The Bag Lady Papers (15 page)

O
ne of my close friends, Eleanor, who, with her husband, has an adorable cottage here in Florida, is having a birthday and my present to her will be a small party in the friend's house where I'm staying. Could it have been only five months ago that I was getting ready to entertain some pals in New York, putting the finishing touches on my elegant tulip-and-freesia-adorned pear-wood dinner table in New York, when I heard the news about the MF? I thought I'd never give a party again.

This get-together will be quite a bit different in style. Eight is the most this little place—and I—can handle, as there is no dining room, scant and unmatched cutlery, odds and ends of china, and only a few glasses.

My BMF party routine would have involved planning ahead for days with too much stupid fretting and worrying about

Looking at this long, pretentious list, I realize I must have been a lunatic or a masochist to live like that! My brand-new party ethic is time-efficient, financially sound, and stress-free. I now intend to adhere strictly to these rules:

But can I pull this off with people who frequent soirees where pre-meltdown Iranian caviar and crystal-fluted Dom P are served without pause by an attentive and attractive staff?

 

I head to Publix, the nearest supermarket. Although I try to be a good citizen of the earth and I am aware that using paper kills trees and plastic pollutes the planet, I choose for one night not to think about the consequences of my purchases. On all the kitchen counters, I lay out long sheets of cheap white shelving paper. I stack bright yellow, red, green, blue, and purple paper plates; matching napkins; and red and yellow plastic forks and knives on the white paper. I heap on a few dozen colored plastic cups for wine, water, and Diet Coke. I fill ten or twelve of the cups with giant hibiscus flowers and dark, glossy tropical leaves from the backyard and scatter them on the counters, the coffee table, and in the bathroom. Luckily the owner of the house likes votive candles, so I distribute a half dozen in the small living room, which will just about accommodate the group if a couple of us sit on the floor. All this preparation takes not days or hours, but about fifteen minutes. I'm not counting the quick trip to Publix because it was more fun than work.

The eight guests are greeted with my one splurge—iced Grey Goose martinis served in glasses from the cupboard's mélange of glassware. I give the sole holdout an inexpensive white Italian wine the liquor store man recommended that turns out to be quite good. The hors d'oeuvres consist of
the olives in the drinks and a small plate of them on the coffee table.

I must admit I concoct a mean martini and the party is warming up when the doorbell rings and six pizzas are delivered. I phoned earlier to order five but the pizza man offered to give me an extra one because they were for a birthday celebration. I can say with certainty that all of us women, and probably some of the men, are watching our carbs and our calories but at the end not one slice remains. I bought two bottles of the wine, hoping we'd finish only one, but both vanished. Needless to say, the Grey Goose disappeared earlier in the evening.

Birthday cakes are expensive. To save the most money I would have baked one myself but that meant purchasing pans and ingredients I wouldn't use again, so I decided to buy the most superlative birthday cake I could think of.

Carvel's Fudgie the Whale cake ain't a rock-bottom bargain but it's an all-time favorite of mine and, again, I reckoned that, after so many carb-freighted pizzas, I'd cut small pieces and the guests would politely take a couple of bites and I'd have a week of leftover chocolate nirvana. Dear, divine Fudgie is gobbled up in no time and I find one of the guests in the kitchen unabashedly licking the last of the chocolate crumbs off her fingers.

It was a no-stress, great-fun night. I even had a good time! Usually I'm wiped out after throwing a dinner party, but aside from washing the martini glasses and the cake knife and loading the dishwasher with the sturdy plastic utensils that I
would keep again for the next time, the cleanup consisted of a short walk to the garbage container.

PoRC entertaining is easy and fun. I can't afford it often but when I return to New York, I'm going to research the best and cheapest neighborhood pizza place I can find. (My memories of the Domino's Christmastime rip-off are still fresh.) I'll lay in a good supply of reusable plastic glasses, knives, and forks and a major stack of recycled colored paper plates. I'll even cut out place mats from plain brown wrapping paper and fill some of the plastic cups with fat Crayolas the way I did when my son and I lived on West Broadway. I probably still have some of those drawings and funny, crazy jottings that my friends and I did after we'd downed a few glasses of Chianti.

 

My little house in Florida has just sold for about forty percent less than I put into it but I'm glad I don't have the responsibility for it anymore. The small amount of cash I received will help with daily living expenses and, if I can earn some more money, it may be the basis of a careful, new savings plan.

I'm back in the city now. Paul and I are together much of the time when he's not in his studio. He's a painter and work isn't selling, but we're having fun. I haven't yet figured out a way to afford a cheap studio of my own or to share one, but if I can't think of something, I'll work in my living room the way I used to. I'm planning to start a portrait business in the
fall. I'm still waiting to see if I can retrieve the SIPC insurance owed to me, but I'm glad to report that it's looking good from what I read and hear. The Long Island house is still for sale. In other news, this week the MF has been sentenced to 150 years in prison. I hope he lives a very long life.

I think back to the question: Is it worse to have money and lose it or never to have it at all? The thing about
not
ever having money is that you always think it will make your life better and you will be happier. But you are not aware of its flaws. Once you've had money, you will probably miss the luxuries and experiences it can buy, but at least you're aware that it's not all it's cracked up to be.

No one gave me a dollar or a valuable contact to start out with and it's been satisfying to earn money all on my own. The glitzy and gritty jobs I had in the course of working for that money allowed me to have an adventurous and interesting life, to meet a wide spectrum of people, to travel to exotic places, to own a house and an apartment and beautiful things. I didn't squander what I earned, I saved it, and, for the most part, I believe I spent it wisely. When I knew it was gone, I had to start all over again. I was enraged, of course, but it was an impotent anger. Instead of endlessly picturing vile things that should happen to the MF, what I really want to see is what kind of new life I can create. Maybe my unremitting curiosity is what keeps me going.

What would have happened if the economy had maintained its upward swing indefinitely? Many smart people believed that would be the case. I would have continued to take out enough of my retirement savings each year to live
on—not an extravagant life, but a comfortable one. I would have kept the studio, made art, tried to sell it, faced the ups and downs of health and family issues, and generally remained on the same path.

With the catastrophic upheaval of my finances I must think and act in new ways. As I've said, it's the uncertainty of everything in my life that unhinges me. But that uncertainty is a fact, and I must accept it.

It's been a stunning six months in every way, but I'm fully here and alive as never before. I've written this book and I'm spending more time with my son and my niece and their families. I've worked on a photographic series of the dolls titled
After Madoff
. I posed the girls as they deflated in car accidents, drowned in luxe swimming pools, were hanged by their Gucci silk scarves, and collapsed into their own fake Birkin bags—all scenarios tied to their recent destruction and, by proxy, mine, through the evil machinations of the MF. I'm having a show of them in New York in the fall.

I'm enjoying Paul and my friends, feasting on pizza, counting my calories as always, and nipping negative thoughts as best I can. Every morning I take a new and exhilarating pleasure in my first sip of steaming coffee as I look out my window at a changed and beautiful and fascinating world. I do not exaggerate when I say I can't wait to take my shower, button on a snappy white self-ironed Lands' End shirt and well-worn Levis, and get out and about to see what will happen next.

So—was it better to have it and then lose it? Yes, yes, yes! Even though I lived with horrible bag lady fears of losing it
all, now that those financial fears have materialized, I'm in pretty good shape and looking to what's next. Experiences—good and bad, exciting and boring, tragic and absurd—make up a life. Not to have lived to the fullest is the saddest, most irresponsible life I can think of.

I continue to be astonished at the generosity of friends and colleagues who have responded to my AMF situation. Where would I be without Ed Victor, my very dear friend, the superagent, who sold this book and has been in touch with me practically every day since December 11. And ditto Ellen Archer, Hyperion's fast-acting publisher, who immediately tuned in to the bag lady fears that so many women face and contributed many important editorial ideas to this book.

It was not a piece of cake to write about my MF experience and it felt as if I were reliving those horrible days as I went over the manuscript. Barbara Jones was a gentle and determined editor who helped in every way. Gillian Blake, an editorial mastermind, was a key force in shaping the book, and her additions and suggestions have been invaluable. Tina Brown of TheDailyBeast.com instantly gave me a blogging podium to vent from, and Jane Spencer helped to structure my rants.

What would I do without Richard Story and Alex Mayes Birnbaum and Patty Matson? They literally took me by the hand and helped me back to sanity with their love, kindness, and pragmatism.

I absolutely could not have survived without Bob Littman.

Tommy and Alice—and Maude, Joseph, Abigail, and our Louise—there's no way to thank you adequately for your small and large kindnesses! Patty Marx gave me many serious ideas for this book while making me laugh so much that I almost choked to death on a Diet Coke. Paul Wilmot knows how to make the sun shine, and while doing that serves up the best stone crabs and champagne on the East Coast. Buffy Easton's insights, sharp eye, and smart advice will always be heeded. And Sarah Rosenthal is a friend who can restore emotional balance with a telephone call.

The thoughtfulness of friends, colleagues, and strangers was something I could never have imagined. I could write paragraphs on each one, but I know if you got this far, you most probably want me to wrap it up. So, in alphabetical order, here you are…I've probably left out out more than I've included, but you all know who you are and I hope you know how grateful I am to you.

Chris Albrecht; Annette and Joe Allen; Joanne Casullo, one of the most generous women I've ever met; Cathryn Collins; Amy Fine Collins; Sheila Donnelly and Paul Theroux; Jamie Drake; Michael Fuchs, my extraordinary friend and dealer; major life-savers Barbara and Eric Hippeau; most amazing Jane, Michael, and Katie Hoffman; Gerry Imber; Jae Man Joo; Munnu Kasliwal all the way from Jaipur; Anne Keating; compassionate Eleanore and Michael Kennedy; Judy Kent; Phil Kent, stealth adviser; Andrew Kirk; Julie Lavin; Suzanne Lengyel, my banker through worse and better; Evvie
Lipper and Bill Speck; Imke Littman; Harry Lodge, physician and soul-doctor; Michael and Alice Martell, lifelong life advisers; Tom and Lucille Mathews; ever-there Evan McGlinn; super strategist Sandi Mendelson; my stalwart Stuart Miller; Burtie Minkoff of the eagle eye and the huge heart; Patty Newburger and Brad Wechsler; sister pal Nancy Novogrod; Priscilla Ratazzi, a true friend in deed; angelo Steve Rubin; fellow-traveler Deborah Sharpe; Sharon Stein; Susan Steinthal, a brilliant legal tactician; Bettina Sulser; J. D. Talasek; Stefano Tonchi; Stellene Vollandes; the ever-generous Nick von Hoffman (and Schnitzel); Leslie Westreich; Anna Wintour; and Penelope Weld of the unforgettable letter.

Because too much type gives eye-glaze, here's another part of the same list: Will Ameringer; Carole Baron; Marie Brenner; Holly Brubach; Larry Burstein; Amy Cappellazzo; Susan Carey; Richard Cohen; David Patrick Columbia; Faye Cone; Jennifer Crandall and Zach Story; Suzanne Donaldson; Lisa Gabor; Sarah Gavlak; Adam Gopnik and Martha Parker; Betsy Gotbaum; David and Melanie Holland; Stephen Jacoby; Joel Kassimir; Peter Kaufman, early responder and major connector; Frank and Bobbi Kitchens; Wayne Koestenbaum; Leslie Krause; Iris Marden and the Fedorkos; David Maupin; David Meitus and Angela Westwater; Kathryn Mondadori; Si and Victoria Newhouse; Richard Pandiscio; Jana Pasquel; Christine Romans; Paul Roossin; Donna Rosen; Bernard Scharf; Paul Scherer; Michael and Lisa Schultz, and Maggie and Lucy; Nicholas Sopkin; James Spodnik; Elizabeth Sussman; Andrew and Ann Tisch; Billie Tisch; Laurie Tisch; Elisabeth Tretter; James Truman for fine words and wine;
Alfred Vachris and Thomas Molesky, tech gods as well as friends; Emily Vaughan; Carol Ryan Victor; Alex von Bidder; Diane von Furstenburg; Jim and Rita Wetzler; Kyle White, Tommy Buckett, and Hiroshi, who tend the locks; Yolanda; Zezé, Peggy, Doris, and Walter; and Jake Zemansky. And the California contingent—Bob Bookman; Mary Elizabeth and Nancy Eileen, who are friends of Leon's; and Bruce Vinocur and Jo Ann Chase, aka “Ruthie.”

And to my small and precious family, for providing the solid ground on which I was able to rebuild my equilibrium and regain my sense of humor: John and Julie Rousseau Penney and most enchanting Celeste (who finally found the elusive Tuna B Fish), and Erin and Paul Scott and adorable Otis and Lilah (who unfailingly beats me at Russian bank). And thanks from my soul to Dennis Ashbaugh—steadfast and true.