The 10:52 Local

A day in free verse poetry

On the Starbucks lanai

dappled sunlight

watching the trains go by

iced grande green tea

sweetened

two dollars and thiry one

cents a day

after spin class

on a warm spring day

I stay hydrated and,

finished chatting,

head to DeCicco’s for

taco meat.

It’s Monday

So that is

dinner always

before piano practice and after

tennis, perhaps a stop at

the candy store

Where I steal a mini

peanut butter cup from Andrew’s

thoughtfully curated bag.

“Hey!” he shouts, but I unwrap

it and, pop, into my mouth it goes.

There are no calories from candy

meant for your kids;

everybody

knows that.

Zoe’s collection is mostly

chewy and bad

for my temporary crown.

I dig through and hand it back.

I could have bought

a Celine bag

with the money spent

on endodontics

but I needed

the new tooth

and the pocketbook

is always only a fantasy

like the beach house

and the movie deal

so I wave

to my reflection

in the storefront window

whenever I drive by.

There are always

nice things, as

my mother would say.

Finished shopping

for camp clothes

all labeled

Andrew’s first time away.

Upon safe return,

will he still let me kiss

him in public?

Do you have time for a mani-pedi?

a friend asks.

I have a book to sell and another

to write

(there’s always something

to write, a text, an email

a pin, a tweet)

but sure, mademoiselle.

Zoe and I will bond in July,

hang out at the town pool

apply sunscreen

and be lazy together.

There’s so much

I don’t know.

An uncertain world,

I manage it

through certain, predictable routines,

and try not to worry

like Brett does

as another train passes.

Digging through the junk,

we find small bits of beauty,

and in that way

life is like the sidewalk sale.

I drink it in.

And that’s my tale.

Looking forward to

summertime in the ‘dale.

What’s in a Name?

I have this friend who is a writer in L.A. He recently read my articles and gave me some advice as I try to write a longer work. “Don’t try to be funny. Try to be honest.”He’s a comedy writer, by the way.

What if I’m just honestly funny? I wondered. What if I can’t help myself? I don’t try to be funny. I just see the world through zany-colored lenses, so when I report my news, things get distorted by hilarity. (Just ask my former therapist. I cracked her up -- with the truth!)But I want to take Michael’s advice. And so, if I’m going to be honest, I’ll admit that I use humor as a shield and a coping mechanism.And right now, I’m coping with the Great Recession.Oh, you haven’t heard? As with the “War on Terror” (which has been re-named as “Overseas Contingency Operations” by the Obama administration) there have been some shifts in the definition of the current economic climate. I like the term “Great Recession.” It gives the moment some real weight, and hearkens back to the Great Big D without completely scaring the pants off of everyone. Another excellent term, used by Hugo Lindgren of New York magazine, is “the Worst Recession Since the Great Depression TM.” The fake trademarking of it gives just the right wink-and-nod. It makes the whole thing seem sort of cute.But as we all know, the truth of the matter is not quite so cute. Many of my friends are working harder than they ever did before, just to keep their businesses alive. They are freaked out and unsure of the future. They are making less money than they have since first starting out, only now they have two or three kids to support, camp and/or school tuition to deal with, and a mortgage calling their name every month.If they cannot make the kind of money they used to make in their current fields, then some of my friends are wondering whether it might be time to leave that field or perhaps even to leave New York.I know so many people who are depressed. Depression is primarily defined on Wikipedia as “a mental state characterized by a pessimistic sense of inadequacy and a despondent lack of activity.” Secondly, a depression is also “A long-term economic state characterized by unemployment and low-levels of trade and investment.” A common rule-of-thumb is that we shift from an economic recession to a full-fledged depression at the three-year mark of the same economic climate.I don’t care if it’s only been 16 months of this. Can’t we just call it a depression, already?And yet.There are some signs that things might be looking up. The market has been doing reasonably well, and in early April showed one of the biggest rallies since the 1930’s. Financial experts and talking heads are using the change of season to hint at hope, as the death and decay of fall and winter turns into the growth of spring. They are encouraging us to think that the new green grass will translate into the green of money.Lindgren of New York magazine calls this peculiar time the “Downturnaround.” With all the re-branding going on these days, it’s hard to pick a favorite. But this one’s mine. The term has movement! It inspires me to want to dance! “C’mon folks,” I can imagine a square-dance caller bellowing. “Grab your pardners. It’s time for the Downturnaround!” Yee-Haa! Nothing says “come out of the recession” like a little good old fashioned, Country-style fun.
Okay, okay. Enough with the reverie. I really do think it is time to get honest.So. Are we on the verge of a turnaround? Or are we merely in a holding pattern, waiting for the other shoe to drop? What are we on the verge of? It’s really hard to tell.And, based on tenuous information from both sides, how should we behave? Loosen our purse-strings? Tighten our belts? Pull ourselves up by our bootstraps? Give ourselves wedgies? Who knows? The uncertainty is killer.Things are so stressful in my own home that I can’t help but medicate with cookies from my favorite bakery. And when I cannot make it there for a fix, I’ll just eat butter. On anything. On nothing. Butter is the best food on the planet and it makes me feel comforted.But I digress.The other night, while talking to my husband Brett about this, I came up with a strategy for small businesses everywhere. “It’s called Survivor: The Office. What you do is tell your staff that they need to bring in new business. If they do, they are granted immunity from lay-offs for the next three months. If not, they could be voted off the island. Of Manhattan.”“Ha.” Was Brett’s response.“C’mon! That was funny! Very clever!”Brett only shrugged. “What can I say. My sense of humor is down by 40%.”I dipped my pointer finger back into a tub of salted and whipped Land-O-Lakes, and contemplated what else to say.“You know what you should do?” I decided. “Take some time off. Go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and walk around.”“That’s what I should do?” Brett barked. “To help my business?”I nodded. Brett went to art school, ending up as a graphic designer. I had been to The Met that morning, in preparation for my son’s upcoming class trip. “I can’t remember the last time I just looked at beautiful art. It was peaceful and inspiring. The self-portrait of Van Gogh moved me to tears.”“Yeah, Van Gogh! He’s a perfect example for me. The guy started eating paint! Then he cut off part of his ear! He was institutionalized! And finally, he offed himself!”“Uh…what I meant was….” I stammered, looking for the nearest exit.“You want to know how my skills are going to translate in the new economy?” Brett asked.I wasn’t too sure I did want to know this, but I pretended to be enthused.“I am going to find the most obsessive-compulsive job out there. When all those new roads are paved, someone is going to have to paint straight yellow lines across America. And that’s gonna be me.”The next day, Brett sent me an email link to an article from The New York Times. He and I often communicate this way. Before marriage, one could just call or email the other with a mere “thinking about you.” Now that we have been married for a decade, these exchanges tend to be more of the “Read this and thought about you!” variety. At least we are still thinking about each other, I thought, clicking on the link.
The article, by John Tierney, is called “Oversaving: A Burden for Our Times,” and it describes a new economic condition affecting consumers. Tierney explains. “Consumer psychologists call it hyperopia, the medical term for farsightedness and the opposite of myopia, nearsightedness, because it’s the result of people looking too far ahead. They’re so obsessed with preparing for the future that they can’t enjoy the present, and they end up looking back sadly on all their lost opportunities for fun.”That’s us, I thought! Sad, lost, no fun! Hyperopic.What had happened to me? I used to buy things so carelessly, so frivolously. How did I go from myopic to hyperopic in just six short months? And what could I do to right myself, finding some safe place in the middle distance in which to set my sights?Brett was sending me a clear message. He wanted me to go to Bloomingdale’s. No, wait! Maybe that wasn’t the message exactly. My vision was getting blurry in the rush to shop.I called Brett at work. “You busy?” I asked.“That’s a good one! Now you’re being funny!”I got right down to business. “So that article…”“Yeah. I think we need to buy some stuff. I think it might make me feel better.”“A grill.” I began.“Some patio furniture.” He added.“Table and chairs – not just one or the other!” I agreed.“A tent.”That gave me pause. “We have a tent.”“We’ll need more. For the tent city that I’m going to start in the park near our house.”“Brett: optimistic. Not hyperopic. Not paranoid. Remember.”“Okay, okay. I’m trying.”“I know you are.”That’s the best we can do, after all. Shop a bit, save a lot. Support each other as best we can. Look forward to a lush, green spring and summer. And always, keep trying.And that’s the honest truth.

Reflections of a Recessionista

The weekend before Black Friday, there was a huge sale at Saks in Manhattan. This surprised everyone, because it wasn’t advertised and because it came a week earlier than expected. You see, the after-Thanksgiving sale at Saks is legendary. Every year, fashionistas of all ages drag their turkey-hangovered selves out of bed at some ungodly hour just to line up outside the Hallowed Doors of Saks so that they can be the first ones in. These lucky few get the best selections in sizes and styles and the best deals, as the savings drop from 50% back to 30% after 12:00 noon. Well!

Not this year, ladies. This year, if you weren’t at Saks the Friday before Black Friday, you basically missed the boat. Let me tell you what I know. And then, let me tell you why it matters.
First of all, I wasn’t there, so I am relying on data collected by a fellow fashionista, my friend Dana. Dana fell upon the sale accidentally, merely by walking into Saks to buy some cosmetics. “It was insane! I’ve never seen anything like it!” she told me afterwards, shaking her head as she reported that women were literally snatching up 8-10 pairs of brand spanking new Jimmy Choos, Manolos and Pradas for about a hundred to two hundred dollars a pop. She said that the shoe salon looked like a bomb had been dropped into the middle of it. I immediately pictured a scene from some black and white World War II drama where a shell-shocked woman wanders around aimlessly among the rubble, calling out for her lost loved one. “Tods! Tods? Where are you, Tods!?” Smoke and ash hang in the dead air around her, but she must go on.

The second day (yes, Dana went two days in a row), Saks had hired security to watch over the horders. Women were fiercely clutching snakeskin pocketbooks they didn’t need or want just because they were so darn cheap. Dana found this absolutely fascinating to watch, like some sort of sociological experiment. Her normally restrained step-mother even purchased three pairs of shoes retailing for $1,700 for a little over $400.

At this news, my already palpitating heart started to do the Macarena.

She and I happened to be 4 blocks away from Saks on the Sunday of the sale, walking around the city with our children. She turned to me, a knowing look in her eye. “I think we should go,” she said, left eyebrow raised conspiratorially.
I glanced longingly in the direction of Fifth Avenue. “I do need some black boots,” I sighed.

“Then you’ve gotta go there. Like, now.”

I was on the verge of saying yes.

So, here’s the thing.

I didn’t go.

Why? Because it sounded too tempting, too amazing. And although I feared I’d be missing out on The Chance of a Lifetime, I also worried that my credit card and I might not get out of there alive. The fact of the matter is, a year ago – six months ago – I would not have even hesitated. Of course I would have marched right in there and shopped. It’s a sale, after all! Good deals to be had on beautiful designer items! There’s nothing wrong with treating yourself now and then.
Except when the “now” is, well, now.

Welcome to my world: I am a recessionista.

What is a recessionista? On the surface, it seems fairly self-explanatory: it’s the way a fashionista behaves in response to a recession. The recessionista -- or “frugalista,” as William Safire prefers -- is still glam, but on a (much tighter) budget.

So, what does being a recessionista really mean, for us here in Scarsdale? Let’s take a closer look.

Have you cut back on haircuts, blowouts or color in recent months, or perhaps switched salons so that you are not paying New York City prices for your coiff? You are a recessionista.

Have you dug out a vintage pocketbook from the back of your closet and fallen in love with it again, instead of buying the latest Balenciaga? That’s a classic recessionista move. (And a great recycling technique, too. Very anti-consumerist. Bravo!)

Are you considering getting rid of that second (or third) car, the little sporty one that only goes out with you on Saturday nights? You are a recessionista.

Have you stopped decorating your living room, calling the sparse furnishings and lack of art “The New Minimalism?” Rock on, recessionista.

Is your next vacation being scraped together with frequent flyer miles and Amex points? Now that’s a practical, globetrotting, recessionista.

If it’s time to cut back on personal training, take a jog around the track, recessionista!

An important note: some things are worth fighting for. I have a friend who, no matter how dire the situation becomes, will never give up on getting her eyebrows waxed once a month by her beloved top-secret groomer in the city. Babe, I’m here to say that holding on to one or two time-honored rituals like that is completely recessionistic, too. A recessionista knows what makes the most sense for her, her family’s wallet, and her extraneous facial hair.

And lastly, I’d like to say that, somewhere, a line in the sand must be drawn. My friend Jodi really wants some red-soled, stiletto Louboutins. She understands that now just is not the time for such frivolity. However, desperate times call for desperate measures. When last we spoke, she actually contemplated getting some spray paint and – you see where I am going with this and it isn’t pretty – turning the soles of her Nine West pumps red.

“Those would be your LoubouNOTs,” I declared. “And doing that is just downright depressionista.” I shivered. “Let’s hope we never get there.”

The fact of the matter is, we – as fashionistas, Scarsdalians, and Americans -- were maybe more than just a tad bit out of control before. It’s time to prioritize and to do a little soul searching instead of sole searching. If Obama can trim the fat and cut back national spending, isn’t it time we do the same at home? Don’t just do it because you have to economically. Do it because cutting back is the right thing to do.

So, my fellow recessionistas, chin up. I know old habits die hard. There will certainly be an adjustment period as we learn to accept that less really is more. For the time being, how about we try this: I’ll let you borrow my slouchy Chloe bag if you’ll lend me your YSL tote.

Who knows? If we go for lunch after, it may even feel like real shopping.