The Bag Lady Papers

by Alexandra Penney

  There is an item that catches my squinty editorial eye. A classically tailored Bill Blass gray sharkskin, pleated, silk-lined, hand-finished skirt that looks as if it will be a perfect fit. There are no dressing rooms in Almost New All for You, so I pull the skirt over my head, drop my jeans to my ankles, and find a small mirror where I can see about a third of myself. This piece of expensive cloth has my name on it.

  Thirty bucks! Too much! Way too much! The white-haired volunteer at the cash register in her pink smock is a cement wall that will not budge on the price.

  “It’s designer,” she tells me. “They don’t go on sale.”

  “I’ll have to think about it; that seems quite high,” I tell her and walk back to my wagon. The original ticket was easily about a thousand bucks.

  I owned many Blass suits when I had a clothing allowance. And Chanels, and Armanis, and Saint Laurents. They’re still neatly packed in storage in my apartment basement. From time to time, I rummaged through the bunch and revived a special favorite by having the shoulder pads taken out or changing the hemlines according to the times. But those clothes, even if resurrected, are useless to me nowadays. It’s a truism to say the world has changed: even President Obama sports khakis in the Oval Office. The fancy duds are headed for eBay or the closest consignment shop. In the past they would have been headed for a charity that helps down-and-out women who would have used the clothes for job interviews, but now they may make me a few dollars.

  I leave the store but keep thinking about the elegant pleated Blass skirt. It’s a classic. I wore similar ones in college with monogrammed Shetland sweaters and cashmere-blend kneesocks. I can wear this baby with flats or heels, with a cashmere sweater or a T-shirt. I have no clothing allowance, no clothing budget. I’ve got to figure out a way to look stylish and contemporary. If I look pulled together and tidy, I feel better.

  I adored having a clothing allowance. Who wouldn’t? It’s the ultimate luxury. No, the ne plus ultra goody is a car and driver in New York City. I had them both!

  But I was very careful in the way I spent my allowance dollars. I nailed several Hermès bags; a few watches; a Buccellati ring; earrings; and my favorite piece of jewelry, a strand of luscious baroque pearls that I still wear almost every day. Most of my office and evening outfits were from designers who were delighted to sell editors items at cost or give them away free so that we would be seen in them at the Four Seasons, movie premieres, trendy new eateries, or other paparazzi-laden haunts.

  I limited my purchases strictly to best-quality name-brand stuff like Franck Muller or Cartier watches because, very consciously, I thought, if I ever needed the money, these baubles might be worth something. And I may have been right.

  Still, a question plagued me during these years. Was I superficial, did I care too much about how I dressed, how my apartment looked? As I accumulated some of the beautiful things I had always admired, I suffered guilt and embarrassment that I was the empress of shallowness, that necessary and useful clothes and a Timex watch were all that a “serious person” needed.

  Now I like to say I’m “deeply superficial,” and what I mean by that is that I put a lot of effort into having my surroundings and the way I look and the work I do measure up to my aesthetic and intellectual ideals. I don’t care about this year’s trends. Well, I must admit sometimes I can be seduced by something that’s new or something I’ve never seen before, but what is most important is honesty, authenticity, integrity, and a dash of style in my physical surroundings. If an object or item of clothing is, in addition, truly original—a rare occurrence—I value it even more.

  A white shirt that’s designed to fit the body well and comfortably and is made of good, lasting cloth with well-sewn buttons and no unnecessary frills is something that I prize and respect. I’d like to be able to collect art that meets all the criteria I’ve set out above, but most often the work I would like to own is way beyond my means. I try like hell to make my own work fit those standards. One never reaches “the ideal,” but the attempts have kept me going for so many years.

  I turn the wagon around and march back to the thrift shop. I carefully count out the thirty dollars for it because it is a classic. My new PoRC style is all about “classic.” Clothes, jewelry, and accessories that endure.

  Classics, for PoRCs or WoCAs (Women of a Certain Age) like me are the best style bet because they last and never turn you into a fashion victim. Classic dressing saves me time, decisions, trips to stores to return items, and wastes none of the money I hope to earn. I have a look and I feel good in it.

  Nice clothes aren’t the only luxury to which I’ve grown accustomed. Over the years—starting with my beauty editor job at Glamour—I’ve morphed into a spoiled beauty princess. How will I ever afford haircuts, hair color, dermatology? None of these comes cheap. But if you’re poor, you become wily and resourceful. It’s one of the benefits of a very restricted budget.

  I have a new idea—actually it’s an old idea that I plan to dust off and put to use. Artists have always relied on swapping goods for services. A painter friend of mine recently exchanged a large abstract work for a gorgeous emerald engagement ring for his lady love. Lawyers and doctors have become major collectors by trading their services for works of art.

  Each of us has something of worth to barter. It could be the silver spoon that graced your mouth at birth, an antique purse, closet organizing—anything that might have value that another might be willing to consider as swappable for something else. In extreme cases of need, PoRCs have even been known to barter their bodies, but this is certainly not in the stars for me.

  My present state has made me much less bashful about asking for things than I was in pre-MF days. I’ve never been a person who asks for discounts, for special treatment, for freebies. I finally screwed up my courage a few weeks ago and asked if I could trade a photographic portrait for a beauty treatment. It worked! So, as soon as I find myself looking a bit more tattered, worn, and wrinkled, I’m offering photographs or even slightly rusty editing skills in exchange for blond highlights, a mini face-lift, veneering of chipped teeth, collagen, Botox. Swapping would never have occurred to me unless my entire life had changed. When your worst nightmare comes true, you discover valuable things about your self and your world. I certainly don’t wish my semester in hell on anyone, but I do want to recommend thinking of adversity in a more positive way.

  One of my unexpected experiences recently was a talk I gave to a group in California. I’d had dinner the night before with two of the women who organized the lunch, and they asked me about my speech. I’d planned to say how I got involved with the MF, reveal some dishy magazine experiences, and provide a minute or two of the background of the pink ribbon, which they’d specifically asked for. Over a dessert coffee they asked me what knowledge I’d gained from my experiences and I told them I’d surely learned plenty.

  Back in my room, I decided to dump the original talk I had outlined for the lunch and, based on our conversation, I pounded out the following list of what knowledge I’d gained over the past few months, much of which made it into this book.

  If your worst fears happen, you live through them. They can be as bad as you imagined them but somehow you manage.

  You will surprise yourself at how well you cope. You have enormous resources you don’t know about.

  You are in control until you have no mind left.

  When you’re flooded with anxiety or panic, think—don’t feel.

  There is such a word as “no.” Use it to protect yourself.

  Indulge your crazy ideas—just think a bit about the consequences first.

  You don’t have to love your parents. Honor and respect the institution of parenthood, and you will feel no guilt.

  There is no such thing as human worthlessness. Even the MF must have some redeeming quality, although I admit I doubt it.

  People will always surprise you, with their generosity or their nastiness.

  You’re sunk if you
lose your sense of humor.

  Ask for what you want even if you think you won’t get it. You’ll be surprised at the response sixty percent of the time.

  It’s okay to feel pity for yourself—for a short while.

  Ranting out loud can make you feel quite a bit better.

  Stop negative thinking any way you can. It takes discipline but you can do it.

  Fear has two faces: the good side motivates you, the bad side paralyzes you.

  When you have your first sip of coffee in the morning, stop for a full ten seconds and taste how good it is.

  Decide on a short-term goal and a long-term goal and give them your very best shot.

  Don’t beat yourself up about a decision: it was right at the time you made it.

  If you can’t make a decision, you can always decide not to decide.

  You have a self. Know its strengths and weaknesses.

  Fear can make you tougher and stronger.

  Evil exists.

  Generosity can trump almost anything.

  Expect the unexpected, but there is no way to prepare for it.

  Change is inevitable but it’s an adventure.

  Loss happens. Get used to it.

  Be a fighter; life’s no fun if you’re not.

  CHAPTER 22

  The Bag Lady Throws a Party

  One of my close friends, Eleanor, who, with her husband, has an adorable cottage here in Florida, is having a birthday and my present to her will be a small party in the friend’s house where I’m staying. Could it have been only five months ago that I was getting ready to entertain some pals in New York, putting the finishing touches on my elegant tulip-and-freesia-adorned pear-wood dinner table in New York, when I heard the news about the MF? I thought I’d never give a party again.

  This get-together will be quite a bit different in style. Eight is the most this little place—and I—can handle, as there is no dining room, scant and unmatched cutlery, odds and ends of china, and only a few glasses.

  My BMF party routine would have involved planning ahead for days with too much stupid fretting and worrying about

  guest list

  invitations

  hors d’oeuvres, first course, second course, possibly a third course, dessert(s)

  flowers

  wines, liquors, liqueurs, nonalcoholic beverages

  seating plans

  pretty table settings: lustrous silver, spotless china, gleaming crystal, immaculate napkins, perfectly ironed place mats

  appropriately dressy white shirt

  candle and ice supply

  caterers, freelance chefs, and bartender

  helpers to man and clean up the kitchen

  Looking at this long, pretentious list, I realize I must have been a lunatic or a masochist to live like that! My brand-new party ethic is time-efficient, financially sound, and stress-free. I now intend to adhere strictly to these rules:

  no fuss,

  no muss,

  and almost no money.

  But can I pull this off with people who frequent soirees where pre-meltdown Iranian caviar and crystal-fluted Dom P are served without pause by an attentive and attractive staff?

  I head to Publix, the nearest supermarket. Although I try to be a good citizen of the earth and I am aware that using paper kills trees and plastic pollutes the planet, I choose for one night not to think about the consequences of my purchases. On all the kitchen counters, I lay out long sheets of cheap white shelving paper. I stack bright yellow, red, green, blue, and purple paper plates; matching napkins; and red and yellow plastic forks and knives on the white paper. I heap on a few dozen colored plastic cups for wine, water, and Diet Coke. I fill ten or twelve of the cups with giant hibiscus flowers and dark, glossy tropical leaves from the backyard and scatter them on the counters, the coffee table, and in the bathroom. Luckily the owner of the house likes votive candles, so I distribute a half dozen in the small living room, which will just about accommodate the group if a couple of us sit on the floor. All this preparation takes not days or hours, but about fifteen minutes. I’m not counting the quick trip to Publix because it was more fun than work.

  The eight guests are greeted with my one splurge—iced Grey Goose martinis served in glasses from the cupboard’s mélange of glassware. I give the sole holdout an inexpensive white Italian wine the liquor store man recommended that turns out to be quite good. The hors d’oeuvres consist of the olives in the drinks and a small plate of them on the coffee table.

  I must admit I concoct a mean martini and the party is warming up when the doorbell rings and six pizzas are delivered. I phoned earlier to order five but the pizza man offered to give me an extra one because they were for a birthday celebration. I can say with certainty that all of us women, and probably some of the men, are watching our carbs and our calories but at the end not one slice remains. I bought two bottles of the wine, hoping we’d finish only one, but both vanished. Needless to say, the Grey Goose disappeared earlier in the evening.

  Birthday cakes are expensive. To save the most money I would have baked one myself but that meant purchasing pans and ingredients I wouldn’t use again, so I decided to buy the most superlative birthday cake I could think of.

  Carvel’s Fudgie the Whale cake ain’t a rock-bottom bargain but it’s an all-time favorite of mine and, again, I reckoned that, after so many carb-freighted pizzas, I’d cut small pieces and the guests would politely take a couple of bites and I’d have a week of leftover chocolate nirvana. Dear, divine Fudgie is gobbled up in no time and I find one of the guests in the kitchen unabashedly licking the last of the chocolate crumbs off her fingers.

  It was a no-stress, great-fun night. I even had a good time! Usually I’m wiped out after throwing a dinner party, but aside from washing the martini glasses and the cake knife and loading the dishwasher with the sturdy plastic utensils that I would keep again for the next time, the cleanup consisted of a short walk to the garbage container.

  PoRC entertaining is easy and fun. I can’t afford it often but when I return to New York, I’m going to research the best and cheapest neighborhood pizza place I can find. (My memories of the Domino’s Christmastime rip-off are still fresh.) I’ll lay in a good supply of reusable plastic glasses, knives, and forks and a major stack of recycled colored paper plates. I’ll even cut out place mats from plain brown wrapping paper and fill some of the plastic cups with fat Crayolas the way I did when my son and I lived on West Broadway. I probably still have some of those drawings and funny, crazy jottings that my friends and I did after we’d downed a few glasses of Chianti.

  My little house in Florida has just sold for about forty percent less than I put into it but I’m glad I don’t have the responsibility for it anymore. The small amount of cash I received will help with daily living expenses and, if I can earn some more money, it may be the basis of a careful, new savings plan.

  I’m back in the city now. Paul and I are together much of the time when he’s not in his studio. He’s a painter and work isn’t selling, but we’re having fun. I haven’t yet figured out a way to afford a cheap studio of my own or to share one, but if I can’t think of something, I’ll work in my living room the way I used to. I’m planning to start a portrait business in the fall. I’m still waiting to see if I can retrieve the SIPC insurance owed to me, but I’m glad to report that it’s looking good from what I read and hear. The Long Island house is still for sale. In other news, this week the MF has been sentenced to 150 years in prison. I hope he lives a very long life.

  I think back to the question: Is it worse to have money and lose it or never to have it at all? The thing about not ever having money is that you always think it will make your life better and you will be happier. But you are not aware of its flaws. Once you’ve had money, you will probably miss the luxuries and experiences it can buy, but at least you’re aware that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

  No one gave me a dollar or a valuable contact to start out with and it’s been
satisfying to earn money all on my own. The glitzy and gritty jobs I had in the course of working for that money allowed me to have an adventurous and interesting life, to meet a wide spectrum of people, to travel to exotic places, to own a house and an apartment and beautiful things. I didn’t squander what I earned, I saved it, and, for the most part, I believe I spent it wisely. When I knew it was gone, I had to start all over again. I was enraged, of course, but it was an impotent anger. Instead of endlessly picturing vile things that should happen to the MF, what I really want to see is what kind of new life I can create. Maybe my unremitting curiosity is what keeps me going.

  What would have happened if the economy had maintained its upward swing indefinitely? Many smart people believed that would be the case. I would have continued to take out enough of my retirement savings each year to live on—not an extravagant life, but a comfortable one. I would have kept the studio, made art, tried to sell it, faced the ups and downs of health and family issues, and generally remained on the same path.

  With the catastrophic upheaval of my finances I must think and act in new ways. As I’ve said, it’s the uncertainty of everything in my life that unhinges me. But that uncertainty is a fact, and I must accept it.

  It’s been a stunning six months in every way, but I’m fully here and alive as never before. I’ve written this book and I’m spending more time with my son and my niece and their families. I’ve worked on a photographic series of the dolls titled After Madoff. I posed the girls as they deflated in car accidents, drowned in luxe swimming pools, were hanged by their Gucci silk scarves, and collapsed into their own fake Birkin bags—all scenarios tied to their recent destruction and, by proxy, mine, through the evil machinations of the MF. I’m having a show of them in New York in the fall.