Whenever I buy something new I have to leave it in the cupboard (still in its pristine wrapping) for at least two weeks… at least. Shoes, clothing, books, perfume… it doesn’t matter what the item is, I just don’t like to use it until it has served its mandatory sentence of quarantine.
Scotto is the exact opposite to me and has regularly been observed ripping his old shirt off in the shop and putting the new one on before we’ve exited the place of purchase. He’s weird.
This idiosyncrasy of mine has backfired on me at times; for example, when I bought a formal dress to marry Scotto in I left it hanging in the cupboard for three months. I finally took it out a week before the big day, tried it on, hated its guts and attempted to return it to the store of purchase.
The boutique owner- let’s just call her ‘Cruella’- accused me of fraudulently wearing the dress and unpleasantly refused me a store credit.
“I think this has been worn!” she sneered. “Do you think I’m stupid? Who would have a dress in their cupboard for three months and not wear it?”
Er… me.
The b#stard five hundred dollar dress sat in the cupboard for another five years before I finally gave it away to one of Lulu’s budding fashion designer friends to cut into little pieces.
I’ve actually been banned from that particular shop because of a few angrily exchanged letters but we won’t go into that.
Sometimes I’ll stand in front of my wardrobe complaining bitterly to Scotto that I have nothing to wear. “What about that long-sleeved shirt you bought at Christmas, Pinky?” he will suggest helpfully.
“Aaah no, it’s not ready to come out yet. It’s only May.” I’ll nonsensically reply.
Even when I bought my car, Golden Boy, I didn’t really drive it anywhere for an entire fortnight. I’d open the garage door, walk around it admiringly, then drive to the shop in the old Holden Commodore.
If anyone gives me a gift voucher I hang on to it for at least a couple of months and then whatever I end up buying is cordoned off for a further period of seclusion. My birthday is in September and often I won’t actually use my present until my next birthday rolls around.
I think part of this Pinky peculiarity stems from the fact that I generally hate new things. Firstly, because I expect perfection and I’m so often disappointed and secondly, I hate reading a new set of instructions.
More than one brand new vacuum cleaner has been destroyed after I’ve thrown the useless mongrel across the room in frustration at its dismal lack of suction power. I suppose you can’t expect too much from a thirty-nine dollar vacuum cleaner but the man in the shop had made certain promises and I was hopeful.
Cheapness, could also be another reason for my oddity. I’ve been known to persevere with a hairdryer that exasperatedly cuts out every thirty seconds when it becomes overheated while a perfectly good brand new one sits patiently in its unopened box in my cupboard. I want to get that last cent’s worth out of the old one you see.
Stabbing myself in the eye with an ancient, caked mascara while its fresh, packaged cousin sits good-naturedly in my bathroom drawer, is part of my day.
Shoes are undoubtedly the worst victims. Unspoiled and virginal shoes will remain ensconced in their boxes at the foot of my wardrobe until their disgustingly worn out predecessors finally call it a day and snap in half. Only then will the unsullied, spotless footwear be awarded liberty. Even today as I clattered around in my sandals with both heels falling off; continually checking behind me as I walked to see who was following me because of the echo they created, my only thought was, “I wonder if Scotto has any superglue at home I can use to fix these.”
I’m such a cheapskate I’d probably still be using a pre-paid Nokia 101 if Scotto hadn’t been such a techno-Nazi, forcing me to upgrade my phone every two years.
Yesterday, Hagar presented me with a lovely Lorna-Jane bag containing two new shirts for Mother’s Day. Oh well… they should be ready to come out of the closet by next May.
