Today, I made a Spreadsheet.
For my “Household Budget”.
Holy entry-level data specialist, she’s growing up. But, I do feel obligated to tell you that I did it in my pajamas, at 1:30 in the afternoon, still sporting a hangover, and licking cookie dough off a spoon.
I learned some very valuable life lessons on expenditures and the incredibly distinguished and revered “McDonald’s Drive Thru”. At this point in my lessons, my four-year-old decided to come shrieking up the stairs, chucking his monthly subscription of Hustler to the floor, and crying that the 2-year-old won’t share the bowl of sugar. I then got up from the computer, put down my spoon, and told the baby to share with his brother.
I’m totally kidding. Really, I’d never tell him to share.
I said “Duke it out with the Cool Whip!”, which (as everyone knows) means someone (or everyone) is getting a pie in the face. So, after baths and showers and wardrobe changes and a visit from Social Services, we baked the cookies, and watched Harry Potter, and somewhere in there I found the shirt I’ve been missing for forever followed by every single missing sock in existence (just none of their pairs), and then I sat down and picked up this pen and wondered just how much I could get you all to believe.
In all honesty, though, I’ve always looked at a “grown up” as someone who starches their sheets and balances their checkbook and buys cold cream and doesn’t burn the roast. At twenty-five, I thought I’d have it “all together” by now. Well, young me did. Baby me. Little five-to-seven-year-old Molly who thought that twenty-five meant OLD and worried for Old Molly’s blood pressure levels.
But as Old Molly, to Young One, I have to say, most of the time I don’t even have clean socks. Time to do laundry is dictated by if I have any clean underwear or not, and even then I’ve got a couple days leeway, right? And to tell you the truth, I don’t even go to the doctor unless they wheel me there on a gurney, and then it’s probably for ingesting too much caffeine–which is what will most likely kill me one day because I stay up too late trying to act like I can and then the next day I hate myself for it.
Growing up is weird and scary–doubly scary because as a kid I believed my parents had it all figured out. Now, I see that they knew just as little as I do now. Less, maybe, because, well, Google. So, really, most of their child-rearing was just a guessing game of “does this work?” or “She’ll be all right once she comes to.” which explains why I’ve turned into such an exemplary doll.
I don’t want to be a grown up. I don’t want to be old. I hate that I made a spreadsheet, but I also hate cardboard boxes and living in one seems like a drag. They’re drafty and cramped, and even if you make yours into a racecar or a rocket ship, there’s always going to be that one family who gets the sturdy, roomy refrigerator box and moves to your neighborhood. Those are the ones who walk in like they own the place all because they saved their recycling and bribed Sears.
I want the refrigerator box. But no one just gives you one simply because you ask. You’ve got to know someone.
Or buy a refrigerator. Let’s buy the whole block refrigerators.