Perhaps Psychoanalysis Would Help

That amusing incident last week with Nicky, a rag, the toilet, and a plumber ended up costing $712.  You would’ve been proud of me, though.  I simply wrote out the cheque as though I’m handed bills like that on a daily basis.  Because after all, one needs a toilet that works, so it’s pointless to go mental at these moments.

The week improved somewhat after that.  My potato salad was such a raging success with Minister Bond and Denis’ co-workers that I was asked to produce another one for their big day in Penticton on Tuesday.  Once again, Denis brought home the huge, gleaming, empty stainless steel bowl and said the entire salad had been polished off with glee.

While Luke was home I cooked like a camp cook at an oil rig.  Huge steaming plates of spaghetti and meat sauce were consumed, along with vats of chocolate mousse.  I made Yorkshore puddings, mashed potatoes made with butter and creamo, and boats of gravy to accompany a gigantic pot roast.

Luke left with some reluctance this morning, and said he wouldn’t likely be back home until Christmas.  I doubt that.  I didn’t want to point this out, but since he left for Alberta in January, I believe he’s been home pretty steadily every two months.  Not that one begrudges the visits from one’s child, of course, it’s just that it seems quite frequent to me.

And now the time has finally come for me to devote myself to the production of fruitcakes.  I bought a ton of product, and need to spend the afternoon getting the kitchen organized.  Then tomorrow, all by my brave little self, I’m going to start early in the morning and produce delectable baked goods like a pastry chef at Oprah’s on a Saturday night.

And I serioulsy must start to make some decent money because unfortunately that shopping genie’s grabbed a hold of me again and it’s been quite mischievous.  Would you believe, I was at The Bay four days in a row, thanks to their 50%, take ANOTHER 50% off, sale.

I got two pairs of lovely jeans, regular $100 for $25.  I nearly went mad.  Once I’d bought those I was just like Barbara Amiel and my extravagance knew no bounds.  Of course for her, that means Tiffany’s, but for me, I was luxuriating in the wares at The Bay.

After all the buying came the purging.  I filled two black garbage bags with old clothes that either no longer fit, or let’s face it, I hate them.  So off they went to the Salvation Army Thrift Store for someone like me to find.  It felt really good, actually, because I realized I’m never going to wear those clothes, so why am I keeping them?

I believe with the 15 pairs of pants and 18 tops I should be able to scrape something up for the daily jaunt to the gym.  It’s funny because to bake I put on a ratty pair of leggings and a grease-stained T shirt.  Why I continue to purchase clothes is a topic for Dr. Freud’s couch.

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