Urgh. I've been calculating how much it costs to sustain my glamorous lifestyle. Being that my glamorous lifestyle consists of homemade egg salad and an outer borough apartment with two roommates, I'm a bit put off by the results.
Here are my expenses:
doctor C.: $61/month
doctor F.: $30/month
April: $ whatever I can afford (not much, lately)
food: $120/month? I don't know
Then there's the student loan fees at $233. My parents, bless them, cover that.
My cost of living is a total of $1417.00/month, not counting what I pay April (let's say an average of $120/month, if I see her every other week). If I work 5 days a week at $19/hour for 35 hours, I take home $483. Four weeks of $483=$1932. That leaves ... $515/month. Hmmm. That doesn't seem right. Oh, yes, my credit card bills. Considering everything, I'm sort of impressed that I'm not more in debt than I am.
What kills me is the maintenance. I don't mean manicures and blowouts, which I don't actually get. I mean the fact that after paying $414.14/month for health insurance, I shell out at least another $130/month in fees so that I can a)see the dermatologist (OK, I know that sounds like vanity, but my skin is a real problem. It's a big deal to me) b)see my therapist Caroline, to whom I owe several hundred dollars. (She is so awesome) b)see my psychiatrist so I can get my scripts c)buy my meds so that I will be able to get out of bed in the morning and temp to afford these things. And when I think about that $2210.76 for the car door I dented ... I mean, I'll find the money, but the found money is something that could go towards, I don't know, paying off my credit card debt, saving for retirement, or even my incipient nose job fund (another story). Grrr, argh.
Rereading the above I realize that I sound like a basket case. More than that, a bitter basket case. One of those bitter, New York basket cases who is obviously destined to live in a rented apartment in Queens with three cats and elastic waistband jeans, bemoaning the lack of good men in New York. Oh, please, don't let me be bitter. Keep me from being righteously indignant, too, if possible, since righteous indignation has a habit of crossing the line into bitterness.
But onto other news. Tonight my office is hosting a party-- something to do with Fashion Week. I can't imagine why, since we are in no way fashionable here. Nonetheless, my coworker tells me that the guest list includes Drew Barrymore. I LOVE Drew Barrymore. I hope I get to see her. Apparently her favorite song is Otis Redding's "That's How Strong my Love Is," -- my favorite song, too! Plus it is mentioned in a Laurie Colwin novel. So we are clearly destined to be great friends. I wish. I have a love/hate (or rather fascination/resentment) thing going with most Hollywood actors -- mostly I just can't get over the idea that I should be a movie star, and how come they get to be famous and stuff... I know, not very rational. Or particularly mature, for that matter. But. The point is I'm not fascinated by/resentful of Drew Barrymore. I just think she's cool. And a good actor.
I'm also wondering if I should plan to spend the evening in the bathroom in order to a)avoid looking lost and sad as I won't know anyone there and b)catch celebrities inhaling cocaine. If I don't see some celebs getting high I will be very disappointed. I feel that's what they're celebrities for -- to live out my decadent and dumbass adolescent dreams. I expect them all to be making out outside the cafeteria and getting high in the stalls. Ah, high school. OK, tomorrow morning, non stop celeb info!