Spring and Autumn are my two favorite seasons. They both involve sweaters and the probability of open-toed shoes (remember, I live in SoCali; sandals are a staple). I suppose I like change more that I let myself believe. And I can feel the change already. Last night, I wrapped myself up in a sweater, feeling the crispness new to the night air. Mornings are a bit more brisk than they were a few days ago. This is just a taste, though. Just when I put away the window fans, Indian Summer will come a-knockin'. Somehow, I never enjoy that flashback. But I do savor the first hints of season change.
Everything's changing, though, not just the weather. The economy is in the crapper. My hair's gone hooey. I've bowed and taken full-time, full-fledged-employee employment, my first job of this variety in nearly a decade. Everything is unfamiliar. Twilight Zone-like. Then, I watched Suze Orman going berserk on "Oprah" (which I now view exclusively on TiVo), ripping the American wallet a new one. She's spooky. As much as she bugs me sometimes -- and she does bug; I much prefer the financial stylings of Jean Chatzky -- she was right. This is America's wake-up call. An ugly one; painful as a four ayem wake-up call after falling asleep at two. Brutal. And by no means am I being flip about this. You are talking to a chick with no nest egg.
And while this is really scary, I'm kind of excited by it. Perhaps it's just a lack a sleep and the delirium thereof, but I think we can turn it all around. We, as in all of us. Wake up to how corrupt, greedy and selfish our economy, and the people who've run it (into the ground), have been. But, we the people are a part of that. We are complicit.
But what are we doing about it? It seems like we are waiting to see what "they" will do. Haven't we figured out yet that "they" don't have a friggin' clue? And "they" are just fine. Their pockets are lined. They'll be flying on the private planes of the ousted CEOs and under the shade of those platinum parachutes. "They" suck! So, it is down to us. Hate to break it to you, but we are on our own.
It's hard to do something when paralyzed with panic. How does one make a change when there's so little to work with? Really, I'm asking you. But that effing Suze Orman scared the bejeebus out of me, and now I'm examining my options. Happily (or delusionally), all I can see ahead of me is a clean slate. Granted, it's a tiny little blackboard, like the one the girls carried in "Little House on the Prairie", but it's my petite slate, replete with a stubby piece of chalk with which to draw a plan. I'm still going to be hard pressed to give up the cable, no matter what Jean or Suze say. I already gave up Starbucks, new clothes and shoes, and junk dudes, too. Shouldn't I have one little bit of joy after my long days in the beach cave? I think so. My storage unit, however, must go. Netflix...buh-bye (I don't have time for it anyway and still haven't watched "My Kid Could Paint That", which I've had for a month now). Certain other little online subscriptions must end, too. See you later IMDB Pro. Love you, Publishers Marketplace, but I must go back on the free lunch. I already let Salon expire. I never got over them dropping the gossip. I still miss The Fix. And, I'm buying whatever three-ply, double-roll toilet paper is on sale. It's the little things, they say, that add up. Which means it's time to stir-fry the tofu at home. Ooh, or I'll make a big batch of soup to stay warm on these newly chilly nights. Ha! The bay leaves are turning now, too.