Tag: Megalomania

Fat Girl Style

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I am known as a tomboy, which isn’t a bad label to have. I earned it.

I’m low maintenance. I favor jeans and t-shirts. My obsession with shoes begins and ends with Chuck Taylors. I own exactly two purses and I rarely use them. The concept of spending hours on my hair and make-up is foreign to me. I really don’t like shopping, unless it’s of the online variety. I don’t try clothes on before I buy them, usually.

But none of that means I don’t have style. Oh, honey, I have LOADS of style.

Don’t let my aversion to shopping and trying on clothes fool you. I actually love fashion. Not runway fashion. I’m talking realistic, off the rack fashion. I’m talking about putting together pieces that work together and flatter my body. Granted, it’s not always easy. After all, it’s a sin in this country to be fat and laws forbid if you want to be fashionable and fat at the same time. But I have my ways and my stores.

Torrid, Wal-Mart, Old Navy, and Target are my go-to’s when I’m in the market for something new.

Torrid is more high-end and caters specifically to plus-size. They GET fat girl style. They’ve got gorgeous clothes that keep up with the trends. They don’t shy away from sexy or edgy.

Old Navy also has a decent selection of plus-sized clothes (that are only available online, the only downside if you’d rather shop in-store). They’re good with the trends as well and have a good selection of casual clothes and basics that belong in any wardrobe.

I know most of you are raising an eyebrow at Wal-Mart and Target, but for cheap staples, they are the way to go. Wal-Mart is where I like to get my jeans and I got my favorite Capri pants at Target. And both places also have a decent online selection of plus-sized clothes if they don’t satisfy in-store.

I have a diverse style. I try to balance edgy and punky with classic and casual. It depends on my mood. Sometimes, I want to look more sophisticated. Sometimes, I want to look more rock ‘n’ roll. I like having the option to dress to match my moods.

My make-up is usually pretty simple and natural, but I’ve got options to spice it up if I want. Red lipstick usually does the trick. If I actually want to spend a few extra minutes, I’ll put a little more effort into my eye shadow configuration.

I prefer my hairstyle to be as wash and go as possible. As it is now, I just need a little gel, some scrunching, and it dries into the rock ‘n’ roll, messy style I like to rock. Keeping it short has really helped get as much personality as I can out of my hair.

You put all of this together and I’ve got some serious fat girl style.

Unfortunately, as I’ve gone on about my wonderful style I’ve circumvented the truth that my style is several years out of date due to lack of funds. I’m working with what I have, of course, but that doesn’t mean I’m not wishing for new clothes and filling up my wishlists in the event I come into money.

If ever there were a time for Santa to come down my chimney…

Until then, we’re adding “vintage” to my style choices.

That’s About a Year

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

About a year ago I started this blog with only a vague idea of what the point of it was going to be.  Over the course of that year, my original idea has evolved, but I think the blog has become better for it and I hope it continues to evolve. That’s how things keep from getting stale.

I’m rather impressed with myself that I didn’t abandon it. There have been more times than I’d like to count that I didn’t feel like making a post. I didn’t have anything to write about, nothing I wanted to say. But I scrapped some words together and slapped it on the blog and called it a post. And it didn’t turn out too bad. It’s another shot in the arm for my self-esteem and my discipline. I can pull it together, even when I don’t feel like it.

The place isn’t been overrun by traffic, but I never expected it to be. Five hits a day and I’m happy. That’s five more hits than I’d ever thought I’d get.  I figured that outside of a few friends reading occasionally, this place would pretty much be a left alone thing.

But the bits and pieces have added up and in the first year, this blog has logged over 2,000 views. So for the people who have read my blog posts, thanks. I really appreciate it. You give me the warm fuzzies.

For the record, my five most popular posts:

-Friday Funtimes–Rerun Junkie: Starsky and Hutch

-Friday Funtimes–Rerun Junkie: Hawaii 5-0

-Friday Funtimes–Rerun Junkie: The Monkees

-Writing Wednesday–Deadlines: Breaking Them

-Friday Funtimes–Video: We’re From Chicago! Yeah!

Don’t think I don’t notice the pattern.

The top five search terms:

-the monkees

-kiki writes wordpress

-the monkeys

-starsky and hutch

-pickle wraps

Five weirdest search terms:

-“hostel” “stalls didn’t have”

-deranged vietnam vet sniper hooks

-huge titties weightless environment

-new hawaii 5-0 homoerotic

-pregnant firefox mascot

The sad thing is that I know what post each of those searches are probably linked to. It’s amazing the kind of things people look for on the internet, but if they end up here and like what they read, I guess I can’t be too judgmental now can I?

(Yeah, I probably will be.)

So overall, I’m pretty happy with how my first year of blogging has gone. In many ways it’s been a lot better than I thought it’d be and I’m thrilled with that.

Now to keep it up and continue to get better during the next year.

Like Mother, Like Daughter…Scary!

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

Whenever someone tells me (or someone else) that I’m acting just like my mother, it’s typically not meant as a compliment. What they mean is that I’m acting in such a way that they don’t approve of and attribute my behavior to something genetically inherited from my mother.

However, I am like my mother in some ways, good and bad.

For example (and for Halloween), my mom and I both love horror.

The last time I was at her house, AMC was showing all four of the Alien movies and Mom and I watched the end of Alien and most of Aliens. She loves the SyFy channel on the weekends for movies, no matter how bad they might be. The People Under the Stairs was on Saturday morning and I immediately thought of Mom. She watched that movie a couple of times a week when I was a kid.

She took me and my friend to see Se7en. She rented me Rosemary’s Baby and brought home Dracula from the library for me when I was sick.

Mom is the reason I know who Stephen King is. She read all of his books. I can specifically remember her reading Salem’s Lot. I remember the cover of the book. I remember reading the dusk jacket.

I have yet to read it, though.

When I was finally allowed to check out an adult book at the library at the tender age of 11, Mom didn’t bat an eyelash when I came back with Jaws.

I can’t say that my mom is the reason why I like horror (as I said in my post about why I write horror, I’m not sure exactly WHY I like it or write it), but my mom was definitely a horror enabler. She liked it, realized I liked it, and encouraged me to explore it.

Of course, we don’t always agree on our horror likes. Mom liked Scream enough to make me watch it (during Thanksgiving dinner, naturally). I hated it. I enjoy Vincent Price more than Mom does.

It doesn’t matter, though. The point is that it’s a bonding point for us. Our relationship hasn’t always been the greatest, as happens sometimes with mothers and daughters. Sometimes it’s easier for me to focus on the differences and disagreements. They’re easier to see. It’s easy to forget when we get along or agree. The lack of conflict seems to diminish the recall on the memory.

But even as I picked my brain for more memories of the Mom-horror connection, I was shocked at the warmth that bubbled up behind them. It’s kind of odd that I’d get sentimental and gooey watching a guy run around in a gimp suit while he shoots through the walls because one of his cellar children escaped into them because it reminds me of my mom, but there you go.

My mother and I have an interesting, if not unique, relationship.

You can tell by the ways I take after her.

Frankenboobies Revenge

~ Kiki Writes ~ 5 Comments

Warning! This post contains graphic details of my breast reduction surgery. It’s not for everyone and probably shouldn’t be read while eating anything. Proceed with caution.

 

In August, I wrote about my breast reduction surgery and here I am talking about my boobs again, this time about the negative aspects of my ta-tas.

Negative, you say? How can there be anything bad about boobies?

Well, there can be, and I’ll get to that. But first, I’m going to tell you why I have no trouble talking about my boobs.

When your boobs are as large as mine were, they sort of take on a life of their own. They become their own entity. My chest was large enough that it would knock things over. I’d unintentionally hit people with my boobs because, well, how could I not? They were between me and whatever I was doing. Reaching past someone guaranteed they were going to get some titty on them. Working in close quarters, an elbow to or a hand brushing a boob was common. My friends quickly got used to it.

Breasts that large attract attention. Comments were as common as accidental elbow blows. Men especially were fascinated by them. Of course. Men like boobs and boobs the size of mine are typically reserved for porn as far as they’re concerned. In high school, I had more than one guy ask if they could just feel them. It was less a sexual grope and more a need to satisfy a curiosity about objects that big.

I imagine that they thought what they saw in the bra was what they’d get outside of it. Little did they realize…

They are consequences to have breasts that large. Even breasts that aren’t that big, but grow rapidly end up with stretchmarks. That’s something you don’t see in the movies, porn or otherwise. I’ve got lots of them. They’ve faded with time, but in up close and personal situations , they’re noticeable.

The stretchmarks didn’t go away with my surgery, though with the smaller breasts I can at least be relatively sure that I won’t be getting more of them.

However, the smaller breasts came with a price of their own: scars.

I went into this surgery knowing that there would be scars. I don’t heal quickly and I don’t heal well. Chalk it up to the fair skin or genetics or whatever. It’s been that way since I was a kid. Considering the incision went from under my armpit, around my breast, and ended about half an inch from my breast bone, yeah, there was going to be a scar. It’s widest under my arms where the drain was implanted for my first week of recovery, but for the most part the whole thing has faded.

Due to the size of my breasts, I had to have what’s called a free nipple graft, which made for another incision scar. The surgeon cut up from the bottom of my breast and around my nipple. My nipples were then removed completely so the breast tissue could be removed and the remainder fung shui’d into a more functional and appealing fashion. My nipples were then reattached. The incision scars from this part of the operation have faded some as well.

Now, the risk of doing a free nipple graft is that the surgeon is taking off and then reattaching the nipple, meaning that if the nipple doesn’t get adequate blood supply, the whole thing could die and have to come off. I knew that going in and sure enough, it was a complication I had to deal with.

Before visions of a nippleless boob start bouncing in your head, let me assure you that wasn’t my case. I have both of my nipples, thank you. However, my left one didn’t get quite enough blood supply and the top layer of skin died and sloughed off. To me, it looks like long healed skin after a bad burn, that mottled pink and white, something-significant-happened-here skin. I have been reassured that it doesn’t look that bad, but no one can deny that it’s not a normal look.

My right nipple is fine and looks quite fetching, except for the tiny scar at the top where it pulled away from the skin a little after the stitches were removed.

With all of the scars and stretchmarks, my breasts have a kind of patchwork quality to them. I call them Frankenboobies as they were put together by man. And as glad as I am to have them and have them be this smaller, much more manageable size, I admit that I’m self-conscious about their appearance in the flesh, so to speak.

However, properly displayed in the right bra and shirt combo, they are fantastic and I have no trouble telling people that, too.

After all, if I’m going to talk about my boobs, I’m going to talk about the good and the bad.

Black Cats and Broken Mirrors

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I am a superstitious person.

Now, I have no problem with black cats (I’ve owned several). The worst part about a broken mirror is the clean-up (and being out a mirror). I’ll walk under a ladder, unless someone is on it, but that’s less superstition and more I don’t want them to drop anything on me. I’ve opened umbrellas in the house without any major repercussions.

But I am still a superstitious person.

I’ve got my own system of weird beliefs that aren’t grounded in reality.

For example, I’ve got a firm belief that if I put my shoes on during a tornado warning, a tornado won’t hit my house. I’m convinced that a tornado will only hit my house if I have to climb out of the rubble barefoot.

There’s no logical basis for this thought other than I don’t want to be barefoot if a tornado hits my house and therefore, I put my shoes on when the siren goes off and because a tornado has never hit my house when I’ve had my shoes on (a tornado had never hit my house, period), it stands to reason that putting on my shoes wards off tornadoes.

Thought it’s a very logical progression to get to that last point, there’s no basis in reality for it, but I still put my shoes on when the siren sounds, no matter what time it is, no matter how I’m dressed. The need for a bra during a tornado is somewhat less than the need for shoes.

I’m not exactly sure how this sort of thinking developed for me. And since I like to think of myself as a logical person, it’s kind of funny that I would fall into this sort of thought process. But I suppose it can happen to anyone. Even the most reasonable people have quirks to their thinking.

Lots of people have lucky numbers and numbers to avoid. Most people think of 7 as lucky and 13 as unlucky. My lucky number is 3 and any multiple of 3. I don’t like 5 and I’m wary of 8.

I don’t have to knock wood, but I do have to close my calendars on the last day of the month (so the old month’s mojo doesn’t bleed into the new month).

For the most part, these superstitions don’t affect my functioning. They’re so particular that they don’t often come up. Unless I point them out, most people don’t even know that I have them. And I’m sure that the same could be said for the people in my life, too. I’m sure that it’s not just chain letters that they’re superstitious about.

Sometimes I wonder about the silliness of my superstitions. Then I realize it could be worse.

I could be wearing the same underwear to preserve a winning streak.

Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Pregnant Lady?

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

As a human being, I have my quirks and my fears and my quirky fears. I chose to forego any of the typical phobias like bugs and snakes and decided to jazz up some of the more traditional fears like heights and death. I can only guess at the sources of some of these out of the ordinary hang-ups. Friends and family have no desire to understand them. They just filed them in the “weird” column of my personality and moved on.

So, what scares me?

Mascots- Okay, lots of people have this one. I’m definitely not alone. And it’s more of a love-hate thing with them. I think mascots can be a lot of fun and very funny. I just don’t want them close to me. I don’t want them coming at me. I don’t want them interacting with me. Mascots are fine…over there.

The big headed mascots really freak me out. The bobbleheads at Chase Field, the Presidents at Nationals Park, Rosie Red at Great American Ballpark. I don’t even like seeing them on TV. I don’t think I could handle them so well in person. There’d be a lot of walking in the opposite direction.

This is a late blooming fear, as I don’t remember ever having a problem with mascots before my twenties. Even at DragonCon, people in certain mascot-like costumes caused me concern. The Pennywise Clown, complete with balloons and evil grin, in the elevator, however, did not.

Pregnant Women- I think this is a product of seeing Aliens at a young age. While I fully understand and recognize how amazing it is that you can grow a living creature inside of your body, you’re growing a living creature inside of your body and it’s going to want to come out. I see a heavily pregnant woman and I think it’s just a chestburster incident waiting to happen. And no, I don’t want to feel the baby kick because I don’t want to be too close when it decides it’s done incubating and claws it’s way through your belly button.

Okay, that’s ridiculous and I know it and considering the fact that people close to me have been bearing children pretty regularly for the past ten years, I’ve had lots of opportunities to plaster a smile on my face and pretend not to be creeped out by the fact that there’s something MOVING in my friend’s gut.

I imagine that should I ever get pregnant, I’ll spend the entire time pretty skeeved out and possibly flapping my hands like a girly-girl that’s just seen a spider every time the kid moves.

Wait. Why would I even consider getting pregnant if I’m scared of pregnant women? Hold that thought. I’ll come back to it.

Falling- I don’t mind heights. I don’t mind being in high places, looking out over the land, taking in the view. I don’t mind working on roofs or climbing ladders. I love ferris wheels and the Power Dive at Great America. I have no trouble with heights.

It’s the falling from heights that bothers me. I don’t get too close to the railing. I don’t like other people to get too close to the railing. We were sitting over the bullpen in Kansas City and this guy carrying his baby boy stood next to us and the whole time I was in a highly tense state because his baby was too close to the edge. Logically, I know that Daddy isn’t going to drop the baby, but on the other hand I have this overwhelming desire to not risk it and please step back, sir, you are making me nervous.

And it’s not just high places that this bothers me. It’s stairs, too. I am quite careful going up and down stairs because I’m terrified of falling down them. I think the last time I actually fell down a flight of stairs I was probably three or four and I wasn’t hurt. But be sure that if there’s a bannister, I’m hanging on.

Corpses- Yeah, I don’t like dead people (most people don’t). I’m not big on dead things in general, but I really have a problem with dead people. This means that I don’t do funerals. Period. End of story. Why? There are dead people there. I find it really disconcerting that there is a corpse laid out like a Thanksgiving centerpiece in the room.

I realize that this provides comfort to most people (for some odd reason), but it does nothing for me. As far as I’m concerned, the deceased person in question is already gone; their spirit or soul or what have you has left their body and all that’s left is a hunk of spoiling meat. And I don’t want to be in a room with it.

This goes for ashes, too. My grandparents both chose cremation and no funerals, which I thougth was great, but so long as Dad had their ashes in the jeep, I wouldn’t get in it. There are dead people in there. Nope. (Grandma and Papa have since been moved to Dad’s closet and I have no desire to get in there any time soon.)

Surprisingly, most of my family are very understanding about my funeral-aversion. They understand my problem with being in a room with a corpse and I’ve been given a free-pass for most funerals. Other people don’t understand it and think I’m just a selfish, uncaring bitch. And that’s fine. So long as I’m not in a room with a corpse, you can think of me what you like.

Fears are considered a sign of weakness in my family and I do my best to face them.

I spent most of the Cornbelters season getting used to Corny so I could get within two feet of him when I took my nieces to get his autograph (I still used the children as a shield). I like Corny. And he seems to respect my need for extra mascot personal space and I appreciate that.

I challenged my fear of falling by going on the Mine Drop ride at Great America (it takes you up a gazillion stories and then drops you straight down). Sure, I screamed all the way down, was shaking so hard I couldn’t get my harness off, and would never do it again, but I did it once and that’s what counts.

Same with getting pregnant. If the opportunity to have children arises, I would get pregnant despite that fear just to say I did it. Nine months is a lot longer than thirty seconds, but the reward would be greater for all of the time I’d put in.

The dead people thing I’m kind of stuck with. That’s going to be a tough one to get around. I’ve basically made a deal with myself that certain funerals I have to attend. I will probably sit as close the back as I can and do my best not to be anywhere near the casket, but I will go.

That’s right. If you’re really special, I’ll go to your funeral.

It’s Hip to Be Square

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’ve never been a cool kid. I’m sure you’re shocked by this revelation, but it’s true. Growing up, I lacked all of the necessary skills to be cool. I was too smart, too weird, too awkward, too shy. There was nothing about me that would have made me popular even in a one room school house with only two students. It was just not in my genetic make-up.

To take it a step further, I couldn’t even try to be cool. To this day, my sister has to keep me up-to-date on slang and explain the correct context in which it is to be used. In effect, my much hipper younger sister has to translate cool for me because I do not speak it. I march to the beat of my own drummer and that drummer tends to play the oldies.

Going through school as not very popular (not be confused with not having any friends, because I did and they were very good ones and I’m glad I spent my time with them), it baffles me now at the age of thirty bonus year that I would be thought of as cool and be popular, but I am, at least in a two very specific sections of the population.

The first section is Walmart. To pinpoint it even further, the people I worked with at my tiny Walmart here in town. Walking into that store is the closest I’ll ever get to being a rock star.

Okay, so this is mostly because I’ve worked there twice and racked up a few years and I got along really well with most of my co-workers. We chitchat and play catch-up. If I want to get out of there in under two hours, I have to time my visits very precisely.

However, I am something of a legend in that Walmart. I didn’t realize it until I went to work there the second time when I had associates that I’d never even met before know who I was. I guess that happens when you dye your hair mutliple colors, have fun at work (while busting your ass to do your job well), and aren’t afraid to get an attitude with the customers when necessary.

My legend, I’m told, continues on.

The other small contingent that thinks I’m cool are people younger than me. People my own age and people older than me look at me as something of a failure as I never finished college, never got married, never had kids, and live with my dad and a roommate while insisting that I can make some sort of career as a writer while periodically holding day jobs.

Younger people, however, seem to ignore all of that status stuff and instead hone in on the fact that I’m a quick wit that can give objective, practical advice when necessary. In some ways, I’m totally on their level. In other ways, I’m 100 years wiser. It’s an attractive blend, or so I’m led to believe. They think I’m cool.

I never expected that years after high school I would find popularity and some sort of cool factor, however minute and unimportant in the grand scheme that it might be.

Don’t worry. I won’t let it go to my head.

Avoiding the Limelight

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Teenagers crave attention. With the benefit of a few years of distance, I can see that clearly. Everything that happens to two them is either the best, but usually the worst thing ever. Every notable quality about them is better than any of your notable qualities. Every incident, word, interaction, look, and choice is magnified to the extreme, all for the sake of LOOK AT ME!

Now, I’m not just picking on the teenagers I know now. I was just as guilty of all of those things when I was their age and so were my friends. I have more than one memory of me acting in such a way that just makes me cringe now. If my parents had been paying better attention, I wouldn’t have blamed them for locking me in a closet for being annoying.

However, I was really BAD at getting attention. It usually backfired or was in some way ineffective. Mostly, I was out attention-got by someone else that was better at getting attention. In competitions like that, I’m woefully unskilled to compete.

Some people grow out of this ultimate need for attention. Some don’t. Some just evolve their attention getting methods.

I went in the opposite direction.

Once I realized that I wasn’t good at getting attention by any means, I gave up on trying to get it. And when those around me continued to get attention and tried to get attention, it really turned me off to trying to get it.

You know those people that have to one-up you? The ones whose lives are always worse/better than yours depending on the situtation? Yeah. I’ve been acquainted with too many attention-getters like that. It’s turned me off to sharing bits and pieces of my life because I’m tired of being used as a stepping stone to conversation stardom. I’m tired of being reminded about how their lives are so much MORE than mine.

So, I don’t share. Sometimes, I’d like to, but I think better of it and keep it myself. In the end, I have secrets.

I don’t tell people about my writing projects. There are people I haven’t told about my jewelry making. No one at the former day job new the actual extent of my new gig. I’ve gotten very comfortable with operating in the shadows and being overlooked.

But, it’s hurting me as well. You can’t live your whole life unseen (unless you’re some sort of James Bond spy, and I know I’m not cool enough for that life). I’ve gone so far the other way when it comes to seeking attention that to get attention is disconcerting. I get almost paranoid about it. Why are they looking at me? What do they want? Why does what I do matter to them?

It also doesn’t help because I’m at a point in my life when I need attention. I need the attention to create and grow a fanbase. I need the attention to sell books, sell jewelry, sell myself.

Going so long avoiding attention, I’m struggling trying to figure out ways to acquire that kind of attention.

It’s like wearing make-up. If you go for an extended period of time not wearing make-up and then you put it on, you think you look like a painted doll, even if you don’t. If you go for a period of time not trying to get attention, then you start trying, you think you’re being an annoying in a “hey, look at me!” kind of way.

As nice as it is in the darkened wings of the stage, I need to work my way back towards the limelight, even if I can only stand its glare for short periods of time.

Best Laid Plans

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’m not very good at making plans. The fact that I’ve been improvising my life since I graduated high school aside, even planning on the smaller scale is a skill I lack.

Oh, I like to plan some things out, like business and budget stuff, but I have a way of sabotaging myself. For example, this jewelry side business. I got it all in my head how I was going to set up my own store sight and build up my inventory and promote it with Moo cards. I went through with that plan. I bought the webhosting, set up the front page to the site, got the Moo cards.

And then I realized that I’d be better off setting myself up on Etsy because it’d be easier to promote and control my inventory since I was going to be short on cash for materials until I could really get going.

So I’ve spent the past couple of days canceling my webhosting account, getting my shop set up on Etsy, and redoing the Moo cards with white out and a pen to correct the store’s url. Time that could have been better spent, for sure.

I’m really good at this sort of thing. Getting everything laid out, drawing up what I think is a great plan, beginning to execute it, and then realizing that I should be doing it another way.

That’s if I make a plan at all. When it comes to making money or budgeting money, I’m all about a plan. When it comes to spending money, like with a trip, I have no plan.

Oh, I have a loose idea of what I want to do and what I need to do, but when it comes to drawing up those solid diagrams I make with other things, they’re lacking when I come to planning a trip. It’s why I usually try to go with someone else. Not just for the company, but because the person I go with is usually better on the planning. They’re better at booking hotels, planning routes, getting airline tickets, knowning what ot pack, that sort of thing.

I’m going it alone to Wrigley next week. Not such a big deal because it’s nothing more than a day trip. But the game is next Tuesday. I still haven’t bought my ticket. I still haven’t plotted the route I need to take to drive up there (though riding up just last month, I’ve got a pretty good idea how I need to go). I’m just now looking into how much gas money I’ll need. These things will get done, but I bet I’m up late the night before printing out directions and my last stop out of town will be the ATM because I’ll remember that I’ll need money to eat.

Now, if someone were going with me, I’d be totally prepared to go days in advance. The tickets would have been purchased weeks ago (and I would have been the one to do it, too), the directions would have been obtained (my co-pilot probably would have done it), and the cash would be sitting in my Boob Job Fund jar waiting for me.

It’s amazing how my trip planning skills get better when I’m flying as part of a flock instead of solo.

They say make plans and God laughs. Apparently, I was born with the same philosophy.

The Worth of a Dollar

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’m not going to lie, money is important to me. The making of it, the having of it, the spending of it. I’m not too interested in other’s people money. I’m too busy thinking about my own. Or the lack thereof.

Money plays a big factor in my self-esteem. I’m worth not just what’s in the bank, but what I’m bringing in and how I’m paying the bills. My ego lives and dies by my checkbook.

It’s a pretty messed up measure of worth, I know. Never mind how the stock market keeps gyrating or the fluxuating price of gold; what’s it say on my pay stub?

Now one would think that since I pin so much of my worth on my money that I’d have gone through college and got myself a good paying job and ergo I would be in the position to think my shit don’t stink. Have we discussed that I like to do everything the hard way? Yeah, that was clearly not the case.

In terms of my self-esteem, it’s lunacy that I’m quitting a regular paycheck to go back to scratching out what I can. On the one hand, the struggle will make me happier because I’ll be doing what I want to do.  On the other hand, my self-esteem is looking to take a severe hit because the money is not going to be steady and I’ll be struggling to make ends meet once again.

Because of my money issues, I’m very good with my money. I’m good at going without. I’m good at saving. I’m good at paying the bills first. I’m good at making sure the obligations are taken care of before I do something fun, and even then I usually defer to responsibility and save my money instead of spend it. My dad likes to joke about how tight I am. I don’t know why he thinks it’s so funny. He’s the one that made me that way.

My dad grew up poor. Real poor. Poorer than I grew up, for sure. My dad harbors a bitterness that my mother (who did not grow up poor) gave us things when we were kids. Never mind that a lot of our toys and clothes were second-hand, it was just the fact that we had them. That my mom spent money to give them to us. Now, my mom did run us up in quite a bit of debt with her shopping, but still, my sister and I were far from spoiled in the material sense. Money is a big deal with my dad. He never has enough and he doesn’t want to spend it. Ask him. He’s always broke.

When I moved in with him during my sophomore year, I didn’t ask him for anything. I wouldn’t even ask him for lunch money. I lived off of what I had in my savings account from babysitting and working in my mom’s daycare. It wasn’t until I’d lived with him for a while that it occured to him that he didn’t know where I was getting my lunch money. Then he started giving it to me.

My sister had to have her appendix out when we were in high school. All I can remember from that is my dad bitching about the doctor’s bill. So when I fractured my ankle before senior year, I refused to go to the hospital. I didn’t want to listen to Dad bitch about how much I cost him (yes, we had insurance, but there’s that whole deductable thing and then what insurance won’t cover, and all that jazz). Over a decade later, I’m paying for not having my ankle properly set.

There’s no worse feeling than asking my dad for money. The disgust is palpable. So I do everything in my power to have my own. To make my own.

I’m hard enough on myself. I don’t need him to add to it.

The true test of this next venture is to make enough money to pay my bills. I pay my bills, the self-esteem stays happy and my dad continues to see me as legitimate person dwelling in his house. It’s a win-win.

Sure. No pressure.