I am not a housewife

At Cold Storage with Ondine and Kay on Friday night, I scoured the vegetables aisles for packs of pre-prepared salad, which my mother had recommended as not-too-expensive, in-fact-on-sale-this-weekend, and good-for-lunch-since-I-always-complain-about-the-school-canteen's-oily-food. When it turned out that the only salad packs left were of the $6/meal variety (ouch!), my friends helpfully pointed out that I could buy a head of lettuce and other assorted vegetables to make my own salads for the week, and it would cost less than even the allegedly on-sale-but-out-of-stock $3.45 variety. To which I glummed in return, "But then I'd have to do all the chopping and washing ... too leh cheh (inconvenient/troublesome)." Fifteen minutes later, I left the store empty-handed, while Ondine had a host of lasagna ingredients and Kay more Prima Taste products than she had cupboard space for.

Later, at Ondine and Packrat's apartment, I mocked them for having strawberry milk that dates back to Chinese New Year. In return, I was put in my place for having fermented Ribena, a feat which apparently wins, hands-down, the blue ribbon for lackadaisacal housekeeping.

For dinner yesterday, I had two slices of wholemeal bread with Vegemite. This is not any newfangled attempt at a diet; I simply wasn't hungry, but figured eating a snack was better than having an empty stomach revolt at 10 pm. Even as snacks go, however, there just isn't that much in our kitchen to eat. Except chocolate, of course.

Some people are desperate housewives. I'm neither desperate nor a housewife. I'm just a chica with a highly underutilised kitchen. For rent, anyone?

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