The Bag Lady Papers Read Online Free PDF

my studio lease now that the real estate market is lurching downward with no bottom in sight. I mentioned bartering some art, but he hasn’t called me back yet.
    I don’t think about eating while I’m working, so when I finally get home, I’ve been subsisting on what’s around, some Progresso soup, nonfat eighty-calorie yogurt, Egg Beaters, and the last of the Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. And hallelujah! In eight days I’ve lost four pounds! Maybe I should write a book about the MF diet. Lose all your money, lose weight—guaranteed! A best seller!
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    One night two of my Major Life Saver friends (MLS!), Barbara and Eric, phone and say, “We’re on our way to take you to dinner—now!” I haven’t been out once in the evening since I was “Madoff’d,” as people are calling it.
    As I button on a clean shirt, I start to visualize the MF, who has been parading around town with that rictus smile on his greedy bloated face while, back at his glam penthouse,his personal chef is sweating in one of the kitchens, preparing moist, exquisitely rare Kobe beef for him.
    Eric and Barb arrive in what seems like two seconds, whisk me away from my visions and into their car, and take me to a small Greek restaurant. I can’t believe how good real food tastes and how comforting it is to be out with dear friends.
    I fall sound asleep the minute I hit my bed but wake up at four a.m. with the terrors beating down in full force. What is to become of me? What happens when I am old and wizened and can’t take care of myself? What happens if I get sick, what if I’m diagnosed with something the next time I see the doctor? Paul would be there to comfort me but he’s an artist, always struggling with financial miseries himself.
    I start compulsively adding numbers, trying to figure out every cent I could make if I sell everything I have that’s salable. I’ll become the queen of Craigslist! Finally I give up on the math and brew a cup of coffee. It’s not even six, but I head downtown to SoHo to start the day’s work.
    I still haven’t said anything to Carmina. When I tell a friend of mine about Carmina and what she means to me, she says, “I’d rather give up my husband than part with Jolene, who’s been with me eighteen years.” I am not alone; these relationships run deep, and it’s about much more than cleaning.
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    One Saturday night I lock the studio door behind me, and think, “Okay, enough of this work. It’s time to treat yourself.”I call Paul and we decide we’ll watch some TV and eat a pizza. There’s a Domino’s on my corner so I sally in and order two pies, no salads, no extras. When I hear the piped-in Christmas carols, a deep sadness overwhelms me. As a child I went to church almost every Christmas Eve with my grandmother. Just the two of us. We always sat in the left front pew so she could keep her eye on her old buddy, the archbishop, who was offering up the holy Mass. She knew almost everyone in the cathedral by name and I was proud to be with her in that sanctuary of pious persons.
    â€œKeep your knees together, don’t cross your ankles, sit up very straight,” she would admonish me. The world seems so bright and full of promise when you’re a child and there are gifts under the tree.
    â€œSuck it up,” I say to myself in Domino’s, dragging myself back from that memory of happy anticipation. “Don’t waste valuable time on self-pity.” Time is money, and I no longer have all the time in the world.
    The plain cheese and veggie feast pizzas smell delicious and are ready to go. But the tab comes to over $20!
    â€œI thought the ads say, ‘Buy one, get one free,’” I protest. That’s why I ordered two!
    â€œOnly on Tuesdays,” the cashier replies with a sympathetic nod. Are the rip-offs ever going to stop in this country? I pay for