Goody Good

Money. It’s a hit. Don’t give me that do goody good bullshit. Money isn’t the root of all evil. The LOVE of money is. When there isn’t a lot of it, it’s supremely difficult to keep god and art first. It’s all I can bloody think about. I had a conversation with a fellow artist/sufferer Saturday night and it’s somewhat comforting to know I’m not the only one who burns up good studio time worrying about money. I’m hoping to remedy this habit. ‘Cause that’s all it is at this point, habit. I’m enjoying the worst economic year I’ve had in 20, yet the government thinks I have too many assets for Medicaid and a Bridge card. Their definition of destitute is possessing less than $100 in cash with no hope of at least $25 coming in the next couple days. I never thought I was destitute. I just need a little help. I’d prefer to keep said assets, my house and paid off car, since that’s all that’s left.

Art is an absurd career choice, but I made it. I had some crazy idea I could be financially successful and make art. It is possible, but I think I have a better shot as a 5’2” female in the NBA than riches via art. My background in Bloomfield Hills was awesome in several ways. Education not withstanding, Dad’s monumentally cool job at Sports Illustrated afforded suites, VIP parking, 4 star restaurants and a country club membership, all available with valet of course. I never doubted the presence of money. It never occurred to me I couldn’t get it. Until I married a man who decided that, due to my father’s station, he could spend what he wanted. One problem. It’s Dad’s money, not mine. Our 3 year marriage concluded with cumbersome debt and the IRS camped on our doorstep. I’ve haven’t felt secure since. I don’t seem to realize that I wasn’t the problem. I am responsible. I can count on me. Too late. Once traumatized, the scar is set. I’m hoping the trauma of the past 3 years will overshadow that old scar and grant me a new one.

I take responsibility for choosing poorly in marriage. I’ve done nothing but play by the book since. “That’s your first mistake,” I can hear my old lawyer friend Tom saying. Ha. He’s likely right. Regardless, I worked hard, invested in a house and an IRA, kept my debt load to a minimum with the American Dream lit up on the horizon. Nope, it was an oncoming train. Along with millions of other Believers, I lost damn near everything I’d worked 17 years for. Once the shock wore off, it was time to figure out what to do. As you know, Hollywood came to Detroit and granted a year or two reprieve until, again, powers I have nothing to do with, destroyed that. I have felt like a leaf in the wind. I have never experienced anything this scary. Way more frightening than my idiot husband. I could kick him to the curb and start over. I have to choke the banks and the government down. Live on next to nothing. Yet, here I am. Warm, dry and fed. I’m hoping that I can finally learn that no matter what I’ll be just fine. Somehow. I have amazing family and friends. I’m rather resourceful. Being a fraidycat saver doesn’t hurt either. I know how to pinch a penny. Ask Peg. I rarely pay retail. I’m much more patient that I thought. I can wait for damn near anything. Wait for it to go on sale. Wait for someone to help me. Wait for a job to come in. Wait for love. While all this waiting is going on, I’m free to make art. I’m committed to reversing my worry habit. It’s been my go-to response for 20 years. It hasn’t accomplished much. I’d rather spend that time painting, writing, or dare I say it, dreaming? I’m not too old to dream. I don’t think the banks or the government can regulate those? Better get after it before they figure out how.