Douchebaggery and Entitlement (Or, It Must Be Thursday)

timelapse photography off water fountain

Photo by Gabriel Peter on Pexels.com

Tis a week before pay-day, and I’m bored with reading about the Duchy of Sussex’s charm school dropout side of the family. So I decided to catch up on what everyone else has been tweeting about, financially important things you should do before age 35.

I should have saved twice my salary. *Cue a bitter fountain of tears*

I am actually one of the Canadians who can’t even manage to save $500.

It should be easier than it looks. I don’t have student loan debt. I live with someone whose annual income is on-par with mine. But I’m 46, and still have kids at home, teenagers at that, with cell phones and the need for new clothes and groceries. Aye, the groceries.

Never mind the consumer debt. I got out of it once; it was nice. Did I mention the teenagers? Or, despite subscribing to online newsletters about responsible spending and saving, and making the effort, I still can’t quite get there? I do everything online. No cheques. No overdraft protection. Always try to avoid bank fees where possible. Cash only.

I have an 18-month-old granddaughter. I like to help out. The amount spent there isn’t garish by anyone’s standards. If I see a deal on diapers, or a book or a toy that combines fun and learning, I’m on it. She’s been eating what her parents eat, by and large, for a while now, which keeps the spending on baby and toddler food to a minimum.

All this said, I get angry when I hear about grown-ass men who have to be forcibly evicted from their parents’ home, where they contribute nothing, not even civilized conversation. Get a hair cut and get a job, ya damned hippie. Be a decent example to your son.

And then there’s Kevin Federline. Due to his overall irrelevance since 2008, following the nuclear meltdown of his marriage to Britney Spears, he’s had primary custody of their two sons and enjoyed monthly child support to the tune of $20,000. Now he says he needs three times that amount. I smell the smell of a man who’s been using one ex-wife to pay for the children he has with other women, which he should be ashamed of, frankly. Ya, ya. Nobody wants you when you’re down and out, right Kev? Oi! Hair cut! Job! Go get ’em.

It pisses me off when I see the 1% being stupid with their money, and still managing to come out ahead. Damned right I support increased taxation on the wealthy, even though I will never see any of it come back to me in the form of child tax benefits, since I owe the government money for the foreseeable future.

This reminds me to call my son – he’s 21 – and tell him to get on with opening a Registered Retirement Savings Plan. His contribution limit isn’t that steep. I don’t want him to look back at age 35, or even 45 or 65, and wonder where all the years of savings went.

 

Tóg Go Bog É This Paddy’s Day

It is still sunny out at five minutes past seven, local time, but cold. I have some Guinness in bottles in the fridge that have probably been there since last St. Paddy’s Day, but alas, no green. I’ve been waiting on my refund, three weeks after I e-filed my income tax return. *ahem*

WB_F1_GringottsGoblin_GoblinAtDeskInGringotts_2337

D’you suppose this fine fellow knows where my refund is? (Source: Pottermore.com)

Ah well. I may be poor and a bit pale, but I have most of my health. The day after my forty-sixth birthday, nearly three weeks ago, I succumbed to a bout of shingles. Roughly forty-some years after contracting chickenpox from a schoolmate. The patch, which was confined to my hip, was relatively small and responded to a week of antiviral treatment, but it is still itchy and painful to the touch. And my sleep has been even more erratic than usual. Here’s hoping we can open the windows soon and change the air in the house.

Dear Winter

It’s not you.

It’s me.

Every other ad on my Facebook timeline is for travel to someplace warm. My boss is in Mexico for the March Break. I need to see something lit by the sun, instead of so much grey.

As a push back I refuse to wear socks. The cat puked on my boots, so slipon shoes it is. My need to wander is kicking in. Not sure how far I’ll go in this muck.

But it’s time we break up. Call it. We never bring out the best in each other. I haven’t laced up a pair of skates since high school. Après-ski is just another word for what I already do at home.

What do you think? Let’s sign here.

Sincerely,

Vicki Vee