“But there was a time I asked my father for a dollar and he gave it a ten dollar raise.” –Indigo Girls “Prince of Darkness”
I’m bad at math. I am so bad at math that I am currently not seeking the “Literature, Language and Writing” degree from KU that I would love to complete if it weren’t for the harsh math requirements. (Requiring a class one level HIGHER than College Algebra for basically a fancy creative writing degree, really?) I say I’m bad at math, but really, I’m just lazy at math. I can do it if I try, but I don’t like math and I’m really lousy at making myself do things I don’t like. I’m too spoiled to burden my brain with all those silly numbers.
The reason I don’t like math is because I associate it with money, and I associate money with my dad, a retired accountant. This is the man who spent Saturday mornings at his desk, fingers tap tap tapping on his adding machine like Fred Astaire’s feet on the dance floor, reconciling our bank account. I say “our” bank account loosely because in theory it paid for the entire family’s expenses, but my dad had final say on how the money was allotted. Steak for Dad. Tuna casserole for Mom and the kids. A bitchin’ Camaro for dad. A shitty Vega for mom. An air-conditioner for Dad’s closed-door bedroom. Window fans for the kids’ bedrooms. Regular mattress and box springs in an actual bed for Dad. Roll-away fold-out beds with springs that poked us if we laid a certain way inherited from my great-grandmother for my sister and me. Canned pop for my dad’s lunch (which we weren’t allowed to touch). 2-Liter bottles of pop for the rest of the family. There were all these rules in our house about who got what, and they amounted to Dad growling until he got his lion’s share.
When I was in junior high, I stumbled upon the expression "The love of money is the root of all evil" no doubt while reading about some anti-money but nonetheless rich celebrity in “Star Hits” magazine. Living in wealthy, suburban Johnson County Kansas during the Regan-era, I was relieved to find out I wasn’t the only person who despised money. Much later I discovered the quote’s biblical roots (1 Timothy 6:10, KJV) and it made sense that someone like Jesus, who had the audacity to love the poor, would say something like that. I don’t believe in God in the traditional sense (white bearded old guy hanging out in the clouds) and I can’t be bothered to drag my ass out of bed to congregate with my neighbors on Sundays, and a lot of the Bible's useage to judge people (particularly homosexuals) offends me, so I don’t call myself a Christian, but I really dig a lot of what Jesus had to say and I’ve tried to live my life accordingly.
But I’ve twisted my ankle many times wandering along the path of hating money, especially while wearing my Jesusesque sandals. For one thing, I’ve discovered in my 40 years of life that paying attention to something you hate is important. As any self-help millionaire/guru will tell you, ignoring something doesn't make it go away. Simply hating greed doesn’t immune me from having to pay my bills. And if I don't pay close enough attention to what happens to the money I earn to pay for my comfortable life, it can get quite uncomfortable.
Hank and I just boosted the auto repair industry's economy by $473 so we can continue to electronically roll down our window as we stimulate the fast-food industry's economy in various drive thrus. Normally, I'd swipe our credit card to pay for such an emergency expense. (Savings account? What's a savings account? If you mean Stella's piggy bank, I think it was emptied the last time I desperately needed an eyebrow waxing or a massage, you know, one of those life-dependent emergency situations.) But lately I've been trying to stimulate the credit card industry's economy less so I have more money to stimulate other economies I care for more: Whole Foods, Zappos, The Blue Nile Ethiopian restaurant, just to name a few.
So I looked over our, well, uh, it's not exactly a check book ledger. It's a mini calendar that I write down when bills are due to be electronically debited from our checking account, and also when my most fertile ovulation days are. (Maybe I should move the mortgage payment date to a couple of weeks away from when I'm ovulating to alliviate the stress in my life and perhaps improve my chances of conception?) So I checked in my mini ovulation calendar/bank account ledger and it looked like we could squeak by paying for the car repair out of our checking account. We'd have to eat up our canned goods instead of going to the grocery store, and I might have to skip a few washings to conserve on the contents of our nearly empty shampoo bottle, but it was worth it to not pay The Man interest, man. And I'd look like a dirty hippie while stickin' it to the man - right on!
My excitement subsided a couple hours later when I opened my email and saw the nice, cheery email from Shutterfly telling me that the 600+ pictures I ordered a couple days earlier had been shipped. Panic. Looked at ovulation calendar/bank account ledger. More panic. I had not written down the Shutterfly purchase. Our bank account would be overdrawn.
Immediately it felt like someone hit me at the top of my shoulders with a sledgehammer. I could hear my dad's voice nagging at me even though he lives 30 miles away. I started thinking, "Maybe I could call back the car repair place and have them re-run the transaction so I could pay for it with my credit card?" The car repair place was already closed. "Maybe I could return the flea medicine I just bought for the dogs and cross my fingers that a few days Frontline-free wouldn't be an open invitation to all Overland Park fleas to jump onto my dogs." Nope, they're closed too. "Maybe I could borrow the money from my mom." I'm still paying off the loan her husband gave me to pay off the freakin' car that just needed repaired. "How much can I get for selling plasma? Is there a place open this late at night?" My thoughts only grew more desperate from there.
My friends whose dads weren't so greedy/frugal/authoritarian have no idea why I panic when I make stupid financial mistakes. They say, "Don't worry about it. Pay the overdraft fee and forget about it. We all make mistakes. You're human!" But I always sink into self-loathing instead.
Is it ironic that something I hate, by not paying close attention to it, causes me to hate myself? I'm not sure because I haven't taken the Calculus prerequisite needed to take the "Literature, Language and Writing" course that goes over irony. But I think it's interesting, and maybe I should do something about it.
In the meantime, I'm going to wrap myself in the comforting arms of my husband, and my husband's mom and dad. Last night, as I sat crying on our futon telling Hank what a dumbass I am, he started whipping out some cash. He got up, wordless, went to our bedroom (we have central air, by the way) and came back with his piggy bank. He emptied the contents onto our table and started counting. "Call my dad. He'll lend us some money til Friday."
I was astounded. What? No "how could you be so stupid"? No "what were you thinking"? No "This is coming out of your eyebrow waxes and Ethiopian food binges"? My husband just stopped, calmly found a solution to the problem, and without much ado, pulled together enough cash for us to deposit into the ATM so we'd be covered. I called my father-in-law to make sure.
"Uh, um, I did a really stupid thing and our checking account is overdrawn. Is there any possible way we could, uh, um, borrow like $20 until Friday?" He actually cut me off before I got the rest of "until Friday" out of my mouth with, "Sure, no problem!" No questions asked. No judgment given. He immediately came over and handed us not one, but two twenties. "Just as a little cushion. Do you want more?"
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