Thank heavens for fairy godbuddies.

Lately, I’ve found myself struggling to remain on the straight-and-narrow when it comes to fiscal responsibility. As a recipient of state unemployment compensation, I know how important it is to stretch those limited dollars as far as they’ll go. I shop the big box stores, private labels, frozen and canned aisles like a pro, but I do it dreaming all the while of the little gourmet luxuries I used to enjoy – the occasional wedge of fourme d’ambert, package of chanterelles, or wine costing over $8 a bottle.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not a complete food snob. I come from a solidly working-class family, and I actually elected to go to graduate school; I cut my teeth on frozen veg, and still think Maruchan Top Ramen is one of the finest damned foods nature could never have produced. (In fact, I think I’ll go make bowl as soon as I finish this post.) But at some point along the way to adulthood and independence, I learned to love the feel of foie gras melting on the tongue. And foie gras ain’t for the unemployed.

Nor is decent wine. I am, by birth and at heart, a New Englander. The puritanical ethos drifts through the air out there, sucked into the lungs with your first wailing breath. My parents’ home state still has Blue Laws on the books, preventing the purchase of alcoholic beverages in the late evening or on Sundays. So I cringe every time I even consider using unemployment funds to buy a bottle of wine to go with my Hunts-and-Market-Pantry-spaghetti. (If anyone asks, the Fisheye cab sauv came out of my savings. Fisheye, people. On the bottom shelf, with the screw-cap. It’s practically Boone’s uppity cousin.) Fiscal responsibility requires I never spend limited funds on non-essential, non-special-occasion food or drink. Fiscal responsibility is a pain in the ask-sister-Susan.

I didn’t realize just how much my altered habits were affecting me until last week. I was IMing with a long-distance friend (a far more serious foodie than I), lamenting my Marshall’s-clearance flavored morning coffee, when he briefly disappeared from the chat, reappearing moments later with a vague command. “Check your email,” he insisted.

I did, and found he’d sent me $25 via PayPal, enough to get myself “either good coffee or good wine-nothing boring like paying bills.”

Initially, I was reluctant to accept his generosity, but then I considered the spirit in which it was given, and his position: he is securely employed, comfortable, and witnessing a comrade-in-taste laid low by the US economy.

“Aw, thanks. That was incredibly sweet!” I gushed 0.65 nanoseconds later, already excited by the prospect of tasting the berry-ripe, nuanced richness of an honest-to-God Bordeaux without guilt. I accepted his gift, something I would never have done were I still drawing an earned paycheck on a biweekly basis.

I opted instead for a pound of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe from Intelligentsia (at his suggestion), something I’d be able to savor for weeks (damned responsibility again), rather than days, and paid for a $12 bottle of Cabernet out-of-pocket.

(What? If I don’t remind myself of what I’m missing, how will I ever aim higher than a Fisheye-salaried position?)

Later, as I rolled the piping-hot Yirgacheffe around in my mouth, inhaled deeply the perfectly-roasted, subtle scent, I realized just what a gift a friend like that is. Often, when people find their friends have fallen on hard times, they grow distant, afraid that discussing their own good fortune would be an offense, yet fearing their once-friend’s ill fortune might be contagious, or at best an awkwardness best avoided in conversation. Few would even consider sparing a few dollars to gift them with a luxury they can no longer afford, just to keep their spirits up. Hell, *I* wouldn’t have thought of it, or thought any such thing could be so moving.

When I read articles encouraging the still-employed to act as references, to keep an ear to the ground for opportunities and the like, I think, Yes, but I also think that sometimes nurturing a friendship through a bout of unemployment can be much simpler: treating a friend to a little luxury, like inviting them over for a dinner finer than blue-box mac, or offering them a $15 bottle of pinot gris to swill at the end of a long day of composing cover letters and harassing former colleagues for job leads, can be enough to remind them that they are the same people you befriended, down but not out, and able to rise again. These are the gestures upon which lasting friendships are built, friendships that weather toilet-bogged economies. We jobless-but-seeking recognize good will where it is given and remember it, and cherish it, though it may be small change to you.

Now I start my job-hunting days, at least for the next few weeks, turbo-charged by a steamy cup of charity that I adore far more for the giver than the gift, thanking the heavens for my fairy god-buddy. As soon as I’m able, he’ll be getting a giant Gorgonzola-sprinkled rib-eye of gratitude, I assure you.

More tips for helping friends weather a bout of unemployment can be found here.

Advertisement