Tag Archive: money


Sweet baby Jesus. It is currently 11:34 pm Thursday, June 9.  I just realized it is Thursday and I hadn’t posted yet.

I’ve been working on a finance case study and feeling anxiety about my final project for my econ class.

I’m also getting sick again.  It started with a stuffy nose yesterday. I woke up this morning feeling like death.  I decided to skip the gym and sleep until I felt better. I finally got up at 11am because I was already disgusted with myself for sleeping that late in the day, despite the fact that I was not feeling well.  All day long I felt extreme sinus pressure and my voice sounded a little off.  Now my throat is killing me and I just hope this goes away before Thursday, when I board my plane for London.

This is how today began:

Strugz City!

Today, obviously, didn’t go as planned.

When I went to get my oil changed, I realized that the hood of my car wouldn’t pop open.  The dude at the oil change place was little to no help and when I called my parents (yes, both of them), they didn’t really tell me anything I wasn’t already thinking.  I decided to take my car to the dealership and be like WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?! Except, I didn’t tell them about the scary noise it makes; I didn’t want them to take my car away from me! I just told the man that my little latchy-thing didn’t work and that the top part of my car wouldn’t open.

I spent the next hour and forty-seven minutes of my life listening to the Doppler radar report in the sitting/waiting area in the car dealership and reading the latest Newsweek.

Turns out the latch for the hood was corroded (or something???), so, for $20, they repaired that for me.  Then, they changed my oil because the man knew that I needed to get that done.  And they replaced my air filter because mine was apparently “pretty nasty looking.”

I mean, I guess I could have said no, but meh… if it’s something I’m breathing on a regular basis, I suppose I would like that to be clean.

So, 75 dollhairs later, I left the dealership and drove like a bat out of hell to Best Buy.

While I was waiting Janine (my car) to be finished with her high-maintenance bullshit, I had received a phone call from the Geek Squad at Best Buy, alerting me that my computer (JOY!) was ready to be picked up.  When I got there, I had to wait in line (Sucktown!) but I had ample time to people-watch, one of my favorite activities.  Finally, I was reunited with my computer, who had gotten a brand new motherboard.  All of my data remained on my hard-drive and everything was normal and perfect.

Obviously, the day turned into this:

Now I’m going to continue with my finance case study and drink some tea to ease my sore throat.

Please think happy thoughts and send me some “get better” vibes so I won’t be sick while I’m in Europe!! Also, thinking some “I hope you get the job you interviewed for this week!” vibes wouldn’t hurt either.

Believe it or not, I really am trying to get all my ducks in a row…

It was never really a mystery to us why it seemed like our entire floor in the dorms in college hated us.

Sarah and I lived in the room at the very end of the hallway. Our perfect square of a room was the gathering place every Thursday night to watch The OC and later Grey’s Anatomy. Our room was the meeting place of the whole group of us for those three or four nights a week we went out to parties. And later, our sophomore year of college, our room was next door to two of our good friends, whose room would blare with the latest Justin Timberlake song or One Republic’s “Apologize” before it was cool and overplayed on the radio.

We did dumb shit, like dress up like the some cracked out version of the Spice Girls and sing really, really loudly after 2 in the morning. You know, when the whiners on our floor were sleeping, and had been since 11 pm.

As a group, we’re loud. I mean, I scream and screech a lot, I laugh loudly, and I shout when I’m happy or excited. Multiply that by at least four and you’ve got my core group of friends in college. And we were together constantly.

Add in the fact that we lived in an all-girls dorm. In the really, really old dorms. As in, I lived in the same dormitory my grandmother lived in. The same dormitory my mother lived in. It’s old. We also lived in the dorm mostly populated by the college of music kids. They’re all artsy and hipster-y and obviously too smart and better than us to get loud and crazy all the fucking time, like we did. The best part about our dorm is that it was the closet to the street with all the bars on it. And it was relatively close to a lot of the off-campus housing and greek life. (And let’s get real: I loved me some fraternity parties before I was of the legal drinking age.)

I think this photo adequately demonstrates the potential Le Le and I have when it comes to getting crazy. lolz (Ps. Le, does that headband look familiar? bahaha)

My point is, our floor hated us.

We were constantly hushed and asked nicely to be quiet. And when all else failed, we were told on. When we realized that the RA’s were about to come bust us, we’d quickly finish the shot glass full of five o’clock vodka on Leah’s or my desk, turn the music off, grab our coats and fly out the door.

I mean, we didn’t want to get written up. Again. Or have to pour our alcohol down the bathroom sink. Again.

Even when we weren’t drinking (illegally) in the dorms, we were loud. And probably really, really obnoxious. I’ll leave you with this one memory I have, a memory that really reinforced the fact that everyone on our floor just did not get me, or my friends.

You know how in college dorms there are all kinds of random-ass signs for random-ass shit? Like, sign up for ballroom dancing in one of the rooms by the cafeteria, or do you need a tutor for some really hard singing class you’re taking? Well, I can’t remember why we decided to make a sign but one night we did, and we hung it on the walls all over our hallway, and all of the doors to the bathrooms, and the mirrors, and the door to the stairs.

It was a nice sign. It didn’t ask anyone to donate their first born to some demonic cult or require anyone to spend any money on anything. It was just a nice little sign to remind people to have a good day and to provide a little pick-me-up. Sometimes people just need that. Classes are hard. It’s really hard to walk fifty feet to a building across a nice little field to go sing for a couple hours a day. And it gets cold in Michigan.  And sometimes blowing off class on a Friday to play Ultimate Frisbee in Adam’s Field is just really… hard. So we posted our sign to let people know we cared.

Our sign was not appreciated. When we woke up the next morning, every single sign had been torn down and thrown away.

The people on our floor were dicks. And they hated us.

Not too long ago, I got a message on facebook from a family friend. She is younger than me and definitely not of the legal drinking age here in the lovely USofA. Luckily, good old Canada is just next door. So, she asked me to borrow (have) one of my old IDs so she and her friends could cause a raucous among the canucks.

This normally would be no big deal; my moral compass does not frown upon aiding the youth in their drunken debauchery- just ask my angelic brother (keep on fighting that peer pressure, brother bear! love you!).  I thought, oh what the hell! As long as her father does not find out that it was ME who supplied those hooligans with an over-21 ID, then shooooot, those girls better have a good time. I refuse to be held responsible for the corruption.

What? I'm totally fine. Not wobbly at all!

But then I remembered I’m a hot damn mess when I drink. And although I drink waaaay less than I used to (I may have been black-out drunk for the years of 18 and 19), old habits die hard. At 22, I’m responsible. I’m an adult. I make wise choices. I know my limit.

Stop laughing, okay? SOMETIMES I make wise, responsible, adult choices.

ANYWAYYYYY, I accept that I am a heap of trouble after two drinks.

Unfortunately for the family friend who shall remain nameless to protect the innocence of both of us, I had to tell her that I’m irresponsible and lack any identification other than my current ID.

I decided not to share with her all the details as to why I no longer have any past IDs or any extra ones laying around. But, dear readers, I’ll share some of those details with you now.

Junior year of college is when I really started getting sloppy. Or when I just stopped being as accountable for hanging onto my own belongings. Looking back, it seems like sophomore year of college was better because I had other people to hold my stuff when I got too drunk. One winter’s night, I was over-served.  Generally, when this happens, I’m still pretty anal enough to feel the need to brush my teeth, take my contacts out and remove my eye makeup. I’m fairly certain I even changed into some semblance of pajamas (read: no pants).  I can’t remember now how I made it home that evening, but the important part is that I did indeed make it home.

I awoke the next morning with the panic that I had noooo idea where my cute little wristlet was. Frantic, I launched myself out of bed and ran into the living room. There, I found evidence that we had done some “pre-gaming” (the counter and glass table(s) were stickyyyy and a couple of empty fifths remained). I also found that I apparently struggled with my shoes and had made like Hansel and Gretel, leaving a trail not of breadcrumbs but clothing, beginning at the front door. Nowhere in the million pockets of my zip-up fleece (at least that made it home, unlike the one that was STOLEN at that one party… RUDE.) was my wristlet. I checked my jeans. Not there either. Not even looped through one of the belt loops.

I stalked down the girl who lived at the place I had been the night before and sent her a message on facebook, asking her if someone had left a wristlet behind. I scoured mine and Erica’s apartment. I called my other friends, asking if they had it, remembered me having it, or knew where it might be.  NOTHING. No one knew anything.

Begrudgingly, and under the advice of my all-wise mother, I reported my debit card “lost or stolen” and resigned myself to the fact that I had indeed lost that tube of chapstick, a $20 bill, and my wristlet. AND that I would have to give up a perfectly adequate break between classes usually dedicated to a nap to waiting FOREVER at the Secretary of State’s office that Monday.

A WEEK LATER, I finally got around to making my bed. (My dad probably was probably stopping by, lol.)  Before I even got a chance to get busy making hospital corners with my sheets, I noticed there was a lump I didn’t appreciate. Something black and small had found its way underneath the blankets.  CAN YOU GUESS WHAT THAT SMALL BLACK THING WAS?!

My freakin’ wristlet. Filled with my now-canceled debit card, a tube of chapstick, a $20 bill and my driver’s license.

I don't want to talk about it.

FACE-PALM.

I’m an idiot.

I know this story just makes me look like an idiot who just misplaces things only to find them in random-ass places rather than someone who has had to replace her license three times in the last year, but the point was that I’m a shitshow and shouldn’t be allowed to carry my own stuff. I also understand if you think less of me now.

Ps. I now have two driver’s licenses because the one I lost a month ago was magically sent to me in the mail. If only she had waited one more week to go to Canada…!

I’m feeling uninspired today.

Do you know how hard it is to come up with something “interesting” to talk about? It’s hard. Really hard.

I’m back at Grandma’s after a week of being home-home. My life is no longer completely out of control and disorganized. I spent a good two hours last night unpacking all of my crap. I put my clothes away, hung shit up in my closet, rearranged the pile of crap on my printer, and color-coordinated slash synchronized my planners (yes, as in plural) and calendars (yes, as in plural).

I suppose that deserves just a tiny explanation.

I have two planners and two wall calendars. The only reason that I have two planners right now is because there’s overlap in the month of July. My planner ends in July (sad face) and the new one starts in July.  The only way I can make sure that I can plan far enough ahead and be aware of what is going on is if I have both of them with me. So there.

I also have two wall calendars so I can have various visual aids to guide me through the week. One calendar is of orchids. They’re lovely flowers. It has the whole month on it, holidays, class schedule, work schedule, moon schedules, you know how it goes. The other one is a dry-erase board that only fits one week at a time. This is where I can write in my work schedule, class schedule, tv shows I want to watch, various activities. Whatevs.

It’s obscene, I know. It’s too much.  But seriously, I love it. (I don’t curr, it’s sexy to let your freak-flag fly!) I LOVE spending all that time color coordinating crap so it looks pretty. I like highlighting stuff in my planner when I’ve completed a task. I enjoy going back through weeks in the past and admiring my work.

I also spent a good fifteen minutes today looking at school supplies. I could have taken longer, but I really needed to make sure I had enough time to get my pre-assignment done for my accounting class this evening. I knew exactly what I wanted but that didn’t stop me from perusing and wishing I had an endless supply of $$$$ to buy stuff I most definitely do not need. It’s not even that I spend time comparing and contrasting similar products. I just really like school supplies. Here’s what I bought:

One 1 1/2 inch binder

One 1 subject notebook

One set of dividers, with pockets (8 dividers)

It is a system of organization that allows me to excel in my masters’ program. Acutally, it just ensures I’ll get a couple looks and hear comments like “wow, you’re really organized…” and “that’s pretty impressive” with sarcastic and/or concerned tones. I think it makes people nervous that someone can be that meticulous. Maybe they’re afraid that I might be one of those crazy people who seem fine until they snap and kill everyone.

Just because I like things done right and believe that everything has a place doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me. It’s totally fine that I cringe when someone disrupts my color-coordinating system. It’s totally fine that when something is really cluttered it makes me incredibly anxious. It’s totally fine that the paperclips in my desk at work have a sorting system. It’s totally fine that I use one pencil and one pen among many available to me.

the girls at work think this is funny. it's not funny. so. not. right.

Anyway, I get it. It’s a lot. I’m clearly high-strung. I should probably chill out and relax a little bit.

You’re aware of the crazy now. We can still be friends, though, right?