Financial Decisions

Hi Darling Ones,

Yesterday I was a twenty-two-year-old dum dum in Eau Claire with hot plans to use her financial aid money to get a tattoo at that place on Water Street and then celebrating that bonehead move by drinking bloody marys for dinner. After all, I had already made the choice between actual food and a tattoo. And who says that a pickle and two olives plus some free lemon-peppered popcorn isn’t a healthy meal? The drink had tomato juice in it. So much health.

Today I woke up and wrote a check* for my property taxes because the credit union that holds my mortgage doesn’t do escrow.

Also, I know what escrow is. Also, I have enough money in my checking account to pay my property taxes. Also, how did this all happen?

Do the granters of mortgages know I spent my very-high interest student loan money on tattoos? Apparently that doesn’t show up on your credit report. I once maxed out an entire Target credit card buying a very expensive CD-boom box in 1992. Like I think that thing cost $300 or $400. The nineties were ridiculous and so was I.

I’m not sure why paying my property taxes this month has sent me into a “where did all the time go/how did this all happen” spiral, but here we are. When I paid them in May I must have been still high on that Moderna vaccine and all the optimism it brought. Or I blocked the whole ordeal out because property taxes and income taxes were due the same day and despite my many, many plants and Funko Pops! and records, I am not made of money. I am, however, still made of stupid financial decisions.

That’s mostly a joke. The only debt I have is my mortgage and I really do live frugally. When people express admiration or awe at my angry hermit lifestyle I tell them it’s not glamourous. Sure it sounds decadent — the sleeping until I wake up, the reading books whenever I feel like it, afternoon orgasms, so many donuts. But, I make a lot of conscious decisions so I can afford this way of life. I drive a twenty-two-year-old truck that would probably qualify for collector plates if it were in better condition. I rarely eat out. I haven’t taken a vacation in like seven years.

It sounds kind of sad, but it makes me happy. I grew up in poverty and being able to pay all my bills when they’re due is still a trip. Being able to earn and save enough money for my property taxes thrills me. Of course, this is America so I’m one accident or medical catastrophe away from bankruptcy and homelessness. I’m no fool. I know how precarious this all is.

Once again this went someplace I did not intend it to go. I was gonna make funny jokes about aging and the passing of time, but instead I got all defensive about my finances. Weird. Now I’m kinda drunk on biscuits & gravy and, sadly, not bloody marys. I don’t feel like editing this into something more coherent.

Feel free to file complaints with the management,
Jodi

 
* I didn’t actually write a check. I might be an adult, but I’m not a luddite. I beep-booped that shizz into my bank’s website and they’re gonna send the property taxes to the appropriate authorities.

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