Well, I made it. I made it through most of this week with -$5 in my account.
My intent since buying this house for $6 and living in the hood is to only use cash for life, so I paid cash for m’Botox this month, but as I told you, The Botoxer did a little extra here and there and it cost
MORE THAN $600
and it broke me. I was okay till the gas company took their automatic withdrawal. The auto withdrawal is a thing I have marked on my calendar as happening on payday and not the MIDDLE OF THE DAMN WEEK, GAS COMPANY.
RIGHT BEFORE PAYDAY, GAS COMPANY.
I’m starting to think I’m not going to get Botox anymore. It’s costy-pants. And it used to be that I could really tell a difference when I used it–I got this delightful eyebrow arch–and now? I’m so old and disgusting that rat poison doesn’t even work like it’s supposed to. I’m immune to rat poison, that’s how ancient I am. My brows stay dowager-ly down.
So this week kind of sucked on the cash and eyebrow front, but I had many groceries to live on, and the dog and 47 cats were stocked the fuck UP, so all was well. We just didn’t rent movies or drive through Subway, as the cats like to do. No big deal.
Even Lily says, “Yes” before starting some sort of transaction.
And now it’s payday, yay, and most of that check goes to my mortgage, but still. In the old days? When Marvin first left and I had no job and I hadn’t refinanced yet? There was about $80 left over after I paid the mortgage. Now I pay $150 more than my actual mortgage, I save 15% of my check in my four-oh-wonk and I still have $600 left over.
Not too shabby. I mean, it’d be great to not live paycheck to fucking PAYcheck, but you can’t have everything.
Amazon said I could come back, by the way, and be an Amazon Associate. All I have to do is set it up and you see I’ve jumped right on that with my ambitious self. I know the setup is going to annoy me.
I still have a tip jar on here, but it’s this subtle one tiny line at the side of the page, here. I don’t want to be all, “FEED ME.” That’s my trouble. I’m not opportunistic enough.
Speaking of it being the end of the month, though, remember how I had so much trouble finding a suitable calendar to suit all my suity needs? I settled on a Farmers Market, no apostrophe, one. Here’s January’s riveting picture:
Potatoes, y’all. I mean, sure, it’s great to have a pinup of the Rose Finn Apple. Actually, that’s a great dog name. This is my dog, Rose Finn Apple. Oh, that makes me want to run right out and get a girl puppy.
Anyway, I’m holding out hope that February’s image is more riveting than potatoes. I mean, I rejected a lot of motorcycle and kitten calendars for you, Farmers Market No Apostrophe calendar. Step up.
I guess that’s all I have to tell you, which I admit was, you know, not a lot. Oh, as a result of yesterday’s post on tidiness, I went on Facebook and polled my tens of Facebook friends, asking if they made their bed. The poll hasn’t ended yet, but as of right now, 7:34 a.m., the results are…
137 — Yes
124 — No
Faithful Readers Paula and Fay said yes. Faithful Readers Bev and Deborah said no. I tell you this because their names are at the top when I click, “Answers.” I mean, I’m sure my sociology teacher from 10th grade answered, as well, but he wasn’t at the top of the list when I clicked “Answers,” so.
I noticed that most of the people I’m friends with in real life gave a definitive yes, furthering my theory that I make friends with thin sort of nervous women. I’m sorry, all the thin nervous women I’m friends with. I’m just drawn to you, like gray cats. Apparently you like chubby jolly women.
Well. “Jolly.” Is it possible to be mirthlessly jolly? Because that sums me up. And how long am I gonna be able to get away with “chubby” and not downright portly?
Okay, really going. It’s 16 degrees out and I think that calls for the blow dryer, or at least Laila Ali.