The Shopping Truth

You know, for a girl, I really suck at shopping. Due to my bloody agoraphobia I either shop when I’ve had a couple of toots in which case I buy things according to how pretty they are and I will inevitably come home with strawberries, chocolate biscuits, highly overpriced coffee, and sticky buns instead of toilet paper, potatoes, bread, milk and stuff you can make actual meals out of.

And if I’m not sufficiently tooted up I run anxiously around like a frikkin fruit fly and just chuck the essentials in (bread, marmite, handy andy) and come home with nothing fun and quite frankly not much to make meals out of either. The up side of this is that I am forced to become very creative in order to make stomach-able meals out of precious little and I've got quite good at it. When there are only really very mismatched things in the fridge, I tell my daughter that its bits n pieces which I have heartily regaled to her was something that my mom used to do as a treat for my sister and I – which we totally fell for.  My child doesn't quite fall for it; she is way too sophisticated in her reasoning, and makes this known through her facial expression when I hand it to her, a tentative smile playing on my lips. She is very kind hearted so she eats it and then asks very sweetly for dessert. Panic! How about a pear? Results in the look, only her eyeballs move and her lips are a straight line – you know the one?  Depending on her mood she either sighs and grouches and turns her eyes back to Family Guy or some other completely inappropriate series OR wails that she wants to live with her Dad rather! I've learned to not shout or cry now.

There is nothing quite as depressing as having an empty fridge or larder. And it doesn’t matter how many times I open the fridge, there is still no magic food fairy that has restocked it since 2 minutes ago. It really makes me very sad. Especially when I am genuinely hungry and not just work avoiding or bored or cross or overtired or or or….

The other thing I am almost genuinely allergic to is putting the newly washed clothes into my cupboard. Unless I have a cleaning lady come in every now and then, it stays in a bundle on a chair in my room and gets entangled with the dirty clothes. And what’s particularly amazing about this is that the pile is massive and yet I still don’t have anything to wear that looks in any way presentable. Hence how my style is much like my food – bits n pieces thrown together in a creatively constructive way that hides the ever increasing bulges, bruises,  and of course the tattoos – cos school principals don’t dig on the body art so much, namean?

I’ve always found that cleaning a clean house is so much more enjoyable than a dirty dished, fruit fly filled, heaps of crap kinda house. Funny that! So often I will embark on a little rearrangement and sorting once the poor, long suffering cleaning lady has dealt with the basics.

I love rearranging my house. I could never live with a blind person cos they would hate me. So I don’t. Live with a blind person I mean. I get into a total flurry of I want to move this all immediately, by myself or with whomever happens to be in a shout-able radius,  and it must must must be done NOW. (geez I sound like an industry bitch), so I invariably strain every muscle in my back and need a week of traction. Oh also I break stuff by being too eager and bull-in-a-china-shop-ish. Every time. Who was it that said that the definition of stupidity is doing the same thing again and again and expecting different results? Einstein I think? He would definitely have had a field day with me as his lab-rat.

Anyway, Im off to look in the fridge. Again.

Take care,

Anna