The other day, while I was trying to figure out how I could work fewer hours yet still have enough money to buy something at CB2 called an alpine gunmetal bed (yes, I need that), a thought came to me: I SHOULD MAKE A GODDAMNED BUDGET.
Then I thought, Fuck a budget. I grew up poor and now I have money, so I’m going to spend it on Chanel nail polishes. I don’t know how you can possibly have joy in your life when you do shit like “balance your checkbook” or “pay your minimum balance on time,” and if doing those awful-sounding things means I can’t see four movies in one weekend, then I don’t ever want to do them. I can’t go to the library. I mean, first of all, what if someone else checked out the book I want? I’m not the only one reading the book reviews in the Times, so now I gotta put my name on a list after your aunt Karen and my elementary school principal, then just, like, wait for them to be finished? I would rather be dead.
But at some point you have to start thinking about saving up for something other than a lobster dinner, so I caved and read all the brochures in the after-hours ATM lobby while trying to loiter nonthreateningly behind a lady depositing what had to be 437 individual checks (hurry up) and tried to make a budget for myself, but it was as trash as you’d expect. I bought a Suze Orman book and remembered that I’d signed up for Mint.com in 2013, but I stopped using it because I felt too judged by all the expense categorizing (90 percent of the things I spent money on qualified as “amusement.”) Then I just googled “how to make a budget.” Essentially: At the beginning of the month, you make a plan for how you are going to spend your money that month. Then you write down what you think you will earn and spend. All month long you have to write down everything you spend, no cheating. At the end of the month, see if you spent what you planned.
I made it through two days before quitting because it was too embarrassing. I don’t like knowing how much of my rent money I’ve spent downloading children’s games to play on my phone. If my plan is to die peacefully in my sleep before my hip inevitably slips out of place, do I even need to worry about a retirement plan? Do any of you guys think about that shit? Wait, don’t tell me. No, I mean, only tell me if the amount of money you’ve spent on bottled water this month is more than you set aside for your savings. I prefer to admit my inadequacies to assholes who can relate. So after I burned the notebook I had halfheartedly dedicated to my frivolous daily expenditures I googled “money-saving tips.” Oh, don’t worry, I HATE MYSELF, TOO.
Pack a lunch!
House lunch is so boring, though. Also, packing it the night before feels gross, and the prospect of making it in the morning before I leave feels impossible. Sometimes, if I cook too much dinner for one person, instead of trying to cram the excess down my throat so I don’t have to rifle through all the mismatched plastic containers in my cabinets to find a top that fits with a corresponding bottom, I will wrap those leftovers in foil or toss them in a ziplock bag and vow to myself to take it with me for lunch the next day. But the next day that Bomb-ass Dinner just looks like Half-a–Sad Lunch and will inevitably need to be supplemented by a few stolen bites of Someone Else’s Break Room Sandwich. And then you’re that person.
Save your loose change!
Can we have a serious, vulnerable, heart-to-heart talk for a minute? So I have very few phobias. Like, almost none. Clowns, spiders, flying, public speaking, balloons, needles: NO PROBLEM. But if you try to give me a handful of coins, I will literally burst into tears. (Cue strangers throwing nickels upon recognizing me on the street.) I cannot stand any little metal thing, especially if it’s clinking together and making noise, and touching disgusting change makes me want to peel the skin from my hands like an orange and then soak them in bleach. The thought of a piggy bank sitting on my dresser makes me want to cry. Once, my boss put a swear jar on my desk, and because I never have change in my pockets, I had to pay a dollar every time I cursed. I lost twenty-seven motherfucking dollars the first son-of-a-bitching day.
Use coupons and take advantage of discounts!
Oh no, this makes me so sad. And is it even possible if I have Cody from Instacart doing all my grocery shopping?!
Buy items in bulk!
A few years ago I went to Sam’s Club with my friend’s mom. I am not capable of things like “having memberships to places,” and also, it was maybe the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life, so I will never be going there again.
(1) All of the produce—and I mean all of it—rotted before I could even make a dent. I am one person who lives with one salty garbagecat, and the two of us have pretty much zero use for four real pounds of spinach. Even now that I’ve traded in rib tips for fennel bulbs, I can’t use that much fucking spinach. WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH SEVENTEEN APPLES, SAM WALTON?
(2) I am an obsessive bathroom cleaner, so imagine my joy when I happened upon a six-pack of Clorox toilet bowl cleaner just chilling there all shrink-wrapped and begging to live under my kitchen sink! I still have one of those bottles. Years later. Under my sink. Because I am one person with one ass and one toilet and buying things in bulk is for people with guest bathrooms who are responsible for snack day at the elementary school. What was I even thinking? Also, I’m pretty sure it took me six months, minimum, to recycle the boxes they make you take your stuff home in.
Take fewer cab rides!