Once upon a time there was a little girl who knew exactly what she wanted: A 28th floor, west end apartment looking over a sea of glittering city lights. A pair of lace Manolo D’Orsay’s (size 7). A trip to Paris. A closet full of Betsey Johnson dresses. Frequent manicures, organic vegetables, a sparkly car, a bottle of Moet & Chandon in the fridge, a well-dressed boyfriend and a Tiffany’s Legacy engagement ring.
Once upon a time there was a little girl who got exactly what she wanted: $1900 x 12 + $550 + $3000 + $2000 + $65 x 15 + $500 x 12 + $12,000 + $75 x 48 + $15,000 later = Once upon a time there was a little girl who had to change her taste and move back in with Mommy & Daddy.
It’s been two years since I single-handedly spent enough money to keep the Canadian Economy in a really, really healthy place and since then I’ve only bought ONE pair of designer shoes (ON SALE). I’ve managed to clear myself of (pretty much) every cent of debt thanks to a LOT of nights in, a LOT of repeat outfits and a LOT of dates with men who were willing to pay for dinner… kidding (?). Anyways, it’s been a blasty-blast being poor.
When I moved back home with my 6 pick-up truck loads of Tutus and Tulle and Taffeta (sorry for that, Dad) I found myself in a completely different world. Not only had my parents knocked out my closet so they could build themselves a walk-in and an en suite (leaving no room for those aforementioned 6 truck loads and hence having to turn Dad’s “man space” aka Garage into my own personal pink Boudoir), I could no longer do all those things that I used to like doing when I was all alone. Painting my nails on the kitchen counter. Dancing to the Spice Girls “Too Much” in front of my drawn curtains at midnight so my silhouette looked the same as Gingers in the opening scene of Spice World. Tweezing my eyebrows in a super zoomy-inny mirror for 3 hours. Lying on the living room floor naked, surrounded by tea lights chanting random shit after watching The Craft for the 12th time. Singing the Phantom of the Opera at the top of my lungs while wearing a feather boa and staring at the mirror. Videotaping myself making cupcakes at 2am and giving instructions like I have my own Food Network show. You know, normal stuff like that.
So this past week I had the amazing yet illusive experience of having the house to myself. This is practically a first in the past two years. So while I definitely took advantage in the sense that Monday Margarita night was in full swing at the Parker residence (Jimmy Buffet, cougars, tequila, men et al.) I also took advantage in the sense that I did all of those things I can’t do when other people are around for the fear that I would be either locked up or shamed out of my own family. The following is a breakdown of actual events, shared for the sole purpose of giving you ideas as to how you can lose all your friends or for making you feel better about yourself as you sit, alone , in your quiet house wrapped in expensive cashmere looking all chic and shit:
♥ buy a wheel of Brie. Cook the wheel of Brie. Burn fingers on Brie dish, wrap them in an icecube-ziplock bag-paper towel concoction, eat entire wheel of Brie and then try to play the piano (because you’re alone and you can’t actually play the piano) with your new dinosaur-burn victim paw.
♥ Proceed to write the next great Disney Theme song with only two chords (the only two you know) and a constant plunking sound (dinosaur-burn victim paw). Promptly forget the epic words you just wrote and apologize to Pocahontas 3.
♥ Drink three glasses of red wine. Open a second bottle because you could only get two glasses out of the first bottle and you really need a third glass. Watch Flight of the Conchords and start crying when they sing “I’m not crying” because you’ve had 3 glasses of wine and it really gets to you “…no I’m not cryin’. Just cut an onion. I’m makin’ a lasagna. Not cryin’ … noooooo”
♥ Put on your mothers grad dress from the 70′s, add a braided headband and listen to CCR. Google “how to be a groupie” & drink another glass of wine because you realize you’re 40 years too late for that boat. Damn.
♥ Put a fake diamond ring on your ring finger and take engagement photos of yourself with your hand up against a bouquet of hydrangeas. You’re sleeping with yourself tonight – might as well seal the deal. Congratulations!
♥ Order a pair of RK17 boxers online so you can say Ryan Kesler’s been in your pants. & not after 15 Jagger Bombs at the Roxy, either. He respects you.
♥ Have a bubble bath and use the whole thing of Bubble Bath so that your bathroom actually resembles your laundry room that one time you used way too much soap and you had to call in the cleaning people. Don’t call in the cleaning people. Just prance around in bathroom bubbles singing the Dixie Chicks REALLY loudly. Forget that your window is open until you hear the crazy lady up the street yell “HEY! Dolly Parton! SHUT UP!”. Don’t shut up. But sing quieter.
♥ Put nail polish on your cats claws. Hahahahahaha. (So hard.)
♥ Light incense because Mom isn’t around to tell you that “it’s a house, not a lair!” then drape your bedsheets over the burner box (not really that safe, but whatever) so they permanently smell like “thundershowers”. Stick a meter stick under neath the sheets so they become a tent. Get a flashlight and a glass of Perrier. Read a book on black magic with your black cat and his neon claws beside you. Emerge a little bit brain dead because you’re not actually sure what was in that incense…
♥ shot gun a cream soda.
♥ Call all your friends to make sure you still have some. Realize that your secret is safe. For now.
xo & yw