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I suppose since I started with one of these older pieces, the story should continue. This is dated October 9, 2008. In memory of.
A year ago today my telephone rang at 6:00AM. It was one of those not-quite-awake-moments when you're not sure if you are really hearing what you think you are, but I managed to get to the kitchen to pick it up before the fourth ring and the answering machine clicking on. I remember leaning against the wall with the phone in my ear still half asleep and frightened because it was still in that slice of early morning when no one should be calling. The voice on the other end mispronounced my name. Another bad sign.
In a heavy Jamaican accent, she identified herself as calling the nursing home Steve had been transferred to, and then said what sounded like "I'm calling to tell you that Steven has "aspired." I asked her to repeat it..."Steven has aspired," she said patiently. For a crazy moment I wanted to say "to what?" My sweet friend aspired to a lot of things...having a great band, being a good poet, having loving people in his life. I wanted to ask her which thing he was wishing for that morning when the sun was feeling its way toward my curtained windows... which I was bizarrely noting needed to be washed.
She of course meant that he had expired. That term the medical professionals think sounds better than "died" or saying, "so-and-so is "dead." Milk expires, the registration on my car expires, those stupid store coupons expire. My friend shouldn't expire. I know this because the doctors didn't stamp a date on him after his diagnosis, and he certainly had another half a lifetime of things to do before he was finished.
She went on to say that when they checked him at 4:00 AM he was sleeping. At 5:00 AM, they found he had "aspired." She told me that, according to the doctor, he went peacefully in his sleep.
I think it was his last gift to me. I didn't have to make the final decision he'd trusted me with, and I will always be grateful.
I'd asked to write his obituary. I wrote it that morning, and the words came without effort or editing. The paper printed it exactly as written. Steve was my cheerleader and instigator, always pushing me to "write! just write!!" He was the one I'd call and read my freshly finished pieces to, and the one who stood in the back of the room for courage the first time I read in public.
I'd met him in a writer's group. It seemed like coming full circle.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Please...Just A Few More Million
Some of my friends were discussing Stem Cell research. I've had an up close experience with that magic of modern medicine. This is almost two years old, but the discussions prompted me to share it.
October is a sad month again this year, which is ironic because it has always made me feel alive and energetic. The sky is the bluest shade blue, and the sun (although it blinds me after 5:PM driving down RT 22) shines crispy-beautiful. Two years ago in October we started the treks to Hackensack Medical Center to harvest Steve's stem cells.
On some of the most beautiful days of the year I sat with him in a room with four other patients hooked to machines that took blood out of their bodies, sent it into a centrifuge to separate the cells, and put the rest back in. Amazing stuff indeed. We watched the little hanging bag filling with layers of blood...dark red at the bottom, lighter red, pinkish red, and finally the coveted creamy yellow stem cells floating on the top layer.
We'd talk in millions....how many did we think got harvested that day? The docs wanted thirty million, some to use and some to keep frozen for a possible second transplant if needed. The other patients and the friends beside them compared notes. We congratulated each other on the climbing numbers, like gamblers rejoicing in lottery winnings.
Steve's stem cells were slow to give themselves up despite the daily Nuprogen injections he gave himself in the abdomen to increase their production. We gave them little pep talks in the car on the way..."C'mon you guys, step up to the plate! We need some homers here." After all, it was during the playoffs, and Steve loved baseball almost as much as music.
After a few extra tries, they finally had enough of those little cells on ice. They let him rest for a couple of weeks and then started the heavy duty chemo in preparation of the actual transplant. Then the precious cells were put back in. They did their little dance down to his marrow, engrafted, and started producing new healthy blood. The magic was working.
And then last October he died.
This year I can't help but look at the glinting sun and that blue sky and think about those rides to Hackensack on beautiful mornings when we were so optimistic. We had Kerouac's "On the Road" on CD to listen to in the car...but it never got played. It was hard to concentrate on anything but the millions we hoped to win at the end of the trip.
October is a sad month again this year, which is ironic because it has always made me feel alive and energetic. The sky is the bluest shade blue, and the sun (although it blinds me after 5:PM driving down RT 22) shines crispy-beautiful. Two years ago in October we started the treks to Hackensack Medical Center to harvest Steve's stem cells.
On some of the most beautiful days of the year I sat with him in a room with four other patients hooked to machines that took blood out of their bodies, sent it into a centrifuge to separate the cells, and put the rest back in. Amazing stuff indeed. We watched the little hanging bag filling with layers of blood...dark red at the bottom, lighter red, pinkish red, and finally the coveted creamy yellow stem cells floating on the top layer.
We'd talk in millions....how many did we think got harvested that day? The docs wanted thirty million, some to use and some to keep frozen for a possible second transplant if needed. The other patients and the friends beside them compared notes. We congratulated each other on the climbing numbers, like gamblers rejoicing in lottery winnings.
Steve's stem cells were slow to give themselves up despite the daily Nuprogen injections he gave himself in the abdomen to increase their production. We gave them little pep talks in the car on the way..."C'mon you guys, step up to the plate! We need some homers here." After all, it was during the playoffs, and Steve loved baseball almost as much as music.
After a few extra tries, they finally had enough of those little cells on ice. They let him rest for a couple of weeks and then started the heavy duty chemo in preparation of the actual transplant. Then the precious cells were put back in. They did their little dance down to his marrow, engrafted, and started producing new healthy blood. The magic was working.
And then last October he died.
This year I can't help but look at the glinting sun and that blue sky and think about those rides to Hackensack on beautiful mornings when we were so optimistic. We had Kerouac's "On the Road" on CD to listen to in the car...but it never got played. It was hard to concentrate on anything but the millions we hoped to win at the end of the trip.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Pennies
When I was a kid, I used to think how nice it would be if everything cost a penny. Bubble gum, shoes, a house. The field was leveled, and a penny was the price. I'd daydream about it on long rides in the back seat of my father's big old Chevy, watching for as many items as I could spot from the window that would all be priced so accordingly. I was probably five or six, just old enough to understand that a penny didn't go very far even though in the late 50's it went a little ways further than it does now.
But, that was when candy was sold from big jars on the candy store counter, and some of it was even two or three for a penny if you settled for the less favorite kind. In my childish mind I also thought that it would a good solution so adults would not have to worry about money as much as they seemed to.
I mentioned my theory to a slightly older friend of mine. She was 7 or 8, and, if you ask me now, probably lacked any child-like imagination straight from the womb. We were laying in the grass on a summer afternoon under the big tree that still shades my mother's front yard. She pursed her lips and scowled. "That wouldn't work at all," she told me. "How would you know who had more money than you did?"
I told her you could tell by who had more things. "But they'd all just cost a penny so how would you know whose things are better?" She went on to opine that then people would get paid in pennies, people would have to carry around big bags of pennies, and the world would run out of pennies.
"What about nickels and dollars?" I asked her.
“They still have to always make change in pennies because everything COSTS a penny…stupid. “ She replied. “And anyway, I’m going to be rich and not even use pennies. I won’t need them.” She finished.
Maybe I was a little socialist. Or maybe it was just penny-candy inspired thinking based on the fact that back then children never had many pennies of their own. It was a big deal to find one on the sidewalk, or one that had fallen out of your father's pocket and slid under the cushions of his favorite chair. Whatever it was, after my friend scoffed at my one cent daydream, I didn't play my wishful game again.
I lost track of her after grade school, but I bet she has lots of things that make her better. And I hope she reads this.
But, that was when candy was sold from big jars on the candy store counter, and some of it was even two or three for a penny if you settled for the less favorite kind. In my childish mind I also thought that it would a good solution so adults would not have to worry about money as much as they seemed to.
I mentioned my theory to a slightly older friend of mine. She was 7 or 8, and, if you ask me now, probably lacked any child-like imagination straight from the womb. We were laying in the grass on a summer afternoon under the big tree that still shades my mother's front yard. She pursed her lips and scowled. "That wouldn't work at all," she told me. "How would you know who had more money than you did?"
I told her you could tell by who had more things. "But they'd all just cost a penny so how would you know whose things are better?" She went on to opine that then people would get paid in pennies, people would have to carry around big bags of pennies, and the world would run out of pennies.
"What about nickels and dollars?" I asked her.
“They still have to always make change in pennies because everything COSTS a penny…stupid. “ She replied. “And anyway, I’m going to be rich and not even use pennies. I won’t need them.” She finished.
Maybe I was a little socialist. Or maybe it was just penny-candy inspired thinking based on the fact that back then children never had many pennies of their own. It was a big deal to find one on the sidewalk, or one that had fallen out of your father's pocket and slid under the cushions of his favorite chair. Whatever it was, after my friend scoffed at my one cent daydream, I didn't play my wishful game again.
I lost track of her after grade school, but I bet she has lots of things that make her better. And I hope she reads this.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Just A Litle More Proof Please...
(Thanks to Tony Gruenwald for sending the article that prompted this !)
When I was "proofed" when buying a bottle of wine yesterday, I was elated. The young man at the checkout showed no signs of nearsightedness, and displayed a nice sense of humor when I replied, 'Well Bless your heart!"
Of course, seconds after my momentary thrill I realized that it was just store policy. I thought that was only because it was a supermarket that sold alcohol. Why that should make a difference, I don't know, but I often wonder who makes "the rules," so I took that with a grain of salt...and a couple of glasses of that nice wine.
Today, a friend e-mailed me an article from the Sunday Times on the subject. It appears that this "proofing" of everyone is now law. At least in New York. I haven't checked New Jersey yet, but given the way Jersey is going...oh don't get me started.
Anyway, apparently when they say everyone, they mean just that. The article was written by a 71 year old man who was required to show his driver's license at the ball stadium when purchasing a beer. He noted that the woman behind the counter insisted that he take the license out of it's plastic holder so she could make sure it had not expired.
This leads my old side-trip-taking mind to the glorious possibilities here.
The way I see it, even if they truck you up to that beer counter, 90 years old and in a wheelchair, clutching your "life alert" button in one hand and the ten bucks the beer is gonna cost you in the other...you're going to have to prove you're old enough to drink. I hardly think there would be a valid driver's license tucked in your elasticized stockings.
I personally know senior citizens who have not been given a renewal because the DMV decided they were no longer fit to drive safely, and those who gave it up at the behest of their children. It happens. I also know some who gave it up because they can ride all over town in that little shuttle bus with the sign that I love..."Caution ! Senior Citizens ! " Damn straight.
So now there's a whole lotta people of a certain age who won't be able to buy a beer or a bottle of Manischewitz without photo ID.
As I see it, most of those "over 55" communities will eventually come to have what they will refer to in lowered voices as "The Guy." This will be one of those small wiry men men who will somewhat resemble Jimmy Cagney in his later years. He will be running a little "cash only" operation next to the water heater in the utility room of his condo churning out fake ID's. No one will question how learned this skill, but he will be the same guy who could "fix you up" with anything you needed 45 or 50 years ago. He may even be the guy supplied you with your FIRST fake ID..when you thought you'd only ever need one in your lifetime.
His name will be whispered at Senior-cise, in doctor's offices, and at least once in every busload to and from Atlantic City. There will be some sort of code, "Tell him you're a friend of Margie, and Bernie said it's okay. When he asks how he can help you, just say that you're 'looking for some paper work that you lost'."
I think all could go quite well until some sweet faced little lady asks him to make her a bit younger and some sharp-eyed clerk puts 2 and 2 together and it doesn't equal 39. I have no doubt that she'll blurt his name out loud and clear on her way to the pokey without her little glass of sherry.
When I was "proofed" when buying a bottle of wine yesterday, I was elated. The young man at the checkout showed no signs of nearsightedness, and displayed a nice sense of humor when I replied, 'Well Bless your heart!"
Of course, seconds after my momentary thrill I realized that it was just store policy. I thought that was only because it was a supermarket that sold alcohol. Why that should make a difference, I don't know, but I often wonder who makes "the rules," so I took that with a grain of salt...and a couple of glasses of that nice wine.
Today, a friend e-mailed me an article from the Sunday Times on the subject. It appears that this "proofing" of everyone is now law. At least in New York. I haven't checked New Jersey yet, but given the way Jersey is going...oh don't get me started.
Anyway, apparently when they say everyone, they mean just that. The article was written by a 71 year old man who was required to show his driver's license at the ball stadium when purchasing a beer. He noted that the woman behind the counter insisted that he take the license out of it's plastic holder so she could make sure it had not expired.
This leads my old side-trip-taking mind to the glorious possibilities here.
The way I see it, even if they truck you up to that beer counter, 90 years old and in a wheelchair, clutching your "life alert" button in one hand and the ten bucks the beer is gonna cost you in the other...you're going to have to prove you're old enough to drink. I hardly think there would be a valid driver's license tucked in your elasticized stockings.
I personally know senior citizens who have not been given a renewal because the DMV decided they were no longer fit to drive safely, and those who gave it up at the behest of their children. It happens. I also know some who gave it up because they can ride all over town in that little shuttle bus with the sign that I love..."Caution ! Senior Citizens ! " Damn straight.
So now there's a whole lotta people of a certain age who won't be able to buy a beer or a bottle of Manischewitz without photo ID.
As I see it, most of those "over 55" communities will eventually come to have what they will refer to in lowered voices as "The Guy." This will be one of those small wiry men men who will somewhat resemble Jimmy Cagney in his later years. He will be running a little "cash only" operation next to the water heater in the utility room of his condo churning out fake ID's. No one will question how learned this skill, but he will be the same guy who could "fix you up" with anything you needed 45 or 50 years ago. He may even be the guy supplied you with your FIRST fake ID..when you thought you'd only ever need one in your lifetime.
His name will be whispered at Senior-cise, in doctor's offices, and at least once in every busload to and from Atlantic City. There will be some sort of code, "Tell him you're a friend of Margie, and Bernie said it's okay. When he asks how he can help you, just say that you're 'looking for some paper work that you lost'."
I think all could go quite well until some sweet faced little lady asks him to make her a bit younger and some sharp-eyed clerk puts 2 and 2 together and it doesn't equal 39. I have no doubt that she'll blurt his name out loud and clear on her way to the pokey without her little glass of sherry.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
How Many Did You Say?
I really don't like reality TV. I find that I'm embarrassed for the participants, as well as thinking that kind of programming is a poor substitute for the good writing and creativity television offered in the past. It’s as if they figure the general public are routine voyeurs and marginally entertain-able, so why not just send a camera crew in to capture the lives of the most obnoxious people they can find to sign a hold harmless contract and call it a program. Maybe I don't give most of them a chance, but I can't help but "flipping" them off at the first sighting of a 16 year old spoiled brat ranting at her friends for some infraction at her birthday party, or a houseful of people who can't seem to pass an evening at home without degrading each other. There are swaps of wives and hairdressers, monster-bitch brides, and some programs that I have yet to figure out what they revolve around other than meanness and insults.
Somehow...and it was probably because I couldn't find the remote control and was too lazy to get up and change the channel (horrors) manually...I've caught a few episodes of the families with lots of kids. 18 kids, 12 kids, 8 kids. I find myself amazed. Lacking heavy medication or a lobotomy, they must just be perfectly suited to whatever calling having a very large family is. They smile at the kids. They say "please and thank you" when instructing a child to do some chore or another. They never run out of milk or toilet paper. They're organized. They cope without attending a support group. They even have a sense of humor.
How do they keep them all in clothing and shoes? School supplies? Booster shots? I want to know who does a constant head count and who washes the dishes. Last night I watched the 18 children family spend over $1,000.00 in the grocery store, use 11 shopping carts and haul it home in a box truck in a segment on how they save money. They took all 18 kids with them.
Taking two kids to the grocery store is a exercise every adult contemplating parenthood should be required to try. If you succeed in preventing them from diving out of the cart, grabbing all the crap displayed at the checkout counter, and can listen to "but why can't I have it?" 643 times without hurting anyone, you get to go to the next step. Taking 18 to the store is lunacy. But not for those smiling, calm folks. They had it all under control, AND the mom reported that she was pregnant and nauseous...with child number 19. I, on the other hand had my last child long ago, leisurely grocery shop alone, and then have to take a nap.
I watch these things from a reclining position, knocked out from mostly sitting on my rear end in front of a computer all day. By the time an episode runs its credits, I'm usually holding onto wakefulness by an eyelash wondering how any of them get through a day. I know full well that I'd be exhausted halfway through cooking all that breakfast. Not to mention finding everyone's shoes. I don't doubt that any of those families are real though. At some point in every episode I've caught...and I'm keeping a tally.... I see mom and dad yawn.
Somehow...and it was probably because I couldn't find the remote control and was too lazy to get up and change the channel (horrors) manually...I've caught a few episodes of the families with lots of kids. 18 kids, 12 kids, 8 kids. I find myself amazed. Lacking heavy medication or a lobotomy, they must just be perfectly suited to whatever calling having a very large family is. They smile at the kids. They say "please and thank you" when instructing a child to do some chore or another. They never run out of milk or toilet paper. They're organized. They cope without attending a support group. They even have a sense of humor.
How do they keep them all in clothing and shoes? School supplies? Booster shots? I want to know who does a constant head count and who washes the dishes. Last night I watched the 18 children family spend over $1,000.00 in the grocery store, use 11 shopping carts and haul it home in a box truck in a segment on how they save money. They took all 18 kids with them.
Taking two kids to the grocery store is a exercise every adult contemplating parenthood should be required to try. If you succeed in preventing them from diving out of the cart, grabbing all the crap displayed at the checkout counter, and can listen to "but why can't I have it?" 643 times without hurting anyone, you get to go to the next step. Taking 18 to the store is lunacy. But not for those smiling, calm folks. They had it all under control, AND the mom reported that she was pregnant and nauseous...with child number 19. I, on the other hand had my last child long ago, leisurely grocery shop alone, and then have to take a nap.
I watch these things from a reclining position, knocked out from mostly sitting on my rear end in front of a computer all day. By the time an episode runs its credits, I'm usually holding onto wakefulness by an eyelash wondering how any of them get through a day. I know full well that I'd be exhausted halfway through cooking all that breakfast. Not to mention finding everyone's shoes. I don't doubt that any of those families are real though. At some point in every episode I've caught...and I'm keeping a tally.... I see mom and dad yawn.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Thermostat Wars
Since it has been abnormally hot recently, I dug this one out for a little
imaginary respite.
It is cold in my office. Not chilly, not a little brisk, but FREAKING cold. This is due to a curious quirk of human nature that prompts certain people to "adjust" the damn thermostat every time they walk past it.
I've come to the conclusion that the thermostat brings out a primal need to demonstrate control, and that the individuals who succumb to this urge have no control over anything else in their lives. It's either that, or controlling the temperature of their immediate surroundings makes them the Grand Masters of some tiny universe.
The way it works here is that there is a centrally located thermostat. It is illogically placed in a hallway that is half cold from the elevator shaft, and half very warm due to the proximity of a radiator. The thermostat gets a regular cold breeze simultaneously with the signal that it should shut itself off because the radiator close by is hot. Cold flash, hot flash. The unfortunate device probably thinks it’s in menopause. The thing is, if it is left on a constant higher temperature of about 78 degrees, it sufficiently heats all of our offices and we are able to work without coats, gloves and leg-warmers.
The "climate control" freaks here cannot grasp this concept, nor can they control their tendency to "touch and adjust." I will not divulge which sex they are. Suffice to say that they are the same ones who, beginning at a very tender age, cannot keep their hands off themselves either.
It has escalated into a true cold war between the trembling ladies and the rest...the ones who beat their chests and proclaim, " Why THIS is invigorating ! It's Good for you! It keeps you alert!" I suppose that real men don't publicly shiver. Not one of them will admit to adjusting the temperature down when it’s up, and up when it’s down. The setting changes almost hourly, but nobody in the Kingdom knows who toucheth.
My opinion is that the thermostat has given up and is just pretending to actually send any signals to the furnace. It now just blinks its numbers and fakes it. The unified shivering contingent among us can relate. It feels toyed with, taken advantage of, lied to, and left holding the bag. And no amount of sweet talk is going to make it any better.
imaginary respite.
It is cold in my office. Not chilly, not a little brisk, but FREAKING cold. This is due to a curious quirk of human nature that prompts certain people to "adjust" the damn thermostat every time they walk past it.
I've come to the conclusion that the thermostat brings out a primal need to demonstrate control, and that the individuals who succumb to this urge have no control over anything else in their lives. It's either that, or controlling the temperature of their immediate surroundings makes them the Grand Masters of some tiny universe.
The way it works here is that there is a centrally located thermostat. It is illogically placed in a hallway that is half cold from the elevator shaft, and half very warm due to the proximity of a radiator. The thermostat gets a regular cold breeze simultaneously with the signal that it should shut itself off because the radiator close by is hot. Cold flash, hot flash. The unfortunate device probably thinks it’s in menopause. The thing is, if it is left on a constant higher temperature of about 78 degrees, it sufficiently heats all of our offices and we are able to work without coats, gloves and leg-warmers.
The "climate control" freaks here cannot grasp this concept, nor can they control their tendency to "touch and adjust." I will not divulge which sex they are. Suffice to say that they are the same ones who, beginning at a very tender age, cannot keep their hands off themselves either.
It has escalated into a true cold war between the trembling ladies and the rest...the ones who beat their chests and proclaim, " Why THIS is invigorating ! It's Good for you! It keeps you alert!" I suppose that real men don't publicly shiver. Not one of them will admit to adjusting the temperature down when it’s up, and up when it’s down. The setting changes almost hourly, but nobody in the Kingdom knows who toucheth.
My opinion is that the thermostat has given up and is just pretending to actually send any signals to the furnace. It now just blinks its numbers and fakes it. The unified shivering contingent among us can relate. It feels toyed with, taken advantage of, lied to, and left holding the bag. And no amount of sweet talk is going to make it any better.
Mad Money
When I was a kid, I remember women talking about their "mad money." Little bits of cash they stashed away from the family budget because they were mostly housewives with no income of their own.
I always wondered whether they meant it was money to be spent madly on some non-essential luxury, or money that they took with them when they stomped out of the house angry at their husbands. In my young imagination fueled by any trashy novel I could sneak into my bedroom, I envisioned women like my soft voiced aunt and my smiling grandmother in her flower-print house dress sitting on bar stools in some dark, beer-smelling tavern knocking back shots, buying rounds, and slinging their mad money at the startled bartender. "Oh, he makes me so mad!" they would say...one in English and one in Italian...and later they would help each other stagger home, glaring at their respective husbands and not one bit repentant.
Most likely, mad money was a combination to those women. And it is even more likely that it was used for emergencies when finances got tough. I think they talked about it more than they ever spent it on themselves or in a fit of anger.
I had my own mad money method, left over from the years after my divorce when I saved anything I could, any extra dollar here or there. That was literally it...a couple of dollars saved in a drawer, a book, a pocket, always worried that I might be a few dollars short of something we desperately needed. Once stashed, I never touched most of it because as things usually do, everything worked out. Nobody needed an emergency appendectomy, root canal, or bail money. The wolf, although he sniffed around a few times, never actually got to my door. I never lost the habit though, because there was something about knowing there is money earmarked for nothing-in-particular-but-just-in-case.
The whole financial crisis reminded me again about my mad money. I considered that if I had taken those ones, fives, tens and handfuls of change from the old purses and pockets, drawers and unused teacups, and invested it in....oh, lets just say the stock market...today I would have mostly zip. True, I could have put it in the bank and collected interest...at 2%....and I would have made mostly zippo interest and would have paid taxes on the zippo. Not to mention that seeing a lump sum in a bank account might have persuaded me to use it more readily.
So, I'm thinking that what I finally did with my mad money was probably a good thing. A couple of summers ago I gathered it all up...found it truly amazing what you can save in little bits over 20 years...and went to Italy. I had a mad-ly good time.
I always wondered whether they meant it was money to be spent madly on some non-essential luxury, or money that they took with them when they stomped out of the house angry at their husbands. In my young imagination fueled by any trashy novel I could sneak into my bedroom, I envisioned women like my soft voiced aunt and my smiling grandmother in her flower-print house dress sitting on bar stools in some dark, beer-smelling tavern knocking back shots, buying rounds, and slinging their mad money at the startled bartender. "Oh, he makes me so mad!" they would say...one in English and one in Italian...and later they would help each other stagger home, glaring at their respective husbands and not one bit repentant.
Most likely, mad money was a combination to those women. And it is even more likely that it was used for emergencies when finances got tough. I think they talked about it more than they ever spent it on themselves or in a fit of anger.
I had my own mad money method, left over from the years after my divorce when I saved anything I could, any extra dollar here or there. That was literally it...a couple of dollars saved in a drawer, a book, a pocket, always worried that I might be a few dollars short of something we desperately needed. Once stashed, I never touched most of it because as things usually do, everything worked out. Nobody needed an emergency appendectomy, root canal, or bail money. The wolf, although he sniffed around a few times, never actually got to my door. I never lost the habit though, because there was something about knowing there is money earmarked for nothing-in-particular-but-just-in-case.
The whole financial crisis reminded me again about my mad money. I considered that if I had taken those ones, fives, tens and handfuls of change from the old purses and pockets, drawers and unused teacups, and invested it in....oh, lets just say the stock market...today I would have mostly zip. True, I could have put it in the bank and collected interest...at 2%....and I would have made mostly zippo interest and would have paid taxes on the zippo. Not to mention that seeing a lump sum in a bank account might have persuaded me to use it more readily.
So, I'm thinking that what I finally did with my mad money was probably a good thing. A couple of summers ago I gathered it all up...found it truly amazing what you can save in little bits over 20 years...and went to Italy. I had a mad-ly good time.
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