11.3.00

Soup

I've come over all domestic.

Alright, alright. Cooking probably doesn't automatically define one as "domestic", but after making pumpkin soup from scratch, not from a can or packet, and sweating over my labours in the kitchen, and happily wearing oversized sweat pants (affectionately dubbed my "fat pants" - you could probably fit a whole circus troupe in each leg) with my hair all up and hairclipped away from my face, it's the word I yearn to use most.

I seem to be more domestic than most of my friends. I'm actually looking forward to cooking and maintaining a house; to having a family and rearing children. (Except for the whole painful birthing process - that is going to hurt. I am master of the understatement.) In such modern times, where women advance towards careers that even thirty years ago were out of their reach, I'm probably a feminist's nightmare. I don't care. If by striving towards women's rights all of these years we've been looking for the right to do what we wish, regardless of gender - then let me be domestic!

I braved KMart again today. I suppose this is because of a hidden sado-masochistic nature within myself; spending money I've slaved to save up hurts both my purse and the part of my brain where a teeny tiny accountant lives, tapping at a calculator and reminding me I have to pay my $400.00 phone bill sooner or later. Oh, and then there's that part where I hate shopping and trying on clothes, but I've already told you about that.

I went initially to return a jumper that just wasn't flattering (it was a very blah shade of green - it looked great in the store, but to have it look good on me all the time, I'd have to carry a fluorescent light around and hold it over my head), and a pair of pants that the checkout girl had neglected to free of the "anti-theft" device. I could have worn the pants with it attached and not cared less, but I wouldn't want to explain myself everytime I went shopping. I thought, "Alright, I'll get a nicer jumper, and a better fitting pair of pants. No problem."

$200.00 later... ugh.

Granted, $79.00 was covered by the exchange of the other clothes, but that doesn't make it any less painful. And what do I have to show for my ceaseless spending? A pair of overoveroversized grey sweat pants, a rugby shirt with Eeyore on it, a navy blue pair of slacks, two new nightshirts (let's hear a cheer for sleepwear!), a scrunchie and some hairclips, a Shania Twain cd ("Come On Over" - look, I'm sure you have your happy music somewhere, leave me alone), and an X-Files video (miraculously, I found one containing two of my favourite episodes - "Pusher" and "Jose Chung's 'From Outer Space'"). My mother, who accompanied me in her Purple Wheelchair of Doom, bought me a navy blue Winnie-the-Pooh jumper, so that covers the sweater purchase (and saves me around $50.00).

Depending on how you look at it, it was good value. My inner accountant is whispering, "You just wasted $200.00 of the savings you'll need once you're in the States with Nathan." The mental self-flaggelation goes on.)

Whilst shopping - more accurately, when I was showing my mother how incredibly bad I look in the blue pants I ended up purchasing - I ran into an old friend from school, Michael. He seemed happy to see me, which didn't register with the little Eeyore-ish gloom cloud that seems to have settled over my head lately (which is urging me to tell everyone I interact with, "Thankyou for noticing me."). We made small talk about what we've been doing since school, and it eventually came out that I'm leaving for America in a matter of weeks. His eyes lit up and he exclaimed, "Seriously?" and I nodded. Now came the hard part: explaining why. "Oh, I'm just packing up my life and moving halfway across the world to be with someone I intend marrying" doesn't seem the right thing to say when the time to converse is limited and there aren't hours in which to explain the circumstances. So I dropped words like "travelling" and "seeing the world", and replied to the question, "You are coming back, right?" with a blithe, "Maybe." What can I say? "Maybe, in seven years, if I do in fact gain citizenship in the timely fashion I hope I will."?

We hugged a couple of times and he wished me good luck for my travels, and I went about my shopping-type business. It made me think about how many of my so-called friends and acquaintances don't know the entire truth behind my "travelling"; only a couple know that it is permanent, not a mere vacation, and the rest - of those that actually know and care - think that it's just temporary. I'm sure it won't bother them once I'm gone.

I think I'll go and settle back in my Eeyore gloom-cloud and watch music videos (courtesy of Rage), and perhaps enjoy the fruits (or soups) of my domestic labour. Goodnight.