I Learned Everything I Know About Money from My Mother
This is not a good thing.
Sitting at the A&S counter. Brooklyn. Mid ’50s. Taking a “break” — we’re all beat from bingeing. Mother, Grandmother, sisters, and best of all my exotic Aunt — dripping in bling and ATTITUDE — though she lived in a tiny one bedroom on Flatbush Ave — reality had nothing to do with PROJECTION. We worshiped her. We were nursing ice cream sodas. Mine was pink. In fact, everything was pink or lavender. My Aunt loved the color lavender … which influenced all of our choices. This break was much needed before launching into round two. Did I desire a pink crinoline skirt with a lavender fur top? Of course. Can I have the sparkly lavender shoes to accent this ensemble ever so perfectly? If you want it, you will have it. How about the pale pink paper floral headband — all yours.
This outing was particularly significant and anticipated all year. Mother and her mother whispered about “the check” in the early part of spring — we kids had no idea where this “check” came from — but we knew it brought some good fuckin stuff. And we also knew it required hiding the loot when we got home. Easter was our coming out party. And in time we learned to thank the IRS.
I remember my mother never looked at a price tag. She was too classy to care — we just spent.
We were rosary lovin’ Catholics. Prayers, novenas, missiles, mass — it was all a part of our Irish Catholic lot in life. On line, waiting to pay for the loot — she would look at us chickies: “Say a prayer” — we knew what that meant — Please Jesus, make it so that the fucking card isn’t maxed out.
It was. It always was. Too young to be humiliated. Just mad when ANYONE questioned OUR mother.
She immediately pulled the ‘tude — “You must have the wrong card.” She would create such a spectacle — head up — jaw jutted — clearly they confused her with some other credit card deadbeat. Sometimes, when it was REALLY bad news, they would send her to “the office” — we would go with her — and if it didn’t work on the poor people at the cash registers — it worked here. They always caved. She always won.
Twenty Years later. I’m new in Manhattan. Dating like crazy. Studio 54. And it takes some serious duds. I went completely ape in a swank boutique — knowing my card was seriously maxed. No thought of price. Like Mom. I approached the counter. And experienced the very same thing my mother did. Minus kids. Minus prayers. But apparently not nearly the right ‘tude. I just remember the RUSH of BUYING and hoping I’d get out of there. I didn’t.
Thanks Mom.
Another time all of my sisters handing me CASH (foolish girls) to buy tickets for all of them (there are many) to see the play Hair. Months went by — no tix — “Hey what happened to our Broadway tickets?” they finally asked. I confessed. I didn’t get them— I splurged — on “stuff.” And had absolutely no idea on what. Now, instead of my siblings getting furious with me — they thought it was hysterical.
Thanks Mom.
Many moons later, I’m making serious bucks. Had a kick ass career. But save? What for? It came — and it WENT.
I sold the apartment I lived in for eons and was truly rolling in dough … I co-wrote a book, DUMPED. Made more. But save? Naaaaaaaaaaa. And it went. Again.
I think I thought it was still “cute.” My sister said I should write a new book, “How to Blow through Money WITHOUT the Help of Drugs or Booze.”
Thanks Mom.
Then the IRS came after me. They said I owed them a big bag of greens, and they definitely didn’t have the sense of humor my sisters had. I liked them a lot better when they were funding Easter attire …
Thanks Mom.
It is officially NOT CUTE to be broke as hell entering your last chapter of life. So I decided to get real and join Debtors Anonymous (DA). Maybe I should have done this decades ago — I remember watching that episode of Sex and the City when Carrie realizes she’s spent everything on shoes. I felt a twinge then … but I still didn’t get the message. When I joined DA I learned a zillion other people had experiences like this — and had mothers like mine.
So I’m digging in. Determined to work my way out of this mess.
And now that nothing about life is normal, I am grateful. I am no longer that wasteful clueless young woman. This past year was all about living with less, and for the first time I’m learning to save those shekels. Woe! My mother, who never was independent, would love that her savvy, sophisticated daughter is finally intact — not the hymen, you pervs — but those finances darling. Intact, with no prayers needed at checkout.
So, thank you Mom.
Maryjane Fahey — a writer, editorial consultant, art director, remains in New York City. For now.
