Posts Tagged ‘money’

Donating and other feel good acts

January 14, 2011

In 2004, when my dad died, he left my brothers and I with a few bucks. Knowing nothing about money I put a bit aside, and then proceeded to spend like a mad woman for the next few years, ad nauseam. You know when the rich tell you that money makes them feel “empty” inside, and that it can’t buy happiness? Bullshit. I was deliriously happy. In fact, I was so happy and so self-focused that I didn’t once think to donate any of that cash to a worthy cause, to the homeless, to the environment. Nothing. Sadly, all my money went to Eli Tahari, Roberto Cavalli and Valentino. It went to a heated bathroom floor and a shower stall with talavera tiles. Two trips across country and one to Spain. It went to other more meaningful places too: lavish gifts for the family, dinners out, ridiculously expensive gifts for transient boyfriends.

But all that’s another story. Blah, blah, blah. Truth is, in a sense, I had no purpose, whether I realized it or not.

But then a miraculous thing happened when I lost it all– and I did lose it all, like one loses her breath breathing in anticipation of being told, “Just kidding! It’s all still there.”–when I really lost it all, except my pay check (and even that was cut in half!) something in me changed. I didn’t fall a part, or go into debt, or lose my sense of self. Instead, for the first time, I woke up and recognized the value of all that money. Oh! We only truly appreciate something until after it’s gone. I immediately paid off any balance on credit cards, I changed my lifestyle drastically and I tightened up my budget– I washed my own car, ate out less, cancelled my subscriptions, and said goodbye to the landscapers, handymen and cleaning ladies (OK, I admit, I kept the cleaning lady…but I worked her into the budget). But definitely no more Netflix, Weigh Watcher’s or monthly spa treatments. I even…dare I say it…got rid of the Audi.

In the wake of all this loss and financial restructuring, I added something to the budget for the first time, something that most people don’t add when they lose money: a budget for donating. Now that I had so little myself, I recognized the value in giving. Of course, I was clumsy at first. In the beginning, I donated frivolously: NPR, WHYY, Rutgers University. Then I donated foolishly: a light bulb company that claimed to help keep the blind in business (A gazillion light bulbs later I found out this was a scam). Finally, I made donations that made sense: I drove bags of winter coats, toiletries and money to a battered women’s shelter. I donated hundreds of self-help books to a halfway house for alcoholics, and I stuffed goody bags with fruits, raisins, juice boxes, chocolate and WaWa gift cards to be handed out to the homeless. It made me feel good. It made me feel privileged. What’s more, it made me feel as though I had a purpose.

Money is a strange bird. And only when you have it and then lose it do you recognize how important it is to share it, to do good with it. Then again, maybe that’s just me. Maybe I needed to be taught the value of money in a harsher way. Because honestly, there’s an amazing amount of donating that still goes on,despite this tough economy. The money raised during marathons, the gifts given to children with cancer, the bricks bought to save a life. People are inherently generous. And every day I see it, I am inspired to do more.

And so tomorrow, marks the first annual goody bag gift giving adventure in Philly. D and I will be taking these bags and handing them out to those in need. I was able to raise $220 this year. I got a late start. But maybe next year, we can do a little better.

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More on Ed Taylor

October 30, 2009

Money, by Ed Taylor

Just last night I went up in the attic to look for divorce papers, among other things. But instead, I found the one remaining copy of “Money” by Ed Taylor. It is indeed a treasure trove of hilarity and downright craziness, so much so that I thought I’d share the table of contents with you all. I absolutely plan to add much more content now to the “How Ed Did It” story. Oh! But where to begin? There’s so much here.

  1. CARRY ALL THE MAJOR CREDIT CARDS YOU WANT
  2. GET YOUR HIGH SCHOOL AND COLLEGE DEGREES!
  3. YES! YOU CAN MAKE YOURSELF A MILLIONAIRE
  4. HOW TO GET ALL THOSE CHARGE ACCOUNTS—EASILY
  5. WHAT! A $50,000 BANK ACCOUNT?
  6. MORTGAGES AND LOANS WITH A MERE SIGNATURE
  7. DRIVE A PRESTIGIOUS $12,500.00 CAR FREE
  8. CREDITORS ON YOUR BACK? RELAX!
  9. CHANGE YOUR IDENTITY AND DISAPPEAR
  10. GET A LOAN, GET OUT OF DEBT
  11. MAKE YOUR HOUSE A HOME WITH FREE AND BEAUTIFUL FURNITURE- UP TO $10,000 WORTH
  12. STARTING YOUR UNIVERSITY
  13. A GOOD LIVING AS AN EXPERT TAX CONSULTANT—WITH NO EXPERIENCE!
  14. GOODBYE PROPERTY TAX
  15. SPECULATIVE? BE A WINNER
  16. BE A REAL ESTATE MAGNATE & USE SOMEONE ELSE’S MONEY
  17. STOP YOUR CREDITORS FROM LITIGATING
  18. USE YOUR FRIENDS IDEAS AND EARN FAT FEES
  19. TURN POLITICAL POWER INTO MONEY
  20. HOW BIG CREDIT CAN EARN YOU BIG MONEY
  21. STOP WORRYING—SOLVE YOUR PROBLEMS
  22. LOOPHOLE DEPOSITING CAN TRIPLE YOUR BANK INTEREST
  23. INSURANCE BROKE NO MORE, GET A $50,000 POLICY FREE
  24. RELAX IN YOUR FREE RESORT HOME
  25. ALL THOSE WAITING TO MANUFACTURE YOUR PRODUCT
  26. GOOD SALESMEN TO MARKET YOUR PRODUCTS RIGHT AT YOUR FINGERTIPS
  27. WANT SOME FREE PROPERTY?
  28. ACT IMPORTANT AND GAIN RESPECT FOR BEING SUCCESSFUL

How Ed Did It

October 25, 2009

Old_boxes_by_servale

This is part of the Meeting Mary Jane series.

When I was about eight and lived up in New Hampshire my dad typed up and printed out about 100,000 copies of a book he wrote and entitled, “Money.” It was a flimsy white book, eight-and-a-half by eleven in size, not much to look at; and, at seventeen cents to the dollar, a wise investment on my father’s part.  But it was simple and to the point. Each page, in fact, was its own chapter, with titles such as “How to Furnish Your Home for Free,” and “How to Live Like a Millionaire with Less than a Hundred Dollars in your Checking Account.” I can’t say I remember the book verbatim, and surprisingly there is no trace of the 100,000 copies anywhere to be found. What I do remember, however, was the last page.

At the end of the book there was an offer. In small print, it said, “To order Ed Taylor’s second book ‘How Ed Did It,’ please send $15 dollars to P.O Box 123, Bedford, NH 03110.” What I remember most was not so much the actual printed offer, but the fact that there wasn’t one. My father had never written a second book. It was a scam, and a brilliant one at that. In his mind, if he only got ten percent of his readers to send in fifteen dollars for the second book, he would have earned himself fifteen thousand dollars. It was always a matter of numbers, he’d say. But more than numbers it was that my father knew that people, for the most part, were stupid; and that in their desperation and hope to become something less unfortunate than what they were, they’d do something even stupider, like send their hard-earned money in an envelope to an unmarked PO Box, all for the promise of making a little money and becoming a better person.

And some of them did. Who, I’m not sure, but in the end, my dad earned about forty-five dollars; just enough to pay for the PO Box. After that, the ninety-nine thousand or so leftover books sat collecting mold and dust in every garage or attic we moved them to, throughout the years, causing expense and undue stress to my mother each time she had to figure out where to stash them, until finally, they dwindled in number and disappeared.

What this says about my dad is not the obvious; that he was a victim of his own stupidity and desperation, that he tried to make a buck and failed, or even that he had a pretty severe case of OCD when it came to paper products.  Rather, it illustrates the foundation on which he built his entire life and the senselessness into which he dragged his family—all of whom went willingly. In that sense, not only was my father a victim, but a genius.

ÎÌÍ

It was in the spring when I decided to visit my dad at the farm and bring my kids up for lunch and to run around the place as they usually did. My boys loved “Grandpaw” and his farm. He’d take them for tractor rides or build mazes and forts with haystacks in the barn.  Sometimes he would take them down by the creek at the front of his property line and pitch a tent. He’d tell them the story of Sacagawea and how her spirit was still roaming around the place, looking for lost ancestors and whispering secrets to my father in Shoshone about hidden treasure—as if he could understand the language; in his mind he probably could. But my kids loved him and he loved them and despite occasional drunkenness or passing out inside a chicken coop or a hayloft, visits to the farm had become pleasantly uneventful.  One afternoon, however, just as we were getting ready to sit down for lunch with my dad and grandmother, who lived there as well, the phone rang.

My dad was a rather soft-spoken man. He rarely yelled unless he was doing business on the phone, in which case, he always yelled because that’s how he did business. In fact, I grew up for the most part thinking that “Jackass, you owe me the fucking money,” was a sort of vox populi of the corporate world.  So, my dad grabbed the phone and took it into the other room and started yelling, saying things like, “Well, tell them I’m out. Tell them I’m in the fucking hospital then.” My children, who were then only three and six could hear this and so I got up and went over to my dad and told him to shut up. “Your grandkids can hear you.” I strategically used the word “grandkids” so that he’d remember to act more like a grandfather. And yet, I knew this was asking too much. Without acknowledging me he slammed the phone down and said, “Shit” and immediately ran upstairs to his room.

I went back into the kitchen where my grandmother was sitting with my boys. She was reciting a poem she had written sixty years ago, about being a little girl in a frilly white dress. It was a typical Little Bo Peepish sort of poem and the kids were getting a kick out of it. We, meaning my entire family of Aunts and Uncles and cousins and brothers, were always so amazed at her ability to remember these things that on holidays we had a special “Watch Grandma Do Tricks” hour in which we had her recite some of her old poetry or sing old songs from her youth in her signature wobbly, shaky grandma voice.

As I was wiping peanut butter and jelly from the boys’ faces and reciting the poem myself, my dad barreled through the kitchen with an overnight bag, grabbing a few items from the kitchen; artificial sweetener, powdered milk, breakfast bars, and shoved them in the bag.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“I’m leaving.”

“Leaving? Like, packing a bag and leaving town?” I thought that was clever, never suspecting it could be true.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m going to spend the night in a hotel in Philly. I can’t really explain right now.” When the bag was zipped he looked over at the kids and said, “Grandpaw’s gotta go right now, little guys,” and he patted them on the head and gave them kisses.

My grandmother became flustered and stopped reciting.

“Where in god’s name are you going? What about the animals? Why, Ed, you’re supposed to take me to Gail’s tomorrow for our hairdresser’s appointments.” As he whisked his way through the kitchen and wound his way out the front door, pretty much pacifying his mother with an “I’ll call you from the road,” bargain, I ran after him.

“What the hell is going on? Who was on the phone?”

“My attorney,” he says.

“Dad, we drove an hour and forty-five minutes to see you, what the hell are you doing? It’s right in the middle of lunch.” He was obviously perturbed that I was slowing him down with all my questions, so he tossed his bag in the back of his car, hopped in and rolled down the window.

“Look honey, I must have forgotten to show up for a court date or something, you know, parking tickets, and well, I think the police are on their way here right now to arrest me.”

“For parking tickets?” I say.

“Yeah, can you believe it.” He says this as shocked as me. “That’s why I gotta get the hell out of here, honey. We’ll talk later. Tell the kids Grandpaw loves ‘em.” And with that, he did a sloppy K-turn and sped down the driveway, kicking up dirt and rocks all the way to the road.

I immediately ran back into the house and decided to pack up my kids and leave. There was no way I wanted them to be around when god knows who showed up to cart my father off to jail, or wherever. For all I knew it wouldn’t be the police, but more likely loan sharks or, as my mother always referred to them, “shylocks.” I was no stranger to picking up and bolting. It was the way we grew up. We lived in over fourteen different homes across the country within a span of fifteen years. We were always on the run for one reason or another (fear of law enforcement, fear of kidnapping, fear of what a loan shark might do if my dad didn’t pay back his debts). And so, with my usual speed and agility, I threw my boys in the car, kissed my grandma goodbye and went home.

It wasn’t long after that I learned the truth surrounding my dad’s getaway. And, as usual, it had nothing to do with parking tickets. I didn’t believe that old excuse anyway. In fact, any time my dad ever had a problem with the law he always said it was because of parking tickets (no surprise that I would grow up to be an adult who only used public transportation).  And while it was true that he had over seven thousand dollars in unpaid parking violations to the City of Philadelphia, no one ever showed up at his door with a warrant for his arrest on parking ticket delinquency alone.

To be continued…

Confession Mondays, Last chance-a-go-go

May 4, 2009

the tease
The Tease by ~lancephoto on deviantART

At 24 I was in a do or die situation. I was still living at home in what I referred to as “the Russian Peasant Room,” a basement-bedroom with flimsy drywall, pipes and wood beams for a ceiling, and a droopy little curtain separating my side of the room from my brother’s, who was also living down there at the time (see “Stay“). Among a slew of low paying, part-time jobs that weren’t even part-time (a waitress at a pizza place, youth advocate, ESL tutor), I hoped to add another more lucrative one to the list for the sake of getting my mother off my back. She was yelling at me daily to do something with my life and pay the rent. Imagine that. So I got desperate and decided that go-go dancing was the answer.

I mean, what the hell, right? I was  1.) sexy, 2.) a great dancer, 3.) bold, and 4.) desperate. How could I lose?

So, I answered an ad in the Courier Post for “Dancers: $1000 a week!” and showed up on a Tuesday at around noon at some go-go bar on the seedier side of Pennsauken, wearing little more than Daisy Dukes, a pair of biker boots and a black half shirt with the sparkly letters “Angel” written across my then  perky double-Ds.

The place was dark and stale, and there were a few crusty old men sitting around the perimeter of the bar. The stage, with pole, was behind the bar. An older woman, the Madame, I guess, sat stage left. She was a rundown fifty-something with flaming, dyed red hair and a dress that looked like something Mrs. Roper would wear. I sat beside her, along with another young girl, and told her I wanted to audition. I told her I never did this before, and asked if the other girl wouldn’t mind going first. She said, no problem as she continually took deep drags off her cigarette.

My competition was a rather plain-faced girl with a great body. She had a shelf for an ass, B-cup tits and milky white skin.  When she rounded the corner from some undisclosed room in the back she had on nothing more than a g-string, red heels and tassled pasties.  No stripping involved. She hopped up on the stage as the bartender cued Alannah Myles’s Black Velvet and without any facial expression whatsoever and eyes averted to the floor, she swiveled her hips, slunk around the pole and shook her ass.

Despite the fact that I knew in my heart I could do better, what I couldn’t do was wear pasties or a g-string. Nor could I get up there and experience the dance separate from those who were watching me (pervy, crusty old men). I couldn’t even get into Black Velvet, for that matter. And so I said to Mrs. Roper, “this isn’t for me.” She took a long, slow drag from her brown cigarette and said, “Know thyself.”

It wasn’t long after that that I applied for student loans and went back to college.