A Hooker’s Guide to Riding a Buck

I don’t have a single pair of goddamn socks that match and the ones I am currently wearing have a hole in the big toe. I have to ask myself, would I rather spend 12 bucks on a trio pack of MacGregor anklets or a bottle of wine? Duh. I am a poor bitch, I have priorities.  I will let things go because I don’t want to spend the money. Come over to my house and check out my decrepid tiles in my pink and brown (!) bathroom and the spot above my stove where I had a leaky roof last year.  This is why I need a man.  I would totally be a handyman’s best hooker if he had drywalling skills.  I have lots to offer so if you know one, send him over. I give scalp massages and I have recently mastered the fine art of fried chicken (pssst:  the secret is BRINE, Martha Stewart was right as usual).

No one really looks at your socks, seriously why have Sponge Bob on them?  A couple of weeks ago, my family had one of those big dinner birthday parties for my dad up in Newmarket, and a quick shout out to the best Chinese food around:  Cynthia’s, link here,  crispy and greasy, that is divinity in any kind of cuisine as far as I am concerned.  Anyway, on our epic drive back my nephew had to swing by his place to change his socks.  He was wearing some funky striped pair that would not go with his suit that he had to wear to work that night:  “I will be fired for sure!”  If I didn’t have all the patience in the world for this boy, I would have stopped at a dollar store and bought him some plain black socks. Then came my realization: Every sock you own should be all the same, no exceptions…if you lose a sock or one gets a hole, you have a match somewhere in your drawer.  In fact, there should just be only one universal sock that everyone owns. And no one should be fired for wearing striped socks because they shouldn’t exist in the first place.  

I’m too cheap to buy new socks so the holes will have to rule.  Mostly I am a happy camper at the dregs of the 99% and I am committed to poverty so I will write a book.  I need to be poor and riddled with anxiety in order to be creative. If I was rich and happy, all I would do is yoga, shop, and get massages.  But as a poho, there are things I can happily cut back on to save a few bucks that I will share with you:

1. Bras and Underwear:  Sure, I used do the Victoria Secret thing, matchy poo pink half shelf decollete push up bra with pink tap shorts.  I truly believed that God was in the details and even what couldn’t be seen was divine until I realized that no, it was Satan messing with the lingerie. Don’t bother trying to match these things up. Aside from the fact that no one cares, you are only setting yourself up for failure. While your lilac bra sits in the drawer, your lilac panties are in the dirty laundry, you are poned.  Where is your leopard bra?   It’s in your gym locker, and its matching thong got caught on the stick shift of some dude’s tractor in the summer when you went on that winery tour.

From the bottom up, I wear cotton underwear from Aerie,it’s always on sale!  And most importantly, they are as absorbent as a thin Tena pad as I am little leaky when I put a key in the door, and no, that is not some innuendo. My bladder is an evil troll, it holds everything in for hours then bursts when it is 10 feet from a toilet. So annoying.  Moving on up: Lately all my plain black bras are on the last hook so until they snap, I don’t care, I fucking hate buying bras, it’s the worst expense ever!  Some of them cost $150!  I am just getting those kind from a box when there is a 3 for 1 Bay Day sale. Besides, no one is looking at my tits 😦 because everyone is so annoyingly politically correct these days.  Dumb asses, stop looking at my face,there’s errant chin hairs I sometimes forget to pluck, you’re just making me paranoid…I do not hoist these sweater puppies up in itchy lace and skin stabbing whale bone for my health. Sigh.

2. I cut my own hair!  My hairdresser doesn’t read this so I can say it:  I have been trimming my own bangs!  It’s not hard, you have to angle the scissors vertically and snip away.  It’s best to do it while you are drunk, ironically. because it’s the sober precision that makes it look unprofessional.  Also I dyed my own hair last month.  Fuck, I know, that is some poor shit but whatever. I covered up the side silvers and created a diversionary path of bleached highlights along the temple and then dumped a box of Garnier Nutrisse Intense in the reddest shade they had over the whole thing.  And no, I am not paid endorse this product, I really like it and it doesn’t smell bad and it makes my hair super shiny and it is now my crowning glory as long as you insist on looking at my face, dummy.

3.  I troll the grocery stores.  This is tricky business.  I am not a couponner,by any means.

It is annoying and boring for some people, but for me, it is the thrill of the hunt. I know the price of everything and stock up when there is a sale. The key is to not get carried away and end up with some blind ambition to “eat better” and then you end up with odd Dr. Oz endorsed miracle food items that you have no idea how to incorporate into your regular menu.  Fucking coconut oil taking up valuable counter space, chia seeds = mouse food. And slightly off topic:  Have you ever actually bought bananas for the purpose of them to rot so you can make banana bread and that is the time when your family and various interlopers devour them before you get a chance?  First world problems, ho, I got ’em!

4. I put garbage on my face. Dear Lord, my favourite thing to smear on my face at night  is Elizabeth Arden’s Prevage.  It looks like melted silly putty and smells like old money and feels like the jizz of a sweet prince and when you put it on at night, you wake up and your skin feels all smooth like buttah and you just want keep touching it and you can’t believe it is your face. It costs $200 for the pump bottle.  That is just crazy.  Every so often if I am playing smart hockey, I collect enough points on my Optimum card and I get that bitch for free at Shoppers but if I run out, I am stuck. Luckily, I am girl’s girl and I will talk the shit out of a cosmetic sales ho and they will give me handfuls of free samples.  Although it makes me feel a little sick inside as I have bomb shelter war hoarding mentality, I take a break and use household garbage instead: rotting avocados, rancid yogurt, I even smeared the guts of the Halloween pumpkin on my face last week. It is what they do in Europe, I say to myself.  You can convince yourself to do anything if you believe Europeans are doing it on purpose.  Don’t worry, I rinse it off and it’s as good a glow as I’m going to get.

Some things I will never skimp on.  I need pedicures, wild boar bacon, and HBO.  I am a hedonist, gluttonous sloth like that and that is a whole other future blog post.

Until then, here’s an entertaining clip from Russ Meyer’s “Eve and the Handyman,” I’m serious if you know one, hook me up:

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