The Vodka Party

Dear Diary:

On New Year’s Day I went to a vodka tasting party in Chelsea. Hosted by a high level executive in the insurance industry and a literary agent (mine), there were academics, artists, bankers, lawyers, editors--- gay, straight, married and otherwise. A real NYC mix of highbrow, middlebrow and even a couple of village idiots. I started off the evening with a vodka tonic and made my way over to the sushi station. While munching on raw tuna and yellow tail, I struck up a conversation with a man who is an English Professor at a well known university and also a member of the MLA (Modern Language Association).

Let’s call him Carlos. I asked Carlos about the troublesome hanging indent still required for all good bibliographies. I said--- is it true it’s about to become obsolete? Heading down the same lonely road as whom and thou and shall? In a lofty tone, he replied that he was on committees that didn’t deal with such matters. But surely I persisted this is important? He conceded that yes MLA style books are still their bread and butter, but clearly couldn’t be bothered with the fate of the hanging indent. Fair enough. Then I asked him what the MLA thought about texting--- is it changing the shape of language? Is it good or bad? More loftiness, more condescension. WTF?

I moved on. Sat next to a woman who could’ve been me, but with money. Pretty, blond, “of a certain age.” Boiled wool pants, cashmere sweater and scarf, gold jewelry, rust suede boots. Oh, a banker at JP Morgan. She lamented about how her and her colleagues were afraid to say the “B” word out in public. About how the whole industry was unfairly targeted. That it was a myth that the industry is rife with criminals. I asked if her bank received a bailout. She said, Yes, but along with other solvent banks such as Wells Fargo, they took it even though they didn’t need it. Why did you take it, I asked. Because it would’ve looked bad if we didn’t, she replied, we’ve already given the money back. When she began to complain about how friends of hers lost so much money, couldn’t send their kids to ivy league colleges, etc. etc. I bailed. That was something I just couldn’t listen to.

Besides, the main event was beginning. The vodka tasting! Waiters passed around trays containing shots of mystery vodka. We were to grade it according to clarity, bouquet, taste, and finish. Determined to remain sober and avoid a horrendous hangover, I took tiny sips in my assessment of all four vodkas. We all knew beforehand that one was made with soy, one was made with grain, and one was made with grapes. They hailed from Florida, Poland, Vienna and France. Not surprisingly, my favorite was from Poland (mother’s milk), but the over-all favorite was from France, P. Diddy’s vodka of choice, Ciroc Ultra Premium.

When the tasting was over, I switched over to a lovely pinot grigio. As I fixed my hair and my lipstick in a bathroom adorned with contrasting marble tile, a stainless steel shower and a towel warmer, I thought, I will never live like this. I will never buy a one bedroom apartment in Chelsea, buy the studio next door, knock down the walls, redo the floors and hang track lighting. Many people were interested in my career as a feminist writer, as someone who’s been produced on Broadway, Off Broadway, NPR, as a woman who writes erotica--- and at this gathering in Chelsea, on the first day of a new decade, the dividing line wasn’t class or money, but art versus commerce.

Clearly there were two camps. We admired each other. We each secretly envied each other. And I’m sure we were all glad to be going home to our own homes, and our own lives. I thought about the banker from JP Morgan who said, its entirely possible that one or two “bad” people making bad choices can bring down an entire economy and still wondered if this really could be true.

photo: SnowCrystals.com

Summer 09: No shame

You would not expect food stamps in Brooklyn Heights. You would expect million dollar co-ops, doormen, nannies, private schools --- and you would be right. All these things exist including fey little boutiques that sell Marc Jacob's T-shirts for $200 (on sale for $140!) as well as two high end real estate offices. But co-existing in this land of splendor are people like myself; artist/writers, actor/realtor's, teacher/dancers, literary agents. And, in the midst of the recession, in the belly of the economic bell curve, trapped in the the cyclone of adjustable rate mortgages and the positively Rabelaisian greed of CEO's, I found myself living on food stamps this July and August. And what's more I enjoyed it.

But first a bit of back story:

It's not 2009, it's 1962. It's not Brooklyn, its the Midwest. And, trust me, there had been no revolution, sexual or otherwise. There were no dope smoking hippies preaching love and happiness, no Mr. Natural, Age of Aquarius. No. It's a factory town, an old Indian village, a small sea of immigrants. My father was in Viet Nam, it wasn't a war yet. My mother was at home with three small children. The checks stopped coming. Mice ruled the basement. A ham bone turned to pea soup and fed us for five days. I had bacon for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But my mother resolutely turned down food stamps.

It didn't matter that the milk had exploded in the metal container on the porch. It didn't matter that her mother told her take the bus and come for dinner, to which my mother replied, I don't have the money to take the bus. And then hang up the phone in frustration. She would not apply for food stamps. That was charity. That was the tough immigrant pride of my mother. That was the pride of her daughter, too. In the past, whenever I'd see someone pay with food stamps, which in those days looked like Monopoly money, I'd think: LOSER-- as in--- you got a incontinent beer swilling husband at home and four snotty nosed kids.

Cut to the summer of 09 and I am struggling. Serious issues of morale. But happiness as well--- my niece stays with me three or four nights a week. We drink iced coffee. She talks about her day. I talk about mine. Soon we have turned Wednesday night or Thursday night into a ritual; Trader's Joes with food stamps. They look nothing like their predecessor, now--- its a sleek little credit card. Now it doesn't scream loser, now its just another form of credit. My niece and I are delirious as we wander from aisle to aisle; tomatoes, avocados, toasted almonds, arugula, pre-cooked turkey meatballs, couscous and chicken, then a stop at the free sample station for a cup of really good hot coffee, and a bite of a macaroon with ginger ice cream, or a chicken burrito, with salsa verde. Muy bien!

I'd get the cherry soy ice cream with dark chocolate, my niece would get goat cheese. I'd always pick up beef carpaccio and she'd get raisin bran cereal and milk. We always scooped up the teriyaki frozen chicken and jasmine rice, the vegetarian pizza. Our shopping cart is now full and half the time girlfriend is on her cell to her boyfriend, but I don't care. Trader Joes in August 09 is a wonderland, better than Disney world, better than Las Vegas. The employees are always friendly--- I even asked a cashier once, Is this a good job? Are you treated well? He replied, sincerely, Yes. I am.

Paying for all this with food stamps didn't feel shameful. Nobody seemed to care. My niece and I would walk out into the twilight, onto Atlantic Avenue, the streets still thick with strollers and traffic, carrying five bags of food, happy and content. Happy about filling up the fridge and cupboards when we got home. Perhaps it was a different time for my mother--- a new immigrant, still vivid memories of the war, a young wife. But I'm 1.5. I was born here. I have a Master's Degree. There are no children at home. If food stamps are a benefit I can receive while the economy is in the toilet, I'll take it. After all this is the government that allowed rapacious banks to triple my APR.

So. No shame. None at all. Instead--- a happy memory of hot summer nights, 2009. My mom would've had fun, too, with me, with her granddaughter, getting a cup of coffee then hitting the frozen food section at Trader Joes.

BTW

BTW: I only bought the dishwashing liquid. The danger with those stores is buying what you DON'T need and thus wasting money. But srsly when I got the money, and I can replace my quilt and my pillows, will definitely check that place out. Their prices got nothing on Century 21, and that's a FAQ.

The dollar story

I stopped at Close Out Connection, the local discount store for poor people. Yes, I am feeling sorry for myself, but beyond that I thought, well let me see what they got. They got a lot of shit, is what they got--- but also surprisingly some good bargains. I got a tub of dishwashing liquid for $1.29 which was a real miracle, and the hair pomade I pay $7.69 at Rite Aid, cost $1.29 here. So that was pretty amazing. $4.00 for a box of 600 aspirins, generic, but who cares. A new goose down comforter, queen sized for $50.00, goose down pillows for $15.00, a gallon of Drano for $3.00.

Too bad the over-all look and feel of the store is institutional and bleak, dirty and dusty. Good name brand bras for $5.00 but filthy. So those I would never buy. I checked out the demographic; black people, white people, Spanish people, mostly women. One woman didn't speak English and wanted me to weigh in on a mattress pad for a crib. I wondered why she thought I would know what I was talking about. I did the best I could and assured her it was probably alright via sign language.

They had wine glasses, salad bowls, flash lights, umbrellas, gum, candy, chocolate, even extra virgin olive oil. I couldn't wait to get out of there. I think I am my mother's daughter. This hurt my pride, my ambition, the great plans I had about my "future." As a young child, we were dirt poor. Mom cooked batches of pea soup, wouldn't apply for food stamps and our apartment was over-run by mice. It's like I carry a little bit of that history in my heart, and it won't let go.

Life is cyclical. Sometimes, you are up. And sometimes you are down. The only certain thing is change. It's what keep me going.

Bucket of flowers on State Street

Bucket of flowers on State Street. I admire its tenacity despite the heat and humidity, despite the traffic, the people, and all the dogs who pee on it. A bit bedraggled around the edges, the center blooms are still beautiful. If you see this as a metaphor for my state of mind, you are correct, sir. But seriously the greenery here in Brooklyn is at its apotheosis. High summer, as I like to call it. Already it's a tiny bit darker at twilight and at dawn. I long for cowboy boots and blue jeans, a sweater and a scarf. In the meantime, I keep it cool, and chill out at the local pool, my blue paradise.

The wolf at my door

Every day of my life is a delicate ballet of debt avoidance, debt strategy and debt management. Every day on my lunch I decide who to call and who to avoid, who've I've already spoken to and who I need to remember to call. Today I was on the phone with Bank of America who have decided to put me as a hardship case for a small payment of $700.00. Then I spent 45 minutes on the phone with New York State and the IRS to find out what forms I need to order tax transcripts. Now I'm basically procrastinating --- b/c I've got to download those forms and then get my bank statements in order--- all to prep for my first meeting with my lawyer. Of course I haven't figured out how I'm going to pay him, but all in good time.

This goes on and on. This is now my life. I am no longer a writer, no longer the brilliant straight A student at NYU writing her brilliant thesis on female archetypes as revisioned by feminist theory. That lofty, precious, beautiful world is now closed to me. One hopes not closed forever, but for now, kaput. Do I question the sanity of that degree? Friends, I do every day of my life. Who could guess that three months after graduation the economy would crash. Was I wrong in trying to build a better life for myself? That story has yet to be told. The irony is I will be living the same life I lived before the degree, the life I tried to get out of--- the life where I had to work four or five jobs in three different boroughs just to survive. I said to myself in 2005, I've had enough. I need to make a change, a BIG change.

One would think that with all the publications, prizes, productions, reviews, teaching experience and now a Masters, that finding a full time job would be easy. This is what I thought last May. I confidently set to work: I made an appointment with an NYU job counselor. She reviewed my resume, my cover letters. I worked with her for three weeks. I gained access to their data base. I was managing my bills with work and savings. All would be well! Week after week passed, weeks become months, and now its been a year. This could well be very humiliating if I let it, but I won't. I know how hard I've tried. I've got a stack of applications four inches thick.

I ran into a colleague of mine today who passed on my CV to a friend in a high place at another college. I had applied to the $80,000 a year job running the writing center. I had recently gotten a form letter stating: we've decided not to interview you. I asked her, what's wrong with me? Who could be better qualified. She said, all those jobs are about who you know. And she added, the problem is you're too qualified. They know you're not a bureaucrat. In a way, I'd rather be filing for bankruptcy. Honestly. Because at least its a change of venue. I'm sick of sending out job applications into the world. They've fallen on deaf ears. I do believe however that the universe rewards an honest effort.

For now I will continue my ballet--- to keep my assets safe, to keep the wolf at bay, scratch, scratch, scratch, hear him? He's at the door. But don't let him in.

This is how you rebuild your life

Earlier I was on the phone with Bank of America who is suing me. I've had to reconcile myself to the fact that I have to file for bankruptcy. I've worked so hard for a year trying to get another part-time job, full-time job, free-lance job, whatever job, but to no avail. Strangely, I do not find comfort in the fact that there are millions of people who are in the same boat. I was walking Molly today and overheard a woman say, I'm going to lose my house.

Instead of panicking (which I did yesterday) I told myself that knowledge is power, and spoke to three attorneys. I also went online and researched my rights. When I had a slum landlord, I did the same thing, went to court and won. This is more complicated of course, but I look forward to the day when this weight is off my shoulders and I can start over. Meanwhile, this has been the loveliest summer in New York that I can remember.

I'm still being treated to birthday lunches and brunches. I have my health. It will get better. The economy will get better. One day soon I can treat myself to a new pair of shoes, a new blouse, a new pair of jeans, a new lipstick. This is how you rebuild your life. One small item at a time.

Escape to Mexico

Yesterday I didn't want to be here anymore--- in New York, in this life, struggling to survive in this economy. I wanted to run away to Mexico. I saw it all in my head; the way I would pack up one suitcase with just jeans and t-shirts, my laptop and my dog. I would collect my last two checks from Lehman, and not pay any bills. I'd put my books in storage and board a bus at Port Authority--- in the early morning hours, before 6:00 a.m., before dawn. So it would be dark and shadowy. I would sit in the back of the bus bound for Tennessee or Kentucky; somewhere southwest.

At my destination, I would check into a flea bag hotel and cut off all my hair, dye it dark brown. I would watch the local news, order a cheeseburger, maybe a beer. I wouldn't call anyone, I would just disappear. The next day, I would board another bus to Nevada, repeat the same process, cheap hotel, cheeseburger, beer, until I got to a pristine and golden beach in Mexico. I saw myself going off the grid once and for all--- working as a waitress, or on a fishing boat, maybe teaching English. A couple of thousand would go a long way in Mexico, I thought. Maybe I'd come back when the economy bounces back, or maybe not at all.

Today I amended the escape to South Florida, a tiny coastal town, somewhere around Sanibel or Ft. Meyers. Teach in a community college. All my life I've done things the hard way, just to prove how tough I am. Maybe now its time to give myself a break, and do things the easy way.

$475 Designer Shoes Mock Author

My Taryn Rose designer shoes laugh at me every time I open my closet door. It is a low throaty chuckle, rich and resonant. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. My $475.00 Bernie Madoff moment of last spring. They laugh at me because I was arrogant and impulsive. I didn't charge them. I paid cash. Except--- it wasn't my money! Oh the hilarity, oh the insanity. And what's worse? I can't wear them. That's right. You heard me. I. Can't. Wear. Them.

Friends, they are beautiful. Elegant. Black patent Italian leather. Sexy. I couldn't wait to wear them. I was sure my life would be transformed. I would become this other woman. A woman of means, of intelligence, of beauty, erudition. After all, I had just graduated from NYU, paid for with other people's money. Oh, the irony just doesn't get any better. Still, it was spring, and I was smart, my diploma said so. I deserved these shoes. They loved me, and I loved them.

I had family in town. We traversed Canal Street, bounded up Broadway, meandered on Bleecker-- Marc Jacobs, the Magnolia Bakery, except my f---ing feet were killing me. When we got home, the muscles in my thighs were convulsing, throbbing. I called up friends, family, what can I do? I wrapped my legs in warm compresses, soaked the towels in vinegar and finally ended up in a hot bath at midnight.

So now its a year later and I am wearing a pair of black cowboy boots, an XMAS gift from my father, circa 2003. The heels are run down, the soles are thin, the leather is cracked. This is why the Taryn Rose shoes are laughing at me. The extravagance of last year has come back to mock me and haunt me. I can't wear those shoes. I can't afford another pair. The thought of spending close to five hundred dollars on footwear now seems insane.

Wouldn't you be laughing, too?