“Okay,” I say as I rummage through the pantry. “I’ve got a few cans of corn, some vegetable broth, six cans of tuna...”“Why the hell would you need six cans of tuna?” my sister Shannon asks.
“It was on sale, and it lasts for like thirty years.”
I’m on the phone with my sister, trying to come up with something for dinner. My fiancée will be home in an hour, foolishly expecting food. I emptied my wallet into my gas tank this morning, so I’ve gotta make do with what we’ve got. Six weeks into my great experiment determining whether I can make a living as an artist, my life has devolved into an extended episode of Good Times. Every time a bill arrives in the mail, I half expect Esther Rolle to amble into the kitchen saying “Damn, damn, daaaamn!”
But there are good things that’ve come from the whole scenario. I’m a much more creative cook than I used to be. I’ve found that you can mix just about anything in the world with sour cream and call it a salad. If you’re looking for a hot dish, just put marinara on top of it, call it “Italian-Style”, and you’ve got yourself a fine meal for two. And through it all, Preppy has not complained, which is really to his credit as a person. When he calls and finds my cell phone disconnected, or has to take cold showers for a week because the gas is turned off, he takes it in stride. I have a little manila envelope on the bulletin board above my desk, labeled “In Case of Emergency.” Inside are applications for Starbucks and Home Depot. So far, he has not let me open the envelope.
Preppy just tells me to keep writing, even if we end up eating Italian-Style sawdust while living in our car in Hobotown.
I’ve grown to despise several items in my home, because I now picture not buying those items and having the cash instead. The chief offender in my mind is a damn crystal decanter I paid forty dollars for in 2003. It seems absurd to me that there was ever a moment in my life that I was doing so well financially that I could blow forty bucks on a decanter I would never, ever use. Every time I look at it, I picture having the forty dollars back, as if I would have kept the cash in a little box someplace for five years, waiting for a moment when it was needed.
I’ve read stories about myriad problems having too much money causes for folks. Well, I gotta tell ya, that’s a risk I’m totally willing to take. Bring on the wealth-related stress. I would find a way to soldier through that hardship.
I think some people are paralyzed by lean times, unable to adapt to a scenario where they have to scale down there existence. For others, a previously unknown level of ingenuity kicks in- the part of you that needs a new dress, so you take down the curtains and get to sewin’. The Scarlett O’ Hara Effect rises to the surface, all your resourceful beauty is at full command, and then you figure out how to make a casserole using Ritz Crackers and whatever’s in the freezer.
My grandmother had the Scarlett Effect down to a science. She was widowed with six children, and would scrimp, save, and repurpose to keep them all afloat. She was like several Dolly Parton songs brought to hardscrabble life. Stuffed animals were made from old socks. A hand-me-down dress would clothe all four sisters before it was retired and sewn into a patchwork quilt. Once, my sister saw her accidentally pour orange juice on her breakfast cereal. Instead of throwing it out, she sat down at the table and choked down every bite.
The Scarlett Effect was passed down to her daughters.
I’ve grown to despise several items in my home, because I now picture not buying those items and having the cash instead. The chief offender in my mind is a damn crystal decanter I paid forty dollars for in 2003. It seems absurd to me that there was ever a moment in my life that I was doing so well financially that I could blow forty bucks on a decanter I would never, ever use. Every time I look at it, I picture having the forty dollars back, as if I would have kept the cash in a little box someplace for five years, waiting for a moment when it was needed.
I’ve read stories about myriad problems having too much money causes for folks. Well, I gotta tell ya, that’s a risk I’m totally willing to take. Bring on the wealth-related stress. I would find a way to soldier through that hardship.
I think some people are paralyzed by lean times, unable to adapt to a scenario where they have to scale down there existence. For others, a previously unknown level of ingenuity kicks in- the part of you that needs a new dress, so you take down the curtains and get to sewin’. The Scarlett O’ Hara Effect rises to the surface, all your resourceful beauty is at full command, and then you figure out how to make a casserole using Ritz Crackers and whatever’s in the freezer.
My grandmother had the Scarlett Effect down to a science. She was widowed with six children, and would scrimp, save, and repurpose to keep them all afloat. She was like several Dolly Parton songs brought to hardscrabble life. Stuffed animals were made from old socks. A hand-me-down dress would clothe all four sisters before it was retired and sewn into a patchwork quilt. Once, my sister saw her accidentally pour orange juice on her breakfast cereal. Instead of throwing it out, she sat down at the table and choked down every bite.
The Scarlett Effect was passed down to her daughters.
My Aunt Barbara recently made a centerpiece out of a broken ceiling fan blade, and from all reports the results were just precious. And now I find myself tapping into my own Scarlett Effect, realizing that if I keep bubbling water in the Crock Pot on the kitchen counter, Preppy can still have a nice hot shave before he goes to work.
It seems like there’s a lot more people lined up at the CoinStar at the Kroger cashing in change jars than there used to be, and I can’t help but notice the number of people at the pumps putting two gallons of gas in the tank, so it’s not like I feel alone here. My old bar buddies stay home a little more than they used to, or cut themselves off after two drinks instead of six, which may not be such a bad thing.
But we keep the faith that all will work out in the end, and get creative whenever possible. And it does help one appreciate the minor victories.
“Holy shit, I’ve got RICE!” I shout into the phone, doing a little victory dance.
“Oh, you can do anything with rice,” says Shannon. “That’s a good find.”
She says something else, but I’ve stopped listening. My inner Scarlett is savoring this moment. I’m picturing myself backlit against an orange sunrise, clutching my tattered hat to my nineteen-inch waist and holding my box of Uncle Ben’s up to the heavens, swearing I shall never go hungry again.
It seems like there’s a lot more people lined up at the CoinStar at the Kroger cashing in change jars than there used to be, and I can’t help but notice the number of people at the pumps putting two gallons of gas in the tank, so it’s not like I feel alone here. My old bar buddies stay home a little more than they used to, or cut themselves off after two drinks instead of six, which may not be such a bad thing.
But we keep the faith that all will work out in the end, and get creative whenever possible. And it does help one appreciate the minor victories.
“Holy shit, I’ve got RICE!” I shout into the phone, doing a little victory dance.
“Oh, you can do anything with rice,” says Shannon. “That’s a good find.”
She says something else, but I’ve stopped listening. My inner Scarlett is savoring this moment. I’m picturing myself backlit against an orange sunrise, clutching my tattered hat to my nineteen-inch waist and holding my box of Uncle Ben’s up to the heavens, swearing I shall never go hungry again.
