Of Energy Shots and Smog Certs

In an amazing show of efficiency, the AAA -recommended gas station that Smog Certified my car completed the task within their 45-minute time estimate. Lucky for me, because they had no waiting room and it was 95 degrees outside. The guys from the garage graciously placed a folding chair in front of the boxes of beer inside the air-conditioned Mini Mart for my dog and me. They must not like unconscious clients littering the gas pump area.

"What?" I said, "I can have my dog in a food mart?"

"Yes," reassured the clerk, "because we don't have any open food here" (Or anything that can really be classified as food, I thought. But being old and finally getting wise, I said nothing.)

Little Oliver was content with his head on my shoulder and I was left to admire a wall. As I sat there, bemused as usual, I realized what an amazing wall it was. On five 5-foot shelves and three rows of hooks, this wall held pretty much everything people need to live their lives--or survive a disaster. It even had four rows of baseball caps up by the ceiling in case said disaster was a big wind that knocked everyone's USC and UCLA caps clear into Arizona. Instead of getting an earthquake kit, I may just take up residence in the Mini Mart.

The bottom shelf held cans of something called "Energy Shots" (clarify this for me, anyone who has been brave enough to ingest one of these), instant lunches and packaged meals that require no refrigeration. The shelf must have sagged dangerously at some point, because someone cut a broom handle off and nailed it to the center of both lower shelves with its tip resting on the floor. The second shelf had all the things you need but don't think about until you don't have them: toilet paper, bar soap, feminine hygiene products, eye glass repair kits, baby wipes, dish soap, and hand lotion. The largesse of comfort items made the mom in me practically giddy.

Lighter fluid (a must in disaster situations--especially if you have a lighter), pocket tissues, shampoo, mousse, shaving cream, teeth whitener, and toothpaste filled the third shelf. The fourth and fifth shelves were a miniature pharmacy, with cute little packages of everything from band-aids and eye drops to aspirin and every non-aspirin pain reliever known to man. My admiration for the person who stocked these shelves grew by the minute.

The three rows of hooks above the shelves were masterpieces of architecture and ingenuity. Hanging from a variety of industrial and homemade fasteners were knit gloves, playing cards, extra brushes for electric toothbrush thingies (well, what do you call them, anyway?), batteries, lint removers, fun cameras, razors, condoms, hand sanitizer, and something called "Stain Gone."

All this, and beer too. My, my. I was having a great time imagining people gathered round my little wall after a disaster, eating packaged meals, shaving, and listening to battery-operated radios while drinking beer and waiting for FEMA. But then the guys in the garage called my name. My car was ready and it was time to relinquish the folding chair and the great view of the wall.

With many thanks for the great hospitality, I paid my bill and drove out of there in search of a place with real food that isn't preserved in fat and salt for posterity--and future archeologists. The wall is great, but it didn't entice me to buy and consume anything on its shelves. I think it might take a good strong disaster to make that stuff look more attractive to the average female shopper.

BTW, my car passed the smog certification. Just one more step in my metamorphosis back into a Californian!

Energy Shot, anyone?