Discourses in Deception

I always have mocked the term "recessionista," but when you find yourself substituting 4 o'clock and 5 o'clock "Duff Hour" at 3 Needs as your new more cost-effective, less prime-time alternative to late-night drinks, those $1 pints seem to be more practical, if not glamorous. And when you're not really working (although I've got an internship, a paid short-term copy-editing gig, and a new column being optioned-- I like wearing as many caps as possible; maybe it's because I don't look good in hats--), like me, $1 pints are not something to be picky about when what you really want is a $7 Cosmo with the girls. I'll take

my cheap alcohol where I can get it.

If there's anything I've learned while living on the lean, it's the the art of deception is probably

one of your most paramount tools in life that you will ever learn to master, along with being flexible, crafty, and mastering some sleight-of-hand while working the bills out. I know some of you (including one ex in particular who hated lies while at the same time going out of every way to have to explain the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him god,) aren't the biggest fans of deception. Some of you think it's best to "keep it real" and "tell it like it is." And while "telling it like it is" may not be a particularly strong point of mine (and here I hear a few "Amens" from the same chorus), what I'm advocating here is the sort of deception that hurts no one.

College and shortly thereafter is a time in which you trade, barter, and prostitute with what you have. Like my renaissance love-affair with Duff Hour, you work with what you have. And what I have right now is lots of time. In this time, there are two things I like to devote spending vast amounts daydreaming about: Writing, and cons.

Ok, so maybe it's more like three things: Writing, sex, and cons. And while my writing is getting me free business lunches and opening doors of career opportunities, it's not exactly paying the bills NOW.

A "con" or a "confidence trick" or "confidence game," (also known as a bunko, con, flim-flam, gaffle, grift, hustle, scam, scheme, swindle, or bamboozle) for those of you who never saw the brilliant "Catch Me If You Can," is "an attempt to defraud a person or group by gaining their confidence. The victim is known as the mark, the trickster is called a confidence man, con man, confidence trickster, or con artist, and any accomplices are known as shills. Confidence tricks exploit typical human qualities such as greed, dishonesty, vanity, honesty, compassion, credulity, irresponsibility and naïveté. The common factor is that the mark relies on the good faith of the con artist." Cons aren't always so devious as sometimes they're just a fact of life. Sometimes, it's necessary to convince someone that you're solvent enough to be a good investment. So when I showed up today for my business lunch in an avant-garde skirt and leather heels, no one would have been any the wiser that I owe the bank $200, haven't paid my utilities bills yet for the month, and only have $4.27 in my wallet, and literally, to my name. With the right wardrobe, you can be anyone. I like my money where I can see it: On me. People say invest in gold and bonds and the tangible, so I do my best, and keep it in my closet.

But like every good con, I have my tell-- the more jewelry I'm wearing, the more insecure I am. I can't help it-- being a jeweler's daughter, I've watched all sorts of people walk in, and I've checked out their bedazzledness. A large gold watch or large watch with gold accents screams "I can afford to have the time." I got mine for 10 Euro in an Asian appliance hole-in-the-wall in Florence. In a time when people accessorize by

dripping with jewels, I got my fighting leopard cocktail ring, long sunburst necklace, and vintage cat pendant at a flea market in Florence, not paying more than 10 Euro for each of those

pieces. My gigantic Chinese knot necklace I got from a booth in New York City's Chinatown, and

the only jewelry of any value that I ever wear are two rings from my father-- one, the first thing he ever made for my mother; the other, my 18th birthday present.

I can play a fun game with you in which I point out what things in

my room I've bought at T.J Maxx-- hint: it's about half. That's where I've picked up discount Tommy Hilfiger and Polo Ralph Lauren bags, and the white studded Steve Madden purse in photos above. I bought my 1970s vintage Louis Vuitton messenger bag--my first piece of big-name designer anything-- at the same flea market in Florence where I bought all my jewelry, and I haggled the price down 15 Euro for it, too. That pink silk shirt, and a gray tee, were both originally from Urban Outfitters, where I have never bought anything full-price-- the pink silk was thrifted from Plato's Closet, and I bought the gray shirt on heavy sale, like everything else I've ever come home with from that store. Honestly, I was just in there again today, and while I adore a large majority of their clothing, I could just as easily walk into a good consignment shop and find the same styles for half the price. At least. But for now, I'm perfectly content with re-inventing things from my own closet to look like new. And if all I'm covering up is a sub-par bank account with a few extra bangles, I don't see what the harm is in convincing other people I'm either flush, or something that I'm not. It's like playing dress-up, but for semi-grown-ups. All we're doing is running around and trying to

appease people and convince them that we're what they want us to be, anyway.When was the last time you were truly you, just because you had a chance to be?

Yeah. Next time, don't worry what they think-- worry about what the people who know you for you and love you for you think. As Emily has said, it's all about "faking it 'til you make it." Hey, I never said my moral compass was straight.

{An extremely insecure and nervous day--

The UO tee of my 3 major food groups

(Alcohol, Caffiene, Nicotine,)

that I've worn to death and stretched out into an off-the-shoulder,

3 necklaces,

4 rings,

my bangles,

wristband from Brewfest that still hasn't fallen off,

my beaded rasta bracelet from Solarfest,

and my studded riding belt.

Jewelry is my armor.

Mistah J is my dude.

And my other tell-- I can't keep my hands away from my mouth.}

XOXO

Two Bucks' Worth of Cunning

I'm always amazed when writers, notoriously flaky people, can conjure up past work within minimal (seen, at least,) sweat. As I promised in the last post, I asked Ian to delve deep into his computer's memory and haul out "Two Bucks" if he could. And he could. And he did. Within 24 hours. That's turnaround, people.

So learn, enjoy, and click that link to visit his new blog about life in New York. It's equal parts entertaining, informative, honest, witty, and sarcastic. And if you're like me and like something new to read on your news feed nearly every day, he doesn't disappoint.

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When I’m dead broke and hungry, I do what any logical person should do in Burlington: I go to City Market and take them for all they’re worth.

I start in the produce section, leech my way to the deli on the opposite side of the store, creep along the hot-buffet, pass through the check-out line, and plop down into a chair in the newly renovated eat-in area to sit, read, people watch through the large windows, and mow down on my hearty meal that was not only 40 percent free, but also under $2. It’s good, really: a turkey-salad sandwich in cucumber-mayonnaise dressing with lettuce, spinach, mozzarella cheese, and carrots, squeezed between two pieces of hearty wheat, white, or sourdough bread; a banana; and a tall glass of ice-cold water, or milk, if I’m feeling the craving for that homogenized goodness, and, of course, if I have an extra dollar kicking around—sometimes breaking the $3 threshold is a little too much.

I remember one leeching incident vividly.

It was early in the morning—which is very important when doing these types of missions, but that comes later—and was sometime in January, or early February, and even the permeating chill of the produce section felt warm on my hands and cheeks juxtaposed against the bitter Vermont mid-winter mornings. I scooted past the apples and oranges, peaches and pears, and over to the bananas. (Now, you can choose any fruit you want, but never go organic. Remember: You’re broke, not trying to save the world or set a good example. A traditional banana tastes just as good as an organic one, and anyone that tells you different is lying to themselves. A medium sized banana ripened to a bright yellow, and is soft, not mushy, to the touch is the best option, and is usually around 35 cents, give or take a couple copper Lincolns.) I found a medium-sized, more curved than normal banana, and moved on.

Next was the meat.

There is a secret, almost hidden box of meat and cheese trimmings at the island between the hot-buffet counter and the beer cooler, stuffed between pre-made Asian foods and a basket of single-serving, raw eggs, on the shelf above the samosas. Any bag of trimmings is half-off of the original price at the deli counter, and the selection is broad, as well: smoked turkey, honey-cured ham, and, if you’re lucky, peppered roast beef. The best selection, though, comes early in the morning, before ten o’clock; there is never a standard amount of trimmings per day—five, on average—and most of the good ones get snatched up by noon or one o’clock. The good thing about this bin, however, is that all of the servings of meat are very small; most are less than a quarter of a pound, and under 50 cents. If you’re a wimp, the bad thing is that the trimmings are the ends of the slabs of meat they use at the deli counter—the butt, or nub of the meat, as some call it. (But hey, you’re broke, remember? Plus, you’re going to be chopping it up for your sandwich, anyway.) As I rummaged through the bin, I found a juicy nub of roasted turkey for 28 cents and stuffed it, along with my banana, between my forearm and ribcage.

I turned around and faced the hot-buffet counter, and walked left, to the build-your-own-salad section. This part of the journey takes a bit getting used to: the buffet foods are $7.49 per pound, and some experience is essential to not taking too much, and end up having it be more than $1.25—my usual limit. (City Market is smart; there is no scale to weigh any of the buffet foods. Most inexperienced buffeters end up paying way more than they expected when buying from the buffet.) I grabbed a small, brown to-go container in my left hand, put my banana and meat nub on the counter, and snatched the black, plastic tongs in my right hand. A pinch of spinach. A tong-full of lettuce. A dash of carrots. A sprinkle of mozzarella. After using my memory and precise guessing tactics to weigh the heap of veggies, I closed up the box and grabbed a small, black serving cup for my dressing. (Again, I usually get the cucumber-mayo dressing, but you can get whichever you like. I think they have some sort of honey mustard dressing. But always remember: Never put the dressing on the salad before you pay! City Market benefits from stupid people like that. But when you’re broke and hungry, you can’t afford to be stupid. I always put it in a serving cup and hold it in my hand while going through the checkout; the cashier will never make you pay for it, or even question it.)

I got to the register and paid $1.93.

“Do you need a bag?” the cashier asked me, reaching her left arm toward a stack of brown, paper bags of various sizes.

“Sure, a medium-sized one, please,” I responded. It is key, in this situation, to get a bag that is a great deal bigger than what you actually need because of the free bread bucket located at end of the buffet station—I need plenty of room for all the free bread I’m about to take. (I never use the word steal here, because, frankly, it’s free bread, and there’s not limit if it’s free, right? At least none that I can see.) After she stuffed the bottom of my bag, and once her attention was taken over by the person in line behind me, I nonchalantly shuffled over to the free bread, and jammed at least four pieces into my bag—I sometimes come back for seconds after I’m done eating. (It is essential to be as cool and calm, as well as quick, about this as possible. Any employee could give you guff about nabbing half the free bread in the bucket, so I try to get in and out as quickly as possible.)

After tossing my jacket over the back of one of the chairs at a two-seater table next to a window, and putting my bag of food down, I walked over to the free ice-water jug and poured myself a glass. I drank half of it there, smacked my lips with a sigh, and turned to the condiments station to my left. The station made my belly shake with excitement: Free napkins, plastic silverware, mayonnaise, ketchup, spicy mustard, and Frank’s Red Hot Sauce. (Frank’s Red Hot Sauce is God. If I have time, I usually ditch the turkey-salad idea and snag three, four, six, or ten packets of Frank’s, go home, chop up my nub of meat, heat it up in a pan with Frank’s, add a heaping glob of ranch dressing, wedge it between two pieces of free bread, and toast the sucker to perfection. Sure it’s a tad more work, but the outcome is incredible.)

After grabbing some napkins, a fork, and a knife, I sat down and began the assembly process. As I chopped up my turkey into half-inch cubes, and threw them into the box of greens from the buffet station, I overheard a couple to my right whispering: “What is he doing? Is that lunchmeat?” I snickered to myself, and took another sip of my water. I dumped my dressing into the box, and scraped the container for every last drop. (Sometimes, if I really need it, I’ll just go right back up and get a second container of dressing. I’ve gone this far, right?) After shaking my concoction like an eight-year-old inspecting a Christmas present, I carefully dumped the contents onto a piece of bread, and a squeezed the top piece on, careful not to spill any of the delicious innards. I got up to refill my water and the couple to my right stopped chewing their sandwiches and glared at me as I walked past. I glanced down at the wrappers of their sandwiches and caught the price of one of them: $4.95. I smiled to myself and filled up the cup.

I sat back down and slowly ate away at my homemade sandwich—an adventurous option to dining out or making an arduous meal on the stovetop; an inherent way of life for a college student scraping by; finding the flaws in the system; being innovative; making a new, cheaper path to something simple, but essential: a full stomach—the nature of the beast.

XOXO

Broke in Burlington

As if floundering about (read: sinking) in my love life and getting let go from my summer job wasn't enough, I recently overdrew my bank account (rent) and worked my way into a goodly sum of overdraft (again, imagine the cost of my rent,) and down to the last $5 in my wallet. "Stressed" and "rough patch" don't even begin to describe the situation I'm in. I've prostituted myself to every worthwhile job position I could find, and spent an afternoon seriously considering debuting in porn after seeing the dollar amount tacked on to the job. (But just like egg donation, I nixed that idea. Porn because, well, though I may watch it, I don't really want to be so interactive in it, and the egg donation because for the rest of my life I'd be doing double-takes at every blonde, blue-eyed child, wondering if it's mine. And with the smoking, I'm not exactly an ideal candidate. Like every other job, so it seems.) I already sold all the clothing I could to Plato's Closet, and unlike last summer's period of saintly rest from the wicked, I don't have the spoils of my bad habits to exchange for cash. I'm using them myself. I have to. It's what's brightening my days.

The good news is, there are 22 cigarettes, 9 beer, half a tank of gas, half a bag of cat food, and half a box of kitty litter left. There's food in the pantry, so I'm playing the game of "what can I make with what's left over?" But you can only get so far without milk, meat, or chocolate before you start to feel, well...hungry. And deprived.

So, what's a girl to do? Well, eat/beg/borrow/steal smart. Everyone knows the age-old trick of eating the food samples at Costco's as a lunch staple, but in order to do that, one actually has to have a Costco card. (Actually, I have an old one, and I doubt they look too hard at them until you actually buy something.) Instead, improvisation rules your meal times. I've been using my good grace and the love of my friends and their food as much as possible. Any food invitation you get, from a homemade mac and cheese dinner to pizza and cake to a handful of chips, you take. For the more discerning palates, there are other options. When I was a sophomore, I read a great article in the Champlain Current by Ian Frisch about how to use City Market's good intentions against them and make a meal for under $3. It involved buying a banana, the ends of meat and cheese that are sold for a song, and using their free bread, condiments, and water in the buffet to make a sandwich. (They also periodically have fuck-ups price-marking the food that are worth looking for-- I got a $4, not $12, pork roast once, and cheese for 22 cents that should have been $5.22.) I

walked into Great Harvest Breads on Pine Street to inquire about a job, and though it was filled already and I left still unemployed, I found something nearly better-- they give you thick slabs of free bread samples, which you can slather with as much butter as you want right out of a crock. A slice of bread and butter from there is enough for a lunch on the run. Bring your own water, though-- the bread, while fantastic and addicting, especially the Honey Oat Wheat and the Mediterranean Olive Loaf, is dense, doughy, and dries your mouth out like the best herb money can buy. Only you're getting dry-mouth and a full belly for free. Cheese Traders, Lake Champlain Chocolate's shop on Church Street, and farmer's markets are always good places to cruise for free samples of tasty little delights, too.

Speaking of that other thing, beggars cannot be choosers, and should not be above using people to smoke their shit when down and out. Everyone does it at one time or another. Especially to people they just met and will never see again. (Read: dudes intent on hitting on you hard-core at

parties. Plus, it makes them bearable.)

For broke-ass fun and entertainment, it takes a little more settling. I've resigned myself to the fact I won't see Inception until it comes out on DVD, and that barring friends lovely enough to buy my drinks-- that's you, Emily and Nora--the bars downtown are going to have a rest and recovery time from me until the end of August. However, walking down to the waterfront to watch the amazing sunsets over the Adirondacks is just as good as any cinema, and there are always parties to go to in Burlington. If you're sick of all your movies, you can always watch new ones online, or start a lending group with friends. (You can actually also start a cooking circle with friends so that you can eat up to 4 dinners a week for free and only have to cook for everyone else once.) Church Street is always great entertainment, too-- I walk down to listen to music performers and go to Borders to stand in the magazine section and catch up on articles I've missed and harass them about hiring me. And you can always get more cultured and stroll into Frog Hollow or the Bern Gallery or some of the small local art galleries and peruse some fine arts for not even a nickel. Check out Seven Day's calendar for more free goings-on around town, too.

Happy mooching. And any food/dollar/alcohol/nicotine donations out of the kindness of your heart are more than greatly appreciated, too.

XOXO