Something for which to strive

I could be a cliché.

I mean if I really worked at it.  I could.

But I don’t want to be just any cliché.  For example, I don’t want to be an “aging hippy.”  You don’t have to work for that.  All you have to do is stand still and chant, “Throwback!  Throwback!”

No, I’m thinking of a hard-earned meritorious sort of bona fide cliché – like “trophy wife.” 

Hey!  Don’t roll your eyes!  I could be a trophy wife!  Although I would probably have to get rid of my current loving husband and find one much older, less competent, more grasping and desperate.  A billionaire who doesn’t see very well and is impulsively clinging to anything not yet pruned up. 

So.  There’s that.

“Overnight success” would be nice.  Maybe I’ll just shoot into the stratosphere!  Out of nowhere as they say.  Clear blue.  Syndicated in 900 newspapers!  Everyone’s darling.  I’ll be the golden one sitting next to JimmyFallon sharing my dry and pithy wit with the cool late night crowd. 

Or “breath of fresh air.”  I would love being a breath of fresh air! 

Aaahhh!  Yes.  A cool breeze!  Gently on the face.  So, so, so very pleasant.  Everyone loves a cool breeze!

I confess, clichés have been on my mind because of Justin Bieber’s recent escapades.  Darn it.  I had hopes for that kid.  What a talented little sweet face. 

But alas.  He may just devolve into a sad cliché.  A cautionary tale.  A Lindsay Lohan.  Too, too bad.  That’s what a bazillion bucks’ll do for ya.

But we shan’t let that get us down!

No!  And you know why?  Because WE can handle it.  Our skills for coping with a lot o’ dough are fully developed.  All that fortune would not cause us to digress from our intended trajectory:  An overnight sort of shooting breath of fresh air!

Honestly though, I’m not sure I could do any better with fame than the Biebs.  Everyone looking all the time? I’m already prone to the faux pas.  I’m a blurter under the calmest of conditions.  Just the other day I mistook a young man for his mother…out loud.  I don’t see how a spotlight would improve that propensity.  

If I were famous – if everyone were watching me all the time?  Anticipating?  Eagerly enquiring, “What’s she going to do next?”  The pressure!  OMG.  I just could not guarantee a happy outcome. 

I’d probably crater just like Lindsay and Justin.  I’d buy too many villas and marry Kanye West.  I’d egg my neighbors’ mansion (or at least their barking dog) and drag race down the alley in my yellow Lamborghini.

Who knows?  I might even act belligerent with the authorities and resist containment.  Because somewhere in the latent depths of my clichéd self, I’ve always wanted to do those things anyway.  And everyone keeps looking!  What am I gonna do?  Behave myself now?  Surrender?  Go calmly?!!  I don’t think so.  Pretty sure I’d be thrashing around and shoutin’ “Yo mama!” or some such thing.

But my evil alter ego would not surface because of my nouveau riches, you understand.  No.  It’s not the money; it’s the magnifying glass. 

That’s it!  I could be that other caricature – the wealthy well-bred classy sort of predictably shy and demure kind of cliché.  I could be Kate Middleton, say.  Or Gwyneth Paltrow.

I have good cheekbones…

Oh well.  Let’s face it; I could do it until I blew it.  We already know the ending:  I’d drop an earring into the Queen’s consommé.  Or take the mike on karaoke night and embarrass Coldplay with my channeling of Heartbreak Hotel.

That’s the beauty of being a writer.  Wherever I go, people look me blankly in the face and figure I’m just another boomer on the downhill side of the crest.  “Can I interest you in a Pier 1 charge account, ma’am?  Thank you and have a nice day.”

Ah.  Anonymity!  No fame…No bazillions either.  Sigh.

So I may have to settle for the reclusive writer cliché.  You know, the writer whose depth and versatility are only recognized 50 years after her death when her unpublished volumes come to light and dazzle the literary world. 


Yeah.  That’s it.  They’ll be calling J. D. Salinger a “Carolyn Plath.”

Oh NO! Am I Republican?

Sometimes I actually think I’m a Republican. (I hope my mom can’t see this from her grave! A staunch Democrat, she’d be spinning for sure.)

I hope my in-laws don’t get wind of it either. They already are Republican and I resist giving them an edge in my political persuasion.

But honestly, how can we Americans stand our whiny self-centered selves? New polls out this week say 66% of us report feelings of “frugal fatigue.” We’re tired of being thrifty. We wanna spend again. Or more likely, charge again. We don’t wanna think or plan ahead. We want what we want, and we want it now.

The symptoms of Frugal Fatigue? You’ll recognize them: stress, anxiety, and sabotage.

Being conservative about spending is stressful. It requires us to look at our bank balances. Who wants to do that? It’s depressing. We must put pens to paper and subtract expenses before we go out to buy, buy, and buy. We’re supposed to start with net income (yes, net!); subtract rent or mortgage, subtract electricity, water, insurance, gas for the car…egad! Where’s my credit card?!

It’s easier and more relaxing just to go out and get what you want. Right? It’s soothing to impulse your way through Target. I love unpacking the varied items found (at good prices!) throughout the store. I’ll use this stuff! Come on!

Being frugal makes us anxious. If I shop with my friend, the impulse buyer, I am fretful for two reasons: At the rate she spends, she’ll never get to retire and hang with me during the lovely weekdays that working people pray really do exist.

And I’m uneasy playing the role of killjoy again. Terrific! I thought I retired from managing other people’s behavior. But no, she says she depends on me to stop her, to protect her from her impulsive self when what I really want to do is join her in a house wares spree! Lamps and rugs and pillows, oh my!

Third, those forced into frugality longer than is natural for human beings tend to sabotage their own efforts at living within their means. They put themselves among the Borg of retailers, like Cost Plus World Market or Old Navy, where resistance is futile. Where did you ever see such cute stuff at such reasonable prices? And it’s not for me! It’s for our nieces or our son or … okay this one item is for me. But the rest is for others! What’s imprudent about that?

Of course with our newfound weariness comes advice from the experts: How to overcome Frugal Fatigue.

1. Get a battle plan. Make an agreement with your partner about your spending. Of course, if opposites happen to have attracted each other in this aspect of your relationship, the plan may turn out to be one’s circumspection used to counterbalance the other’s splurges. Not a winning long-term strategy.

2. Be honest about vulnerable spending and set up roadblocks to it. Translated: Stay home. True shopaholics, genuine impulsers are susceptible to just about any good deal in any situation on any day. So just settle in like you’re snowed in. Serve hot chocolate in those darling demitasse cups you got at Pier 1 last week, on sale.

3. Pay cash. Yep. The experts say put debit and credit cards in the freezer in the garage and carry only $50’s and $100’s. Because it’s so painful to break large bills, they theorize, we will hold onto our hard-earned that much longer. What? Cash? Really? I don’t know if I can test this theory.

I have the symptoms of Frugal Fatigue. I want the economy to hurry up and get better so I can go out and spend selfishly, with at least a little bit of abandon, without guilt. In fact, I’ve heard that my spending will help the economy recover. So isn’t it my duty?

I should spend; I shouldn’t spend. Am I a liberal Republican breaking ranks, or a conservative Democrat who’s disgusted with herself?

A full 66% of us cannot suffer a spell of austerity without its end in sight. Like grounded teenagers, we don’t want to keep on restraining ourselves. No wonder our federal, state, and local politicians face such dire scenarios. They represent us.

We want our politicians to do what we’re weary of doing for ourselves. And we want them to do it while we cry and complain and threaten to toss them out if they do.

Whaddaya call that?