They’ve done some scientific studies recently on the causes of happiness. (I guess they’re looking for a cure.) It seems that it’s not wealth, or celebrity. Happiness comes from spending time with friends and family; people that you care about, and who care about you. Personally, I’d rather be rich and famous – but while I’m waiting for that to happen I’m lucky enough to have a lot of love in my life. But luv, shmuv: my name is Annie and I’m a shopaholic.

Years ago, I was at a dinner party in New York and I was talking to Garrison Keillor’s then-wife, who was Danish. She told me how insulted she was that her new American friends invited her to go shopping. “Shopping? Why? Is there something wrong with the way I dress?” Poor dear. This no-nonsense, sensible Scandinavian didn’t understand that, for some of us, shopping is a form of recreation – even of meditation. I wander through the racks, I feel the fabrics, I study the price tags, I reach Nirvana.

I guess shopping fills some emptiness in me that I’m not even aware of. I’m happiest when I come home with bags full of cashmere sweaters, vintage jewelry, antique linens – whatever. My dresser is crammed, my closets are stuffed, and my rooms are filled to the brim with artsy collectibles and rare first editions. Being surrounded by Stuff gives me a feeling of security. I could never be comfortable in a bare, spare, stark environment. Empty spaces give me the creeps, and so do the people who live in them. Minimalists tend not to have warm and huggy personalities.

There’s just one little problem: I have no money. Somehow I managed to get through the booming ‘80’s and the rockin’ 90’s without stocks, bonds, real estate, or a 401K. Maybe that’s because I’ve never had a real job. I’ve only worked at fun things like acting, writing, performing solo shows, mothering and nap-taking: not a good way to build an investment portfolio. But I discovered that you don’t have to break the bank to live a good life.