Shopping procrastination.

The old washing machine churns away oblivious to its swanky new laundry room. The dryer grumbles along beside it, doing the same old work, no matter the surroundings. 

The new dishwasher is quiet - for a dishwasher. 

No!  Bad kitty.

Pepper runs out of the bedroom and leaps to the kitchen counter (where the crock pot is just starting to work up a sweat).  

The new robot vacuum comes steaming out of the hallway after her and thumps into my chair leg.

The vacuum is named Rover.  I started out calling it Rosie.  Like in the Jetson’s.  But dog like, it always seems to be barging around the house after the cat, no matter where she runs to hide.  

Pepper would normally run outside through her new ChubbyKat door, but the automatic sprinklers are on.  She settles for a watchful crouch behind one of the rickety old bar stools instead.

So, the day's housework progressing nicely, lots of noise and motion. As if the chores are checking themselves off the list. Which, in a way, they are.

The toughest chores on the list have no automatic timers, though. No robotic wheels. No clickers.  No autopilot.  And unfortunately, no check marks either.

Shopping. 

(The heirarchy of Ugh, in geometric progression.)

Food shopping - not so terrible. 
Furniture shopping - could be worse. 
Clothes shopping - OK, it's worse. 

Ugh.  Ugh times Ugh.  Ugh to the power of three.  

I would a thousand times rather write any kind of meaningless essay than go shopping. 

Which explains where I am - typing at the dining room table - instead of searching for a desk/work-table for the newly designated office/sewing/guest room.

If I didn't have my run shoes in the car for a stop at the park on the way home, I am not sure I could convince myself to go at all.

So why the shopping phobia? 

I have no explanation.  Not a good one, anyway.

 I do not like the act of acquiring things.  Even necessary things.

Because if you don't get it just right, then you have not only wasted your money, but you must go back.  And back again.  Until you do get it right.

Too much pressure and no joy.

I already know going in that what I want is impossible to buy. 

Because it doesn't really exist.  

Bike jerseys that fit, and have pockets. Pants that don't have to be taken in at the waist. An old farm table small enough to fit in the guest room, yet big enough to lay out a whole quilt.  And bar stools.  Sleek and modern for me, yet cushy with backs to lean on for Popeye.

So, who cares?  What's the point of writing this?

Shopping procrastination.  Duh.

So...  

Have I mentioned the new (to me) pavement-dirt-beer-taco ride in Sebastian on Friday?  

Or the Malabar Scrub Sanctuary ride on Saturday morning in partnership with the mysterious new BMBA organization? 

Or that there was a full moon hash on Saturday night? 

How about the tiki torches burning bright above pale, white sand under a wide, white moon?  

Have I talked at all about the muddy goo aroma of the car after the Econ on Sunday?

No?

Seriously, I have to get going.

But I'll put off the inevitable a few more minutes and see if there are at least some pictures I can put up.  How's that?  A bit of extra procrastination for me. A few of my lame phone snaps for you.  Sweet deal.  For me, anyway.

 

The new work space-to-be.

Friday night.  Old view.  New dock.

Malabar Sanctuary's Road-to-Nowhere.

Execpt that it does go somewhere.

About 8 miles of decent, twisty, single track - and new bridges.

The local fat tire crowd.

Good turnout.  Probably fifty.

Saturday night.  

The hares setting up tiki torches on the riverbank.

 

Sunday afternoon. 

The Econ has gone down five or six feet since last week.

All trails passable, if a bit sloppy here and there. 

 (The bump on the right end of that log is a baby gator.)

Inspector Gadget.

 

 

 

Popeye, ready to get going.

Is that a glow in the dark necklace still hanging on your seatpost?

 

 

 

Northstar wins the clean up contest.

 Far less muddy than the rest of us,

plus the best pedicure.

 

 

Monday - already?