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.
An Ode to Cold
At 32 degress, they say, water tends to freeze
At -19 degrees today, it fucking hurts to breathe.
And let's not forget there's wind chill, too, which makes it minus forty-five
With temps like this, my fingers freeze, and it's hard to stay alive.
I stepped outside this Friday morn, and was greeted by the Cold
"You're brave," good sir, Cold said to me. "You're stupid, but you're bold."
I spoke with Cold, as I stepped in my car, and asked it to please leave
It laughed at me, a hearty "har," and said I was naive.
"I can not go, you silly twit," said Cold as coldly as can be
"You're in Minnesota, you dipshit, your state belongs to me."
"But all these days of sub zero temps," I said, as I tried to plead my case
"And my car won't start despite nine attempts, and there's frostbite on my face."
"You're overdoing the cold," said I. "You're taking things too far!"
"You make me want to fucking cry, and you froze my fucking car!"
Again the Cold just laughed and laughed, and mocked me as I sat
It conjured up a brutal draft, which made me wish I'd worn a hat.
"There's no such thing as too damned cold," said Cold as I sat and froze.
"Such thinking is in need of scold, so here's some frostbite for your nose."
Cold taunted me for minutes more, which filled me with much sorrow.
It finally left, but not before it promised to return tomorrow.
I called a tow truck to start my car, which cost me many bucks.
So I say to all, both near and far, Cold really fucking sucks.
Today, in Rochester, Minnesota's very own Post-Bulletin, the following headline ran on the front page:
"Sex Offenders Find Loophole"
Poor Loop.
UPDATE: I posted too soon! There were some other headline gems in today's issue. Consider:
"Three-Car accident Near Dodge Center Kills One"
Well, apparently, SOMEBODY forgot to dodge.
"Hormel Recalls Cans Of Chili"
Remember those cans? Those were the good old days.
POLITICAL UPDATE: Oh, those crazy French, honorary members of the Coalition Of The Sniveling.
ANOTHER UPDATE: Heh. Mitch Berg has a test. Strangely enough, I got a 28 too.
I've never been on a diet, unless you consider that rather long stretch in college when it could be argued I was on a steady diet of Budweiser, which was a really fun-assed diet, but I couldn't go on it again, because I'm older now and frankly my liver just couldn't handle such a diet.
It's not that I don't believe in dieting. I'm sure diets work just fine for some people. But, basically, I live by the philosophy that exercise is the best, and quite possibly only way to ward off an expanding waistline and to solidify my distinction as a smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness.
Therefore, I exercise quite a little bit, including running, and martial arts, and actually walking to places that are only a few blocks away rather than driving like so many other people who think it's their God-given right to be as lazy as they possibly can and, criminey fuck, people, get off your asses and walk!
Anyhooo. . .
Well, whether I like it or not, I've come to the conclusion that I am unwittingly on the Atkins diet. I don't know how this happened. I just turned on the TV one day and realized that, not only am I on the Atkins diet, I've been on it pretty much for my entire life.
I came to this conclusion when a T.G.I. Fridays commercial came on and it showed a heaping helping of ribs and steak smothered in cheese, with a side order of some other sort of artery clogging agent, and the voiceover pronounced the heart-attack on a plate to be "Atkins Approved," with the big bold "A" logo in the corner and everything. Excuse me? Ribs and steak and cheese constitute diet items? I had to learn more.
I logged on to the Internet and surfed to what I believe was the Atkins Diet home page (atkins.com, which makes sense, I guess), and I was confronted by. . . a smiling woman on a bicycle. Hmmm, so, in order for this diet to work, I'm thinking, you should probably exercise. What a shock.
But, exercise is not the cornerstone of the Atkins diet. No, the Atkins philosophy is that, basically, everything that was once thought to be fattening is now slimming, and everything once thought to be slimming is now fattening. Black is white. Up is down. Left is right.
According to the Atkins diet, one of the biggest no-nos on the worldwide menu is bread or bread derivatives. Let me just type that again so it sinks in: bread is bad for you. Bread. The food item on which the Roman empire depended, the food item that fed the people and armies of practically every empire and civilization ever to grace this planet, is not Atkins Approved. Cheese and ribs and steak are Atkins Approved, but bread is not. Okayyyyyyy.
Well, the science behind the Atkins Diet, and by science I mean Druid-like worship, maintains that the true evil of the human digestive process are carbohydrates which, according to Atkins proponents, are the dietary equivalent of anthrax. If you gradually cut out the consumption of carbohydrates, through a process the Atkins Web site refers to creepily as "induction," eventually the pounds will drop right off. The pounds will drop right off, mind you, provided you also follow this wise Atkins advice: "regular exercise is also essential for controlling weight, toning muscles and maintaining a sense of well-being."
So, there you have it. The secret to weight loss and weight maintenance? Exercise! Who knew? But, that little logical leap hasn't stopped the Atkins juggernaught from taking over American marketing. Everything from steak to vodka is being touted as "low carb" or "Atkins Approved." Every time I pass by that one billboard advertising a low carb beer while showing a shirtless guy doing push-ups I think, "Yeah, I just love to drink a beer while doing push-ups."
I guess I can't fault people for their worship of all things Atkins, but I will say this:
If I continue to exercise for the next 30 years, and you continue with your steak and cheese and rib diet, who do you think will be happier and, for that matter, still alive?
Yeah, that's what I thought.
So, I'm sitting here at work, and the whole day I'm thinking, "Why the heck does it smell like Lysol in here?" Then, it finally dawned on me: it's my armpits, or, more specifically, the Axe deodorant I slathered on this morning.
It's kind of a win/lose situation. I mean, sure my pits are nice and dry, but who honestly would be happy smelling like fucking Lysol?
It's snowing today. A lot. I stepped outside this morning to start my car so it would be all nice and toasty after I finished all my bathroom exercises, and I was reminded, once again, why I despise Minnesota winters. They suck. After I finished all my bathroom exercises, I went outside, once again, and had to scrape the remaining snow from my windows. After completing the task, I used my windshield scraper to whap the snow from my shoes. As a result, the scraper broke. Let me just quick repeat that. The scraper broke. Because I hit my shoe with it. That, my friends, is an indication of a shitty scraper. Note to self: I must now purchase a new scraper. A less shitty scraper.
I got a notice in the mail this weekend that I must renew my license before March 1, my birthday. I remember when I renewed my license the last time, and I remember thinking that, when I next had to renew my license, I'd no doubt be doing big and important things. Of course, I'm not doing big and important things, at least not yet, and for some reason that revelation put a real damper on my weekend. Here I am, stuck, with a broken scraper. Crap.
My roommate, Amy, bought a treadmill last week. I didn't know what to think of it at first, because I've always been an enthusiastic proponent of running without a treadmill. There's so much more to see when you go running outside. Well, that was my thinking before last week, when the temperatures here in Minnesota hovered somewhere down around Mars. I discovered a newfound appreciation for treadmills, particularly treadmills that are indoors. I ran six miles on the contraption last night, while also watching Star Trek: The Next Generation. Sure, I'm a geek, but at least I'm a healthy geek.
So, I'm reading all this stuff about Howard Dean being neck-and-neck in the polls with John Kerry today, and I'm left thinking, "wasn't there a three-way tie in Iowa?" It's just that polls, more and more, are being discredited. They're nothing more than guesses, really. And, I'm starting to believe that campaigns have found ways to influence the polls. It's just a sneaking suspicion on my part. I don't know. I guess I really don't care. Thank God for The Daily Show With Jon Stewart for making mocking sense of it all.
I think I'm a real sucker for Axe products. I even bought the Axe deodorant/anti-perspirant Friday night. I guess it's okay stuff. I mean, it keeps my armpit stink and moisture at bay and all that. Still, I can't figure out why I'm drawn to the stuff. There are plenty of other products out there that deal with armpit issues. Why am I so magnetized to Axe? Gotta be the commercials. All the chicks in those commercials are so damned hot. Therefore, by using Axe, I'll attract all the hot chicks. Okay, probably not.
Anyway, it's Monday, and I have much work to do. Must get at it.
UPDATE: Well, at least SOMEBODY understands the political process.
You know, if elections were held today, I'm thinking my vote would go to John Edwards. Provided he pursues the War on Terror with the same zeal as Bush and Company.
