Rotation Revolution takes on The Economy!

It goes terribly.

For two weeks every year until I graduated college, I was the first one at the mailbox. Why? Birthday mail. Typically my birthday mail started to roll in around my older brother’s birthday, much to his dismay. Fingers crossed for the brightly colored envelopes, filled with the green stuff, crisp ten or twenty dollar bills flattened between a cute “you’re older and we care” birthday card (or between tin foil if you’re my grandfather, who apparently doesn't trust anyone, especially the United States Parcel Service.) And if it wasn’t cash money, it was a check, though to my small "totes-understands-the-true-value-of-money" brain, all a check meant was a longer wait to something useful. Something I could exchange for stuff. Maybe I should have started this out by saying how much I love stuff.

So moving out to California right after my 18^th birthday was scary on many different levels, but mostly I was afraid of losing birthday mail. What if no one gave my relatives my new address and all my birthday mail got lost and someone else ended up with the money I deserved for surviving another year in this world? I kept myself from dying for 365 days; I earned this! The loss of birthday money was depressing. But the metaphorical kick that came when I was already down was the type of mail that began to arrive on a monthly basis. It was the antithesis of birthday money. It was bills.

These things I had never considered, paying for electricity, for television or the Internet. Paying someone to let me live in an apartment every month – it was shocking. I had to get a job, but that was okay, because I had gotten jobs before. I worked for the theater, and I worked at the pet store. I was good with the concept of jobs. What was unsettling was the idea that money I earned from said jobs would have to pay for these things that were boring. I worked eight hours, just so I could have electricity for one month? Gross.  Eight hours of shelving CD’s should be new shoe money, not the ability to microwave stuff. Not to mention that it took three days of 9 hour shifts to even make enough money to pay for the food I was trying to microwave. Growing up went from exciting to a hassle in 4.8 seconds, flat. Bills were my Aston Martin race to bummer-ville.

The craziest thing about money is just when you think you get it, you don’t. I got the hang of half-assed budgeting. Sure, I held my breath at the end of every month, and maybe that last week before pay day and after I paid my rent was a little lean, but hey, if the checks didn’t bounce, I was good. My father tried to teach me spreadsheets, the advantages to online banking, and I tried to get it, but it was like being 10 years old again with birthday money. Except now birthday money was living on this tiny blue card that was accepted practically everywhere. The problem with card money is that you don’t feel your wallet getting thinner until it’s empty. Suddenly, I had fifteen pairs of converse, and top ramen for dinner.

Essentially, I was making all the wrong compromises.

Throughout college, I was still getting financial support from my parents. They wanted me to focus on my education, which was awesome because working full time and going to school full time was leading me down a very dark road lined with mobsters in pin-striped suits with portable gambling briefcases and illegal booze they snuck out of the speakeasies.  And sure, they sing and say things like, “what’s a pretty dame like you doing in this part of town,” but in dark alleys that sounds less charming than one who watched a lot of flapper musicals would expect. No, I was one of the lucky few in this country whose parents could afford to help, and while I am forever grateful for the advantages I have, I think that’s part of my problem. I didn’t grow up knowing what it was like to just NOT have money. It was cash in my mom’s wallet, my parents cards always being accepted. It was my father always picking up the tab and scolding me for trying to look at the dinner bill. Don’t be rude and give me that, he would say. It turns out, not everyone thinks that’s rude. Unless you look at it, say something like “oh shit, that’s expensive. Glad I’m not paying,” and then hand it to them. That is still considered rude, apparently.

Overall, money was just there, and if I needed something, I got it. New school supplies, new clothes. Dresses for dances, lunch money. “Mom I need twenty bucks,” and after a lot of eye rolling, if I could come up with a good enough reason, I got it. I didn’t have diamond shoes or a pony in my backyard, but I didn’t struggle.

But now it’s almost like I live in a constant state of denial. I go out with friends and try to pick up the tab as much as possible. I live outside my means because I don’t understand the borders OF my means. I’ve been out of college for almost three years now and I’m still holding my breath at the end of the month. Sure, I’m making more money, and not asking for help, but I’m definitely not considering my financial state a successful one.

So you take a girl waiting for birthday money in a state of fiscal denial, and then you throw her into a failing economy, and the universe implodes. I took ONE semester of economics in high school. Translation: I do not actually get the economy. A hypothetical successful economy went right over my head, so needless to say how much I don’t understand the one we have right now. People are losing money, banks are poor. There’s a guy in a suit on Fox that’s always really upset with President Obama, and Jon Stewart is hilarious, but in a way that I know is supposed to be sad.

When it comes to the economy, I’m the girl sitting quietly in the corner of the room, head down, eyes averted, trying to not to call attention to how much she has NO CLUE what everyone is talking about. I’m the kid in class that didn’t do her homework and is praying to all the Gods she’s ever heard of that she doesn’t get called out on it.  I finally stepped out from underneath the protective shield of my father’s intellect, and it turns out the sun is really bright out here in the real world and my sunglasses aren’t polarized.

Last week, Wells Fargo sent out an email that everyone with my particular type of account will now be charged $15 a month just to keep his/her account open. Previous to this email, I was paying zero a month because an automatic transfer of $75 was waiving the fee. Apparently that wasn’t applicable anymore. Apparently something in the economy is different this month, and no one is telling me what. The email went on to inform me that if I had a mortgage with the bank, or a constant balance of $7500 in my checking account, the fee would still be waived.

Translation: If you are poor, you shall be punished.

Remember that Aston Martin that could get me from zero to miserable in 4.8 seconds? It turns out, it can also take a girl from zero to “freaking pissed” in approximately the same amount of time. Bills became “the bank” and then “the man” and I was on a tear. No one could run, no one could hide. Eleanor Angry.

“You mean to tell me,” I said, breath held for as long as my temper was tamed, “that I am supposed to pay you $175 a year, just to keep my money there? That’s <insert non-classy, colorful language here.>”

Then I received a notice that a fee had been taken from my saving account for “Excessive Activity.”

So I asked the age-old trouble-inducing question: Why? Why did the bank deem it fair and necessary to take that money from me? I discovered that apparently, there is a federal law that limits the number of times you can take money from your saving account in a month. Regardless of what you put in it, if you have more than six transactions in a month, they charge you $10.00 as an “excessive use fee.” So the government has decided that there is a limit to the number of times I can move my money from my account to my other account. And if I do it too much, they’re going to take $10 from me.

Thirty dollars was removed from my account before anyone said a damned thing to me.

And that’s what gets me about the bank. They can just TAKE money from you. Like, it’s there, and then it’s gone, and they don’t even ask. I work a job that makes me cry because I hate it so much, but I show up because I understand to an extent that I have to because it’s part of being an adult. Sometimes life makes you cry but you keep going and you push through it because those are the rules. I follow the rules. And the bank takes thirty bucks from me.

And what’s this law even for? What is the purpose for “Regulation D?” Apparently, this law was put in place as part of an anti-terrorism, anti-money laundering counter measure.

Pardon my language but, are you fucking kidding me?

Isn’t there some way to assess the account in question before just taking money from it? Like, hmmm, this client has under $7500 dollars in her account (way under) and seems to just really like coffee. Maybe she isn’t a sleeper cell. Oh look at that, she’s an audio engineer who also gets direct deposit from a well known book store. If she’s laundering money, she’s really bad at it. Maybe we don’t assume she’s in violation of horrendous federal crime and we LEAVE HER THE HELL ALONE.

But no, they needed that thirty bucks to pay off the mortgage on that fourth summer home in Panama he got stuck with in the divorce.

Dear Wells Fargo slash The Man slash The Government,

Thanks for the consideration. I did, at one point, think to launder millions of dollars to off-shore accounts like I saw in that episode of The Mentalist last Thursday, but after you fined me ten dollars for excessive activity, I decided against it. You just saved America, again. I have been successful thwarted, and will no longer be living the life of crime I had once envisioned.

Sincerely,

Account #xxxxxxxx288

p.s. I know you didn’t get it, but that was sarcasm. I hate you. You owe me $30. And a keychain.

The Battle of DMV-Pleasanton [alternately titled: How California hates Texas.]

I don’t think it needs to be stated again, but I will for continuity sake: I am broke. So, in order to cut spending down, I decided I wanted to get a library card. A while ago, I made the trek down to the local Oakland Public Library, only to discover that I need a California Driver’s License with my current address on it in order to obtain said card. Apparently they think I’m planning on checking out hundreds of books, and making a run for the Texas border. So after much procrastination, I finally got myself to the DMV this week. I brought everything I could imagine needing in order to justify myself to the California state government, hoping, in vain, that this would be a one-trip affair.

I don’t know why I pretend like things will ever be easy.

To get off on the right foot, I show up without a pen. First time in my life I don’t have a pen, and it’s at the freaking DMV. Awesome. I wait patiently, for an hour and a half, while numbers and letters that are not mine creep across the “now serving” screen. I listen to the ramblings of the crazy wannabe truck driver next to me as his quizzes me on commercial license test questions, all of which I respond with “D. none of the above.” I don’t laugh at the woman verbally abusing her husband on the phone for leaving the house, EVEN THOUGH IT’S UNLOCKED NOW, and I even patiently explain the DMV ticket to window process to the old Asian woman clutching her handbag as if I’m going to rip it out of her hands at any moment, screaming LONG LIVE ANARCHY all the way out the door. Finally, G095 is called, and I race up to window number 6 with a pleasant smile on my face. Let’s do this, California. Let’s work as a team, and make me an official resident of your state.

So I hand over my form, filled out entirely and beautifully, and she types my name into the archaic plastic box masquerading as a computer. I’ve had a state license before, so like the lady told me up front, two hours previously, it’s just a renewal, right? Well, here’s the thing about renewing your license. California has to recognize you as a citizen of earth before you can renew a CA driver’s license. So when the woman tells me I’m not in the system, I laugh and say, “yes I am. I’m wearing a Ramones t-shirt in my photo.” She doesn’t know who The Ramones are, nor is she as amused by this statement as I am. So she asks me what my name was when I lived in California.

Here’s the thing about names. My name is, has always been, and save for a potential stint in the witness protection program, or induction into the MIB, will always be Eleanor Thibeaux. That’s it, that’s my name. So she asks to see another form of identification, and I give her my passport. Again, she asks if that’s my name. Yes, I managed to write the same name on both my application AND my legal United States of America-issued proof of citizenship. How is this possible? Because, government lady, THAT IS MY NAME. Then she wants my social. Then she wants to know the name attached to my social security number. So I hand her my social security card, and again, it says Eleanor Thibeaux.  What are the chances? Man, I’m one detail-oriented Russian spy.

So we do the “what’s your name” dance a couple more times, until she finally says I don’t exist in the California database. So then she picks up my form again, and re-reads it. This whole time, she’s smiling at me, and we have a nice rapport going until she sees those five stupid little letters written in the smallest handwriting I could manage legibly.

“Previous License State or Foreign country: TEXAS”

It’s as if I had just walked up to her, punched her in the neck and told her I killed her dog. The mood shift was palpable. It’s like, if there were going to be another war in a revolutionary manner, it would be the California-Texas Revolutionary War. The conservatives are coming! The conservatives are coming!

Now, now my friend in the California state bureaucracy is glaring at me kind of menacingly. And of course, she still doesn’t have enough “proof.” They always want proof. She’s got my passport, which I remind her, and I cringe as she reads the part that says “Place of Birth: Texas, USA” because I’m pretty sure Californians don’t think Texas should be considered part of the union. It’s like back when the white people didn’t want the black people sharing their water fountains, only now, its Californians not wanting Texans to…breathe their air? Which I guess is fair, since the Golden State is so disgustingly green, and Texans really like SUV’s.

Then she says to me, “I need proof of your residency in Texas.” So I quizzically hand over to my Texas Driver’s License, and allow the pictorial representation of a proud, billowing Texas flag to do my talking for me. She stares at it, repulsed for a moment, and then looks back up at me. “I need proof from the state, like you need to contact them and have them send the information to you.” I’m sorry, is my completely legitimate driver’s license not enough? What, do you want me to get a brick from the Alamo speckled with the blood of like, a billion angry Mexicans to prove that I lived in the state?

It’s just absurd, the battle of Texas vs. California. There’s Team Lone Star, which is maybe one of the dumbest things to rally behind – the picture of a star. At least California has an animate object. They have a bear. But then again, it’s a golden bear, and WTF is that, if it’s not some kind of delicious cookie treat commonly referred to as “Teddy Grahams.”

So you’ve got the Californians and their self-righteous “we love the planet, peace and pursuit of happiness” crap, and then you’ve got Texans, who also love freedom, only it’s freedom to exploit the planet, and the pursuit of happiness as it pertains to their agenda.  Be whoever you want, just don’t be different.  And the Texans, to be honest, are confused - because wasn’t it originally Californians who were all about manifest destiny? And Texas is like, “Come on, Cali, we got Mexican problems, too!” But California is all “we love our Mexicans, just don’t let them vote, because last time we did, we got a cliché action star as our Governor. Oops, our bad. 

But then again, Texas had George W. and well, oops, that was OUR bad.

So there’s a war. Stars versus bears. And well look at that, it turns out the Texas Lone Star is actually a firepower star like in Super Mario Brothers and it makes everyone in the Texas army spit fireballs that kill snapping plants and oh what’s that? YELLOW BEARS.

But don’t worry, Chief Golden Bear has a plan.

So there I am in the middle of civil freedom lasers and religious agenda fireballs, and all I really wanted was a library card. And you can’t explain to Texas why you want to live in California, and you can’t apologize enough to California for having anything to do with Texas. So when the DMV employee says, “You need to contact Texas and tell them…” all I hear is, “you’re really screwed.” Texas is mad at me for leaving; Texas thinks I’m a traitor to America and that I stabbed Sam Houston right in the back. But California really doesn’t care, because all California hears is, “I was born in Texas, therefore, I was born into evil, and I hate the earth. Viva La Offshore drilling.”  

But here’s the thing both California, and Texas for all intents and purposes, don’t realize about me. I’m not a quitter. You think you can subdue me with a run-around, illogical governmental process? I’ve been wasting other people’s time my whole life; I know how this works. I will get that library card; I will get you to admit I live here, and I will get my picture taken by one of your menial state employees, who probably hates you more than I do. And you know what I plan to do once I have a state issued ID? I’m going to get in-state discounts on my education. I’m going to vote against the majority. I’m going to go to other states and act poorly, therefore further ruining the already diminished reputation of the state of California. I will commit minor offenses in the name of the Golden State AND it’s bear. Now who’s screwed?

Game on, California. 

I love The Census, ver. 2.0

If you remember correctly, I love the census.

Well apparently, not only do I love it, but I am really good at it. Because I was asked by the leaders of the Free World's Census Bureau to do a REinterview.

Seriously.

See? So basically a "reinterview" means that they have more in-depth questions, based off my answers from Census 1.0. This is funny to me, because most of my answers were "no" or "white."

Now let's talk about the government. My government seems to be under the impression that the time a 23-year-old, single resident, white girl is most available between the hours of 7 pm and 9 pm on Friday and Saturdays. Needless to say, I didn't answer the first three times they called. I respect the Census, or at least I fear the government enough not to do an interview with them at a bar. I might be able to out-sass Barack, but Joe Biden doesn't mess around.

Finally, one particularly sunny Thursday afternoon, around two, Beverly from the U.S. Census Bureau got ahold of me. Now, I'm the first person to admit that when it comes to diversity and uniqueness of citizenship, I'm the United State's worst example.

Why? Because this is me:

Single. Female. Early 20's. White.

But for some inexplicable reason, they wanted to delve further into my socioeconomic and cultural credentials. So we start with my name. Eleanor. E-L-E-A-N-O-R. One more time? E. L. E. A, as in adobe. N. O. R, as in resistance, as in futile. Last name. (dear lord.) T-H-I-Beta-E-A-U-Xena, as in "the warrior princess. Oh, Thibodeaux? No. Thibeaux. Tee-bow. Oh like Tim? No, nothing like Tim. Oh.

Four and a half minutes later, we've moved on. Now it's about my age.

How old were you on April 22, 2010?

22.

When is your birthday?

The first of July.

So you are now how old?

...23.

Ok, good.

Yes, I thought so.

A couple more questions about my living situation, and we've moved on to race. (I live ALONE. 500 sq. feet doesn't leave much space for illegal immigrants but I could see why you'd guess that. I do have a friend named Francisco.)

This was my favorite part of the interview. Never in my life have I ever felt so culturally devoid. The game was "yes" or "no" and the list was infinite.

Are you: White? Yes. African-American? No. Hispanic? No. Asian? No. Native American? No. Pacific Islander? No. Another race not previously named? No.

If someone asked you what race you were, what would be your natural answer? White.

Then Bev, cause I think at this point, we're nickname status, and I requested she just refer to me as "citizen" due to my affinity for all things Star Trek, asks me to think about how "others" perceive me.

Do other people think you are White? Yes. African-American? Really not. Asian? Nope. Hispanic? No ma'am. Native American? Never. Pacific Islander? Negatory. Other? Erm, no. The creative writer in me couldn't stand to keep saying the same word over again, as I put my vocabulary to the test trying to come up with new ways to say, "no."

The Bevs is now laughing at me. Let's be honest, I'm laughing at me. Because the bottom line is, I'm white. At this point in the interview, I break it down for Bev-er-bee. "Would it help if I just told you that I'm incredibly pale? Seriously, it's impressive. Blindingly white."

She asks me for the origin of my family. I am tempted to respond with, "Texas," even though I know she's just scouring my family tree for some kind of national allegiance. So I reply, "French and Scottish." Then dear, sweet Beverly asks me to spell Scottish. Oh, Bevz.

Now we're going to play the "Often, Sometimes, Rarely, Never" game. She is going to list different ethnicities, and I will reply with the degree in which I have been mistaken for them. I laugh, because I can already see how this is going, but know that government jobs aren't exactly the most fun of careers, so I'm not going to give her a hard time. But I'd just like some credit, JFK, this is what I can do for my country.

White? Often. African-American? Never. Native American? Never. Asian? Rarely. Really? No, Never. Hispanic? Nunca. What? Never. Pacific Islander? Never. Have you ever been mistaken for a race that was not named? Is vampire a race? No. Then nope.

Now she wants to talk about my parents. What race is your father? White. What race is your mother? White. How do you think I got this way?

My favorite question was next.

Eleanor, were you adopted? Man, this would be super awkward if I was and didn't know it. What did my parents census say? I'm gonna say, as far as I know - no.

Are my parents divorced? Did I live in a foster home? Did I live with a step parent?

No. Nope. Negative.

Come on Bev, clearly I grew up in the 1957 suburbs. 2 parents, 3 kids, family dog, white upper-middle class family from Spring, Texas. I'm what the government wants to know about?

Well Eleanor, that concludes our re-interview, thanks so much for your time.

It's been real, Bev. Sorry to be so uneventful and stereotypical.

Oh, that's okay. Have a good afternoon!

...Thanks.

Census-mania: the 2010 edition

Citizens of the World Wide Web, I am excited. No, wait. I am ecstatic. Stoked. Amped. Currently displaying the side effects of excessive-caffeination (due, only in part to this Venti Mocha Frappuccino.) Why, you might ask?

Because the other day, I received this in the mail.

That's right, folks. It's United States Census time. And I cannot be more ready. This will be the first census that I will get to be an active participant in. Ever since I got my hands on this notice, I have been daydreaming about surveys and forms, multi-page questionnaires about mundane, US citizen type information. While some protest government list conspiracies and wish to go "off the grid," I opt to revel in making myself known throughout Washington DC. I am excited about the census for the same 2 reasons I love MySpace surveys and internet quizzes like "Which Character from The Big Bang Theory Are You?" ( I am Sheldon.)

1. I love to talk about myself, and

2. I love people to know things about me.

So if the envelope wasn't riveting enough, I couldn't wait to see the letter. And it did not disappoint. Now, am I sad that it wasn't addressed to me directly? Yes. But that's just because the government doesn't know me YET. This will all change in, "about one week from now." I'll be honest, I really don't much care about funding for schools and health facilities that me, and my neighbors, apparently need. I'm way over that. I'm down for some highway repairs though, because for real, 880 is horrendous. Also, I'm hoping there is a short answer section on the Census form, because I definitely have some suggestions for the United States. I'll be greatly disappointed if the entire form is multiple choice and fill in the blank.

The one other bummer about this letter is who signed it. When it comes to something as monumental as the 2010 US Census, I thought it should be sent from someone with some power. A name that can stand on it's own.

I had a few suggestions, like:

Sincerely, Barack Obama.

or Sincerely, John McClane.

or the ever-impressive: Sincerely, Batman.

Author's Note: I am fully aware that Batman was a vigilante and would, in all reality, never be in charge of a nation-wide citizen count - but how freaking cool would it be to get a letter from Batman? Seriously. SERIOUSLY.

But no, sadly, my letter, as well as the letters of several other residents of the Oakland/Piedmont area, were sent from Robert M. Groves. Who the hell is that? I mean really. I don't care about you, Mr. Groves. Your name resonates no fear, no awe. Nothing. So I changed my letter. My letter came from "the government." And I cannot wait to receive more government issued mail. Bring it on, United States of America, bring. it. on.