Rolling in Dough: Diary of a Cheapskate

I’m currently rolling in dough.

Jealous? Ha! Keep reading …

What follows isn’t some cautionary tale about the perils of becoming suddenly, stinkingly rich. You know, a lottery winner belatedly discovers millions can buy her bigger breasts and flashier pickup trucks, but—sigh—not true love. A media baron builds himself Taj Mahal II, but misses his simpler childhood days with his trusty sled, “Rosebud.”

Things never got that far in my case. I guess I’m just fortunate my cautionary tale didn’t end with me being suddenly, stinkingly thrown into debtor’s prison.

Seriously, all I ever wanted to do was save the planet.

Money was the last thing on my mind when I decided to start puttin’ in the crop on my condo balcony recently. See, I’m not just a cheapskate. I’m also a serious news consumer (whenever I, uh, “borrow” my neighbor’s paper) and I’d read a spate of interesting articles about the “back-to-the-land” movement.

From restaurants that use only locally produced meat and dairy to a famous author whose latest book details the year her family spent growing their own food, there was something so appealing about the notion. For one thing, it would automatically improve my health (I’m pretty sure no one’s developed a seed for growing rows of chili cheese fries). And by not buying any foodstuffs produced by evil multinational corporations that inject pesticides and preservatives into everything, I’d be protecting the environment. I took excellent notes on all the articles before dumping the newspapers in the garbage.

(Er, that is, before gently placing them in the recycling bin. Yeah, that’s it.)

Again, this was about saving the planet. Not money. Still … as I made what would undoubtedly be my last-ever trip to the supermarket, I couldn’t help chuckling at those other poor suckers pushing their carts through the aisles of overpriced, artificially-enhanced products. No more $3.99-a-pound “heirloom” fauxmatoes for me. Going back-to-the-land meant never again having to say “Sorry, it’s generic, imitation Cheez Whiz-like spread” to guests in my home!

Alas, it wasn’t all homemade gravy. Because my condo complex has a strict “no large pets” policy, I had to abandon my plan for getting a Jersey cow and turning him loose in the North 40—aka, the guest bedroom. No biggie. If I couldn’t breed my own prime rib or churn butter during Law & Order reruns, I still could have God’s Little Acre on the balcony. I’d go vegan by growing my own fruits and vegetables, and be happy as a tofu pig in all-natural you-know-what.