Does Zooey Deschanel fantasise about herself when she can’t sleep?

It’s 3.43am and contrary to my earlier predictions this evening, I’m apparently still wide awake.  I’ve tried all the obvious remedies – warm milk, reading, valium and sweet, sweet dreams of my eternal girl crush Zooey… all to no effect.

This is not a new phenomenon to me.  Usually it succeeds a hatred for my job, distress about a best friend who didn’t live up to promises made, or panic about an ever increasing credit card bill.  This time, I can’t really lay claim to major concerns on any of those fronts.  Life is good (credit card debt notwitstanding).  Work is, you know, ok.  An previously undeveloped friendship has magically worked its way into real connection and I no longer feel the gaping hole of my formerly disappearing BFF.  Husband is funny, charming and keeping the home fires burning (*snigger *).   I’m creatively inspired and excited for what seems to be a promising venture.

Perhaps therein lies the clanger.  Today I inadvertantly did the most mortifyingly embarrassing thing through sheer stupidity.  The sun was out and mother had lent me her convertible for a few days.  What is a girl to do?  Get in the damn thing and drive of course!  I wandered here and there, lapping up the luxury of a warm winters day on my seasonably pale visage (all hail tinted moisturiser!).  As someone who works from home the sun is a foreigner to me.  I’m daily cloistered in a cool garret with a candle melting fat drips of  wax as I toil and a thin worsted blanket loosely covering my shoulders to keep the cold from bruising my bones.  Ok I exaggerate.  It’s a lovely desk with a pretty view of a vast, hulking, deciduous green tree and central heating. And I wear my PJs and slippers to work.  Whatever.  The point is, to spend an hour or two drenching myself in the sun is unusual.  

Notice how long I’ve avoided getting to the actual point?   Yeah well.  I managed to completely and utterly lose track of myself and forgot a 3pm appointment which was really important to me.  To do with aforementioned future creative endeavours.  Till I got a politely innocuous sms at 3.30 reminding me where I was supposed to be.  At that point, I would like to have flayed the golden warmth from my face and arms and return to my cold garret in shame.  I of course was in Manly  so still obscenely far from where I should have been – in Rose Bay.  Mortification complete.  Did I mention I had already postponed this meeting from the previous day so I could frivolously see some ridiculous baby elephant?  Which didn’t eventuate after much waiting around.

So here I sit, vainly (god, please let me be wrong) hoping that this last ditch effort to expunge my embarrassment from my brain by sharing with others in writing will, at last, help me get to sleep.  Writing as therapy and all that.

4.04am.

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Fearless in Frisco (like Sleepless in Seattle, geddit?)

Some people are just fearless.  I’m not suggesting they don’t feel the fear but maybe they don’t feel it as much as the rest of us.  Or maybe they just don’t give a flying fuck.  One of my friends just quit her job so she could start a magazine.  Just like that.  She has no other magic job to go to that will pay the bills.  And yes, she has a mortgage.  And a fondness for nice shoes.  I’m in awe.

I’m completely and utterly bound by fear of poverty.  I couldn’t quit my job in the hope of future success.  I need to know where my next paycheck is coming from.  Frankly, my credit card bill and my mortgage would bury me otherwise.  Is there some secret knowledge I’m missing out on that allows other people to do this sort of thing?  Yeah, no credit card debt.  And no car loan maybe?  I don’t know.  It’s not fear of failure that paralyses me, it’s fear of having to struggle to pay the bills.  I hate money really.  I have zero interest in it.  What I do like, is not having to think about it ever. I’m terrified at the idea of returning to the days when it’s a constant struggle.

Are they all excuses for doing nothing?  Is it actually just my nature to be fearful?

I can’t even commit to putting my real name on this blog for fear of being found out by potential employers.  I’m not quite sure what it is they might find out but goddamit whatever it is, it must remain a secret!  They might not hire me and pay me a nice salary if they knew.  And we can’t have that can we?  (Again, I will remind you that I actually don’t have anything to hide.  Except perhaps a love of margaritas, expensive handbags and saying “fuck” a lot).

Is it time to face up to myself and follow suit?

Aarrgh!  All hail Saffy cos she’s the bravest person I’ve ever met.

A Fistful of Dollars

I make pretty damn good money and so does Matt.  By all rights we should be laughing it up in Monaco with a bottle of Cristal 1990 Krug in one hand and a Goldvish in the other.  And yet, we are always so damn poor!  It’s absurd and I want my money back!  Pun intended.

Last month, courtesy of 2 weeks unpaid holiday in New York, we managed to get down to our last $50 – with 10 days to go before our next payday.  So we economised somewhat.  We “indulged” by adding frozen peas to our 2-minute noodles.  We finagled invites to other people’s houses for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  We walked, we did not drive.  No toilet paper? Find a bloody newspaper mate! And stop whining about how it scratches.  Cheese on your toasted sandwich?  Luxury!  It’s vegemite sans butter again I’m afraid.  Oh, we’re a little late in paying our bill?  Sorry complete oversight, we’ll fix that up right away [well, in 10-12 days]…

This month it’s gonna be caviar and roses I tell you.  Or we’ll be paying off those bills we ignored last month that have now accumulated into a something akin to Rosie O’Donnell’s arse.  Large, pushy and not very fucking funny. 

Of course we did still manage to drum up $80 to pay the cleaner.  I mean really!  We can’t live in a pigsty can we?