Category Archives: I’ll take the Louboutins

A Post About Money

Reading a post on Caz‘ blog about money kind of got me thinking about my finances. I realized that I have a pretty good grip on it. Sure, I live paycheque to paycheque; I spend inordinate amounts of money on clothes and shoes (especially shoes), I party at least once every weekend, go to dinner at least three times a week and buy my lunches almost every day.

I splurge on Starbucks every once in a while, I take cabs a couple times a week – usually only late at night or on the weekends, I buy makeup and hair products at an alarming rate, I even go to the hair salon just to get my hair washed and blow-dried every couple of weeks.

On the other hand, I have almost no credit card debt (I’m down to $600), no student loans to pay off, and no car payments. I have a savings account with my rainy day fund and an RRSP with enough for a very small down payment on a house.

Therefore I think I’m in an okay position to talk finance.

Don’t get me wrong, life isn’t all peachy keen. I don’t wander around throwing money to the wind while singing a little ditty about my Monolos or diamond-encrusted Diva Vodka (neither of which I have ever owned) .

I’ve been so poor that I grocery shopped on my Bay (department store) credit card, the only card of 4 that wasn’t maxed out. My phone has been disconnected and I went without cable for a long time (partial laziness, partial brokeness, partial not caring enough to watch TV).

I had moved out of Douche-ex’ place where I paid $250 a month for rent and into my own apartment where I paid $900 a month plus all my own groceries, nights out and entertainment. That’s what I call a huge adjustment. I slept on a semi-futon chair for a month before I got a bed and ate more then any sane persons share of macaroni and ramen noodles.

Eventually I got adjusted, luckily I knew that rent came first and was never late with any payments, I started paying down my credit cards after cutting three of them up and acquired furniture – slowly.

I got my new job a year and a half ago. Better pay, normal hours, nicer people. I also moved to a different apartment (because my rent went up to $2100 a month – damn you “no rent control”! Obviously I moved before that rent came into effect) last year that is cheaper but still spacious.

Luckily my dad made me start an RRSP when I was 19. My work takes ten percent of my paycheque, matches it and puts it in my RRSP as well so I’m doing well on that front. It’s strange getting a letter every four months about the amount in there when I don’t even notice it missing from my cheque because I’ve never had it in the first place. It’s the best way to save.

I opened an ING account a year ago. I put ten percent of my income automatically into it off each cheque for my rainy day fund. With that money I’ve gone to Cuba and PEI, I’ve gotten many a pair of shoes, I’ve bought Christmas and birthday presents, I’m planning on flying to Victoria for Thanksgiving and possibly Hawaii in the spring.

If I didn’t automatically save money I would have spent that all on food, booze, and gawd knows what else. Instead I get to enjoy it. My dad wishes I would save it all and use it for something bigger (like buying my house) but you only live this life once and I’m going to enjoy the freedom I have to travel and have fun while I’m still young and single enough to enjoy it.

Girls Don’t Like Boys, Girls Like Cars and Money

I’m going to a wedding this weekend, in Kamloops – a beautiful little town in BC. My cousin is getting married and I couldn’t be happier for her – they’re a great couple. Plus I get to see the whole family (and with 12 cousins under the age of 27 you can be sure it’ll be a gong show).

Weddings and I have always had a love/hate relationship. I worked at a Private Club (not that kind of club, perv) therefore have worked during many, many weddings. I also had seven separate friends get married last year and several the year before. Let’s just say I’ve seen my share of weddings.

Anyhow, the other day, as I do whenever I have too much time on my hands*, I started thinking about some strange things a little too intently. Why do spiders have eight eyes and live in bathtub drains? Why does coffee taste delicious black unless it’s at Tim Hortons where I need to put their crack-creamers in it to fully enjoy the robust flavor? Why do people (ok, girls) settle for a person they don’t think is the Right One just so that they can “finally” get married?

The answer came to me in a dream**. Girls want security. Girls want to know that they’ll have someone to wake up to every morning, someone who thinks hair-in-a-ponytail and sweatpants is a sexy look for them, someone who will fetch their newspaper and fan them with banana leaves while feeding them caviar and cream cheese on those cute little toasted bread rounds.

One thing most girls don’t want is a guy who is much less successful than her. That’s right, I said it, and you know it’s true. While I personally am not looking for a sugar daddy (although any interested parties feel free to apply here), I also don’t want to tell my parents that I met the love of my life in a romantic exchange involving my spare change and his fingerless gloves wrapped around a Styrofoam cup.

I have friends who are dating complete jerk-offs mainly because they know they have financial security and someone willing to fly them to Palm Springs or Vegas on a whim. I’d rather be living in a (large) cardboard box (with windows and weather proof coating), scraping gum off the pavement and selling it to unsuspecting tourists for a living then be a so-called trophy wife.

Don’t get me wrong. If future Mr. Alice happens to have loads of money and nothing better to do with it then spend it on me (and my shoe collection) I won’t complain. I would still need to have a job, especially if it was the daunting career of researching great vacation spots.

*always
**my alarm was going off and playing some Good Charlotte…there may or may not have been dancing polar bears in said dream. Also, a really large talking willow tree, Pocahontas style.

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