$30 seems like a good amount

I had lunch with my friend Joanna last Friday. We dined under an umbrella along the water at Chicago's River Walk. It was a beautiful day and we had a lovely time. Except ...

Joanna is broke. Really busted. For the last decade she has been investing all her money in her own business, and it's simply not working. She's good at what she does, but she's not good at marketing herself, getting the word out, attracting new clients. New business acquisition is an area of expertise in and of itself, and no one is good at everything. 

But now here Joanna is, nearly 70 with no retirement savings and little money coming in. She often depends on her credit cards to make ends meet. She's not angry. She doesn't sound scared. She just seems ... resigned. I think she's been living with this reality so long that it's no longer fused with emotion.

As we wandered The River Walk, I kept steering her to the small booths, heavy on desserts. I figured that would be easier on her wallet than a meal. But no, she wanted lunch. She had a pair of sliders, I had a (really delicious) turkey sandwich. The bill, with tip, was $47. She had a "what the hell" attitude, but I thought we could have made a wiser choice. She put everything on her credit card because she didn't have any cash. For my portion, I gave her four $10 bills, folded. We were so engaged in conversation that she didn't count it, just slipped it into her wallet. I felt good about that. I wanted to help her, not embarrass her.

Something she said stayed with me: she uses whatever cash she has for groceries. She said when she's out of money, she stops putting food in her cart. She made grocery shopping sound like something of an adventure or a game, but I didn't like the sound of that.

Now I'm in better financial shape than she is, but I'm not a wealthy woman. The problem with retirement is that you don't know how long it will last, so I must be careful with my money.

I simply can't afford to give Joanna the funds it will take to give her security. 

I also want to preserve her dignity. She hasn't asked me for help. 

So I checked out her neighborhood online and found that the retailer nearest her apartment is Walgreen's. I went to the location in my neighborhood and bought a $30 gift card. That seemed like a good amount. Big enough to help, at least in the moment, but not big enough to be embarrassing. I put it in a classic movie notecard (An American in Paris; we both love old movies and Joanna is a Francophile).

I wrote: "I firmly believe that when you discover you need something in a hurry, you can always find it at Walgreen's. It makes me happy to think that next time you suddenly need 60W bulbs, or sunscreen, or a can of Campbell's Chicken Soup, you can pick it up on me."

Yes, I know she is likely to use it all at once on essentials, but I like my narrative better.

The $30 giftcard is just a finger in the dike. It'll help her with the week, but it won't stave off financial disaster. Still, she knows I care about her. She knows I'm in her corner. Support is all I can give her and I hope she feels my good intentions.

Teaser Tuesday

Here's how to play.

• Grab your current read
• Open to a random page
• Share “teaser” sentences from somewhere on that page
• BE CAREFUL NOT TO INCLUDE SPOILERS! (make sure that what you share doesn’t give too much away! You don’t want to ruin the book for others!)

The Hollywood Daughter by Kate Alcott. We meet our narrator in New York City, 1959. The daughter of a Hollywood publicist, she went away to college in Vermont now works for Newsweek. She is about to get a mysterious opportunity to go home again.

In a leisurely fashion, I opened the fancy envelope. It was an invitation, yes. Engraved. But no, not to a wedding.

Jessica Malloy (indeed, me) was cordially invited to attend the 1959 Academy Awards at the Pantages Theater in Los Angeles as a guest. Nowhere on the invitation did it say who was doing the inviting – just a cool request for an RSVP because attendance is limited.

I smoothed the polished surface of the invitation with my hand, letting it be, for a moment. Aladdin's lamp. The broken gutters and moldy carpet of my shabby apartment building disappeared.

Roy Hobbs is a mean drunk

Last week, my cat had two teeth pulled. This required him to be put under anesthesia. I was more worried about the anesthetic than I was the surgical procedure. Anesthesia can be tricky for felines.

So I was very excited when I got the call at 3:00 in the afternoon, telling me he was healthy and strong and ready to come home. The vet's staff warned me, though. My very big boy was hissing, biting and scratching.

"Oh, he won't be that way with me!" After all, I've had cats my entire life and they've all had medical procedures. Reynaldo came out of anesthesia ready to rock. I'd have to keep an eye on him to keep him from jumping because his depth perception was impaired and he could hurt himself. Both my Connie Cat and Joey came home confused and disoriented. Connie wanted to be left alone, hiding under the bed. Joey wanted to snuggle and curled up next to me for comfort.

Roy Hobbs was different. Boy, was he different!

He literally spent three hours hissing at me. He hissed at me so vehemently and so continually that he was out of breath and panting. Yet he wouldn't leave the room. He wouldn't go to sleep. He just sat at my feet, stared at me, and hissed.

"Leave me alone, you possessed Stephen King Cujo Cat!" 

Now let me be clear: he never bit or scratched me (as he had the vet staff). He just stared and hissed. And stared and hissed. He also seemed happy to see Connie Cat, who groomed him a little. But he obviously blamed furless bi-peds, like me and the vet staff, for his discomfort and he was not forgiving or forgetting.

Finally, at about 6:30, he dozed off. Thank God!

Imagine my surprise when I was awakened before dawn by Roy Hobbs on the pillow next me, purring. The anesthesia had worn off and he was his sweet old self again.  

I'm so glad my boy is back. And next time he has anesthesia, I'll know what to expect.