Happy New Year: Diary of a Cheapskate

Purchasing a $22 ornament that had been marked down 40 percent at a chic department store three days before Christmas, I swore I saw the salesman trigger the silent alarm. Of course, rereading that last sentence, it sounds like one of those awful “If Train A leaves the station going thirty mph” questions from high school Algebra. No wonder he shoved that pile of nickels at me like a shiv in the prison yard.

But at least I didn’t leave that place feeling like I’d landed on the official Enemies List. Again. At an upscale boutique ten days earlier, I’d finished up a productive day of Christmas shopping for others by buying myself a stylin’ pair of pants. I planned on wrapping them and putting them under my own tree (having to wait two long weeks to become stylin’ is an excellent way of assuaging Cheapskate Guilt). Which officially made them a holiday gift. Which officially meant I should pay cash for them, too.

Which officially set off all sorts of warning bells for the CIA agent masquerading as a greyhaired granny working behind the counter. Here’s a precise transcript of our conversation:

Me: “I’ll be paying cash for these pants.”

Granny Spook: “Fine. May I please have your phone number?”

Me: “Uh, why?”

Granny: “So we know who NOT to call when we lock you inside Guantanamo.”

Okay, so I compressed a bit. Basically, without a credit card number, they needed some other way to track me and try to sell me more of what I’d already bought. But I held firm—paying cash, refusing to divulge my number AND delivering a stirring “Give me liberty or give me death”-ish bit of oratory:

“This is America!” I thundered, while a hidden camera probably scanned my irises and deposited the info in a secret government data bank. “Can’t I still wear my pants anonymously?!”

I could. But I couldn’t pay cash for a pizza oven, no matter how hard I tried.

One look at that big chain store’s ad and I knew I’d found the perfect gift for my father. He’s got red sauce flowing through his veins, but an abhorrence for spending money on the proper tools of the culinary trade. My local store was sold out of the oven, but the staff directed me to two competitors in the mall that might have it. No luck. Still, there were other malls in Georgia.