore during that whole supply-and-demand discussion.

Heidi Neiland is a former staff writer for the Southeast Missourian who now lives in Pensacola, Fla.