Hi, friends. Heather here, deep in the abyss of book writing. It’s going well! Anyway, the following essay just kind of…came out, as emotional writing often does. We published it in Tuesday’s issue of The Joint Account because it’s about money, but money’s not just money. How we approach, handle, and think about money comes from a much deeper place, so I knew I had to share it here, too. I hope this essay resonates with you all. Thanks for sticking with me even though I’m in your inbox less often for now. Only for now!
Doug and I went to Atlantic City two weekends ago. The purpose wasn’t to cosplay an episode of Jersey Shore, though I did refer to him as Big Dom and wear glitter pants with a top that was an inch too short. A couple good friends invited us along for a parents-only night away. We’d have some drinks. Eat red meat. Hit the tables. Good times only.
I have many great memories down the shore—that’s the beach, for those of you not fluent in the culture. Every summer, we found our way to the same strip of island, where I dug sand bunkers and ate Fudgie Wudgies until they melted down my hands. On the Ocean City boardwalk, I thought I owned the arcade where I famously tilted a Skee-Ball machine for scoring too high. Then, my dad and stepmom moved down there full-time, giving us a home base and the associated title of “locals.” They threw me an epic 21st birthday party at the same casino we just visited, tearing up the dance floor in the same exact nightclub. I lost a shoe. Doug lost his dignity. But we try to only remember the good parts.
Not all my time down the shore was so nostalgic.
I come from a long line of gamblers. So you know, I struggled with which adjective to place before the word “gamblers.” “High-rolling gamblers” feels too elite and gives the connotation of winning. “Degenerate gamblers” is too harsh; though admittedly, I’ve used the word before. Not to describe my dad or his dad, but to describe the behavior: the intensity. The waste. The reckless abandon of common sense.
Most people take road trips to visit grandma and grandpa at home. My dad’s parents had us meet them in Atlantic City. Holed up in a suite at Caesar’s or Trop World, I understood young that this was a place where more dreams die than live. This was a place kids didn’t belong.
My mom tried to find things for me to do, but we weren’t there for my entertainment. We were there for my dad to gamble with his dad—for them to fortify their bond by taking risks together. I spent most of my time tracing the perimeter of the casino floor in search of them, my head throbbing from the smog of cigarettes. What a nuisance I was just for being there; yet, the overarching message was for me to be grateful for being there. How lucky a little girl was to taste the spoils of artificial luxury amongst the highest level of players and their closest friends, their casino hosts.
I was perceptive enough to realize they weren’t our friends. The relationship was transactional. Nothing was free: We give. You owe. You play. You owe.
The environment also spoke a gendered script: one of women asking their husbands for money. Women seeking permission to enjoy themselves. We were mere spectators of the fathers and sons, the breadwinners trying to feel big.
I am so intimate with this world. It bred my earliest feelings of rejection. And yet, I feel connected to it in ways I can’t erase.
Pop died when I was a teenager, several years after my parents divorced. My dad took it hard. I watched him lean into things they used to do together, like moving to the shore and buying a fishing boat so he could speak to him on the water. I do believe that in part, he continued gambling to feel close to his father, each visit a tiny act of destruction for the world being unfair. I’ve shared in the fun with him often, though I question now whether I ever had fun. I’m starting to think I was just hoping to fill the vacant seat at the table.
I interviewed a brilliant psychologist last week about inheritances, and our conversation veered into grief. I learned, the reason such money weighs so heavily on people is because they expect it to fill the holes of time, memories, and feelings they never can receive from the person who is gone.
We are always looking to fulfill our wishes from childhood—even the ones we never will.
When I walk on the casino floor, my hands begin to sweat. My impulses ring. Some of my girlfriends can sit for hours playing penny slots for the amusement of it all, but to me, it’s not that. With each wager, my brain asks: What would you have done? What would you think of me—am I enough for you now? This is a game I’ll never win.
My husband sees it. He knows when I’m beginning to sink.
Which brings me back to two weekends ago. We’d sipped some drinks, eaten red meat, and were hitting the tables with our friends. I was down $400. I don’t know if it’s stress or what the process of writing this book is unveiling about my deep-rooted feelings around money, but I just didn’t feel good about it. I felt worse than usual.
He looked at me and said, “You’re not playing anymore.”
In money and life, our choices shouldn’t be in service of the things we cannot change. There’s too much good right in front of us. There’s too much good to lose.
We went for a walk. We spoke to a promoter at the nightclub and negotiated bottle service for us and our friends (at an age-appropriate distance from the DJ booth). We laughed our faces off as a group of millennials being served tequila with strobe lights and a bubble machine. Doug drank too much and lost his dignity once more. I guess we were cosplaying Jersey Shore after all because that night, he fell on a grenade for me. That’s just what you do for people you love.
Thanks for playing along. Do you have a complicated history with money? I’d love to talk to you about it. Email me: averagejoelle3@gmail.com.
The little things
Our youngest daughter, our little flamingo, our pandemic bebe Ruby turned 5 on Monday. Anyone who knows her will attest that she is pure sunshine. She noodles through life on a cotton candy cloud without an ounce of negativity. I am so blessed to be her mom.
I think we started this tradition six years ago, when Hazel turned two. The Boneparth Birthday Balloon Drop is something the girls both look forward to on every birthday morning. We’ll do it forever if they let us.
Also
I asked:
For couples to participate in our forthcoming book on love and money, and many of you answered the call! But now we’re getting into the deets: I need to speak with moms about their transition into motherhood. Matrescence, if you will (I did a meaningful podcast about this last year). How did becoming a mom impact your body, your mind, your career, your entire life? Please email: themergebook@gmail.com and I can explain more :)
I read:
Butter Has Become the Main Character — Grub Street
Secrets of a serial addict: How I got hooked on quitting, over and over again — Salon
I bought:
New flats, finally. I’ve been closely following the mesh flat trend since last spring, when Loeffler Randall came out with a style that was always sold out. But I also couldn’t in good conscience spend a ton on mesh flats, because they just seem impractical and easy to destroy. Low and behold, Jeffrey Campbell released this shockingly comfortable version, which I got on sale at Bloomingdale’s. (I have a lot of shopping to do this year, hopefully I’ll have more looks for less for you soon.)
Your wins:
Andrea made progress on a new manuscript. My other friend who won’t be named got laser hair removal. Wins all around!
Have you read Meet Me Tonight in Atlantic City by Jane Wong? I think you will find lots of similarities.
I grew up going to the Jersey Shore, Cape May and Wildwood. I always wanted to move down there, because my parents were in such a good mood, but my mom told me kids didn't live down the shore because they didn't have schools. I had cousins that grew up in Rio Grande but still believed her for some reason. She told me the same thing about the Poconos, which is just such a weird thing to lie about. Parents!
I knew I liked you. I think I remember Doug mentioning you're from Philadelphia area? But the summering in Ocean City is the final hook. I'm sitting in OCNJ right now. I grew up in Philly suburbs where I still have a home, but I'm WFH for 4 years in OCNJ.
Anyway, I loved this piece. You're a talented writer.
Doug was one of my FinTwit favorites, next to Josh Brown. Back I think when Doug demonstrated how to prepare a proper coffee, first you wet the filter, really cracked me up. (I'm old) Sadly those good Twit days have passed. I'm on Threads dying for FinThreads to pick up. Your new venture together is great and wish you success.
Was just in AC w/my elderly neighbors who go there several times a week. It's their social life. They've got a lot of points, clubs cards, and VIP access, you know, to the good buffets. Ha.
My parents always went when I was young, but I'm happy I learned good gambling lessons from them. They took a set amount they were willing to lose, and then if they lost that was that for 3 months. If they hit, take it and walk away. My Mom just wanted to make the $ last long on the slots. Greatest memories of summers in rental in OC brought me back for a house decades later. Childhood wish fulfilled.
Best of luck to you both.