Life on the edge of cheapassism

I came to this realization the other day that due to necessity, i have spent my entire adult life being a cheapass.

Yes it is true, but i have to admit, it is not all my fault. I blame it on my parents.

Well, honestly i can't blame it all on them right? I mean after all i am 47. That would be like kind of like blaming my mom for forcing me to eat brussel sprouts, still feeling traumatized by it, and spending years in therapy for it. No, they cannot take all the credit. Maybe in my early youth, but not now. I am my own worst cheapass... it is time to take some personal responsibility.

But i can't help but wonder. Could it be years of eating crusty meat scraps, day old bread or dented cans of green beans that my mom found in the clearance bin at Waldbaums? No, it couldn't be that. Maybe it was the flea market training or learning how to scavenger hunt (ie: scope out the garbage on trash day) that my dad taught me? Hummm... Or maybe it was the recyling or re purposing of everything that came into our house?

I can't pinpoint it, but i had to get it from somewhere right?

I know my parents, like me now, had no choice but to get on the frugality train. All aboard! They were broke and trying to raise three kids on my dad's meager salary. It was either get on the train or starve. So off we went into the frugal sunset.

It all started when my father's business went belly up. I had to be about 2 or 3 at the time. My mother was not working and they were flat broke. My father eventually found a job. It was for the city of New York, painting lines in the street at night. It was a horrible job, with a low wage, but my dad took it because it had good benefits. So my parents had no choice but live in my grandmother's house in Queens. It was an old funky row house, with the bathroom in the hall and rooms laid out so that you had to go through a bedroom or two in order to find the kitchen. There were radiators in each room that spewed steam and made howling noises at night. The bedrooms were tiny, neighborhood was noisy and the windows were drafty.

I spent the first 13 years of my life in that house.

We lived on the top floor and my grandmother down below. The back yard was a rectangular shape. There was a clothes line that went from the window to the back fence. There was a small patch of grass that constituted a lawn and aside from a few rose bushes, the only decorative element was a bird bath. When you went into the backyard, you could peer over the tiny wire fence into every neighbors yard on the block. Everybody knew every bodies name and business. Because nobody had air conditioning, the entire summer was spent outside, either in the back yard or camped out on the front stoop in order to people watch. Summer activities consisted of either the fire hydrant, stoop ball, johnny ride the pony, a tiny plastic pool or a sprinkler out back. For a kid back then, it seemed, life was good.

Things were tight, they always were. I remember at an early age that there was always the "we can't afford that" line for anything that appeared to cost anything. I knew not to ask for much. You got what you got and you appreciated it... period. Toys were simple and most of my day consisted of either school or running around the neighborhood with my pinky ball or an old pair of skates. Vacations were either non-existent or consisted of riding upstate new york in the back of the Ford Station wagon to the Catskill Game Farm or Lake George.

We did not need much.

To be honest, my fondest childhood memories were of living in that rowhouse in Queens. I guess because it was never really obvious to me that we were all that different then the rest of the kids that lived on the block. Everyone wore hand me downs, and waited in line at the free lunch truck during the summer for the Bologna sandwich and apple they gave out to all us "poor kids." My mom always new the exact time that truck rolled in and shoved us all out the door so we could be the first in line. Everybody in our neighborhood was all in the same boat.

Quick, get in line or miss out on a free sandwich!

I learned that, things always got recycled or re purposed for something else and my dad always brought things home that he found from the trash.

Didn't all dad's do this?

You never quite knew what my dad would bring home. As soon as my mom saw him come through the door, she would cringe and yell at him to "get rid of it". She could never see how anything he brought home could could possibly serve any useful purpose.

But my dad knew otherwise. My dad always saw the potential in something that nobody else was able to. He was able to create something truly amazing out of junk.

One time, he found a funky wooden wagon wheel in the trash. It was ugly and huge. My mom looked at him, shook her head in disgust and went back to washing the dishes because she knew that she had no control over what came into the house. She had to let it go.

He took the wagon wheel, worked some magic on it and turned it into a western chandelier (or at least that's what he told us it was). After the chandelier, there was the whiskey bottle converted into a lamp, tables converted into desks, homemade bunk beds made out of wooden scrap and leftover wood re purposed into a complete home entertainment unit.

Frugality made my my dad very creative.

My mom, on the other hand, had her own gifts. She was known as the contact paper queen. Are you familiar with contact paper? Do they even make that stuff anymore? Either way, it came in sheets and was sticky on one side. You basically bought the color or style you wanted to cover something up with, rolled out the sheet, cut the shape and presto! A brand new something could be created! She literally created dresser drawers, shelves and a dice costume for my brother out of contact paper and old cardboard boxes. She probably could have opened up her own contact paper furniture business if she wanted to. It was actually quite amazing.

When i finally moved out on my own, i learned how to make my dollar stretch. I credit this skill with years of being around my parents. I lived in several basement apartments on meager waitress wages, all the while putting myself through school. Often, to the disgust of my roommates, i thought nothing of hauling home a chair, table or sofa from the trash in the back of my Honda hatchback.

At the time, even though i was basically struggling, i never felt poor. Maybe this was something else my parents taught me? Don't get me wrong, there were times when i barely had 20 cents in my checking account, but there was always the thought that it was not as bad as it could be. In other words, i always thought "i will be fine."

And i was always fine.

A few years ago, upon getting one of my social security statements, i was actually shocked by how little i made back then. One year i believe i lived on about 6000. How i managed this was anybodies guess. Yea, rent, food, necessities were cheaper but the reality of the situation, was that i lived in abject poverty and had no clue.

Nowadays i am still not rich. My family of three manages on my salary and a tiny bit of rental income each month. I have had people ask me "how do you do it?" To be honest, i am not sure. I know i am kind of a cheapass... OK maybe not kind of, maybe full blown cheapass, but there is more to it i guess then just the cheapass part. It also has to do will feeling like no matter what, we will be fine. We have enough to meet our needs and a bit extra for a happy meal. We have a nice house in a lower middle income neighborhood. Our sofa is about 20 years old, but it still works. My clothes are from garage sales and thrift stores.

When i look around, it feels like we are doing well. Maybe to somebody else that would not be the case at all. Maybe ignorance is bliss as they say?

I was once listening to this radio show on finances. The guy said something that kind of stuck with me. He said "If you can go into a mall, look around, buy nothing and feel great, then you have basically achieved financial happiness." That kind of sums it up for me. I feel good with what i have, i do not really need anything else.

Well that and i also avoid the mall like the plague.

Now don't get me wrong, there are days when being a cheapass has it's downside. Sometimes i feel a bit burnt out with the whole process. Like for example, I was walking around Khols the other day, eager to spend a 20 dollar gift card that was burning a whole in my pocket. Free money!

What was supposed to be a fun way to burn free cash kind of turned into a complete disaster. First i felt completely overwhelmed. Too much stuff and I did not even have enough money to buy one crappy t-shirt! How can you get the most bang from a buck if even the stuff on the clearance rack does not cover a tiny gift card? Then at every turn i had the opportunity to look in a mirror and assess my garage sale wardrobe. What seemed like totally presentable when i left the house this morning had morphed into crazy bag lady sans a few stray cats.  Wow, did i really leave the house looking like a bag lady? The thought that it could be a conspiracy theory made it feel a little better. The bad lighting and the fun house mirrors were there in order to make you feel so bad about yourself that you had to buy something! That was it, fun house mirrors and bad lighting.

Or maybe it was just me feeling the pangs of not enough money and being in a place where i did not belong. I could have a pity party or i could just pack it up and leave.

So i left. Yes, being a cheapass has it's downside. Note to self... stay out of Khols...

Life with dogs

"Nobody can fully understand the meaning of love until he's owned a dog. He can show you more honest affection with a flick of his tail than a man can gather through a lifetime of handshakes."

Anonymous

My dog has been sick for awhile. After several vet trips, antibiotics and a an xray i was finally given a definitive diagnosis last week. He has a tumor in his nasal cavity. More than likely it is malignant and more than likely he has a very short time to live.


I spent a few moments at the vet that day digesting the news. I looked at my dog, wagging his tail and completely oblivious to what was going on around him. I questioned the vet and the diagnosis, came up with reasons why i thought he was wrong. The vet just looked at me and shook his head. Then i broke down and cried. I was not sure i could take this kind of news, i had already lost a dog to cancer, now Elvis.

The next step was a biopsy and MRI and then radiation treatment depending on the type of cancer he has.

We got Elvis 4 years ago from the Denver Dumb Friends League. He was almost 2 and we knew nothing about him save for the fact that he came from an over crowded shelter in New Mexico. I got him primarily for my son, who was 3 at the time. A dog to grow up with, like i had always had. But go figure, after about a month or so, Elvis was completely disinterested in Aaron, he bonded immediately to me.

I was his human.

I never thought about a cocker spaniel as a breed for me. My last two dogs were very large, one a 90 pound golden and the other a smaller st Bernard mix. They died about a year apart from each other, Brutus, the golden was 10 and had cancer, Bernie was also 10 and got a very bad infection that ended up as septicemia in his intestinal track. It took me almost 2 years to even think about getting another dog. Loosing both was devastating. Then after searching online i saw Elvis's picture one day on the Denver Dumb Friends League site. A smaller dog with huge brown eyes and I knew, that he was my dog. I took off work early and went straight there to get him.

He is the sweetest dog you can imagine, not a mean bone in his body. He always is wagging his tail and happy to see me. He waits by the window every day for my car to pull up. He has become the perfect running partner for me and best of all, i am his world.

When i got the diagnosis from the vet, i went home and had to come up with a decision. Either take him back on Friday for surgery or forgo treatment and let him live his life, happy, with his tail wagging and oblivious.

Then eventually let him go on his own.

After 2 days i decided, i called the vet and said i was going to let him be. The thought of putting my friend through radiation, pain and suffering, more than what he would go through anyway, just so that i could have him around for a few additional months, maybe a year, felt horribly wrong to me. It felt selfish. The decision to not treat him, nonetheless makes me feel wracked with guilt.

Was i doing the right thing?

Like every life altering decision, i am constantly questioning myself. I think with Elvis, with whatever happens now, i will always feel a bit of doubt in this decision. But i guess, this is life. Not every decision is cut and dry, some are not easy, and some will be wrong. This felt right for me and for Elvis. I wanted to remember him happy, not sick and bald from radiation.

So now it has been a week since his diagnosis. Every day he looks at me, his tail wags and there is a gleam in his eyes. He is happy to be around me and happy to be alive. I am happy to have him with me for another day.

Tonight i decided to take him for a short run. He pulled me along with his tongue out and his tail wagging.

When i looked at him, i thought to myself, if i ever had to have his diagnosis, i wish i could be a dog. What makes a dog such a wonderful animal, they give so much, expect so little, and only live to be happy and make you happy. So simple.

Finding the perfect running partner

Once upon a time i had the perfect running partner.

He was 60, classic type A personality, throw in a touch of aspergers and a dose of OCD and there you had it. He would show up to runs, gamin beeping, heart rate monitor carefully attached and checking all vitals, head lamp, extra watch, gadgets, gear, and home made GU. An engineer, a fellow running nerd like me. We were a match made in heaven.

We ran the same pace, often times alone, leaving the rest of our group in the dust (well only about a 10 minute mile but who's counting). He did not mind when i started to babble on and on. Usually he would comment with a grunt or a "a ha.. ya" and that was about it. I was positive that, he never really heard anything i had to say. He was merely a sounding board for my rambling diatribes or incessant whining. The whining that would almost always begin at about mile 16 or so "My ass hurts" or "My jog bra is not working for me" "Are we there yet?" "Slow down!" I could pretty much say whatever i wanted and he would just nod and say "a ha.. ya"

It lasted for about a year and then the worst thing that could have happened did... something unnameable and horrible. No, he did not move to Botswana.

He got way faster then me.

As a matter of fact he got so fast that he has now officially become a Boston qualifier. While a part of me is happy for his accomplishment. I mean, let's face it, getting a BQ is a pretty impressive accomplishment for any runner. A BQ is pretty much the creme de la creme. The ultimate goal to strive for. To Boston qualify is like reaching the top of Mt Everest.

It takes a lot of training and dedication, more for the type A personalities with the beeping Garmin and the precise training schedules to BQ. You really have to want to have it, you have to taste it and dream it.

That was not for me.

As a matter of fact, I will probably never BQ. I am not that obsessed or dedicated. Don't get me wrong, i enjoy running and i want to get better but it is not my ultimate goal. To me, running is about fun and i want to keep it that way. But now, I had nobody to run with. While i was happy for him, i was sad, oh so sad for myself.

Who would hear me whine? Who would let me ramble on about my wardrobe malfunctions or my painful body parts at mile 16? Who would take out his ipod, attach it to a speaker system to the top of his hat and play it for me so i could make it to the last few miles of a torturous run? Who would track the Garmin and let me know the pace every 17 seconds like clockwork?

If i wanted to train for another marathon anytime soon, i needed to find another running partner or i was seriously screwed. No way i could do those long runs on my own. My discipline was non-existent. I needed someone to whine to! I needed someone to go "a ha... ya" Without the "a ha.. ya", i would be lucky to do 3 miles on my own without stopping for a vanilla shake at Sonic and then having my husband pick me up at Chipotle.

Now what?

The what is, I am back to square one and am now feeling a bit defeated. As a runner, It is very difficult to find someone that you can bond with. Most runners do not fit one size, they are either faster than you or slower than you, so hard to find a happy medium.

So i joined a different running group this year. More runners to choose from. I am hoping i will find "the one" but who knows. It feels a bit like an online dating site. I keep testing out other runners. Do they mind that i am talking about Mob Wives or the Real Housewives at mile 15? Do they care if i start to whine about my sore feet at mile 17? I keep trolling for all the perfect prerequisites, proper form, good stamina, perfect pace, tolerates rampant whining at mile 16, is able to filter out rambling diatribes and just nod when needed.

Homemade GU, need not apply.

So far, not so much luck, but i refuse to give up. I know he or she is out there. So i keep looking. Hopefully the perfect match will surface and it will be like Forest Gump, peas and carrots or oatmeal and blueberries... i donno, you get the idea right?