Illuminations

Want. Need. 

Which? Which indeed.

Consumer Confidence, as announced by the Associated Press today, is at a record low. Seems people in perpetual fear of losing their livelihoods just ain’t very fast n’ loose with the green, and while I’ve seen little in the way of that mainly mythical “disposable income” for a few years now, I can track my own Confidence as a Consumer and see that, for once, I fit in beautifully with the crowd.

Take just the period of time encapsulated over the past two weeks. As already mentioned in a prior post my sons were here for ten days. I spent money on food, gas, food, food and, for one night, food and lodging that I would not have had to spend had they not been here. And more food. And there were the airline tickets to buy in the first place. But by the same token I spent considerably less money than I would have liked to. I would have liked to do a full day at one of the many Orlando theme parks with them; instead we just drove past mile after mile of giant, festive and increasingly imploring signs, much to the dismay of my youngest two. But as I had to explain, even if we had the time (which we didn’t), I didn’t have the money (which I didn’t).

One day during their stay the Daisy and I took them to one of the bigger local flea markets in an attempt to chase some cheap laughs. I knew that there they would find any number of must-have trinkets and they did, yet I was surprised when the two-hour excursion concluded with just two campy, Disney character CD cases, a single, sturdy wallet and one funky $3.00 belt in their shopping bags.

Even kids are pulling their cash pretty taut these days, and my offers to buy the stuff for them fell on largely plugged ears. When I insisted on buying my eldest a souvenir tee-shirt from one of the colleges we visited, he nearly clothes-polled me on my way to the bookshop cash register.

I bought it for him, anyway. But when I suggested doing the same at the next school he absolutely forbade the notion, saying something along the lines of “I’ve already got plenty of tee-shirts, dad.”  Geeze. Is that my kid, or my grandfather?

During those college tours, I said not Word One about the money it would take to actually attend any of them: we’ll hang ourselves off that bridge when we come to it and I fully agreed with the Ex that his decisions shouldn’t be based on well-meaning sensitivity to price. Yet when I did slip and happen to muse on the vast difference in tuition for resident and out-of-state students (which was a truly astonishing several thousand dollars), he leapt in with gusto, cutting me off before I could finish the whole, honestly casual thought and rattling off the exact numbers for tuition, room and board and etc for students of different residency and/or scholarship status as if he had been taking detailed notes.

Clearly taking notes he had been, just not with a pencil.

Lest I be accused of putting my thumb to the scales, this doesn’t give Florida any leg-up when it comes to his choice of school anyway, as a well scattered family probably provides opportunity to claim residence in a number of states. Five that I can think of right now. Two if a parent has to reside.

From one vantage point, I’m delighted that my kids are mature, unselfish and perceptive enough to be aware of a…shall we say ‘fragile’ money situation, especially given the comparative level of privilege they were used to not so long ago. Hell, they still have cooler mobile phones and more heavily tricked-out iPods than I do.  From another view, however, I feel something not-quite-but-close-to shame when I hear one of them castigate the other for wanting to order something “expensive” from the already not-fancy restaurant menu as if the difference between a six and an eight dollar entrée might break the family budget.

But I’d have a better chance of banning rock n’ roll than curbing coin-counting of that sort. Ebenezer Scrooge is America’s new role model, with fashionable ladies-who-lunch in NYC and LA declaring themselves “Ressionistias” and ultra high-end merchants like Barney’s and Bergdorf’s actually being so gauche as to include prices in their advertising.

Forefend. 

And was there a single TV news outlet this past holiday season that didn’t do a human interest featurette with little kids telling Santa that they didn’t want much this year? That daddy lost his job and mommy worked two and they might have to move into grandma’s house and there were “poor” kids that needed stuff more than they did, anyway? Has it really come to this?

All that tear-jerk pandering that puts me in mind of depression era propaganda in its attempt to bestow a bravely tattered nobility on an entire citizenry at the very curb of homelessness due largely to their own bad decisions—up to and very much including the Evil Clown they put in office 8 and again 4 years ago. It only makes my hackles snap to attention and my fist clinch even tighter on those pennies and nickels because yes, it really has come to this.

Heh.

“Pennies and nickels.”

“Count your pennies and nickels, the dollars can look after themselves.” “Let’s nickel and dime this deal so we can come to terms.” Since childhood I’ve thought of phrases like that as metaphors; genteel and self-consciously quaint aphorisms that danced around the crude edges of talking about money. “Real” money. Which among Polite Company in any socio-economic sphere simply wasn’t talked about. Wasn’t. Now, I’ll bet more than one cat fight has erupted over who paid less for what at Henri Bendel’s. Now Ruth Chris sends me coupons (coupons!) for $19.99 steak frites. Now, towards the end of any given pay period, if I need a pack of smokes or just about anything else, pennies and nickels it is.

The first couple of times my boys came to see me down here we did the waterside restaurant crawl, we dined and souvenired with immoderation in Saint Augustine, even schlepped out to the little fishing village of Mayport for some fresh seafood at a place I‘d heard about but had never been to. This time...
 
I actually cooked. 

Like with the oven and shit. 

At home. 

I made a meatloaf that, while nobody complained, turned out a little dry and dense. I also stuffed and roasted a whole chicken which turned out great, if a little small to yield enough meat for my own portion. Oh well, the cook miscalculates, the cook suffers.

Breakfast was mostly made at home as well. My signature Egg-in-a-Hole, like it or not. This created some amusement when the boys recalled how in more Confident times “breakfast” often translated to my handing them $40 and directions to Einstein Brothers Bagel Bakery. Even in these zany days, when any joy that Blue Ray players and flat screens are selling for a 5^th of last year’s prices is mitigated by rampant commodity inflation, do you know how many Eggs—and Holes for that matter—can be purchased for $40?

Of course that’s bad news for Einstein Brothers AND Best Buy. Good news, I guess, for your supermarket’s dairy department and absentee fathers who can manage to remember which side of the frying pan faces up.

It’s not all bad though, this belt-cinching as necessity for most and fashion statement for some. Who could have predicted, at long last, a backlash against bottled water even among the trendy? Or, to answer my own question, that penny-pinching would itself become trendy? Who knew what a damn yummy, moist n’ tender chicken I could roast? I stuffed it with apples and onions so the skin could crisp while the meat beneath remained succulent, served it with drip pan-grilled asparagus and side salads and it was so awesome I may even do it again soon. My meatloaf, while okay, needs a little work: a lighter hand with the kneading and a less conservative stance on roasting time should about fix it.  But imperfections included, it made a helluva’ fine sandwich the next day. And that, just as in turkey, is the most important thing about meatloaf, isn’t it?

Once again the boys’ departure was marred by a delay. Only an hour, but still, airport delays always suck. I can’t go with them to hang at the gate because they, by virtue of being over 10 years old, are considered “adults” by the idiot airlines. And just as I was asking if they had any money to help kill the time I realized that I, Big Daddy, had by that time little but pocket lint to offer. Luckily yes, they had money. Bright kids, not blowing all their dough at flea markets and college book stores.

Or theme parks.

Want. Need.

Pick one.

My personal brand of Consumer Confidence takes a stand for the new reality. As a Consumer, I am completely Confident that this economy and thus this country has been flogged, fucked and nailed up wet. I am confident that over the course of this year and well into 2010 more people I know will lose their jobs and I have a better than average chance of being one of them. I am Confident that I and millions of others will never again see their investments at the levels they enjoyed barely a year ago. I am Confident that if I ever so much as see one red penny, one single, solitary goddamned cent from that Social Security Ponzi scheme I’ve paid into for over 30 years I’ll be so surprised that I’ll shit myself.

Then again, by that time they will have pushed the eligible age to 84-1/2, so if I make it at all I’ll probably be shitting myself on a regular basis anyway.

See?  As it turns out I am confident after all.

In fact, that’s my new Superhero name: CONSUMER CONFIDENT.

So full-price payers, Starbucks suckers and other evil doers beware, I’m watching. 

Wherever there is premium cable where basic would do, I’m watching. Whenever a take-out dinner is ordered when there’s a perfectly good can of beans in the kitchen, I’m watching. Whoever goes out for lunch when they damn well could have brown-bagged should know…I’m Consumer Confident. 

And I’m watching.

By way of full disclosure, I went out for lunch today. Even us Superheroes step out of character now and then. In my own case, maybe a little more now than then. In truth the Daisy and I eat lunch out every workday. But this most commonly involves ordering one sandwich and splitting it (she was doing the same with sharing one drink for a while, but on that practice I had to put down my foot). Point is, while waiting at the register to pay for our one sandwich and two (small) drinks, I saw a cookie out of the corner of my eye.

It was a cinnamon cookie.

And damn that cinnamon cookie looked fine.

It was $1.39. But all I could think about was the next time I’m buying that 12-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and the dewd looks at me across the counter and says “You’re $1.39 short, buddy.”

Then I’d have to get the Miller High Life. 

Fuck the cookie.

Want. Need.

Which?

Yes. Which indeed.