I Was Poor Once By Guest Author @mcmillendc

Please welcome talented and smart author, D.C. McMillen. I met D.C. in my very first Triberr tribe, and it’s been great watching her get signed and release lots of terrific books. D.C. opens up about growing up poor and how that affected her life. 

 

I was poor once. This lack of funds lasted for a long time. Like, from when I was born until I was in my late twenties. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t poor in the sense that I had flies hovering around my eyeballs, thank goodness, but I was at the level of, “Will we pay the heat bill or should we buy groceries this month?” I remember reaching out to cash car buyers near me companies for some fast cash. I’m not by any means rich now but I am comfortable. Comfortable is a lovely place to be when you are vitally aware of the alternative. In fact, being comfortable after being poor actually makes one occasionally feel rich. When I find myself debating whether to spend extraordinary amounts of money on a purse or go to wine tasting in Niagara over the weekend, for example.

The members of my family hold a range of different income levels. Some of them are filthy stinking rich (like, own their own island rich), some of them are uncommonly broke, as exemplified by my past, and some are in the middle, where I am now. One thing is certain, however. With the exception of the newer members of my family, we were all born dirt poor. Those of us who made any sort of money at all basically did it through sheer determination. We clawed our way to our stations in life by earning an education, starting our own businesses or sleeping with every rich guy we found until choosing one that we thought we could live with in relative happiness for the rest of our lives. I did it by way of the first two options, in case you’re wondering. Not that I think there is anything wrong with gold digging. Some women refuse to date men who are shorter than them, some refuse men who have a mullet or own what was once a jean jacket but is now a vest, thanks to some quick scissor work. Other women won’t date men who are poor. I get it, and I don’t care.

Many of life’s mandatory experiences, like attending weddings, have the potential to be more fun when one is comfortable. The reception is too far away from your home? No problem, rent a hotel for the night. All of the same people from the last wedding you attended will be at this one, too? Obviously, it’s time to buy a new outfit and a garnet stone for sale to match. The bride and groom deserve a little extra because they helped you move last year? Sure, drop another bill in the card. You didn’t need to go out for an expensive dinner this month anyway.
Yep, attending a wedding when one is comfortable has its advantages. Especially in my family, where the poorer members of the family are not let off the hook when their roots are showing or their dress is not freshly pressed simply because they don’t have an inconsequential thing like cash. I mean, we’ve all been there and when we were, we wouldn’t have been caught dead in that outfit!

Case in point; I was about seventeen years old when I had to attend the wedding of one of my rich aunts. I spent days scouring the thrift shop until I finally found the perfect dress. It was a 50’s style thing – that odd colour of pink that is neither pale nor bright, a stiff sort of cowl neck collar and silver lace covering the entire fabric. It was five dollars. I found silver strappy sandals for just two dollars so, with a little lipstick and some help from a friend with an up do, I was ready to go! Honestly, I felt like I could have spent $700 on the outfit instead of just $7, and I wouldn’t have looked any better.

My mom gave me a ride to the wedding as she was also invited, which took place on a hotel rooftop – both ceremony and reception. On our way there, my mom told me that the Maid of Honour’s dress cost $10,000. Wow. When we arrived, I stepped out of the car and the strap on my sandal snapped. My heart plummeted. My perfect outfit was completely ruined! My mom fished a pair of chunky black heels from the trunk. They were old and scuffed and they looked completely stupid. Whatever, I buckled them on, grabbed my gift, which was a basket that I put together – a metal spaghetti colander from Ikea, which I then filled with spaghetti utensils and kitchen towels, a box of Williams & Sonoma style pasta and, instead of the usual fluff that goes in gifts baskets as filler, I used those little, multi-coloured pasta wheels. The card was hand-made (I even made the paper with a little press, tea leaves, dried flower petals and whatnot). I was pretty sure the bride would just throw the whole thing out rather than take it home in her car but whatever, I tried.

After stepping into the rooftop venue, I pounced on the glass of champagne a waiter offered from a silver tray and white-gloved hand, with as much pomp as he could muster. I could already feel people casting glazes over me, starting with the hair and makeup, skimming downwards and then landing with a thud at my clunky heels. My great aunt and my gay uncle immediately summoned me. They sat like royalty in Queen Anne Style chairs. With a sweep of her hand, my great aunt motioned for to sit. As there was only an ottoman, I perched on the corner of it.

For the next fifteen minutes – fifteen minutes of my life I’ll never get back, mind you – I received a very catty and well-crafted tongue lashing regarding the state of my shoes and hair. Wait. My hair? What the fuck was wrong with my hair? With one final sniff, the duo finally finished tag teaming me and arched their eyebrows expectantly. Of course it was only my imagination but all noise in the venue seemed to come to a lull. I felt like all eyes were boring into me.
“So what you’re saying,” I said carefully, “is that you approve of my dress.”

“Oh yes, darling. Your dress is lovely.”

“Unlike your cousin’s. Be a dear and call her over.”

Yep, in my family, attending a wedding is a lot more fun when you have time, money and a modicum amount of fashion sense.

~~~
The Wedding
Karen is not the type to attend a wedding with a guy she’s only slept with once but, in a rare display of empathy, she agrees to accompany her new landlord Allen to this sure-to-be-boring function. Fortunately, Karen knows how to have a good time, and she’s pretty sure she and Allen can make their own fun…even if they have to do it in the outdoors just steps away from a couple hundred stuffy wedding guests.
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~~~
D.C. McMillen enjoys writing about dirty sex in questionable places but has been known to write about other subjects, on special occasions. She is featured in MuseItHot’s Short & Spicy line up with The Rental, The Wedding and A Decent December. D.C.’s short stories and flash fiction can be found in several anthologies and other print and online publications. She is obsessed with Twitter and invites you to look her up at @mcmillendc, on her blog, or Facebook.

 

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