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.
Not Quite a Norman Rockwell Christmas
Last night I attended a Christmas gathering with my girlfriend's family, an unusual holiday observance that included the traditional Christmas ham and gift exchanging, and the not-so-traditional divorced father and mother and the father's live-in boyfriend.
I was the intruder, of course, the newcomer trying to make himself comfortable amidst a sea of relative strangers, while at the same time acknowledging that the two other men in the room spoke with audible lisps that made the whole experience seem like a Saturday Night Live skit. "Hereth a prethent for Ryan. Ryan, thith oneth for you."
A funny thing about dating a girl with a gay father: rather than trying to make a good impression to validate my dating his daughter, I find myself wondering whether the father and his boyfriend think I'm cute. I figure, if they think I'm cute, I've already won them over. Rather than sitting across from a stern father sipping cognac ready to grill me with a series of tough questions, I can defuse the situation by wearing tight pants and a tight tee shirt.
Despite the surreal feel, I really did enjoy myself, and everyone went out of their way to make me feel comfortable, and the meal was quite delicious. I received far more gifts than I really should have, and I felt a pang of guilt that I didn't buy more for everyone else, even though I had no way of knowing that I was going to receive even one gift, let alone several.
Gift opening was followed with a strange silence, save for the television broadcasting Third Watch followed by Crossing Jordan, two shows that really didn't seem to mesh with the festive holiday season. Somehow a show about sexual assault followed by a show featuring a coroner just doesn't leave one with Jingle Bells ringing in the ears.
Come 10 p.m., my girlfriend and I took our leave, and we went to Applebees for a couple of drinks, followed by a return home for some, ah, additional holiday cheer. No, it wasn't traditional, but what constitutes tradtional nowadays anyway?
Here's hoping that all who read this enjoy a wonderful and safe holiday season. I'm off to Hawaii in a couple of days, where I may or may not find the time and means by which to blog.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Years to you all.
These Two Day Work Weeks Are Killing Me
It's quiet. Too quiet.
A funny thing about Christmas landing on a Wednesday, the vast majority of IBM employees simply opt out of the rest of the week, making for an abandoned quality to the hallways. I'll occasionally hear a door close in the distance, and there are a few cars parked outside, but for the most part I have the place to myself. I'm Sam Palmisano for a day, or two days, although I'm housed in a much shittier office I'm betting.
Lingering anxiety still looms over the impending holiday, of course. I'm worried that the gifts I bought the girlfriend are adequate, and I still have to wrap them, even though we'll be opening them tonight. Additional anxiety looms due to the sexual misfortune we endured last week when, unknown to us, a condom broke, a first for both of us. For the record, there is nothing Supra about Trojan Supra. The brand has been forever removed from my list of acceptable condoms, and I threw the remaining three brittle baby blockers in the trash. I'm pissed. And worried. And so is she. Never before have I been so anxiously awaiting a woman's period. It will be difficult to enjoy my upcoming Hawaii vacation if she hasn't started her cycle by Thursday.
Yes, Thursday, the magical day I shall once again board an airplane bound for Mauii. This will be my seventh holiday journey to the tropical paradise of Hawaii, and I'm looking forward to sun, surf, and everything else that is NOT a Minnesota winter. My father has already stated his intent to dismantle me on the golf course, and I'm ready to let him try. Golfing in Mauii is an experience not to be missed, and I'm looking forward to every single swing of the club.
Between then and now, however, work days must be completed, gifts must be wrapped, and the girlfriend's family must be shmoozed with. I'm not a fan of shmoozing, but it must be done, with a smile if possible. Other than that, it's Monday. All day. And there is work yet to do.
