Death Chic

Hello E-Bay.

We’ve been acquainted with one another for quite some time and even though nobody had ever gone to the trouble of formally introducing us, I felt like you kind of knew me. I mean, I liked the fact that I could visit you at any time – day or night – and you would be there for me.

When I wanted a place where I can buy my favorite running shoes for less than a gazillion dollars, you came through. When I needed a wetsuit that would keep me snuggly warm in the middle of kelp bed you totally delivered. When I was asked to shoot photos of jewelry and needed a macro lens you were all over it. In fact, so gratified was I by your ability to furnish me with running, photographic and swimming stuff that I developed a bit of a crush on you. I felt like we understood each other. You really “got” it when it came to my needs.

Therefore E-Bay, perhaps you can imagine my disappointment when I received an e-mail from you today that contained enticing images of products that not only do I have no interest in owning, but have an irrational aversion to.

Look at that list above. Running. Photography. Swimming. Is there anything in that list that suggests I’m interested in becoming some pain in the ass yuppie princess? Because that’s the impression I was left with when I received an e-mail in which you tried to draw my attention to the fact that you can sell me Kate Spade, Manolo Blahnik, diamond tennis bracelets, Steve Madden and cosmetics of a variety that I had no clue existed until I opened your e-mail.

I didn’t wear make-up at my own wedding. Save a few tubes of lipstick I don’t even own any. In fact, I think the closest I’ve come to wearing make-up was sometime during the Reagan administration when I snuck into my mom’s stash and fed her foundation to the family dog.

So why are you trying to sell me something I would never use? Why – in a million years – would you throw the term “Kate Spade” in my direction and expect a Pavlovian response from me – a woman who prefers a leap into the ocean over buying a purse that would do nothing but collect dust in her closet?

Also, what’s this business about the stiletto heels? I’m sorry E-Bay, but have you forgotten? I’m six feet tall. I already frighten most men and I certainly don’t need six inch heels to push their terror level to “orange”.

Since I’ve never been one to bitch without suggesting a solution, here’s mine: fire everyone. Hire people who know what they’re doing. Given the current economic climate and the fact that you’re in Silicon Valley it should be too hard. Just take 101 North to Cisco’s headquarters and work your way west toward Intel until you have a full staff of techie nerds. Then instruct them to stop sending me e-mails filled with crap I’ll never buy.

Really, it’s that easy.

I want my own personal whacking stick. Something heavy and durable with a large silver handle. Maybe one made of mahogany. Mahogany would hurt if you were whacked by it right? But nothing that would leave marks. Ok, so maybe I need a nice heavy whacking phone book. A leather-bound whacking phone book that won’t leave any evidence and might cause a concussion, thus rendering my targets temporarily incapacitated so I can run away.

Of course I will have to test my whacking phone book out. It’s a good thing I live in a target-rich environment. My trial run will include the following people:

#1 Ms. Chi-Loving-Crytal-Carrier-From-Yoga-Class

Yes you, in the hemp yoga capris. The one who yammers on and on about holistic light therapy and chakras. I came here for the yoga, not to hear some new age dipshit lecture me about the evils of western medicine. Besides, my chi died of alcohol poisoning while I was in college so I doubt there’s much you can do to help me anyway.

Perhaps if the infant mortality rate in your beloved Thailand weren’t, like, triple that of the U.S. their medical practices might have already displaced our own. Until then, I’m not really interested in using rose quartz to cure my cold. I’d prefer to continue fervently wish death on you.

…or hit you with my whacking phone book. WHACK!

#2 Spoiled Rotten Fucking Neighbor Kid With No Clue

Look asshole, you live in the burbs. Your dad plays golf. Your mom gets Botox. Your parents just refinanced their house and leased you a brand new Escalade. It defies imagination why you don’t see the absurdity of substituting “axe” for “ask”, wearing your pants around your ankles, and otherwise behaving like a wannabe ghetto poseur.

The closest you have ever come to the ghetto is one year of public school. You wouldn’t recognize government cheese if it were left between the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. So please, stop kidding yourself and quit blasting “Cop Killer” at 3AM. WHACK!

#3 – That Person Who Forwards Me Everything

Venemous snakes in McDonald’s ball pits, HIV infected needles being left everywhere from movie theater seats to gas pumps, expoding cell phones, political hyperbole, please tell me… is there anything on the internet that you won’t fall for?

You fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down. Therefore, as a public service, WHACK!

#4 – The Conspiracy Theorist

I thought I was rid of you when I quit my job at the company we worked at. Then you moved to Elk Grove. Now there’s no end to your tin-foil-hat-inspiring bullshit. I used to smile and nod when you would ramble on about how the medical establishment is suppressing a cure for cancer or that the moon walk really took place on a Hollywood sound stage. I was somewhat less succesful when you floated the idea that the CIA created and spread the AIDS virus, but let’s face it; while I giggled, I did refrain from plunging your head into the toilet and drowning you even though you desperately deserved it.

But now that I have this here whacking phone book I am going to hit you in the face. WHACK!

#5 – People Who Are Waaaaaay to Passionate About the Splenda vs. Sugar Debate

Is there really an explanation necessary for this one? I wish you would all eat Sweet N’ Low, develop cancer, and die. WHACK!

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.”