I've never been in debt. Okay, that's not entirely true. Yes, I've been in the kind of debt where I had to make car payments, and I'm currently in the kind of debt that says I have to make house payments.
I've never been in credit card debt, however. Truth be told, I've never even owned a credit card. I don't trust them. I've been conditioned not to trust them thanks to many years of living with college roommates.
Most of my college roommates had this weird outlook on credit cards. Basically, they thought credit cards were magical pieces of plastic that just magically paid for things and that they were somehow immune from the the ensuing debt that came about due to excessive credit card spending.
I'll admit it: I was sort of jealous of my roommates and their magical credit cards. After all, they always seemed to have money and, if they didn't, they just whipped out their credit cards. Books? Put them on the credit card. Food? Put it on the credit card. Night out at a strip club? credit card.
And yet there I was writing checks and budgeting like a fool. I remember thinking that I was doing everything all wrong. I mean, there I would sit, meticulously lording over my finances, while my roommates went waltzing all over town swiping their credit cards with the careless glee of a six-year-old with a loaded pistol.
Then, one year, I was a roommate with a guy named Chad. Chad was actually a former high school classmate of mine. He was, and is, a tech-head. He's one of those guys who was born to know technology. Way back in elementary school, he taught me how to write simple programs for the Apple IIc, and he always just seemed to know everything about computers.
But he didn't know shit about personal finances. He whipped out any one of his many credit cards with the swiftness and ease of a Old West gunslinger. By the time we became roommates, he had already accrued over $10,000 in credit card debt.
I remember thinking what an incredibly large amount of money that seemed to be, especially when I factored in the understanding that he also received financial aid, and that he also worked. Granted, he worked at the local Brach's candy factory on the Gummi Bear line, which paid about as well as you might imagine, but it was still money, so I came to the conclusion that old Chad was a pretty carefree spender.
Well, one day, I popped into Chad's outrageously messy room where I noticed, tucked between two huge bags of pilfered defective Gummi Bears, a credit card notice that was slugged "Urgent!" and another that was slugged "Immediate Payment Required" and still another that read "We Break Fingers And Toes."
Then the calls started coming in, usually two or three a day. "Is Mr. Haugen available? We really need to speak with him." No, he's not here. "Are you sure you're not really Mr. Haugen?" Yes, I'm sure. "Well, when he comes in, have him call Mike at Discover immediately." *sound of shotgun cocking* Will do.
Chad was masterful when it came to avoiding creditors. He always seemed to leave the apartment just two or three minutes before a creditor called. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense. Which was all fine and dandy, except that I ended up being the intermediary between Chad and the creditors, so I got to absorb all the impatient anger and suspicion of basically every credit card company on the planet.
It was the day a creditor appeared, in person, at our doorstep that I realized Chad's debt situation was probably more dire than Chad cared to admit. There was a knock at the door, I answered, and a gentleman in a suit that looked both impressive and threatening stood before me. He asked to see a Mr. Chad Haugen, at which point I heard a little scuffling emanating from Chad's room as Chad scurried out the back entrance which, conveniently, was located at the far end of his bedroom.
We chatted together, the ominous creditor and me, for about an hour, waiting for Chad to get home, even though, of course, there was no way in holy hell Chad was going to make an appearance while that guy was in our apartment. I even had to produce my ID, so the creditor was satisfied that I wasn't, in fact, Chad Haugen.
After that, I believe, Chad ended up getting a loan from his parents, or somebody, so he could pay off his credit card debt at least enough to keep the creditors at bay. He eventually got a job working at IBM, which was a long-assed commute from Winona to Rochester, but paid a whole lot more than the Gummi Bear line.
As for me, Chad's experience with credit cards pretty much scared me away from plastic for good.
Reporting on Rumors
I'll be the first to admit that Rochester, Minn., is a boring wasteland of pre-fabricated structures and stagnant entertainment. However, it wasn't until last night's 10 p.m. news report that I realized how royally screwed up this city is. Now, keep in mind, this is a legitimate news agency, a real institution that prides itself on solid broadcast journalism. And yet, last night, KTTC News, Rochester's source for local information, reported on a rumor. That's right, they dedicated about two minutes of precious air time to reporting on a rumor circulating around town that a Timberlodge Steakhouse employee was found to be urinating on patrons' steaks. This is the height of journalistic incompetence in my view. You do not report on rumors. If you're assigned to investigate a rumor, you had better go out and find hard facts that either support or refute said rumor. Lacking solid facts, you do not report on something that is essentially a non-news myth. But there, right before my eyes, KTTC news was interviewing Timberlodge employees, asking them how the rumor has affected business, as if a rumor about rampant steak peeing would actually increase sales. Did they offer up any facts refuting or supporting the rumor? No. So now, what was once an urban legend circulating through local taverns has become household information; everybody knows about the Timberlodge Steakhouse steak peeing rumor. I have to get out of this town.
Those Crazy Brazillians
Two items in news of the odd today about those wacky Brazillians.
"Fear of Fat Keeps Women Hooked on Smoking" That's right, Brazillian women, determined to maintain the perfect body, are madly puffing themselves thin, according to a Sao Paulo Heart Hospital study. Tobacco companies must be drooling at the marketing gold being dangled in front of them.
"Are you overweight? Try smoking."
Said one 23-year-old Brazillian model Tais Thormann, "I know smoking is bad, but I don't want to stop because it makes me lose weight. When I am hungry, I go for a cigarette and a little coffee."
Ah, yes, cigarettes and coffee, the world's most preferred health diet. No one said beautiful people were also necessarily smart. Except for me of course.
"Cheating Husbands Profit From Rampant Crime" You know your country has a kidnapping problem when husbands use it as an alibi after a night of infidelity. According to the story, "Police in Brasilia said on Wednesday they busted two men for false alibis and a third is under investigation after they pinned jaunts with other women on thugs and thieves." Imagine the following scene if you will:
SCENE: Husband comes home, dramatically falling through the door in feigned exhaustion. His clothes are messed up, as is his hair.
WIFE: And just where have you been all night?
HUSBAND: Oh, it was horrible! I was kidnapped! I barely escaped with my life!
WIFE: Is that lipstick on your collar?
HUSBAND: Did I mention they were very affectionate kidnappers?
WIFE: I don't believe you! Why do you find me unattractive? Is it because I've put on weight?
HUSBAND: Yes, but maybe you could take up smoking.
Column Conundrum
Here I am again on a Wednesday pondering the topic of this week's newspaper column. I have a host of ideas to draw from: last week's wedding, summer vacation plans, fireworks, etc. I'll labor in front of my home computer for a couple of hours tonight, and I'll detest the finished product but send it anyway, and then I'll get feedback from family and friends the next day telling me they really liked it. It's just easy to hate what I write. Plus, my friend Lisa wants me to meet her for drinks tonight, so that could keep me from writing all together. I was also supposed to see "Attack of the Clones" with my officemate and her sisters and friends, but she's sick today so that's probably off.
I'm not a real movie theater enthusiast. To hear my officemate describe the experience, you'd think all the world's ills could be cured by sitting in a darkened theater. I think the last movie I saw in the theater was "The Blair Witch Project," which may explain why I don't feel drawn to theaters. Gawd, but that was a horrid flick! I was actually sitting there, saying things out loud like, "Oh, give me a break!" and "I am now officially cheering for the witch!" Seriously, the scariest thing about the movie was that I paid $7 to see it.
I still have a job at IBM. Well, at least for the next 90 days. It seems as though there's some sort of shake-up in my department that may, or may not, result in a better arrangement for me. Whatever happens, I'm currently working under an ominous cloud of doubt that is likely affecting the quality of my work, mainly because I keep toggling between writing articles and surfing through jobs on Monster.com. I may have to move to the cities to find stable employment. Here in Rochester, you can work at the Mayo Clinic, IBM, or you can be sandwich artist at Subway. Your choices are pretty limited. I like my job, I like the work, and I like the pay, but the way this company operates makes me wonder sometimes if the executives are consulting a Ouija board that is channeling the spirit of a drunken Enron custodian. Well, back to work/job searching.
I think I'll write my column tonight about driving to Milwaukee for last week's wedding. There's an idea.
Sunburned Nose and Sunburned Toes
I think I may have been a little too eager to soak up the sun over the weekend. Despite my diligent slathering of sunscreen, I seemed to have forgotten some key exposed areas, namely the back of my knees, my nose, and the toes that peer forth from my sandles. My back is also toasty, owing mainly to the fact that I can't reach every spot back there, and I'll be damned if I was going to ask any of my golfing partners to cover my back. If someone is going to oil up my back, I'd prefer if that person happens to be a tall blonde woman with titanic breasts and a nymphomaniac demeanor. Lacking that, I opted to sacrifice my back to skin cancer in about 20 years. Anyway, of all my burned spots, the toes are the most uncomfortable. All ten digits screamed bloody murder when the hot water splashed upon them during this morning's shower. As I dried off, I noticed that each toe resembled a miniature pulsating heart, and they were none too pleased when I toweled them off and encased them in their daily cast of sock and shoe. They're still protesting their imprisonment, but I'm able to withstand their painful wailings. Let's indulge in a little haiku:
Toes exposed to sun.
Sunburned toes a source of pain.
Peeling toes are gross.
Sizzling digits burn.
Red swollen toes make me cry.
Amputation please.
I also pulled a hamstring while cutting a rug at the wedding dance Friday night. I have never before pulled a hamstring, and I'm of the opinion now that they hurt considerably. It feels as if I'm being perpetually punched in the back of my thigh by a two foot tall bodybuilder. That's what I get for doing the splits on a beer-soaked dance floor.
Darwinian Golf: Oh, and IBM Too
I know, I know; people don't like hearing about golf unless they are so into the game that they make love to their clubs with top of the line lube on their bed stand. "Hey there, three wood, are you up for a little stroking of the shaft? Good. I thought you'd say that. *lights go out* *wet sloppy golf club sex noises*
But, here goes, you sickos.
I took part in a four man best ball golf tournament today. For those of you that think golf means Tiger Woods bouncing a ball off his club, let me explain. "Four man" means four men on a team, "best ball" means that, of the four players, you all hit the best shot taken by one of your team members. It should be called Charles Darwin golf, but we're left with "best Ball," and who am I to complain? So, anyway, I'm pretty rusty, owing to the fact that I've only golfed three times this year and, well, I suck anyway. And, I'm teamed with three friends who equate golf with hocking a glob of snot on the curb. Well, that's not entirely true. Jim actually cares a little bit when he's accidently having a good game. Anyway, Troy, Jim, Jeremy and myself were having a good round, initially, we even had an eagle, which is just totally cool.
Then, we started, um, what's the word I'm searching for? Ah, yes. Sucking.
We ended up even par for nine holes, which is just piss poor for four man best ball, but the competition was apparently less than stellar. The tournament was divided into flights, which is a polite way of saying three level of suckiness. As luck would have it, we won second place in the second flight (which translates to "boy, you suck, here's pity money"), and we snatched $40 to boot. With the $5 entry fee, that translated to a $5 win for each player on our team. Yay us!!
I'll find out tomorrow if I'm a victim of the latest IBM layoff list. Here's to uncertainty, may she foreover keep life interesting. Sounds a lot like the Chinese curse "May you live in interesting times."
But, I live by the proverb "Fall seven times, stand up eight."
Bring it on IBM, I'm ready; and I don't just stand, I kick, and I punch, and I write.
And you're not ready for that.
