She Works Hard For The Money

Everything about this makes me want to punch my younger self

Everything about this makes me want to punch my younger self

It’s strange to think that our entire lives are dependent on paper rectangles with old dudes on them. Green, dough, lettuce, benjamins…whatever you like to call it, it’s a central aspect of everyday life. As a college graduate with my future ahead of me, I’ve never been more concerned with finance than I am now. One major change I’ve made since graduating is how I handle my money. I’m trying to be a lot more conservative with money because now that college is over, the day I get cut off financially is impending and I need to be ready. Some of the changes I’ve made to lessen my spending:

I paint my own nails

I buy most of my beauty and personal hygiene products from Walgreens

I’ve replaced Starbucks with Dunkin’ Donuts coffee (this has been especially tough because I live like 2 blocks from Starbucks and I f***ing love Starbucks b/c it’s the koolest and most fashionable way to drink coffee and that’s obvious)

I stopped buying gossip magazines like Star and Us Weekly….I have no interest in reading about how so and so is handling a divorce or which housewife got what plastic surgery, and for Christ sake, I think we’re all well aware that Kim Kardashian has a gigantic behind…enough is enough.

All this talk about budgeting my money makes me yearn for the days when finding a dollar under your pillow felt like winning the lottery. The days when a lemonade stand was considered a respectable way to make money.

As a kid, I became obsessed with money. Taking into account all the stunts I pulled as a kid, it should come as no surprise that I actually resorted to stealing money from my friend’s parents. I got away with it for a week, and for that week I felt like a milder version of John Dillinger. So far, I had lied, cheated, and now I could add stealing to my growing list of childhood offenses/reasons my parents should put me up for adoption. In total, I think I stole around $30 from my friend’s parents over the course of one week.

After I stopped stealing, I decided to try a more honest approach to earning money. I rounded up two of my buddies, Emily and Margaret and we traveled door-to-door offering cleaning services to neighbors. We called ourselves The EMC Cleaners. We had a rehearsed introduction complete with a jingle and it worked like a charm. We were no Merry Maids, but we sure were irresistibly adorable.

Another memorable job I held was a sales rep for Cutco Cutlery…best knives in the game, but I hated that job with a fiery passion. Sure, I made good money, but the manager, Ben, was a pain in my ass. Part of my job was reporting to him each morning to tell him what my schedule was for the day. Half the time I’d lie and make up appointments just to get him off my back. “Hi Ben, so today I have one appointment and I’m going to make a couple calls to schedule some more. Talk to you tomorrow, can’t wait to have the same exact conversation filled with the same exact bullshit.” Needless to say, I quit that job faster than you can say pairing knife. Part of me wishes I’d stuck with it because last night my brother’s friend took a huge group of them to Fogo de Chao and paid for everything using the money he’d made selling Cutco.

I think that’s enough for tonight’s long and rambling post. All this talk about Cutco is giving me major anxiety.

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My first carjack

You know how toddlers go through a time known as the “terrible twos”? Well, in my case, the terrible twos never really ended; in fact, my entire childhood could be described as terrible. I’m surprised my parents had more kids after all the messed up shit I pulled. I seriously question their judgment. The way I see it is if your first-born is a huge douchebag as a kid, then there’s a high chance that the second will be equally as douchey. And yes, I did just refer to my childhood self as a douchebag degenerate because that is exactly what I was. I was an insanely adorable d-bag. But as we all know, looks can be deceiving, and my adorable face, squeezable cheeks and beady green eyes proved to be my most valuable weapon because behind all that cuteness lay a monster capable of mass destruction.

I was just six years old the first time I caused a neighborhood-wide search party. It started as a typical barbeque: hot dogs, burgers, beer, and a bunch of kids running around the backyard. The barbeque was fun for a little bit, but I soon became bored. For me, boredom breeds trouble and this time around trouble came in the form of an unlocked station wagon parked out front. Can you guess what I did next? I keyed that ugly car and broke the windshield with a baseball bat.

No, just kidding. But here’s what happened next: I grabbed my friend Torrie, who was also down to get into trouble because she was my girl, my sidekick, my accomplice…I was Dr. Evil and she was number 2, we were like those two robbers in home alone but we were little girls…you get the idea. Anyways, I told her to follow me and like a good sidekick she trusted me and followed behind obediently. Then, I opened the door to the car and climbed in. Torrie followed and shut the door behind her. I spotted a pack of big red gum in the console and took that with me to the back where we set up camp.

Meanwhile, at the barbeque, our parents were just beginning to notice that neither of us were there. For the next hour we chewed on gum while listening to our names being called over and over by our parents and their friends. As the minutes rolled by the tone of their voices became much more frantic. They were so close to the car and we could have easily made our presence known by just opening the car door or sticking our heads against the windows, or even honking the horn, but did we do this? Did we put an end to our parents fearful frenzy? Absolutely not. We were having too much fun watching them frantically search for us when all the while we were right there next to them snickering in the backseat and chewing our way through an entire pack of gum.

Don't let the dresses fool you

Don’t let the dresses fool you

They were about to call the police when finally the owner of that wagon peered into his car and saw us sitting there with our tails between our legs trying and failing miserably at covering up our wide-eyed grins. Those smiles definitely didn’t help our case. You should have seen the look on my dad’s face. It was the angriest I had ever seen him and for a moment I thought he was going to pick up the car with me in it and throw it. I thought about running, but it was too late. My dad yanked me by the arm and threw me into our super cool van. Yep, the party was officially over. Another outing ruined by yours truly. To this day, I can’t chew big red gum without thinking about that barbeque.

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#Blessed To Be Alive

Kimmy and me during better days

Kimmy and me during better days

At this point, you should already know that as a kid I prided myself on my ability to be clever, cunning, and mischievous, which in turn caused my mom and dad to question whether or not their daughter was actually part monster. Just as some people see each day as an opportunity to learn, I saw every day as an opportunity to stir up trouble. This leads me to my next story about the time I overdosed on cough syrup.

It was 1997. I was 6 years old, still illiterate, but already a rampant and rambunctious evil genius. I had recently gotten over a brutal cough, but boy did I enjoy that grape flavored syrup. I had to get my syrup fix.

So one day I invited Kimmy over for a play date (You may remember her as the victim of my “present pin” stunt). Little did she know, there would be no playing. I had something better in mind for our little play date: drinking cough syrup straight out of the bottle.

After lunch I suggested we go upstairs and hang out in my room. When we got to my room I shut the door, turned to her excitedly and said something along the lines of “Want to drink some magic potion?” Then I ¬†went to the bathroom to retrieve my magic potion/poison. After a couple failed attempts I was finally able to penetrate the child-proof cap. I took the first sip, and passed it to Kimmy. Six years old and I already knew that engaging in such an activity as “drinking” is always more fun when shared. By our third sip we started to get giggly. A few more sips later we were plastered. You can probably guess what happened next. Yep, Puke City. We spent the rest of our afternoon violently puking up our macaroni. I honestly can’t think of a more fucked up play date. Can you imagine the look on Kimmy’s mom’s face as she’s listening to my mom explain the situation? “Hi Kathy, this is Kelly…you should probably come over PRONTO. Kimmy and Christina polished off the cough syrup and are puking their guts out.”

Not surprisingly, Kimmy and I saw less of each other after that day. Good parenting on Kimmy’s mom’s part. I’d tell my daughter to stay far away from me, too.

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