A cheapskate of formidable caliber. This is the type of person who, upon opening his/her wallet, is swarmed by the colony of moths that has chosen to breed there... When asked to make a charitable donation to a respected cause he/she responds by demanding that a certified copy of the organization's financial disclosure statement be sent to his/her accountant for review... Upon being invited to a loved one's wedding, checks the bride's gift registry and opts to make a partial contibution for the least expensive item on the list...

The strange thing about most tightwads is that they percieve themselves as merely being frugal, whereas the majority of their peers see them for the most part as simply being jerks.
People become tightwads for all manner of reasons and rationales. Some do it just to save money -- to become millionaires easily. Some do it so that a parent, usually the wife, can stay home. My wife and I have tightwad tendencies. My tendencies come from my engineer nature -- I hate to waste anything. Of course, this means our tightwaddery takes on a different form than people who have different reasons. I am downright generous with my friends, however.

Whether or not someone is a tightwad depends on perceptions. To me, Amy Dacyczn is a bit extreme sometimes. I don't need to have a barn full of things saved just in case.

Forms that frugal living/being a tightwad might take on: (I do not practice some of these)

In short, frugality is a viable lifestyle. Some people are jerks about it, but some people are jerks about conspicuous consumption, too. I don't care what you do - but I'll be saving my pennies, thank you very much.

"Look at my hair," Hannah says:
"It's all the way down to my ass."

She turns around, and indeed
it's right where she says.

But this is inappropriate language
for a ten year old:
I correct her.

"Try again," I say,
A line I use more and more lately —
we were at Trader Joe's last Tuesday and she marvelled
very publicly
about the shitty homemade candy
people kneaded with their hands,
chocolate that fit into the grooves of old palms.

Kids grow up fast in the city.


Another Tuesday, and
this time I've got a fat one.
He is driving a Ford
and has tattoos on his fat arms
of names
of women
faded away both inside and out:
I am sure that when he is done moving his girth all over me
while my back sweats into his vinyl seats
there will be no tattoos on his arms to even fade away
of my name

Or Hannah's
(he asked me if I had a daughter before
he asked my name -
it did not strike me at the time
as anything strange)

"say hi to Hannah for me,"
he says through his open window:
I've got no pockets for his hundred,
so I stuff it in my underwear
(no bra)

When I take it to walmart the next
morning I wonder if the cashier detects
the stink of cunt and cock
and that night
Hannah doesn't finish the Jell-O I bought
for her


Sunlight through the blinds:
Hannah is asleep. Seven am.
This one — Jerry
insisted on coming back to my place.
He leaves in the morning before
I wake up and when I do
I go to Hannah's room and make sure
her underwear isn't
torn

Jerry gave me one-fifty because I let him come
home:
enough for
a nice bike.
Hannah smiles in her sleep, as though she knows:
walmart sells Schwinn
and she'll get one so long as she
stops cursing —

kids grow up fast in the city.

Y'know, if you log in, you can write something here, or contact authors directly on the site. Create a New User if you don't already have an account.