Budget troubles

To counter rumours that I have become an irredeemable princess, I have been looking into way of being more mindful of my finances.

For instance, just this past Tuesday hubby and I had a conversation about spending during which, when pressured to make a guess, my husband estimated that I spend $1000 a month on clothing.

I found that a bit shocking. I couldn’t counter that number because I really never keep track, but I was still taken aback.

Upon further and later thought however, I began to wonder if that was a number he was comfortable with. And if it was a number he was comfortable with, and if I could manage a quick and dirty forensic audit of my clothing related purchases, and if it turned out that I did not spend $1000 per month – was that amount retroactive?

Why, only just last last month I let an Akris Punto dress, discounted at 40%, slip away from me because I was not sure how my husband would feel about  the $945 price tag.

akris 1

Did I miss my chance? Did I unwittingly limit my own horizons and sabotage my own dreams? So many women are self saboteurs after all; we don’t insist on as much as we deserve from the world around us.

You can be sure that henceforth I will not self limit. When I see what I want I will take out my credit card and make my dreams a reality.

 

I feel more empowered already.

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Poetic Princess license

The spider count is now three. Three spiders in my house. I can’t sleep knowing they’re about.

It started with the bathtub spider. He’s dead, but he probably had friends.

bathrub spider

 

There was the spider on the stairs. He got away when I flicked on the lights.

House-Spider

 

Then there was the spider on the hallway wall. This one was brave, he stared me down. He’s the reason I didn’t do laundry last week.

hallway spider

I think we need to go away for a week and hire an exterminator to come in and purge the house. My husband seems to think I am over reacting and exaggerating the potential risks associated of a ‘few’ common house spiders.  I think I am painting an accurate picture of our current household situation, but he thinks I am taking poetic license with my risk assessment.

So I thought I would compromise. I suggested we get a panic button in the bathroom so the next time an eight legged assassin emerges from my bathwater I can sound the alarm. Then my husband, who thinks I am exaggerating the risks, can run upstairs and rid me of the beastly thing.

My husband agreed, with one caveat. That I don’t use the alarm when I just want a cup of tea while I bathe.

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Hmmmmm

 

Well, I can’t honestly promise that so I guess I just have learn to live with the arachnid invasion.

 

 

 

 

All my fashionable dreams torn asunder

I am so sad. It pains me to even think of my weekend now. I’ll have to wear black to The Barber of Seville, in mourning.

Oscar de la Renta, designer par excellence, has passed away at 82.

Now what will I wear if I ever have tea with the queen?

03

 

Or if I ever win an Academy Award?

06

Or am invited to the university president’s dinner party?

04

Or the OPERA, what will I wear to the opera now?

02

 

😦

 

 

Picture this:

After a long hard week, I sink into a hot bath to soak my stresses away.

bubble-bathvintage

I casually reach my hand over the edge of the tub and find, there beside the soap, a menacing spider.

Startled, I somehow knock the monster into the tub.

So NOW the hideous icky thing is desperately doing the butterfly stroke toward my naked, defenseless body.

I leap up and shake myself brave. In desperate adrenaline driven self defense I take hold of the wash cloth and flick the soggy, hairy, bent-legged angry arachnid out of my bathwater and onto the tile floor.

It lands with a little splat, then drags its wet carcass around the tub and, I assume, down the vent.

All of this happens with my husband in the living room downstairs deafened by the TV and completely oblivious to my immanent peril.

Had the eight legged assassin killed me and greedily drained my vital fluids, he would not have known until he came to bed and found my desiccated corpse floating in the tub.

House-Spider
We need to install a panic button.

Not a good week to be princess

This week has been almost unbearable, and I don’t mean to brag, but it has also been a testament to my inner strength.

First of all, my husband is away so I am all alone looking after the boys, the dog and the house. I had no idea how many times that dog went out to pee on an average day. She might have kidney problems.

On Sunday I almost thought I’d lost one of the boys. That was a couple seconds of anxiety. One time he gets out of bed before 2 in the afternoon – how am I supposed to know?

Monday my son decided we should be heroes and signed us up to donate blood. We took the train all the way to Canadian Blood Services then waited our turn, only to have my blood rejected. My iron levels are not sufficient to allow me to donate blood. I had to sit and wait, reading a 2 year old Chatelaine magazine while my son gave blood, then wait and watch him get a cookie and juice.

Then Tuesday was looking like a busy but doable day until I got dressed. I had to change 7 times because I had an important meeting and couldn’t find a outfit that said ‘intelligent but easy going’. It was harrowing and made me despair for the state of my wardrobe.

When I finally did get dressed and to my desk I sat down, crossed my legs and the zipper on my boots ripped a huge hole in my new tights. I had to walk two blocks to my morning meeting with calves bare to the autumn wind.

Wednesday we got home and the dog, apparently as retribution for leaving her alone, had gotten into the garbage and scattered carrot peelings all over the kitchen in her desperate search for a precious butter wrapper.

(what?)                                     (oh, that)                               (my bad)

who me tessa     my bad tessa     ha ha tessa

Thursday morning I turned on the shower and it just never got warm – the hot water heater pilot light had gone out some time during the night. A cold shower does not set a good tone to a day.

Today is Friday and I am sitting on pins and needles waiting to see what fate befalls me next.

Why, why maybe wifi

You know, I don’t want to sound like a demanding princess, but something has to be done by someone about the quality of my household wireless services.

Last night I thought, for a change of pace, perhaps I should pack up my laptop and sit in the library while I do my online shopping.

You see, usually I sit in the south wing of the house, in the art room. But the art room has very large windows and I get a  bit of glare on my laptop’s screen that interferes with my ability to peruse the dress selection at Saks Fifth Avenue’s online site.

On the north end of the house, in the library, there is only the one set of patio doors and the patio is superbly shaded. There would be no glare and (I thought) all my problems would be solved.

So I moved, and I sat and sat waiting for the image of a Jill Stuart dress to appear. But it never happened and I was left sitting in a lonely library recliner with unrequited dress dreams, credit card in hand without a dress to pay for.  No internet. No Jill Stuart. By the time I packed up and moved all the way back to the other side of the house the dress had sold out.

saks sold out

Apparently the north end of the house is still a dead zone. The boys tell me that is because the router is in the south wing of the house in the media room, and that since there are 4 walls and a floor between that media room router and my library, the wireless does not have the strength to retrieve images.

I had the cable fellows out to fix this months ago, and they just asked me a whole bunch of confusing questions (what kind of modem do you have, where is the router, how do you turn this on?).

Now what was I supposed to do? Just trust Saks and buy any old size two dress I could find? How am I supposed to keep my wardrobe up to date?

This is a serious problem.

If I didn’t work walking distance from Holt Renfrew this could be a real impediment to maintaining my social status.