Personally I have found getting right with your money, is not about math. It’s not about getting a bigger calculator. Its about seeing the truth about what it does to you when you look at it. The emotions that come up tell you where you are and how much power it holds over your life.
But it can be changed. By getting HONEST. By feeling, dealing and getting real with what is really going on. Look at it.
HERE are some things I did to get right with my money.
Read Soul of Money.
I stopped debting.(with help) and
Kept track of what I was spending.
I created time and space for me in my spending plan, to do things I loved.
Got my spending in line with what I valued.
Stopped people pleasing, and had more cash.
And got honest about saving for what I loved, not what I wanted.
It can change.
It can get better.
Heal it. You heal your life. From a woman still in process.
Tell me below in the comments section, what you have done to get right with money.
Got a great gig on DNTO for CBC RADIO.February 29th 2012. Telling my cat with a can on its head story,. The premise of the show are true stories about a particular topic. Should be great fun. EVENT sold out. Same night have to speak to The Second City Theatre students about surviving the comedy business. Yes I am now taking my place as a comedy crone.
Most people can go their entire lives and not feel the need to tour a prison, but I’m writing a movie about prison guards.
Female prison guards, to be precise. I got interested in female guards because I am in comedy. In the world of comedy, men outnumber women about ten to one and I was interested to see how women coped in another primarily male-dominated system. As I started doing research, I quickly found not only that there’s a high percentage of females working in corrections, but that a good deal of them guard men. We all guard men in one way or another, especially after a few cocktails, but I was surprised. After countless interviews, I realized I needed to visit an institution if I was going to be able to reflect the culture.
I thought about going into Quinte Detention Centre, but there would’ve been too many of my relatives in there wanting me to bring them smokes. So I booked a tour in Millhaven, which is very simple, really. Like five degrees of separation kind of simple. I must admit, I had no idea what to expect. There wasn’t a brochure. No pictures. In my imagination, I thought it would likely be worse than a Kimmett family reunion, but not as bad as when my hometown lost a hockey game.
Yes, I am joking. I use humour to deflect fear. The more freaked out I am, the more jokes I make, then three days later, I feel my real feelings and freak out. So the day I went in to The Clink, I was hilarious, cracking jokes about what I should wear. Sporting a rack like I do, I don’t want to set anybody off, having the boys overcome by an avalanche of lust. (Yes, they were bad jokes.)
In the end, I opted for a loose sweater and jeans with a gel bra (because the underwire one could be used as a shiv). And then, to top it off, I put on four pairs of underwear, which I know logically wouldn’t have saved me, but it might have slowed things down while the big-necked officers came to save me.
As I drove up the driveway, the first thing I saw was a sign that said “Trespassers will be prosecuted and can spend up to five years in jail.” This is when I hoped they had received my request for the tour. When
55 LIve COMIC WALKInG: My TOur OF A FeDerAL PrISOn
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I got to reception, I was greeted by my tour guide — a former female guard. She didn’t have a thick neck. In fact she was kind of, well … short. And very pretty. So I said, “Boy, you’re short,” which went over as well as you can imagine. And that was just the beginning of the stupid things I did and said that afternoon.
There are so many dos and don’ts when touring a maximum-security facility. Don’t wave at the guys with the guns in the tower. It makes them nervous. At security, don’t ask if they can check your IUD while they’re doing that body search. Don’t pet the drug dog. Just smile and let him sniff your crotch. Don’t be worried that he’ll bite you. He’s a drug dog, so he’s probably getting off on the smell of your J’Adore cologne. In fact, don’t wear J’Adore cologne to a correctional institution, because it won’t be just the dog sniffing you.
Don’t make small talk with the guys in jeans and T-shirts. They are inmates. They don’t wear carrot suits in federal. Yes, I said “carrot suits.” I know the lingo. And don’t say “carrot suits.” You sound like an idiot. When you see inmates wearing jeans that hang low like plumber’s butt, don’t say, “For God’s sake, pull your drawers up and get a belt,” because cons can’t have belts. And don’t call them cons. They might just be murderers or bank robbers, not con artists. And speaking of art, when you see ink drawings of Medusa all over a guy’s arm, don’t say, “Hey, love your ‘too. What gang are you from?” And don’t ask, “Are you holding?” Not even as a joke, because some chicks might suitcase drugs up their woohoo, but you’re not that kind of gal. Besides, you’re old enough to be their mother. Or grandmother. The inmates at Millhaven are younger than you’d expect. A lot younger.
When you see the cells, which are painted pale pink, blue, and green, don’t say, “Who the hell picked out these paint colours? Did Martha Stewart get loose in here and make them paint it the colours of Whoville?”
When I go anywhere, I develop an accent. Two days south of the Mason-Dixon Line, and I’m saying “Y’all want some grits, y’all?” Within sixty minutes of being in Millhaven, I was developing a swagger and
spouting lines like “Guard or cons, we’re all doing time. The only difference is I get to go home at night.”
And then I started comparing my job as a humourist to theirs. “Oh, you were part of a hostage-taking? That’s nothing. I worked with Mike Bullard.”
Just because I “died” on Mike’s show, it’s not the same thing. That metaphor won’t fly, because being a woman in corrections is front-line feminism. Some psychologists claim women are a calming influence on men. The concept is that a tough guy sees a woman, he’ll just be struck peaceful. He’ll fall into some estrogen-induced form of narcolepsy. (And if she has PMS, he’ll voluntarily put himself in solitary confinement.) I don’t know how it works. I do know that anyone in a uniform is seen as an authority figure. And authority is what everybody in there is buck- ing against. So, everybody has to find a unique way to survive. To be seen as human or not to be seen at all. It’s a delicate balance for women. And the ladies I met were tough, funny, and very serious about doing their jobs well. But here’s the thing: Working in corrections, whether female or male, is not an easy job. It makes that gig I did for the Buffalo Tow Truck Operators look like a picnic.
After my hour-and-a-half tour, I was released. As the gates opened, I yelled, “Live comic walking!” and everybody thought I was a riot. But three days later, the jokes stopped. I heard on the news that a guard had shot one inmate for trying to kill another. I finally got that I don’t have a clue how you walk off a day like that. I don’t know how impending violence plays on a psyche day after day, year after year, because I am not a guard. I am a comic who gets to go home at night. And hopefully, never go back in. — excerpt from new bookL http://kimmett.ca/products/the-reviews-for-new-book-that-which-doesnt-kill-you/
This morning I was sitting in the land of Starbuckti drinking my unfair trade macchiato and I was thinking I want to go deeper with my life work. Sure I wrote this essay book and am rewriting the never-ending novel. (its called outrunning crazy and its finally done)
People are reading it and saying they like it.
But of course I am constantly challenging myself to go deeper. But am I helping anybody? I want to serve on a higher level, you know? I want to be like Mother Theresa only funny. I wouldn’t want to live in a hut, or work with anyone that was sick because puking makes me gag. And that got me to thinking about Mother and how she made the nuns live like the poor. They were nuns for gosh sakes. Hadn’t they given up enough already? So that got me all worked up about that dead celibate nun. So I went home and crawled into bed with my husband. But we’re divorced, so his new girlfriend didn’t appreciate that one little bit.
Not a good day. I went to hot yoga to get the creative juices flowing. All that heat activates the creativity in the right brain especially the part at the end when you lie on your mat and nap. During the corpse pose the woman on the mat next to me starts texting, I try to be Zen and breathe deeply. I try to stay philosophical but she won’t stop pinging. I give her my best sad emoticon face. Then she turns to me and says LOL.
I do not Lol.
I’m old fashioned. I say ha, ha, ha.
People use LOL randomly. Your dog is dead, LOL. You’re fired. LOL.
Then I went home and when I went on Facebook only to find out Dali Lama had Unfriended me.
No not a good day at all. (hey look at buying the new book, That Which Doesn’t Kill you…makes you Funnier…Look under SHOP
