I am not a shopper. Never have been.
When I was growing up, every fall my mother dutifully brought home an armload of dresses from the store so I would have something to wear to school. I was allowed to try them on in the privacy of my own room (with a decent mirror, I might add), and then she returned the rest. I suppose it was all that slonking of saddle shoes on the sides of escalators and counters, slamming of dressing room doors, and general irritability that convinced her to go to these extremes for me.
I would have been happy in my Levis and turtlenecks as a uniform. In fact, that was pretty much my entire wardrobe during summers and vacations. It makes life so much easier when shopping: turtle neck, one size and five colors. Done.
And, I ended up becoming a nurse so the profession determined my outfits. Uniforms. Fine by me and no need to paw through the closet and groan at my image in the mirror when I was having an I’m Too Fat To Wear This kind of day. I worked in the ER or Critical Care so I didn’t even have to buy my own uniforms; the hospitals did it for me. Washed them too. I wore my jeans and turtlenecks to work and back home again.
This lack of shopping has slopped over into the rest of my life. My husband is always frustrated with me, asking why I don’t get a new computer or microwave or dishrag, for that matter.
I’ve heard there is an OCD component to many shoppers, the obsession with the hunt, the compulsive need to own some object of desire, and the fulfillment of the conquest. It’s a disorder, I swear. I always feel extremely depressed when the money leaves my hand. There is probably a clinical diagnosis for me in the Diagnostical and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders and I’m willing to admit that I fall on the obsessive side of frugality from time to time. Alan calls it the Pinchy Gene.
I have never felt that thrill true shoppers talk about and so, day before yesterday, when I went over to our hired man’s house, I was out of my element.
Entirely.
We live in the tropics and are blessed with the unholy trinity of mildew mold, and, if not taken care of, rot. Houses here have to be washed, at least yearly, both inside and out. We eased into the whole “cleaning thing” by having our hired man’s father, who is currently working for us, wash and revarnish the outside of their little house.
Finished with the outside we moved him inside day before yesterday. Rosa, our hired man’s wife, had assured us that she was doing this on a regular basis, but we knew she probably hadn’t washed the upper beams and rafters, so we sent her father-in-law in for the job.
He seemed at a loss as to where to start so we went over to do some superintending. I immediately saw the dilemma. There was not a flat surface in that house that was not piled to capacity with stuff. George Carlin, bless his soul, could have used this house as a prop for his A Place for My Stuff routine. There were bottles of nail polish everywhere, toys and dolls (she has no children), more cooking utensils than I knew existed (she doesn’t cook), clothes, CDs, make up, figurines, and any other thing you can think of that can be purchased, including a dead Christmas tree from last December. It was as though I’d entered the realm of a person with a severe mental disorder.
Rosa grew up poor in Nicaragua and I’m sure this has something to so with the obsession. I suppose if I talked with a psychiatrist she would tell me that all these things are a replacement for a lost childhood. I can understand that, I guess. I haven’t ever experienced that kind of grinding poverty so it’s hard for me to relate, but I understand the concept.
What I can’t understand is the lack of care she takes with the things she has bought. I know, although I couldn’t round up the entire herd of nail polish bottles, that she probably has at least three duplicates of any given color, because she could never find the one she was looking for. Instead, she bought more. I know there have to be duplicates because they don’t make that many colors to represent the number of bottles I saw. They lined the windowsills of her room. They were on the kitchen counter, on the sewing machine, which hasn’t been used for any sewing for some time, on shelves in the bathroom, on the floor, they propped open windows and doors, one jammed under the door to keep it open. They were outside on the porch, and dead ones littered the underside of the house.
She has boxes of stuff filled to overflowing crammed into corners of their room, stacks of papers and magazines that tower and tilt on bureaus and chairs, and the corners of the kitchen were (are still, as papi hasn’t gotten that far yet) covered in mold from old fruit set on the floorboard to ripen. Slop buckets full of garbage and old brooms and mops that are broken afixed to the wall with spider webs so dense a person could get trapped in there.
I retreated to my own house, which seemed barren by comparison.
Papi has spent the last two days in their bedroom, which is 12′ X 12′. Today he tells us he is working in the second bedroom. The kitchen will be last, and worst.
I have to go grocery shopping today. I won’t buy much.
