Benjamins, Yeah!

I may not have mentioned this in virtually every post I have ever posted, but I am poor. Not, like, poverty poor; I live in a nice house in a nice neighborhood in a nice town, there is always enough to eat and the electricity service is never interrupted. I have a stable job with pay that is kind of meh, but benefits that are out of this world. Our Honda Civic is paid for, Husband’s student loan balance is slowly decreasing and the payments are low, and we have very little credit card debt. We can afford to go out on dinner and movie dates a few times a month, and even a small trip here and there. But I’m poor in the sense that No. 1 has tuition to be paid, No. 3 needs braces, No. 2 has announced that she wants to take up dance again, and I have not had a vehicle I could call my own for more than three months since moving to New York five years ago. We’re not living beyond our means at all, but we are dancing at the edge of them and while costs increase, income has been kind of fixed. An unpleasant side effect of a lousy economy and state employment, but it is what it is.

Lately I have been feeling blue about my finances, and have been spending a lot of time trying to figure out ways to make more money without actually having to work that hard for it. I have considered a second job, but with a full time one, aging parents to care for, and a family I see little enough as it is, it’s just not an appealing possibility. Not to mention that if I worked at Target or The Gap I would spend as much as I earned, just like that time I worked at Pacific Linen and had lovely, fabulous linens and very little money left over. I could go back to teaching dance and am planning on working on something in that direction this fall, but it could take months to set something like that up. I could write dirty Twilight fanfic under a pseudonym like Roxxy Wilde and sell a million eBooks, but then I would have to explain where all that money came from, and how embarrassing would that be? (I’m just assuming people would buy something I wrote - they would, wouldn’t they?)

Today I drove No. 1 to the airport for her summer visit with her dad and as I was driving back, flipping through the radio stations, I realized something: popular songs make no sense whatsoever. All you need is some random rhyming words, references to designer clothing or a party, and you are good to go.  They can even be full of outright lies, like telling people it doesn’t matter if you are homeless or broke as long as you have love. (Really, Justin Beiber? Really?) So I came up with my latest get-rich-quick idea: songwriting.

Most people don’t realize that very few recording artists write their own songs, and that the songwriter is the one who makes most of the money from album and single sales. (Along with the producer, the record company, the agent, the publicist, the studio… the list goes on and on, and by the time all is said and done the singer gets, like, a nickel and is forced to tour constantly to support their rock ‘n roll lifestyle. It’s true, I read all about it in People.) How hard can it be to write a hit song? I watched that season of American Idol with Kara DioGuardi, and that lady is no Einstein, and it seems like it would take a lot less time than writing my own romance novel. So, here is my attempt at popular song writing. Let me know what you think.

Flowers blue and flowers red

I got daisies on my head

Ought to clean my flower bed

Gonna go to math instead

Count my money

Oo-ooo count my money

Count my money

Oo-ooo count my money

Benjamins, yeah

Purses, glasses, sandals, check

Where’s my iPhone, what the heck?

Hot tub outside on my deck

Golden chains around my neck

Count my money

Oo-ooo count my money

Count my money

Oo-ooo count my money

Benjamins, yeah

Baby, baby, please come home

Take my private jet to Rome

Let’s live underneath a dome

Call Armani on the phone

Count my money

Oo-ooo count my money

Count my money

Oo-ooo count my money

Benjamins, yeah

Now all I need is a good beat (I'm thinking a sample of Copacabana), a singer, and an up-and-coming rapper to provide some filler material and I, too, can afford my very own gold-plated wheelchair.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Many people look forward to their birthdays. Presents, cake, adoration from the general public...what's not to like? My theory is that these people had magical childhoods and parents who actually gave a crap. As a child, my birthdays were a crushing disappointment. I figured out at the ripe old age of nine that if I didn't plan my own birthday party, it wasn't going to happen. Even then,  my mother rarely showed up, much less got me anything. More often than not, my parents forgot my birthday or simply failed to acknowledge it, and this was long before Mom had the excuse of dementia and forgot everything except that one time last October I asked to borrow her three hole punch. (Seriously, 40% of the time she sees me I am greeted with, "did you need that three hole punch?")

Each year, May 29 became more and more depressing. There was that time my cousin stole my boyfriend; that other time my "friend" forgot to pick me up and everyone went out without me while I sat at home; the year my parents bought my sister a microwave, a TV, and a gorgeous winter coat (she lives in Atlanta...go figure) and gave me a plastic raincoat I didn't even need; I could go on and on. As the years have passed, my birthday has gotten even worse. Not only is it always a lousy day (maybe because I expect it to be) but I am getting older. Last year I passed the big 4-0 and the delusional child in me held on to the vain hope that my husband would throw me an amazing surprise party and make up for a lifetime of letdowns, but no. This year I had no such aspirations and yet still managed to end up disappointed.

The day dawned like any other; my alarm went off and I snoozed it, wishing it were a Saturday. I got up, got dressed, and went to work, where I performed my usual boring administrative tasks. We had a division luncheon at noon, a combination of a reward for winning a contest and goodbye for our departing VP. I needed to leave early because I had an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon for the tendinitis that has been lingering in my left elbow for over a year. I planned to snag a seat near the door so I could escape unnoticed, but I should have known better. Sure, I ended up sort of close to the door, but somehow managed to end up sitting next to the guest of honor. I finished my veggie wrap and as I was going to the dessert table to get some fruit, the server look my plate AND my silverware. There were no extra forks to be found. I'm not kidding, if the survival of the human race had depended on my finding a utensil, we would be dead right now. So my fruit sat, staring at me, mocking me, long after I gave up on finding anything to eat it with.

Somehow our admin figured out it was my birthday and made everyone sing to me so the people who didn't know me or notice I was there sure did after that. I missed my opportunity to sneak out before the speeches started and to make matters worse, the room had only one exit and the speakers were standing right in front of it. Needless to say, my exit was not nearly as subtle as I had hoped.

I arrived at the doctor's office and stood in line forever. All the other patients were ancient and moved like snails. When I finally got to the window, the receptionist tapped around on her keyboard and said, "you got the day wrong, your appointment was on April 29." I produced my referral form, which clearly listed the date as MAY 29, and she just shrugged and said my primary care doctor's office must have gotten it wrong. I knew they didn't because I had had a specific conversation with the lady who was making the appointment where she asked if I was sure scheduling it on my birthday was OK and I assured her it was fine. Getting my elbow prodded would have been small potatoes in the grand scheme of things. Most doctor's offices would have just squeezed a patient in, but not this one. Never mind that fact that each end every person in the waiting room was old enough that they were likely to expire before their joints could be fixed.  Never mind that I was actually there and it clearly wasn't MY error, they sent me away.

From there, I had to go to the DMV because I forgot to renew my license by mail, where I got the worst license picture in the history of humanity. I don't know what happened or where I went wrong to deserve being the least photogenic person ever, but alas, it is true. The technician asked if I wanted to retake it, but I knew it would be an exercise in futility.

I arrived at home and Dad announced he was making spaghetti for dinner, which happens to be my favorite meal, so I was actually pretty excited. I went upstairs, took a nap, and woke up for dinner, only to find that one of my snot-nosed children had pitched a fit about not wanting spaghetti so instead I was presented with one of Dad's creative casseroles, which was OK but not at all what I had hoped for. As the meal went on, I gradually came to realize that my parents had no idea it was my birthday. I shouldn't have been surprised, but no matter how low my expectations are the universe still lets me down.

Later that evening, my dad and the girls decided to take me to Sweet Frog and I convinced my husband to meet us there. I stood in front, waiting for him for ages instead of eating delicious frozen yogurt because the Southside Sweet Frog is a total dead zone for cell phones and my husband thought we were meeting at the house. By the time he got there he was angry and frustrated because he couldn't get in touch with me, and by the time we sat down with our frozen treats, he and my dad had befriended the token scary homeless guy and invited him to join us at our table. Normally, when Husband and my Dad are friendly and kind to people who are less fortunate its endearing, but this was a situation where I was hoping something, just one thing, would go my way and I could be happy for just a moment, but no, I was hanging out with a smelly guy instead.

I got home, ready to go to bed and get yet another crappy birthday behind me, but Mom called me into her office. While I was gone, my sister had called and reminded her it was my birthday so she insisted on singing to me and presented me with an exciting gift: a three hole punch.

Happy Birthday to me, indeed.

For more on my mother's present buying skills or lack thereof, click here