bed

Into You

Blisters on my heels from yesterday’s trek. Calves sore this morning. Yay!

Yesterday afternoon dissolved into a ball of frustration. My mother had purchased me a box spring at the Salvation Army on Saturday, so I knew they would be calling to let me know they were coming by to deliver. She had some problems at the store with people not seeming to know how to ring up the sale, where to put the order, etc. But no matter, the phone rang yesterday afternoon and it was the store. They’d made a mistake, they said. The queen they had in stock was actually a mattress, not a box spring, so they didn’t have any of their new ones on hand, but they had one from Lounsbury’s with the plastic still on it. Did I want that instead? And a credit for $20 worth or merchandise?

Well, it’s only the boxspring, not the mattress, and it still has the plastic on it, and I could maybe get an end table with the $20 credit . . . so I say sure, why not, bring it over. They arrive. They drop the beast in the hall and scatter quicker than I can say Thanks, leaving me to lug the thing all by myself into the bedroom. This proves to be a bit of a struggle, getting the plastic off, lugging, and the thing is not in the kind of great shape that I imagined a box spring in its original plastic should be and it smells so musty I’m gagging. But still I’m optimistic, I’ll Febreze the crap out of it. It’ll be good enough. It’s only a box spring, not a mattress.

I get it drug into the bedroom, drop it onto the frame, and it’s only then that I notice what might have been readily apparent to anyone with any bed common sense who hadn’t been knocked semi-unconscious by the musty smell . . . it’s only a double!! I need a queen. Aye-yi-yi!

So I drag it all the way back into the hall, call the store, go through five people to get to the one I need, explain the situation . . . and she says she has to call me back. About then I start to boil over. She finally calls back. They’ll have to order a new one. Take 10 days. Do I want one? I say I have to check with Mom, as she’s the one making the purchase. But I’m done. I’d sooner sleep on the floor for the rest of my days as have to deal with those dingbats again.

So I febreezed my room to get rid of the musty smell, went to the Petro and bought bread and eggs so I might have a soy burger for supper and buckwheat pancakes today. And then I made a monster pot of chili. I mean MONSTER SIZED!! It’s huge. I have chili for everyday this week and chili in the freezer to the end of days. This is frugal living. I’m into my third week here, and I can’t afford groceries. I don’t know when I’ll be able to afford groceries. It could be awhile. I wasn’t able to pay only part of the minimum on my credit card and some on the phone bill. I haven’t got the hydro bill yet. That may be scary. But I have the rent covered. That’s the main thing. Everything else I can shuffle around for awhile until I get this figured out.

I had hoped for an income tax refund. Had planned on it actually, but it’s not going to happen. I’ll consider myself lucky if I don’t have to pay in. I’m trying not to get discouraged. I’m trying not to worry. But this is the poorest I’ve been ever, well not ever, but in past poor times I retreated to my parents and sponged off them, so it never seemed so bad. This is the poorest I’ve been on my own. And my basic cost of living is more than it’s ever been before. So there you go. It’s just the universe forcing me to find creative ways to earn extra money. That’s all. It’s just the contract I made with myself before I came here. I knew I’d need forcing, that I wouldn’t go easy. So, here I am. Push has come to shove. I need to do something about it or . . .

Mood: pretty good for a poor white girl
Drinking: coffee, with cream
Listening To: On-Air with Ryan Seacrest
Hair: stringy

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Categories: bed, fiances, money, shopping, walking

4 replies »

  1. The poorest I’ve been…yes. I went through a similar poor period years ago in NYC. A nice guy came to visit me and brought a couple of bags of great groceries including steaks. I went crazy since it had been nothing but potatoes and carrots for months. I ate and ate. Drank wine. Married him. We got divorced. Point of story? Don’t marry a guy for his groceries.

    Like

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