A date with Sarah-Kate; Kate’s home truths
Sarah-Kate’s feeling far from budget-friendly
There’s a long list of things I am not very good at, but saving money is right at the top of it. I’m not a huge shopper, but I’ve certainly given it a nudge at times and have even employed such clever skills as getting full-priced things put in a sale bag to hoodwink the Ginger.
Unfortunately, he’s not that stupid and because we share a bank account, it all gets horribly exposed anyway, unless I pay half in cash, which, of course, does happen. However, after 10 years of wondering whether we should renovate our house or not, we’ve finally decided that we should, so the penny-pinching is about to begin.
By the way, it would be a lot better if space didn’t cost a million dollars a square metre to tack on. How did that happen? Whatever, we are now entering the zone of cut-price everything.
For the Ginger, this means buying things at the supermarket that are on special, using the six cents-a-litre-off voucher at the gas station, not drinking fancy beers, not going out for dinner, not buying new spiky green things or rocks for the garden – and even planting some vegetables in our vege patch, if he can find it through the weeds. Although hopefully not kale because kale is the cockroach of the vegetable world in my opinion.
For me, it means, according to him, staying at home and not going anywhere near the shops – or the internet – because that’s where all the things are and we now have a moratorium on things. In fact, he’s quite keen to get on TradeMe and sell some of the things we already have. I’m sorry, the things I already have.
My German paratrooper jumpsuit bought at a Sydney op shop in 1985 and last worn in 1995? I don’t think so. My abdominiser, my collection of Swiss balls in varying sizes and colours, my Reebok stepper, my barbells, roller skates and my collection of approximately 142 Tracy Anderson DVDs, most of them unopened? Hmm. Best I stop spending money on magic tricks to make my muffin top disappear.
But eating healthily is an expensive exercise. If you want fresh food that’s not full of radiated hormones and corn syrup, then you have to pay for it. I like my chicken organic and my mangos for breakfast, but under the new regime, they’re toast. Literally.
And the Ginger is having some truly terrible ideas for extra fundraising. He has suggested he take Ted the dog and go busking. Neither of them can sing or play an instrument, so I’m not sure how that’s going to pan out, but I sure as hell don’t want to be within cooee when they give it a bash. You know what? Maybe we don’t need a carport after all. Maybe I can embrace the hair frizz that happens between front door and car in howling wind and driving rain. Better that, perhaps, than kale?