Shop ‘Til You Drop

My idea for Valentines Day was simple: spend the morning with Marina compiling our bridal registry and then treat her to a romantic lunch at McDonalds where she could order whatever her heart desired, even if that meant supersizing her meal and having a soft serve cone for desert.

Little did I know how involved my proposal would be!

A week before the infamous Hallmark holiday I suggested to Marina that we should go through the list of suggestions supplied with the Myer bridal pack and highlight the items we wanted on the gift registry. Marina’s lips curled into a smile, before she dragged me into her room and handed me a piece of paper.

I looked it over and wondered what I had gotten myself into. Marina had not only selected the entries that appealed to her but added ticks, crosses, post it notes, mind maps, diagrams and helpful hints. Compared to Marina’s list, mine was nothing more than a “rough guide”. For example, whereas I was content with any mug, Marina wanted a mug to match the kitchen bench tops and add contrast to the curtain colour scheme.

Drinking utensils weren’t the issue however, fine china was.

I personally did not see the need to have a set of plates for everyday use and another set in case the Queen dropped by around for a cup of tea and cucumber sandwiches. Maybe it’s a guy thing, but I usually appreciate the meal rather than the plate it is served on, even if it is hand crafted by a blind monk in China and painted using techniques passed down since the dawn of time.

Another aspect about formal dining ware that confounds me is that if it is that special and pretty, why do girls insist on covering it with food and getting it dirty? Wouldn’t it be better on display for everyone to appreciate? I know for a fact that if a guy likes the appearance of an object, be it a dish, a car or anything else for that matter, the last thing he wants is to cover it up. Sure he may want to get the aforementioned items dirty, with say, mud or even jelly, but he certainly does not want them hidden from view.

This point notwithstanding, our discussion about the need for proper tableware continued until I my ears were ringing and I had no option but to relent, not realising our conversation was “Part one” of a two part extravaganza.

I continued reading until I noticed a piece of kitchenware that I deemed unnecessary. Rather than get into the specifics, I will simply relay the fiery conversation that took place.

“Why the heck do we need that?” I questioned.

“We just do!”

“I have never even heard you talk about using anything like that.”

“I’ve used my mum’s!”

“When?”

“Before I met you.”

“Isn’t that convenient?”

Marina said nothing and aimed a teacher’s look in my direction.

“Tell me something else babe…” I asked.

Again, there was silence.

“Where exactly are we going put this contraption of yours?”

“I have a place in mind,” Marina shot back.

Needless to say I did not get anywhere and ended up choosing the smartest, if not only course of action available to me; something that my grandfather, Bourke, Rudolph and every other man in a relationship, married or otherwise, has done since the dawn of time for the sake of his sanity, I waved a white flag.

The “Day of Love” arrived and City Rail decided to make it extra special by placing bright, happy yellow signs around Penshurst station that boldly proclaimed to every commuter that “Track work” was in full swing.

As a result, we arrived at Myer ninety minutes late and were greeted by Margaret, a lady with a welcoming smile and cheerful disposition who made no mention of our tardiness and simply got down to business.

After recording Marina’s details, she directed her questions at me. I gave her my name and address, but was stopped short at my phone number. Margaret held up her hand, stared me straight in the eye and told me “not to worry,” because she “had all the information she needed.” I was taken aback. Again, my role in the wedding had been downgraded from dashing groom to handsome bystander. But as Matt, Shannon’s husband told me, I’d “better get used to it.”

The next question concerned the delivery address of our new apartment (more on this in later blog).

“How do you spell that?” Margaret asked.

“C. O. U. R. A. Double L. I. E.” Marina said.

Without hesitation, I disagreed. “There is only one ‘l’ ”

“There are two honey,” Marina rebuked.

“No there aren’t.”

“Yes they are!”

Margaret’s head swivelled from left to right, engrossed in our tennis match of words. I wanted to continue but we were running late enough as it was and instead of wasting any more time agreed with Marina.

Marina though, like me, knew this debate was not over. After the relevant data was entered into the computer and we were given our PDA and told to “enjoy ourselves” Marina propositioned me: “Honey, if you are that sure about the spelling of new street name, we should have a bet as to which one of us is right?”

“What are the stakes?” I asked.

“The loser buys the winner a CD.”

I did not even have to think about it. “You’re on babe, be prepared to visit JB!”

“We’ll see,” Marina said and led me into the zany world of Royal Dolton and Part 2 of our discussion – “Fine China: Hidden Fork, Crouching Gravy Boat.”

We browsed through the vast array of crockery on offer and I was again completely baffled as to why women insisted on paying a premium price for these items which were, in reality, nothing more that grains of sand heated to over thousand degrees and decorated in random designs? This fact did not deter Marina from studying each set in such minute detail, I almost expected her to pull out a microscope. Finally, after careful examination of the sets on display, and with a high pitched squeal that brought the glassware near breaking point, Marina spotted the dining set she wanted.

Like every dutiful fiancée before me, I cooed and “Ahhed” at the appropriate times until Marina informed me she would like ten sets.

I did a double take and a quick head count. There was one of her and one of me. That made two people. At most we might have a couple of extra people over for dinner. This made four. To be safe and prepared for unexpected company, I thought six would have sufficed.

Marina shook her head, admonished my mental ability and like a true Indian, started haggling with me, aiming to bargain me up. Being of similar heritage, I stood my ground and tried to talk her down. Unfortunately this approach is only successful if the two parties involved are not stubborn. We were still negotiating with each other five minutes later, and by then it was fairly obvious that getting us to meet in the middle was as going to be as difficult as parting the red sea…Harder even.

“Ring your mum,” Marina challenged. “Ask her how many sets we think we should get.”

I happily dialled my mum’s number, thinking that since I am her only son, she will definitively take my side. Boy was I wrong. I told her my side of the domestic and she instantly asked to speak to Marina.

Obviously my opinion as handsome bystander did not matter and rather than fight two women, which is as painful as having a root canal performed without anaesthetic, I dutifully did what I was told. I barely finished scanning the relevant barcode when Marina spotted the matching coffee jug and creamer and began salivating.

Look folks, I could continue to ramble on about another heated discussion, but I am going to be honest with you. If you pop around and Marina is at work, giving her credit card a work out or at her night class – “Advanced Nagging: Make him submit with facial expressions!” – you will not be offered any food on fine china. Paper plates would be more like it and as for the coffee jug and creamer, I call it a kettle and the milk is in the fridge. Feel free to help yourself. Personally, you should be thankful there is not a cow nearby because I would happily hand you a bucket.

We continued on to kitchenware and again I was mortified by the price tags. Who knew that a spot that changed colour when it got hot was worth over 200 dollars? Then of course there were the salt and pepper shakers. Seventy dollars each? I think not. Here’s a tip for all of you, if you want cracked pepper, take some peppercorns, stick it in a tea towel and use a hammer. Wullah! Cracked pepper! Cheap and easy, not to mention flavoursome!

Obviously I could go on for hours about what a cheap (insert a word of your choice here) I am, but you know that already and are probably more interested in finding out who won our bet about the spelling of our street? When we returned to Marina’s place, she hurriedly checked the name in the street directory.

“You see!” a triumphant grin spreading across her face. “It’s spelt with a double ‘l’.”

“And what does that prove?”

“It proves you are wrong!”

I disagreed. “How do you know that the street directory is not wrong?”

Used to my stubbornness Marina pulled out the contract of sale.

“So I suppose the contract is wrong too.”

“Well it could be a snowball effect. A typo in the street directory is transferred to the lawyers and hence the contract.”

Marina placed her hands on her hips. “Let me get this straight. You’re an ass who thinks one single typo has infiltrated map makers, lawyers and society in general.”

“It can happen,” I told her.

“Can it now?” She questioned.

“Yes it can.”

“You’re an idiot!”

No doubt you all share Marina’s disbelief at my obstinate nature. To prove that spelling is not as gospel as everyone thinks it is, I have inserted two “missing” paragraphs from Between Borders and Buses in its complete unedited glory:

You know what amazes me the most about the Colleseum? That even after 2000 years, people still cannot spell it correctly. When I was writing this chapter, I thought Microsoft Word was playing funny buggers, because every instance of Colleseum would come up misspelled. I decided something crazy was going on (and it’s not my lack of ability it spell either) and so turned to that overflowing font of information, the Internet. You would think the world’s largest information repository would get it right, but no, Google too was throwing up a different spelling to what Word recognised.

I decided to check the Macquarie Dictionary and found they chose to spell Colleseum like this – “Coliseum”. This matter intrigued me no end (and yes, I know I need to get out more and maybe I will someday, just not now that’s all) and after some digging on the net, I found there were six other ways to spell Colleseum. As a guide, I provide them for you now – Coloseum, Colisseum, Colliseum, Colleseum, Colossium and Colissium.

You see, if the spelling Colleseum can be vary, then why not the spelling of Couralie either. To further prove my point, I want to bring to your attention the name of Eric, which can be spelt with “c” or a “k.” Couralie too, if a person so desires, could also be spelt with a “C” or a “K” and as such, what is stopping someone from using two “l’s” instead of one.

With such overwhelming evidence proving just because a word is spelt different to the norm does not necessarily make it wrong, how can I conclusively say that either Marina or I won our bet. Therefore in the spirit of ambiguity (not to mention B.S.), I declare our bet null and void and this blog, unlike our registry which is still a work in progress, done, dusted and at an end.

Till the next one, happy shopping.