Proved right. Women are genetically programmed to shop.
I really like reading the newspaper these days. A lot of the news just proves that the powers above have set out little elves working in remote labs to validate what I always knew. The sleep as much as you like theory was one. The second was validated today.
Says the newspaper report and quote I, “The University of California researchers found that women really are better than men not only at finding their way around stores, but also at remembering where those fruits and vegetables are stored in shelves. The reason for this lies in evolution, the researchers stated. Women, over the centuries, have honed their skill of finding the best fruits and berries to sniffing out the best bargains.” Which is why I know instantly, the moment I walk into a store whether that humunguous 70 per cent off sale sign in the window is true and on Gods oath, or whether the creeps running the show have jacked up the prices 70 per cent sitting up the previous night to change all the tags and then crossed the jacked up price out neatly with computer programming cross and printed on the supposed 70 per cent discounted price. Caught one store out, stupid of them, considering we women really have a Tally spreadsheet ledger in our brains on price comparisons between stores. Yes, this is even in my Oh-God-I-am-going-to-flunk-algebra brain. We women know exactly how much off a regular price a sale price is on that must die for pair of shoes, even if we need to take out a calculator to check our total at the local sabzi wallah.
Am doing strange things these days, the MIL almost put her hand to my forehead to check my temperature the other day at Lifestyle when I spent an inordinately long time in the crockery and home furnishings section. It was such a deviation from normal behaviour which has me glued stubbornly to shoes and bags section, with the occasional meandering towards the kiddy wear and clothes section, that it warranted for checking of the pulse and administering of intravenous glucose. The new house is almost ready to move into, and have managed to drag the husband into many furniture shops to buy a new sofa set and dining table set. And therefore, the mind is now not focused on adorning self, but instead adorning home. So there was I fainting orgasmically at the wondering silk cushions and throw pillows in brocade with gold borders, hunting high and low for leopard print cushions (Yes, yes, am not ashamed to admit, I have a fetish for leopard print. Don’t know what that says about suppressed aggression levels, considering one is only animalistic when one is thwarted from taking a good nap. Rouse me from slumber at your own peril. The family has learnt that and tip toes around me when I am napping. Seen a lioness disturbed from her post lunch snooze on Discovery? That’s me. Add on some extra kilos for the realistic shaking with anger effect though.) The mental ticklist is on constantly with things I must buy to make the house complete. This is a woman who would pore through interior designing magazines as a child and plan out exotic room decorations, and shock her mother every day by doing some abomination on the interiors of the existing home in the name of decoration. Think scrubbing off the steel plating on all the taps to restore the bronzed look, think drawing roses on all the lampshades with felt pens to create an English countryside cottage look, think painting patches of the wall with watercolours to create a stippled finish when no one, read no one, was doing walls in different coloured patches. This was thirty odd years ago. For those who lived then and remembered those prehistoric days, we all had uniform white walls, and Godrej cupboards and sofa sets with antimacassars painfully embroidered by some lady of the house and those three flying geese on the walls. I hated it. I wanted more than the chintzy floral curtains every house had so I cut up my mother’s brocade sarees one fine afternoon and hung them up with safety pins. I will not even dare to recount the tongue lashing this manifestation of my creativity received. And then I married into a home which had painfully copied artworks by one of the daughters of the house on every wall. Luckily, I didn’t have the nerve to suggest any changes here, until the husband took it on himself to get the interiors redone. So we called in an interior decorator who put in Italian marble flooring, and designer grills and wooden flooring in the bedrooms, and wood and plaster of paris false ceilings and such like. But those paintings still stayed on. You get my drift. So here I am, with a brand new house at my disposal. Am like a kid salivating in front of a candy store at the prospect of doing it up my way. My vision is a home with a trendy urban vibe to it, with a tinge of Indian heritage through the fabrics and the embellishments and artefacts. The husband sees a Bollywood mansion in the making with gold framed ceilings and plush knee deep carpets, and I suspect mirrors everywhere. (BTW, just what has this man been watching?). The MIL plans a god on every wall. God bless us all.