Stories

There are so many things wrong with Meg Whitman’s story that it’s difficult to know where to start. Meg Whitman was paying Nicky Diaz Santillan, her housekeeper, $23.00 an hour for 15 hours a week. Who pays their housekeeper $23.00 an hour. Answer (and I’ve researched this): Nobody. But wait, Nicky was, also her nanny. Assuming it was Monday to Friday, who has a nanny three hours a day?!! Answer: Nobody. Add into that, in addition to being a housekeeper/nanny, (i.e. domestic hyphenate), it was, also, part of Nicky’s job to sort the mail which clearly implies, she showed up, at least, five days a week.

Was the “fifteen hours” a way to avoid paying withholding tax, social security tax, unemployment tax, and, additionally, maintaining a worker’s compensation policy? Was it a ploy to pretend that Diaz Santillan was an independent contractor who “set her own hours”? A nanny doesn’t get to set their own hours and it’s very unusual that a housekeeper could do the same. But we don’t know. The facts aren’t out yet as to whether Ms. Whitman reported on a 1099 form or a W4 for Diaz Santillan. Although Meg Whitman has stated in many subsequent interviews, that she had a 1099 on file for Diaz Santillan (leading me to believe that my conjecture may be right.)

It doesn’t bother me that Meg Whitman hired a woman who had a problem with her immigration status. It bothers me that Meg Whitman didn’t do anything to help her. The same way it bothers me that Meg Whitman didn’t bother to even register to vote until she decided to run for office.

In the late 70's when I first started venturing from New York City to Los Angeles for screen tests and my sorry ass attempt at stand up, it was difficult to find community outside the wacky nightlife of the Improv Club. My appearances there, under Budd Friedman's generous aegis, were an evening out and conversation piece for my agents at William Morris, who were trying desperately to get me off that stage and into a nice little sitcom. Meantime, they used my appearances to lure Norman Wexler, the gifted screenwriter of "Saturday Night Fever" fame, severely manic-depressive, into signing with them.  When he wasn't locked up, Norman was my biggest fan.

I tried hard to fit into this world, but as the only ingenue comedienne in a world of compulsive male comics, or female comics who delivered jokes like compulsive male comics, I was a she-maverick by design.  When I wasn't onstage struggling not to slip in Robin Williams' sweat, or straining to milk laughs from Gary Shandling's exhausted audience, I'd be in the bar either waiting to go on, or to wind down and assess the disaster of my newest bits. 

There were no more than 300 students in grades 1-12 at Baker Academy and I graduated with pretty much the same 17 people I started 1st grade with. Needless to say, I knew these people quite well and knew exactly what I wanted their mother's to make when I came to visit. Lisa's mother, Ms. Martha made an 'apricot nectar cake', Susan's mom "Ms. Betty" made a 'peach pie' and the list goes on. My mother has many of these recipes saved in a nice little recipe box after her Baker Academy cookbook was reduced to shreds.

The "Baker" cookbook was the first one I ever used. It's a compilation of the best recipes from all the families I grew up with. I wish we would have been more gentle with it as was typed on plane paper and bound with spiral plastic; no doubt a project a group of mother's took on, probably 'assembly-line' style in the school lunchroom. 

Several years ago, when my grandmother died, guess what we found? An old Baker Academy cookbook. The cover is missing but it's in pretty good shape. I'm thinking about making copies of it and giving them to all my friends, who ask me for the same recipes that I always ask my mom for that come from the Baker Academy cookbook.

Three years ago, I walked into one of LA’s many Whole Foods stores and saw a pint box of Del Cabo Organic Cherry Tomatoes for $4.99. Wouldn’t buy those here, I thought, because Trader Joe’s always has them for $2.99. Three days later, I was in the 99¢ Only store and, I swear on a stack of tomato crates, they had the same box of cherry tomatoes for, yes…99¢. Of course you can’t possibly rely on dollar stores for your grocery needs, because their stock is limited, constantly changing, and rarely of the Del Cabo quality. But finding these upscale tomatoes at the discount store where I go to buy gift bags and sink stoppers really drove home the point that prices for the same foods can vary wildly depending on where you shop.

Soon after this accidental lesson in comparative pricing, something else happened which cemented my conviction that shopping around can pay significant dividends, especially if you’re on a fixed budget:

I had a delicious sheep’s milk brie, called Brebirousse d’Argental, at a friend’s party, so I asked where he’d bought it. The answer was a local, artisanal cheese shop, the only one for miles and miles. I drove there the next day, but when they said the Brebirousse cost $48 a pound, I nearly choked. (“I’m sorry,” I thought, “did I say caviar? I meant cheese.”) I left the store empty-handed but determined to find this oozy, aromatic mass at a price I could afford. And I should say that I really enjoy this kind of a challenge; it’s a treasure hunt to me.