Having
recently joined this academic community, I find myself, a few
weeks into my second quarter, better equipped in managing the
Stanford campus. I have my commute down, I can find
 |
| Melissa
Marconi, the envy of many for her always fashionable look
and her endless charisma, attribute her good style to effective
research skills: finding a good bargain at places like Lohman’s.
She has even led several of the PWR teaching team on clothing
makeover outings! – Ed. |
my classrooms, I’ve
navigated the library, and I’ve even tracked down Parking
and Transportation in the odd corrugated metal building called
Bonsair. Admittedly, though, there is an important element of
my day with which I still struggle. Though the academic spread
of campus is intrinsic to a teaching fellow’s experience
here, so too is importance of the hunt-and-gather mission of one’s
daily quest for lunch.
The Origins
of Frugality: Popcorn Paucity in Childhood
I am a self-proclaimed
tightwad, and I come by it naturally. Growing up as the middle
child of five, my mother instilled in me, though perhaps not her
intention, an incessant drive to track the small details in sniffing
out the best bargain. Given my fond recollection for my grandparents,
I think Judy did not come by her skinflintedness genetically.
Rather, her parsimonious nature arose out of the conditions of
her environment. With four kids (back then) and a resident’s
salary upon which to feed the family, Judy’s cheapness,
I am convinced, has some obscure origin of Darwinism Meets Supply
& Demand.
On the topic of avaricious behavior, I recall (without nostalgia)
Family Movie Nights while growing up. On those rare occasions
when a Travolta or Stallone was rated PG and my parents summoned
the energy to load their brood in the family faux wood-paneled
wag, Judy always brought for the family her own grocery bag of
home-popped popcorn to smuggle into the movie theater. There was
only one instance of ‘popcorn picnic’ in which the
ticket taker didn’t extricate her popcorn due to the theater’s
policy. Even though this was the one occasion that we were allowed
to snack alongside the rest of the darkened crowd, it ultimately
lacked in what I’d imagined to be: the experience. Forever
hopeful she could sneak her cheap snack in with the family, my
mother attempted it every time we went to the movies.
After the movie had
ended, usually miffed by the violence or language or message of
the film, Judy (still undaunted) strode without hesitation to
the darkened snackbar counter to ask the guy cleaning the floors
to return to her the crumbled, greasy brown bag of stale popcorn,
rightfully hers. During those childhood rides home from the theater,
eating cold popcorn devoid of turgidity, I swore to myself that
I would someday make enough money to buy my family real popcorn
when I took them to the movies, and I might even be persuaded
to purchase the insanely expensive, but oh-so-enticing, enlarged
boxes of Sno-Caps and Goobers. (more)
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