We had a bit of a scare here recently, the sort of thing that would have been utterly predictable to someone cleverer than I, (or at least not hampered by my weird issues) and it got me thinking about my attitude toward money.
Disclaimer: this is not about to become a financial advice blog—I’m in no position to be anything other than a cautionary tale—but we are going to talk in abstractly frank terms about money; if that is a thing that bothers you (even when it’s presented in my trademark what the unholy fuck is wrong with me go ahead and laugh manner) just… I don’t know, skim for whatever gifs and images follow? Maybe post them on facebook with a unique quip like “ded” or “mood” and ignore the words altogether. I promise not to get my feelings hurt.
First one’s free.
I don’t want to open with the aforementioned scare (because I tried it that way and I rambled on for far too long—I’ve just cut 800 words of absolute nonsense; we’re not going back) so let’s talk instead of my recent dinner with a friend, since it illustrates much of the theme and will prepare you.
ME: Sorry I’m late… I was actually early but I’ve always wanted to check out that little shop over there… and once I got in I had to touch everything. You know, to keep myself from actually buying anything.
FRIEND: (hisses) You didn’t tell me this was a fancy restaurant! (fidgets with cardigan)
ME: (looks around at dark wood and attentive staff) I like the food.
FRIEND: For these prices—
ME: It’s not that much more than… well, a place where I’d maybe point out things you shouldn’t order. Besides, it’s my treat so what do you care?
FRIEND: (rolls eyes) I’m not letting you pay for me in a place like this.
ME: (waggles eyebrows) Why, am I not getting lucky?
FRIEND: (perusing menu) We’ll see. The haircut’s working for you.
ME: I wondered when you’d say something. (preens) I’m pretty happy with it, finally.
FRIEND: Why’d you cut it all off? I mean, it’s cute—
ME: I got sick of fighting with them about doing what I want. The last time the argument was whether or not she’d keep the layers in.
FRIEND: Uhhh…
ME: Right? I’m paying you, cut where I say! But she was all, if you’re just gonna put it in a ponytail you don’t need layers.
FRIEND: But you only put it up when it’s—
ME: When it looks like ass and needs a trim, right? Whatever, the new place got it right away and I’m happy.
FRIEND: Where’d you go?
ME: (cheap salon), because I’m cheap.
FRIEND: (gapes)
ME: I know, I kno—
FRIEND: Girl, did you just tell me that you’re too cheap for a real salon but you’ll shell out for a place like this?
ME: It’s not that fan—
FRIEND: Seriously?
ME: … yeah, I think I’m weird about where I will and won’t spend.
FRIEND: (shakes head, considers ravioli)
Which, by the way, was amazing.
This exchange got me thinking about my financial hang-ups: sure, we all have things we’re weirdly opposed to spending money on, but I’ll lecture Offspring to “buy nice or buy twice” and there I sat, defending three trips to a shitty salon while I fought to get a simple trim before settling on a fourth (still cheap AF) haircut. Sure, the cost of those four visits were maybe not quite as much as my last foray into a posh salon but add in gas, tips (Husband had his wallet out and was face-to-face with an employee before I could signal him)[1] and the weeks of aggravation in between and I was no better off.
After doing all this thinking (and watching some “budget like a fucking grown-up, you moron” youtube) I was resolved to stop buying disposable clothing and give myself permission to buy some things that have been sitting in my amazon cart forever, but I made no connection to anything important.
Until, of course, it was too late.
ME: Shit. HONEY! NEED YOUR HELP! NOW!!
HIM: (from back room) Coming!
ME: Shit. Shit! (futzes with aquarium heater)
HIM: What’s up?
ME: Look at the temperature.
HIM: (glances at one of three[2] thermometers) It’s flash—oh, shit!
ME: Yeah. It’s fallen ten degrees. I wouldn’t even have noticed but Dibs was wedged under her ramp and I reached in to fix it—fuck!
HIM: What do we need?
ME: The thermostat’s fine—it’s reading within a degree or so of that (points) but the heater (lifts titanium heater with bare hands) is stone cold.
HIM: Shit. So we—
ME: Alexa! What time is it?
DEMON BOX: It’s 7:42 PM.
ME: We’ve got to hit fucking Petsmart and Petco, they’re the only things open this late on a Saturday.
HIM: Okay, calm down.
ME: No, because they won’t have what I need. But they’ll maybe have something to keep these guys alive while I order a decent fucking heater off amazon.
HIM: We’ll check. Look, I’ve got my jacket you just… (waves at my duckweed-covered self)[3]
ME: Yep, on it. (hurries off to wash up)
The local chain stores did not have a heater rated for decently-sized tanks. And here we expose the real problem with the “buy twice” part of my shenanigans: it’s more expensive, more stressful, and more time-consuming the second time.
RETAIL EMPLOYEE: Yeah, most of this stuff’s meant for hobbyists and beginners.
ME: (peevishly) If I was any better than that, I’d have a goddamned backup heater on hand.
RE: (shrugs) We all make mistakes.
ME: (grabs lone shitty heater, rushes to pay)
HIM: So… Other Store?
ME: We’ll have to. This (waves overpriced matchstick) won’t last an hour alone, and it’ll maybe raise the temp a degree or two in that time.
HIM: (nods) They’re still open; It’ll be fine.
ME: (bitterly) I cheaped out on the thing their lives depend on.
HIM: You didn’t know you were cheaping out.
ME: I did, though. I just thought I was being smart, that it was ridiculous to pay $100 for a heater. Well, now I’m paying way more than that because the cheap one broke on a Saturday night.
HIM: We know now, and we’re fixing it.
ME: (fuming) You know what really gets me? I was willing to spend any amount of money on their lights—lights! I wanted full-spectrum and programmable and “don’t cheap out on the lights, you’ll regret it!” But the heater, a thing that actually matters? (pulls face, shakes head)
HIM: I’ll look up a good heater. And now we’ve got a just-in-case backup.
Husband did excellent research,[4] (the new one comes with an alarm, among its other nifty features) and I flinched at the price—because I’m nothing if not slow—but I clicked Buy Now and installed it on Monday because prime shipping is the goddamned miracle of our time.
Pretty much.
In the wake of this emotionally fraught mini-crisis, I once again re-evaluated my relationship with money. Obviously there’s never enough of it, other people always seem to have more, etc. But I couldn’t ignore the situation I’d put myself in (kept putting myself in, if I’m honest) and the fact that my own attitudes toward money—the spending and the saving thereof—was at the heart of it.
Husband and I don’t argue about money for the simple reason that we rarely talk about it; we each have our own baggage and are unwilling or unable to get past it—though we have described our mental gremlins to each other.
For my part, my mother was forever too broke to keep groceries in the house or all the utilities on at the same time for more than a few months at a stretch yet somehow always had money for a pizza (“it’s cheaper than a grocery trip!”) or lunch out with coworkers or whatever random gadget she found in whatever store she stopped off in to make herself feel better. I can honestly remember her “not being able to afford” to give me money for school lunch, but at least she could whip me up a latte with the new espresso machine she got just for me because I love coffee.[5]
Actual footage.
So I tend to swing between “terrified to spend money on anything—even the bills, let’s just let those stack up until anxiety overwhelms—and “splurging” on “just this and that and those right there” because “I’ve been so good and deserve it!”
I am, in other words, a hot fucking mess.
Husband, for his part, remembers all too well the bitter fights between his parents over money. He witnessed how ugly the dynamic could get when one partner earned significantly more than the other and used income as a measure of worth to the relationship. His father made what I—with all the clarity and hindsight of an outsider—would consider to be some very questionable financial moves, yet their struggles could only be blamed on her spending.
Afraid of “becoming his father,” Husband experiences great anxiety whenever the topic of money comes up and pleads with me to “just handle it.” He also won’t say no to any little thing it enters my brain to want/need, so you see where we end up. “Whatever I think is fine,” but he’s talking to a person who has goddamned mailbox anxiety, because my main parental role model taught me that’s where the bills are (and bringing them in makes them real? I don’t know) and bills are those scary things you cannot afford to pay.
I didn’t think about any of that right away, of course. It only came to mind once I sat down to explain us to you.
But then I thought of something else. Something my therapist used to say—and I rejected it violently every time, of course, because she was talking about my tendency to use sarcasm and icy emotional armor to keep people from getting too close, or my perverse need to control everything and everyone in my orbit.
What got you here won’t get you there.
I want to be better at adulting than the woman who gave birth to me (and never let me forget the pain she endured for 36 hours.) Husband wants to have a better relationship than his parents (who have maintained their marriage lo these many years owing to a policy of maintaining opposite work schedules.) Both of us have developed a survival kit for situations that tripped up our respective parents… but the tools in that kit won’t carry us beyond bare survival, and we’ve reached a point where we’re impatient for more. So. What to do?
What to do when you need a tool you were never given nor taught to use?
I don’t have an answer, nor do I expect you to supply one. This is where my mind has been, so this is what you get this week.
[1] Could I have refused to pay at all? Sure, but it would have left me with the “let us fix it” option, which would have been carried out by one of the employees who stood by and watched someone argue with me about my haircut. Or pretend to cut my hair… I still can’t believe I let her get away with that shit.
[2] Yeah, when it’s $5 a pop I’ll double and triple up. Consistently inconsistent is my brand.
[3] If you haven’t seen her pictures on Instagram, Dibs now has a tank chockful of floating green plants and she luuuuuvs it.
[4] Apparently when you shop online it’s called “research,” but when you do it in stores it’s called “shopping” and is literally the worst thing you can ask someone to do.
[5] And she did make me a latte, every morning… for about two weeks. Then it was a pain to clean and sat collecting dust unless I used it—which I never did because I didn’t need a fucking latte and anyway we were out of milk.