I have to introduce this piece by telling you about my name. If you look at my New York Times wedding announcement, you will see the well-known line, "The bride, who is keeping her own name ..." And indeed I did. I was Emma Gilbey for about three years after getting married. My two daughters have Gilbey as a second middle name—not because I love it so much, but because, if I were to travel alone with them, I wanted us to have the same names on our passports. It was only when we were all checking in for a plane trip sometime after 9/11, and I heard the check-in assistant say, “Keller, party of 3,” “Gilbey, party of 1,” that I decided to change. What if the plane went down? I didn’t want to die alone on a manifest. And that was that. I turned my maiden name into a middle name because for 20 years it had been my byline. (Or as I like to put it, the name of my act.) But for everything else, I’m Emma Keller and very happy that way.

When I read Allison Yarrow’s piece, below, I felt a little envious. I now wish I had changed from the start. But like her, I love both my names, although I agree Emma Gilbey Keller is a bit of a mouthful. I look at it this way. We have such an abundance of choice these days. Sometimes it’s OK to take a little too much.

I was a 25-year-old new Mrs., the average age in this country for getting hitched. Peers and coworkers in a city full of young singles thought I was crazy, but getting married was the easiest choice I had ever made. My most difficult decision was sidelined in the madness of wedding planning, and mysteriously cropped up when I least expected it. One day, cocooned in a mess of tulle and silk chiffon in the dressing room at Kleinfeld, I decided to change my name.

I had, long before the moment of dressing room epiphany, given the name change topic considerable thought. My Jewish mother from upstate New York dropped Schwartz to marry my Cajun Catholic father. She took his name, Gaudet (Go-day), and he converted to her religion, teaching me early on that when it came to marriage, everything was negotiable. Growing up in nearly Jew-less middle Georgia, nobody could pronounce my name, and I could hardly wait to trade up for something phonetic. In a landscape of Williams, Smith, Johnson, and Jones, my name—Gaudet—stuck out. I dreaded roll call. I became Gaw-dette, Gaw-day, and Gaw-dit, and though I was a likable and outspoken kid, I preferred a quick “here” to a disruptive correction. In my native south I rarely encountered a woman whose surname differed from her husband’s. I knew there were women out there who kept their maiden names; I just hadn’t met any yet.

I warmed to the idea of correcting people who fumbled pronouncing my last name, but mostly just when they asked. Answering Craigslist ads for my first New York apartment, I said my full name stronger, and usually without waiting for the question. As a young professional forging my way in a city far from where I grew up, I knew my name was the best branding I could get. Working in network television, I saw for the first time married women in droves who had kept their own names. Out of the five women with whom I worked, only one had taken her husband’s name. Katherine went from Cheng to Chan. Judy was proud to keep her Cuban name Artime, and made it her daughter's middle name, too. Lisa was Mandel at work and Cashman everywhere else. I wasn’t exactly looking for a spouse, but I began thinking that if I found one, I might like to keep the name I fought so long to love.

I met my future husband on the telephone. Ben was working for the William J. Clinton foundation, and I wanted an interview with his famous boss for my NBC health show. I never got my interview, but eventually acquired a husband instead. Ben wanted me to take his last name, but he didn’t pressure me.

A schooled daughter of second wave feminism, I have embraced and fought with old and new to develop a strong sense of self. I realized that taking his name is not a threat to my individuality. It is not submissive. It is an act of love. In an age of “I” and “Me,”—of MYSpace and IPod—“we” needs a lifeline.

College educated brides were five times less likely to take their husbands’ name in 2000 than they were in 1975, according to the Journal of Economic Perspectives. I have plenty of career-minded, female friends who have earned maiden name recognition and balk at the idea of jeopardizing their professional identities. An activist friend berated me at a bar one night, “You’re taking his name?” she intoned, like I was being naughty.

I still miss my given last name. Gaudet is rare enough to spark conversation, old friends still call me by it, and it has a nice spot in the alphabet. About 5,000 people in the United States call themselves Gaudets. The name I officially took last year is also uncommon. In fact, only about 1,250 people in the country share it with me. Yarrow (like borrow), though a serious alphabetical demotion, is a fabulous last name. It invokes the melodic activism of Peter, Paul, and Mary. It is a free spirited, flowering medicinal plant. And it is comfortingly difficult to screw up (though some manage). I had tried on plain Yarrow at my corner coffee shop before having it printed on all my legal documents.

“I’m Allison Yarrow,” I said to the woman behind the counter. She smiled blithely, and handed me my muffin.

Becoming a full-fledged Yarrow hasn’t been easy. When they called my name at the post office recently, I thought they were talking about somebody else. I introduced myself incorrectly at my husband’s work event. I decided to include both Gaudet and Yarrow in my byline, admitting to everyone that I’m afraid of Gaudet just going away. Ultimately, taking my husband’s name is a gesture that is bigger than me. I’m choosing family, which doesn’t make me any less of who I am. Call me the backlash to the anti-patriarchy backlash. I am proud to be “we.”

Allison Gaudet Yarrow is the assistant web editor at the Forward, where she blogs regularly. She is at work on a memoir about growing up Jewish in the Deep South.
Wedding photographs of Allison Gaudet Yarrow by Inward Studio.

Tags: marriage, taking your husband's name

This is part four of Bridget's wedding countdown. Read parts one, two, and three.

I think my friend Greta said it best when she said, "I don't get it, guys get to go to strip clubs and we get to drink things out of plastic dicks?"

We're talking bachelor parties. I should point out that the word "bachelorette" isn't recognized by spellcheck. However, neither is "spellcheck" (it's "spell check," apparently). Dan had an informal bachelor party when a pre-planned trip to Vegas happened less than a month after our engagement. When he went, I knew there would be a visit to a strip club. So what? I'm perfectly comfortable with that. Sure, it's sex work, and sure it's commodifying women, but it's not bad bad. Or so I thought.

When Dan returned home to our sunny apartment and willingly answered all of my questions (how many lap dances being the main one, the answer being two), I flew into a wounded rage. Not because I think being gently ground against by a women in a sparkly swimsuit bottom is cheating but because no such option exists for me.

Please allow me a brief sidenote: I have a friend who's a successful professional in a buttoned-up field. She was a stripper for two years. (This is a secret.) I’ve asked her a lot of questions. She said the bottom line (no pun intended) was being a stripper is a terrible job. The money is addictive, but everything else is depressing and dehumanizing. She emphasized that it was—even if there was no actual sex—sex work.

I mention this because I appreciate that women who are strippers are just doing their jobs. There's a market for it, and for a lot of young women it's a well-paying form of employment. But I resent that there is no female equivalent. There’s no place for women to go to get tantalized. It might be sexy to go to a dance club and grind against strangers but that’s different. That's not a transaction.

My sister once wanted to open a business that catered to female erotic thrills, but we couldn't quite figure out what that would entail. Flirtatious banter? Having someone tickle the back of your legs? Is this a personal preference issue? Maybe what I find titillating leaves other women cold or uncomfortable.

When it came time to plan my bachelorette party I said, “Let's go away for the weekend.” I could have forgone the whole thing but, like all things wedding related, it's personal and, personally, I wanted a weekend with my friends. After all, I have remarkable friends. The week Dan and I got engaged, they came to L.A. and surprised us. That is, they flew to L.A. and rang our doorbell at 8 a.m. with a dozen donuts and three bottles of champagne. They scraped and cashed in miles and flew standby to celebrate in person. I'm getting teary just thinking of it.

So, last weekend 16 of my closest friends (and my dearest maid of honor/best friend/sister) and I went to the blast furnance that is Palm Desert for the weekend. I made the announcement early on that I did not want any penis hats, no penis veils, or penis straws.

Even though it was 112 degrees in the desert, my friends looked for activities we could do other than submerge ourselves in the pool. A pole-dancing class was discovered. My sister's response: "When Dan and company go away they get to watch strippers. When we go away we have to be strippers. What the hell? Men get to enjoy paying for erotic thrills, and our fun activity is learning to be more efficient providers of erotic thrills, i.e. sex workers?"

But my friends decided we should go—I love to dance, have a historic interest in Burlesque, like taking classes, and enjoy some erotic fitness. The class turned out to be completely without raunch and rather serious. It was more like a dimly lit basic jazz class. Actually, not even. Jazz classes generally have more pelvic thrusts than this did. Still, it was a lot of fun. So was drinking a lot, talking, grilling, swimming.

I had one of the most fun weekends of my life. Seriously. We made headpieces. (Everyone on Etsy should worry, we are incredible.) We went to a fabulous dinner, then to a strange Palm Springs dance club. We had singalongs and all my dear friends toasted me and Dan. Best weekend ever. We had our own take on bachelorette-ness and it was perfect for me, just perfect. But the larger issue looms: Culturally, why is the period before the wedding a time for men to be "naughty" and for women to service ... anatomy straws? In our case we threw out tradition—Dan felt guilty, and I didn't use a straw.

Read the next installment in Bridget's wedding countdown here.

Photograph courtesy of Bridget Moloney.

Tags: bachelor party, countdown to a wedding, drinking, erotic, pole dancing, stripping

We all know that the magazine and newspaper industry has been hit hard by the recession. Cut backs and lay-offs happen regularly and some titles have closed down completely. Portfolio magazine was one such victim this spring. Former senior editor, Hilary Stout describes being laid off.

It’s 7:17 on a Monday morning and I am standing in the shower fantasizing. Not about sex or real estate or shoes, but about what sheer bliss it must be to be one of those mothers who drop their children at school and then walk out into a day unencumbered by bosses, deadlines or office politics. I am one of those other mothers—the ones dressed in “work” clothes, not gym clothes, the ones who can't meet at Starbucks because we have to get to the office, the ones who look overwhelmed before the day begins.

Less than three hours later, my fantasy comes true.

It is 9:45 and I have been summoned to a conference room along with my colleagues. We are being told that the magazine we have poured our hearts and brains into for the past two years is being closed down, effective immediately, due to deteriorating business conditions. “We stop work today,” says the senior human resources exec. And there it is: in one split second on a gorgeous April day, my identity is completely transformed—from an editor at a glitzy media company, a journalist who has traveled the world and interviewed presidents, into an unemployed middle-aged mother of three.

Aside from three six-month maternity leaves and two months beach-hopping in Rhode Island immediately after college graduation, I have always worked. I’ve had four employers in my 25-year professional life and each time I left one it was for a better opportunity. The notion of not working was at times the subject of fantasy but always, to my mind, a matter of choice. It never occurred to me that I could become jobless by decree.

Still, here was a chance to rethink the whole plan. I had severance. I had small children. Maybe it was time to reassess my priorities. At the very least, I would take the summer off.

As the gods would have it, less than two weeks into my unemployment, most of our household appliances started to break down. An odd satisfaction accompanies this. I can be home to wait for for the washer repair guy, the refrigerator repair guy, the mold removal guy without having to reschedule three meetings! The ailing hamster needs to go to the vet for injections three Thursdays in a row? No problem, I'm on it!

Funny, no one seems to notice the effort. “What did you do today?” my husband asks in a tone that seems to drip why-haven’t-you-done-more-today. (Is that really his tone or is it my own insecurity that hears it that way?) The biggest surprise has been the reaction of my children. They are stunned when I tell them I’ve lost my job but I assure them this means we’ll get to spend more time together. They seem happy. But several weeks into our new togetherness, I am startled to hear my eight year old ask: “When are you going to get another job?”

My six-year-old offers some unsolicited career advice at the bus stop on the way to school: “Mommy, I think for your next job you should drive a taxi.”

My 11-year-old starts acting as my agent. A kind woman offers us a ride as we walk out of the pediatrician’s office one afternoon into a rain storm, and during chit-chat mentions that she works at the Columbia University Business School. “My mom should get a job at the journalism school,” my daughter declares. “She used to travel around with Bill Clinton.”

“I used to be a journalist,” I say by way of meek explanation—startling myself with my use of the past tense but not sure how to correct it without a rambling explanation.

I take some quiet pride in the realization that my children, especially my daughter, view their mother's natural role as in the office. Surely this must bode well for womankind. But I can't help feeling that it signals some inadequacy as a mother. I try to remind myself that I'm not playing a zero-sum game. You can be a good professional and a good mother. One doesn't have to take away from the other. But still.

The more troubling development is what seems to have happened to my personal view of myself. "Used to be a journalist"? Why did that come out of my mouth? I'm beginning to realize that as with most everything else in life, unemployment is a more complex experience for women than men. For the men I know who are out of work, the focus is all about job and money. For the women I know—and believe me we have spent lots of time discussing this—it brings up complex questions about the essence of our lives, our relationships with everyone from our spouses to our babysitters, even the meaning of friendships with each other as we will ultimately all compete for the same miniscule pool of media jobs.

So here I am. With just over one month left of my summer off, I now know that I want to—and financial necessity dictates that I probably need to—work. I also know that I need to, if possible, find some way to find a way to work that allows more balance in my life. I've loved being able to see the kids after school, to cook dinner leisurely instead of frantically with one eye always on the Blackberry. I honestly don't know, as the industry i worked in my entire career shrinks and changes, what my professsional future holds. But I do realize now that being one of those other mothers is not sheer bliss.

Hilary Stout has worked at the Vineyard Gazette, New York Times, Wall Street Journal and Conde Nast Portfolio magazine. She looks forward to her comeback.

If you have lost your job and want to share your experience, email me at emma@thecomebackbook.com.

Photograph by Getty Images.

Tags: career, family, journalism, mother, unemployed

This week Kat, a physical trainer from New York, will undergo Intrauterine Insemination (IUI) using sperm from a donor. She has agreed to describe the process and her decision to undergo it, although she would like to keep her identity private. In this first installment she tells us of how she came to make the choice.

The decision to become a single parent was not my first choice and probably wouldn’t be something I would choose if my age hadn’t crept up on me. Soon after turning 39, I started to really panic about my age, my eggs, meeting someone, getting married. Getting close to 40 was like a magic turning point, where either your life dreams come true, or your life takes a very different course than the one you always thought you were going to have.

People start talking about your fertility and the quality of your eggs. Men get that look on their face, like “Nice knowing you, now that I know you are 40.” This is when you start not wanting to tell your age…before that, who cared!

I was determined that I would beat the odds and somehow find a guy quickly. So I went into this crazy search for the right man, who would get in a relationship fast and save me from this horrible, looming idea of using a sperm donor and having a baby by myself.

I even started looking for baby daddies—slightly older guys who hadn’t found the right girl, had never been married, who were successful, and wanted to have a child. At least my kid would have a father. I found a few who were interested, including a successful anesthesiologist, but they all chickened out. Apparently they were more interested in getting me into bed than really sitting with a lawyer, drawing up a contract and giving sperm, money and time.

I found another guy who wanted to be exclusive for two weeks to see if we were compatible and then decide quickly if we could have a child together—he already had one. But unfortunately, he had no income, and I had the opportunity to hear him on the phone with his daughter. I just didn’t like the way he sounded. If you are going to do this with someone who isn’t your husband—they need to offer something more than you have. For me it was financial help, and some help with raising the child. But if the person isn’t going to provide you with much, it’s not worth it. Then you have to have this person in your life and I would much rather be the sole decision-maker for my child than have to consult some guy who isn’t really helping me and who I don’t know very well.

So these are the decisions I am making, all the while going on—seriously!—100 dates or more in a year and taking a class on Finding Your True Love in 90 Days. The course was great. But when you have your biological clock ticking in front of your face every minute, guys have supersonic ears and hear it, no matter how silent you think you are keeping it. And their first instinct is to run. Don’t get me wrong, I am pretty good at getting guys interested in me, getting asked out etc., but you throw this time pressure in the mix and it is like spraying mace full blast in their face. So I knew in the back of my mind that the only thing to do was stop worrying about my clock, be cool, relax, and take it easy.

I was not giving up on my dream of a husband and kids. But meanwhile I was able to convince myself that I should go to a fertility specialist and find out my options and what the deal is, rather than base everything on hearsay. While waiting to go to the fertility doctor, I dragged myself on a very hot Sunday to a Single Mothers by Choice meeting where I got thoroughly depressed. I sat with the "Thinking About It" group. Here I am with a bunch of smart, pretty, very together women, who are fed up with not finding the right guy or who just got divorced and don’t want to let their child-bearing years go by. A lot of these girls had already started their testing and the process of picking a sperm donor (I was seriously having heart palpitations at the thought of this). Afterwards I went and ate pizza feeling sorry for myself and cried to my dad for an hour. I’ve heard this from many people—my friend Maryanne cried to her mom so hard about it, her stepdad told her to leave the house. Recently she just gave birth to a healthy little girl who came from an egg and sperm donor. It’s a process you go through until you get whole with the idea.

So then I go to the fertility doctor and—guess what?—another delay. I have a fibroid that needs to be removed. My OBGYN had missed it two years earlier and I need surgery. Yay! A delay I can’t do anything about! More time to keep searching for the right guy in time!”

Photograph of woman by Photodisc/Getty Images.

Tags: family, Intrauterine Insemination, IUI, single women, sperm donor

Can it really be only 11 months since Sarah Palin bounced into sight? It seems like a lifetime ago. Eleven months of proclaiming what America believes, of announcements regarding what women want, or what mothers need. Eleven months of being lectured to by someone who left office yesterday, but who reminds me with a growing sense of weariness, of the Dan Hicks song: How Can I Miss You If You Won’t Go Away?

Any minute now she’ll launch her personal Twitter account as she navigates the sensitive transition from public to private citizen. For now, she is headed to the outer banks of Murdoch country. She begins with the Harper Collins book deal, but I bet you a side of Alaskan salmon she’ll be in the Fox studios before you can say, “camper full of kids & coffee.” The good news is I won’t have to watch her there, and if I choose to—well, she’ll just be another form of entertainment.

I don’t hate her. I don’t know her—never met her. I’ve enjoyed her story and found her entrance into national politics good viewing. Yet her moral certainty is exhausting. The smiling matriarch act seems overbearing and un-maternal from my seat in the grey area of life. When she misquoted from her Starbucks cup on the campaign trail and announced that, "There's a place in Hell reserved for women who don't support other women," my heart sank. Where’s the choice in that, girls?

"No politickin’ just patriotism," is how Ms. Palin professes to engage with the world, and it’s a great title for her show. I have no problem with her doing the everymom routine with both hands clasped around a mug of coffee sitting on a couch next to Greta Van Susteren.

But Mother of the Nation? No thanks. It’s not because she isn’t aware of such-and-such a country, or what happened on this or that date. It’s her utter conviction that she knows best. What mother do you know—what woman do you know—who isn’t a little conflicted or confused? How many moms have you met who haven’t occasionally felt guilty that they’re doing at least some of it wrong? Yes, we believe in our feminine instinct, but our instincts have to be informed. And if they aren’t tempered by a certain measure of rational thought, we become nothing more than snarling predators.

Self-doubt is not comfortable, but it serves a purpose. It makes us kinder, gentler women—more accepting and less judgmental. The occasional twinge of uncertainty can make us more open-minded. Our own struggles make us more sympathetic to others. Softness does not mean weakness.

If Sarah P. chooses to run for office again, I will respect and endorse her right to pursue that course of action. As an American woman she can choose to do whatever she wants. I’ll admire her desire to create a new and exciting chapter in her life story. I’ll celebrate her ability to do so.

Would I ever choose to vote for her? No.

Tags: Sarah Palin, sarah palin resigns as governor of alaska

I met Jenny Pell when she spoke at a Mom's Night Out this May in Seattle. I loved her story—I loved her lifestyle!—so I asked her to share it with us on Your Comeback. Let us know what you think in the comments below. And if anyone else wants to share her story or describe her lifestyle for us, send me an e-mail at emma@thecomebackbook.com.

I got pregnant for the first time at 42, and was delighted as it was dearly wanted, but not expected. It was my first baby, but number four for papa. His children are 28, 25, 11, and now 2, by three mothers. I had sown lots of wild oats while he raised kids for 26 years—he was ready to take off and be free while I was ready to settle down and be a mama. My transition back to work for our family needed to include finding ways to satisfy free time for him, and creative travel for all of us.

I have enjoyed a raucous series of “careers” that have taken me to all corners of the world, given me a unique blend of skills, and facilitated my moving through radically different cultures and climes. I planted trees in the wilderness of British Columbia facing bears and wolves, total environmental devastation and regeneration, and living in bush camps and boats up the inside passage. I was a helicopter pilot, teaching aerodynamics and navigation, meteorology, and flying many experimental aircrafts (my mother’s favorite was dubbed "the flying lawn chair"). I lived in a yurt on an organic farm, and went on to co-found a yurt-building company. I eventually came to be a full-time Permaculture Designer, a blend of all my skills rolled into one comprehensive job title.

I took two full years off once my baby Sacha was born. He is an easy, smart kid, and we practise(d) full attachment parenting—nursing, co-sleeping, wearing your baby, diaper-free, and added sign language to the mix. He was pooping on the potty at 2 months (never looked back), and totally out of diapers at 18 months. He topped out at about 500 signs, telling complete stories and songs, and when he started speaking at 16 months he had an enormous vocabulary.

We live in a big community house in Seattle (four adults and the baby), and trade 15 hours a week nanny care for rent in one room, so I have mornings free to work from home. We share housework, and some meals. I grow a big edible garden on a tiny urban yard, and love to barter for basic needs.

In the fall of 2008, I began preparing to work part-time outside the house by March 2009. In the two years at home with Sacha my field had exploded—all of a sudden everyone was growing organic food, installing efficient water systems, adding passive solar features to their homes, and wanting to learn all kinds of skills.

Was it peak oil, Michelle Obama growing an organic garden, collapsing economies, global warming, or a visceral dissatisfaction with the status quo? It doesn’t really matter what path leads you to want to choose a healthy, abundant future, know your neighbors, and learn useful skills, what matters is that more and more people across the planet are making these choices, and turning these choices into jobs—some out of sheer necessity, and others because it is so compelling and satisfying.

I currently teach a one weekend a month Permaculture Design Intensive, give a monthly lecture and hands-on workshop. I’m also available for consulting: Jobs include backyard edible garden design and larger collaborative projects in the U.S. and overseas. While the bigger design jobs are the goal over time, in the short transition-back-to-work world my classes and workshops are full with waiting lists. And lucrative; I am earning $50-$150 an hour, building my skills and broadening my network while I cast about for more interesting and longer-term projects. I work for myself, set my own hours, and am in demand.

I find a deep joy in the work I do, and it is from that place of inner grace that I move through my work and family world. Look out to the horizon five, 10, and even 20 years hence and you must realize that the shift is on; each five years has been and will continue to be a radical departure from the previous five. Every step we take right now participates in crafting that future, for if we continue down the path we’ve worn this past century we will surely end up where we’re headed—environmental, social, and economic collapse. Choose a job that participates in a different future—bring your skills to the table!

Women returning to the work force after staying home with their children are in a beautifully unique moment in their lives—we are all emerging from a cocoon of love and nurturing, teaching root values and ethics, managing households, and often juggling tight finances. We want our children (and all children) to have loving, bright futures, replete with opportunities and abundance. Mothers are natural stewards and have a talent for looking ahead—we have to! So consider transitioning into the rapidly growing and interesting field of “green jobs”—your skills are greatly needed there. The pay is good, the hours tend to be more flexible than traditional jobs, many jobs are suitable for part-time employees, there is lots of room for innovation, and all the green industries are growing.

And Sacha? At 2 and a half, he can identify more plants than most adults, already uses tools, planted the whole garden, harvests veggies, sings all day long, still uses sign language, knows all about compost, water cycles, fungi, insects, and even photosynthesis. And Papa? He adores the baby, and raising this kid permaculture-style!

Jenny Pell is a Permaculture Designer in Seattle. If you want to learn more about Permaculture, visit her website www.permaculturenow.com, and drop her an e-mail. She looks forward to hearing from you.

Photograph courtesy of Jenny Pell.

Tags: attachment parenting, environment, gardening, permaculture, Seattle

This is one of several reader responses we've published responding to the question "What have you given up in the recession?" Read more reader responses and Emily Bazelon's related story on recession concessions. Next question: What haven't you given up, despite the recession? Send answers to us at doublex.recession@gmail.com.

Thanks to all the properties in Jackson County, Missouri, being re-appraised without anyone actually viewing them, and our property value being lowered 19 percent because of the part of town we’re in, we’ve had to give up on our idea of refinancing to a lower rate. According to the County, our house is now worth $4,000 less than the mortgage owed against it. People closer to Kansas City fared far worse, with inner-city and surrounding inner-core area values dipping by 26 percent.

It’s really not fair. We have a nice house and excellent credit, but we cannot even refinance the loan we have without then paying PMI.

We bought the house twelve years ago for $16K more than it’s worth now. You tell me that’s not totally depressing.

I told the Home Depot guy about it and I ranted a little about how every repair we’d ever made was of no benefit and asked if anyone else was more reluctant to fix up their houses, and he started crying.

Tags: housing prices, recession, recession sacrifices, refinancing

This is one of several reader responses we've published responding to the question "What have you given up in the recession?" Read more reader responses and Emily Bazelon's related story on recession concessions. Next question: What haven't you given up, despite the recession? Send answers to us at doublex.recession@gmail.com.

I'd like to offer something that I've given up because of the recession: smelling good.

Last year my job as a substitute teacher was cut, and I was unable to bridge the short job gap between July and our little financial Y2K. I quickly found myself unemployed and down to my last spritz of Chanel's Allure for men. This was bad news, because Allure is my scent. It gets oohs and ahhs of approval when I hug women. My leather jacket absorbs it in winter, creating a heavenly hybrid of masculine woodsy-ness. It's an essential piece of my everyday identity. Doing without it has been very, well, depressing.

The story behind this goes back to my days as a high school student in the late '90s. My French teacher was a wealthy, retired school superintendent who prided himself on his ability to impress his male (and some female) students with his fancy sports cars, tailored suits, and pleasantly distinctive scent, which he quietly revealed to be Allure. This man would lecture us on the importance of hard work. Unlike other teachers who touted a good work ethic, but somehow always seemed cornered and a little demeaned by their own career paths, our French teacher practiced what he preached, and upheld his lifestyle with an appealing philosophy. According to him, hard work was useless if one didn't reap its rewards. A bonus wasn't money. A bonus was a new suit, a down payment on a fast car, which set a man apart from his Toyota Tercel-driving brethren. He was the personification of my teenage notion that hard work yielded high dividends and the good life.

That was back in 2000, and throughout the decade I've steadily held various jobs. I was a coffee barista, a janitor, a sales clerk at an art store, a camp counselor, and an English teacher in Prague before settling into dual positions as an in-house substitute and an adult education teacher at public schools in the decrepit coastal city of Bridgeport, Conn. All of these jobs afforded me one simple pleasure—Chanel's Allure, regularly purchased as homage to someone I looked up to in my formative years, and part of an arsenal regularly deployed in my pursuit of Connecticut women. But when the Great De—I mean Recession hit last fall, I realized my job search would far outlast its normal gestation period. It immediately became apparent that I couldn't spend on the little luxuries I'd grown used to. No more designer jeans, new sneakers, and worst of all, no more Allure.

I entered a smell-cession. Naturally, I tried to find cheap alternatives to a first-rate eau de toilette. Royal Copenhagen seemed to get decent reviews, and in desperation I did something I've never done before—purchased cologne online without smelling it first. I guess I was drawn in by the fresh blue of the bottle, and the glitzy name. Big mistake. Upon its arrival I found that Royal Copenhagen's scent is inspired by the odor of stale potpourri, combined with an indescribable something that only a Danish hooker would wear. I walked around smelling like sweet death. I could only get through a tenth of the bottle before I gave it to a friend. Actually, a former friend. Needless to say, we haven't spoken since.

Then I tried Jovan Musk, which retails for about $10 at CVS. I'd somehow gotten the impression that Jovan was a "throwback" scent that had been forgotten when the inflationary '70s merged with the quasi-sophisticated black-and-white TV commercial world of the Obsession '80s and Hilfiger '90s. Its unpretentious packaging and brand-name familiarity lent it an aura of being a good deal, and acceptable recession-wear. This time I gave it a few sniffs on my skin before putting my good money down. Jovan hasn't offended me like R. Copenhagen did, but for some reason I'm embarrassed to wear it. I walk around wondering if the faintly putrid scent of alcohol-soaked sunflowers is acting as a pheromone booster, or just repelling everyone within ten feet of me. I've had no trouble getting to the head of the line at the supermarket since I started wearing Jovan Musk. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, so I've limited my usage to days when I'm mostly outdoors. At least then this dinosaur of an aroma can mingle harmlessly with the other damp smells of rural Connecticut.

I've come to realize that the stark decline in compliments on how I smell is directly related to this economic downturn, and the sacrifice I've made. Aramis, Chaps, Old Spice, Aqua-Velva—none of them achieve the ephemeral freshness of masterful cologne. Recently, I landed a part-time job at a local university. When my coffers are full again, my first order of business will be to replenish my stock in Allure. I look forward to the day when I can turn my bonus into the familiar heft of Chanel's 3.4-oz little brown box. It'll be nice to smell good again.

Until then, I'm stuck in the olfactory equivalent of a bread line.

Tags: cologne, recession, recession sacrifices, sacrifices

This is one of several reader responses we've published responding to the question "What have you given up in the recession?" Read more reader responses and Emily Bazelon's related story on recession concessions. Next question: What haven't you given up, despite the recession? Send answers to us at doublex.recession@gmail.com.

The recession started for me last year, when I got "fired" from the best paying job I had ever had. I am a Veterinary Technician, so even very good pay is relative—50K a year still doesn't buy a house in the SF Bay Area. I found a new job fairly quickly—I have lots of experience and there are always more jobs than employees in my field—but I am making 10K a year less now. Plus, I have a longer commute, so my gas costs are higher.

More directly, I also breed and show Japanese Bobtail cats. Or, at least I used to. I really cannot afford to show anymore, and I made a decision not to have any litters this year because buying a cat is probably among the ultimate in luxury spending, and I was worried I wouldn't be able to place the kittens. Since I always operate my hobby in the red (costs are *always* higher then income—even an IRS agent told me I shouldn't bother trying to claim anything, because I didn't qualify as a business), I have had to make the decision to stop the very thing I love doing most, and have done for the last 20 years. I have realized that the majority of my friends were made through the Cat Fancy, and so do feel cut off. Luckily, I have more time now for my boyfriend and am trying to see staying home on weekends and just relaxing (and trying not to spend money) as a good thing and not a bad one. I am hoping that things change soon. If they don't, then I'm never going to breed or show again...

Tags: cats, hobbies, recession, recession sacrifices, unemployment

This is one of several reader responses we've published responding to the question "What have you given up in the recession?" Read more reader responses and Emily Bazelon's related story on recession concessions. Next question: What haven't you given up, despite the recession? Send answers to us at doublex.recession@gmail.com.

I gave up my job early last summer to spend time caring for a terminally ill parent, thinking that when it was over, I can easily find another job. No regrets on leaving my job for my parents. When it "was over" the economy tanked. I prepared to be unemployed until January, and it was then I realized how competitive it is out there and how tough as an older worker (late 40's) the task before me is.

Two months ago I gave up my absolute favorite car (and cried) to pay my mortgage. This after giving up and selling other items to pay my mortgage previously. The car sale allowed yet one more payment to be made on my home. In this economic time, it is about NEED, not WANT. I WANTED to keep my car of 14 years, but I NEEDED to keep my home. I sure wanted other items I gave up, but I didn't NEED them.

I gave up my red nail polish, coffee, fast food, hair appointments, fitness membership—Yes, I want all these but don't need them.

I gave up on Social Security benefits when I'm eligible since my annual statement/estimate actually read that my benefits paid WILL be 70 percent of the actual earned entitlement. And after 2037, nearly insolvent.

You hear a lot about families with kids, yet I assure you many are like me. Almost homeless, single, older, 401K virtually non-existent and losing job opportunities to those in their 30's.

Apparently I gave up a lot of friends, their choice, as being unemployed. One friend with whom I had been very close actually came out and confessed, "....I feel awful talking to you knowing you're not getting work and can't bring myself to ask how it's going." REALITY IS THIS: We are being treated as terminally ill people by some who hold the attitude that there is nothing they can do to help, so they stop contact and think someone else will help. Ugly but true. But they CAN help by talking to us. We are still the same as ever, just not so financially privileged as before.

I personally remain very optimistic about my future and I know that if I cannot find the opportunity, I have to create it for myself. I'm healthy, creative, terribly realistic and have not asked for money. I don't see my enthusiasm in a lot of other similarly situated folks. Wake up everyone!!! The real damage done to those people isn't lack of money. It's the utter lack of respect and disregard displayed by those still working to those who aren't, including by family members. This is so prevalent, that I proactively visit with people in my situation and help ensure they do not engage in a pity party. This is such a large scale issue that I see the economic boom of the future as this: counseling service providers will not be able to handle the number of Americans in need of their services.

You next question should be "What won't you give up?" For me, I won't give up my drive, passion to succeed, confidence, my house and my clear nail polish. I can easily live on oatmeal and bananas until the next job is secured. Life is good.

Tags: friendship, optimism, recession, recession sacrifices, wants vs needs