Archive for July, 2006

Suze Orman I Ain’t


2006
07.16

I would like to start this post by stating that I have always been more of a “big picture” type of person who rubs my slavishly detail-oriented husband the wrong way. I have big ideas, things to do, I can’t be bothered to balance a checkbook or remember to take my cell phone everywhere.

Sufficed to say, handling money has never been my strong point. I always did “ok” during those years I was on my own; I managed to start a retirement account for myself when I was still in college and by the time I met my husband I had a not-so-bad investment portfolio (especially for a twenty-something single mom). But there was the occasional bounced check and times when I contributed too much of the grocery fund to my son’s college account. So yes, while I could definitely exercise more responsibility and discipline I am hardly a fiscal basket case.

Enter my ex. A little background information is always useful, so here we go:

Financially speaking, my ex is, well, he’s a wallet’s worse nightmare. If the guy has money in his hand it’s as good as spent. Investment, retirement, and even savings accounts give him hives. Crippling debt, on the other hand, does not seem to bother him at all. He works as a security guard (a whole different story for a different day) but has always managed to maintain a wardrobe that would send Imelda Marcos into a dead swoon. He parties like a coked-up Paris Hilton with a buttload of comps in Vegas. He carries more credit cards than an Orange County housewife.

I do not say this to criticize. This is meant simply to describe my ex’s approach to money matters. It has been way too many years for me to really care about his financial habits and for all practical purposes his spending does not impact me at all.

Some more background:My ex has always been at least a month behind in child support payments and usually it is more like two or three. This is fine since my husband and I don’t need the money and never use it anyway. We deposit it all into an college fund for my son so that he can get stoned and surf for porn at lightning fast speeds in his future dorm room.

I thank God I am in a position in which I do not depend upon child support. My son and I would starve.

I have never discussed these late payments with my ex. I discovered that a) my ex got way too much satisfaction out of thinking he was irritating me and b) I discovered it was by far better (and more fun) to let the DA manhandle him. When a parent is consistently late with payments there are penalties assessed. Frequently I will receive one check in the amount of the support and another check for an odd amount like $3.72 or something like that. Also, if a parent falls too far behind, the DA will garnish up to 50% of their paycheck to bring them current. Delinquent payments also result in negative credit reporting (more on that later).

This has my ex in an absolute tizzy. Apparently to “catch him up” the DA deducted the maximum allowable from my ex’s paycheck. Then they promised to do the same next month and the month after until my ex is no longer in arrears. As if to add insult to injury the DA has also dinged his credit up something awful due to the consistently late manner with which my ex pays his child support.

(I feel it only fair to mention here that it’s not like I sought some debilitating amount of support. I polled some of my male friends who pay support and have an income similar to my ex’s and discovered my ex pays about 25% of what they do. I even initiated a reduction after he reported that the original amount was a hardship.)

To combat this, my ex has been calling my husband and I and bitching like a PMS’ing sorority girl. First he asked me to “call off the dogs”. I explained to him that I had done nothing to initiate this garnishment process (which is true) and were powerless to prevent the DA from collecting since there was a court order on file to do so. He then contacted the DA himself and got nowhere.The second tactic my ex employed was to have me contact the DA. Which I did because he is my kid’s dad and I want to play nice. I got nowhere with them.

It has been over a month and the DA has now taken a second huge chunk of change from my ex, which has made him positively apoplectic. He called my husband yesterday to bitch that this financial hit was ruining his vacation plans.

“I applied for a credit card to pay for my vacation and found out it got denied because the DA had put some negative stuff on my credit report!” he wailed over the phone. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

(Don’t even get me started on everything that is financially and criminally stupid about that statement.)

“I dunno,” replied my husband. “Maybe try calling the DA again to find out how much you owe then pay it. Maybe they’ll take it off your credit report.”

“But Steph said that everything was fine when I asked her if I was late or not!” My ex was becoming more and more engraged.

(This is true. Early on my ex had asked me if he was late on payments and I told him that I thought everything was on the up and up. I don’t pay attention to the frequency of child support checks. I just deposit them into my son’s account when they arrive.)

“Steph probably isn’t the best person to ask about this stuff.” My husband patiently replied. “I am more familiar with our finances than she is.”

…and now for the money shot. I give you my ex’s response. You probably won’t even think it’s that big a deal:

“Yeah. She never really was good with money.”

Death by Spatula


2006
07.10

I very nearly killed my dear husband yesterday evening.

It started when I sent our son of to the shower before bed. The explicit purpose of this is obvious: the kid needs to get cleaned up. The implicit purpose was to give me at least fifteen minutes so that I could finish loading a sink full of dishes into our dishwasher so that I could get the baby bathed and put to bed before finally getting the rest of the laundry folded and put away.

“What is he doing in there?” my husband asked me five minutes after the boy got into the shower.

“Algebra.”Apparently that was the wrong thing to say because he commenced lecturing me about the horrors of wasting water. Nevermind that I have lived in the Central Valley most of my life and therefore spent the better part of my 32 years in this godforsaken desert being inducted into a culture that values water more highly than meth (which happens to be our biggest export, I saw it in Wikipedia). In Central California our water-efficiency practices are second only to our ability to tolerate temperatures slightly warmer than the surface of the sun.

So go tell him to get out already, fer cryin out loud! I did not say this. I just thought it. Instead, I countered the lecture with a smile, grabbed a towel to dry my hands with and offered my best “Alright honey, I’ll go get him now.”

This however, was not good enough for my husband, whose normally reserved persona had gone Earth First on me. So while I postponed dishes and baby-bathing to tell the boy to stop draining the aquifer and towel off, my husband decided to retrieve several of our most recent water bills. (Yes, we have files of ALL of our bills dating back seven years… what can I say, I married an engineer.) He proceeded to review them with me over the wails of our now-hysterical daughter.

This was a near-death experience for my husband even though he’ll never know it. While he parsed our water bill into daily and individual usage I looked about the kitchen for ways to silence him. Kitchen knife (too messy), flower pot (his head is harder than the pot), poison (too slow)…

Wasting water is sacrilege, I get it. I don’t need some Santa Cruz County expatriate who wilts when the thermometer tops sixty five degrees to remind me that it is only by the grace of irrigation that we are surrounded by miles of farmland. Of course this lecture commences when I am elbow-deep in soapy water while a very tired infant is screaming into my ear. I took a deep breath and kept my cool.

“Ok sweetheart, (WHAAAAAAAAAAAA) I will start watching our water usage more closely. (WHAAAAAAAAAAAA) Just give me a minute (WHAAAAAAAAAAA) so that I can get these dishes into the dishwasher so I can bathe our daughter.”

“He was in there twenty minutes!” my husband looked at me incredulously. You would have thought I had suggested we teach the boy to strap bombs to his chest before sending him into a synagogue.

“Yes, and he spent the first ten on the toilet!” My daughter, having heard my voice raise began screeching in earnest.

My husband stomped off, muttering something under his breath that included the words “what the”, “acting all stressed out and shit”, and “bite my head off”.

Unfortunately I knew the matter wouldn’t die there. My husband can’t let anything go, he always has to have the last word. So I tried to keep my murderous level of annoyance in check when he cruised back through the kitchen on the way to our bedroom and told me:

“You know, you really should be quieter, I can hear you putting those pots away from the kids’ rooms.”

I came very close to writing this entry from jail.