What women think - March 2006

Cents and sensibility

It sits in the mail box until your husband, flatmate, neighbour or daughter innocently brings it in. Then it sits on the kitchen bench, getting used as a coaster, getting phone numbers scribbled on it and getting used to swat mozzies.

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It causes you to wake at 2am feeling sick. It causes you to work out intricate mathematical equations on your desk pad at work. It causes you to sit in coffee shops with girlfriends and bury your head in your hands.

Your credit card statement. The perfect example of a love/hate relationship. You love it when Wayne Cooper's having sale; when you want a romantic weekend escape; when you blow a tyre and need a new one like right now.

And then you hate it when the figures are there in black and white, malevolently typed on harsh white paper chiding you for spending recklessness.

You've put on three kilos since buying the Wayne Cooper dress and it doesn't sit that well on your hips. You've already broken up with the guy you spent shagging at Noosa - and from memory it wasn't that good a shag anyway. You could have caught the bus and got the tyre later.

Just like the Grand Canyon, Ayers Rock and the Amazon, my credit card balance can be seen from outer space. It needs a lorry to deliver it to my mail box each month. Mike Tyson, or Russell Crowe for that matter, would be too daunted to take it for a few rounds in the ring.

Checking out cheap credit card deals on the internet is like a sport to me. Zero interest on balance transfers is akin to having a full body massage confident I have no cellulite for the masseur to squish. Any interest rate below ten per cent is like a pay rise. Of course it is; look at all that extra money that will end up in my pocket from not paying so much interest.

I've done balance transfers just to avoid having to make a monthly payment. Now that's pathetic. I'm living so far beyond my income that I think we're actually living in different states.

When each pay fortnight rolls around, I faithfully consult my budget - yes, I do in fact have a budget. In my brain. I aim to clear my credit card, make an extra payment on my mortgage and get ahead in my daughter's school fees (those Catholics can charge like light brigades you know).

I'm not so confident that I actually clear my credit card, but I manage to make a significant dent in its balance. This cheers me no end. Only because I know I can walk past Nine West and grab those fabulous mules and know they'll be mine, mine, mine with one slick swipe and a signature swirl. Thank you madam, have a nice day.

And it's not that I earn a paltry amount either. That's the embarrassing part. I'm right up there baby, in that top percentage tax bracket. You know, the one where all the low income earners go "yeah, serves you right, you should pay more tax you money-grubbing, gluttonous, mercenary".

It's just that I like doing fun things with money, like shopping for shoes, lip gloss, concert tickets, gourmet food and more shoes. I don't like paying mobile phone bills, superannuation or car registration.

I spent the last month staring at a $400 rates bill. Boring. I resented having to pay so much when Campbell Newman is on my case daily telling me not to use the water his Council provides or when I'm waiting in the burning morning sun for a bus that should have arrived 20 minutes earlier.

But the other day I was skipping along past Ticketek in Elizabeth Street and on the spur of the moment popped in to see if I could get any good tickets to The Boy From Oz - purely so I can gaze on Hugh Jackman of course - and seemingly had no compunction whatsoever in shelling out over $500 for A Reserve seats.

Aaarrgghhhh! It doesn't make sense. Even Paris Hilton's therapist couldn't work that one out.

I'm heading overseas next month, intent on taking in three continents in four weeks. To date, have I had no hesitation booking my seat at a Broadway musical or my boutique hotel room complete with Juliet balcony on Rue de Fantastic in Paris? Nah! Have credit card, can type 16 figures and an expiry date into a payment website quicker than Angelina can pinch someone else's husband.

Half the trip will be spent with one of my oldest girlfriends - oldest in terms of longevity, just to make that clear. We became friends nearly 30 years ago, in Grade 8, and still carry on like truants to this day. So there'll be lots of shoe shopping, clothes shopping and make up shopping. Hello credit card death sentence.

Reprieve comes in the second half, where Lover Bloke OTM (of the moment) is joining me. Mercifully this wonderful male creation not only adores the ground on which my fabulous shoes tread, he is also generous when it comes to matters of the wallet. Hello credit card stay of execution.

Money is a bit like sex you know. If you don't have it, you think of nothing else; and heaps of other things if you do.

If Energex is looking for me, would you mind telling them that my cheque's in the mail?

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Read other columns written by Bron

Bron McClain p 0412 326 300 e bron@bronmcclain.com