As a result of all of this heavy-handed social-conscience inducing discussion in my formative years, I've grown up to be something of a hippy* myself. Aside from biodegradable shampoos, organic free-range everything and phosphate-free cleaning products I hate giving anything up to landfill. I darn the holes in my socks and re-heel my shoes. I buy most of my clothes from charity stores and donate the stuff I'm done with. My bras go to Tennant Creek for the indigenous women who don't have easy access to their own. When clothes do actually die they get cut up and hemmed into cleaning rags and the buttons go into my sewing kit. Nothing from our household makes it to landfill unless it well and truly belongs there.
But occasionally this thrifty sort of behaviour goes well beyond sensible and becomes a bit weird. I have two prime examples for your amusement this week. First up? My steering wheel cover. I love my car. I like it to be clean (which doesn't happen very often thanks to kids) and well-looked after which means steering wheel and seat belt covers, headlight and bonnet guards, heavy duty rubber floor mats.
I usually aim to give it a thorough clean every three-four months which includes emptying it completely, pulling the seats out to vacuum underneath, reconditioning all of the leather and plastic, taking the bonnet and headlight guards off before I wash and wax, the works. But let's face it, nothing I can do, even in the four hours or so it takes me to clean it inside and out, is going to beat having a team of five guys crawling all over it armed with tools and cleaning products. Plus, I wouldn't even know where to start when it comes to steam cleaning the upholstery (completely necessary if you let small children eat so much as a tim tam in your car). Nope, occasionally you've just got to get it done properly. So I recently took it to be valeted.
There is obviously something about me that telegraphs to people that here is a pushover who will listen politely to their unwanted opinion because for some reason I get a bunch of advice I never asked for that's delivered in a way that implies I've been a bit naughty. So it was with my car being valeted. When I went to pick it up the guy held onto my keys, looked at me sternly, told me in no uncertain terms not to leave it so long between visits next time oh and, by the way, consider replacing your steering wheel cover.
He did kind of have a point. Aside from the terrible state of the upholstery in the back, I'd been noticing the steering wheel cover's gradual disintegration over the last couple of months. Within a week of getting it back from the cleaners the steering wheel column was littered with flaked-off bits of leather from the cover. I tried to remember how long I've had it for and the best I could say was that originally I bought it for my Pulsar, which I sold not long after Charlotte was born. So somewhere in the order of 7+ years.
Part of my Dad's world-saving hippy philosophy is to spend money on buying decent stuff that will last rather than the $5 Kmart specials that will fall apart within a year. At the time I bought the cover it was top of the line from Supercheap. With almost ten years of use, it was obviously worth it and I wanted something similar again. Imagine the happy when I managed to find exactly the same one!!!
To show you just how long I'd left the upgrade? Photographic evidence;
I swear it is the same cover, right down to the slightly bogan cow skull logo**. But even so. Yikes. I don't think there's any colour even left on the first one and all of the grey leather has flaked away. That's the matching seat belt cover in case you're wondering (as an interesting side note, the new one came with a CD holder for my sun visor instead of seat belt covers).
To my other example! My oven mitts. The pair I had until very recently I bought when I separated from my ex almost 13 years ago and moved into my own place. They were the cheapest I could find at the time because I had no money whatsoever ($2 Clints special) but I still didn't upgrade at any point because buying a new anything purely because the one you've got is ugly is incredibly wasteful and I can't bring myself to do it (although, granted, the old pair of oven mitts looked like they belonged in one of those wanna be country kitchens with faux timber cupboards and tiled splashbacks featuring proud roosters and brown onions and this alone almost brought me to my thrifty knees on more than one occasion).
About six months ago is when I officially reached the point where I felt I could buy a new pair with a clear conscience - purely because the cotton had burned through in enough places that I had to arranage my hands in them so I wouldn't get burnt when taking stuff out of the oven. Despite my oven mitt jockeying expertise, I still managed to hurt myself a bunch of times necessitating standing with my fingers running under cool water after hopping around the kitchen swearing for a bit. I kept meaning to buy new ones, I swear. I just never got around to it or remembered when I needed to. Unsurprisingly oven mitts are one of those things tucked away in the backs of stores that you have to look for and not placed conveniently where you can go oh yeah, I forgot I needed these. Anyway, I digress. I'm forgetful, oven mitts were overdue. Then I wrote this blog post.
And lo, my good friend Green Teal sent me new mitts, plugs and...a Green Teal T-shirt! It actually took me a moment to realise I even had oven mitts and plugs because I was so busy squealing over the shirt and stripping off my top so I could put it on and get a photo. Check me out!
A week later when I caught up with Kat she handed over my Christmas gift and LO! More oven mitts!!!***
At this point I don't think even my Dad will object to me retiring the ugly faux-country kitchen ones to landfill. Go with God little oven mitts. I've never liked you but 13 years of service for $2 is not a bad innings.
* And just like my Dad I object to the application of the term "hippy" based on this behaviour because this is how we should all be living so there's a planet with resources for future generations.
** I tell myself my possession of this particular cover is slightly less bogan than it might otherwise be because I do in fact originally hail from a farm that did have real, live cows albeit Murray Greys that were not horn-equipped. Authenticity. I has it.
*** There are absolutely no prizes for guessing which friend gave me the super-girly cupcake set of oven mitts.
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