Mike and I probably talk more about zombie apocalypses than our future house or wedding. Normal, right? Well, ever since we discovered that Doomsday Preppers show on TV, we've been expanding our conversation from zombies to general end-of-the-world talk. If you haven't seen Doomsday Preppers, it's on the National Geographic channel, and expertly assesses people's end-of-the-world plans and preparedness. These preppers are storing food, water, weapons and securing their homes for a self-sustaining life when the economy collapses, an earthquake hits, a nuclear bomb drops, etc. Because of all the food they store (some have enough to last two years!) I suggested to Mike that they should become extreme couponers to save some money!
Some people have extremely detailed, well thought out plans on how to survive when shit hits the fan. It's incredible! Some guy changed his outdoor pool into a mini ecosystem, containing fish and produce that keeps growing on its own. I'm still blown away by it. And after every episode, despite the disclaimer that professionals feel the scenarios the preppers are prepping for are extremely unlikely, I feel super paranoid about how under-prepared Mike and I are in comparison.
What really sucks for me, is that when the end of the world comes, if it comes in my lifetime, I will be screwed. I mean, Mike can only keep me alive for so long. I don't really have a sense of direction, I am still working on my aim, I have no physical stamina, I startle easily, I don't want to touch worms and then stab them onto a metal hook to fish and then touch the fish. Once it's caught, I don't want to gut it. I don't want to eat rabbits and squirrels, I can't start a fire without a lighter, I've only touched a horse once, and it was big and scary, so riding one is a little intimidating for me.
While I'm not a good fighter, I don't fear being chased by a zombie, or being exposed to toxic chemicals from a nuclear blast. No, I fear having to eat disgusting things, like beans in a can. I am a picky eater, and I'm really nervous about the foods I'll need to eat to survive. I don't even like tomatoes or bananas, but these are things I'll need to eat because it'll be all that is available, either freeze dried or canned.
Another negative to the end of the world, and living off the land, is that I'll finally lose all this weight (ya know, from being malnourished and running from jaguars all the time) and have no one to show, no new dresses to wear, no gala affairs to attend.
The things I'll miss most (in no particular order) during the zombie apocalypse/end of the world:
Pillows
Coffee
Lotion
Makeup
Contacts
Pasta
Clean underwear
WordFeud
Heat and air conditioning
I Love Lucy
Endless supply of drinkable water
Knowing the time
Toilet paper
Indoor plumbing and electricity
Fossil purses and wallets
Hospitals with plenty of medical supplies, doctors and nurses
Monday, February 20, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
Garbage Warning
I was cooking dinner when there was a soft knock at my apartment door. It was the property manager, there to tell me not to set my garbage next to the dumpster. Apparently the garbage men had a fit, made her dig through my garbage to find out whose it was so they could fine me $50. She kindly convinced them not to charge me. From now on, I need to truck the garbage over to another dumpster, or chuck it on top of the already overflowing tower of trash. The funny thing is, when I took the garbage out, I really thought about it. I thought putting it on the ground, leaning up against the dumpster, was better than having it teeter on the top of the pile, since the cover wouldn't close. I see other garbage bags sitting on the ground from time to time... I don't know if they fall off the top of the garbage stack, or someone places them there. I wish I thought to say it must have fallen. Obviously I need to practice my lying-on-the-spot skills! Not to mention brushing up on my citations/fine knowledge.
She left just in time for my pot of water and milk to bubble over on the stove, causing a smokey, burnt mess. Awesome.
Ever since she told me she went through my garbage, I've been racking my brain trying to remember if anything extremely gross was in it. I just remember that this particular bag was leaking, so it was double bagged. I had to clean out the garbage can too. If the garbage men were the ones issuing the fine, I don't understand why they didn't search it. I'm assuming I had an envelope in there, giving away my identity. I'm usually pretty good about recycling paper, though... I feel so bad the manager had to investigate my empty wrappers, unwanted food and dirty paper towels. Yuck!
As a side note, I reported my heating problem on January 20th, had two follow-up conversations about it with the manager, and it's still whistling so loud it wakes me up in the middle of the night. Either Mike or I get up one to two times a night to adjust the thermostat. No big deal. Who needs a full night of sleep anyway?
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Distracted Drivers
I wish I could remember useful, important things--like what six multiplied by 12 equals, but no, instead I remember lame things. For example, when I was in 8th grade, our school counselor told us that if we're not comfortable riding with a driver who is also on their cell phone, we should speak up for ourselves and voice our concern. This was even before text messaging existed, or at least it wasn't popular. (Wow, that makes me feel old and I'm only 24.) While talking and driving has never made me fear my safety (with most people), texting and eating do.
When we're out of breakfast food at home, Mike and I stop at Kwik Trip before we get on the highway to come to work. So with one hand he'll eat his croissant sandwich and hashbrown sticks, while driving 60 mph through bumpy construction and a cement wall inches from me. Sometimes knees are used while he unwraps, or sips some O.J., because God forbid I assist. And that's when panic mode begins. Knees don't have thumbs. Hands have thumbs, and that's what should be used to steer a car. My heart races as my eyes dart from the steering wheel to the cement wall. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, grasping the door handle for the slightest sense of security.
And while I express my concern EVERY time, I'm told that it's fine. That he's never been in an accident before. Well guess what, just because you haven't yet, doesn't mean you won't in the future, and I don't care to be in that crash. I don't care for you to be in it either. All I ask is for ONE hand on the wheel. ONE. Because you don't know that your knees can steady the car if you go over a big bump in the road. Or if the car next to you decides to cross the center line. Or if the car behind you pulls into your trunk.
Of course Michael is not the only distracted driver I know. I see them daily on my commutes. Sometimes even I don't dedicate 100% of my focus to driving (sometimes Chapstick is more important). But I trust me. You'd think I'd trust my fiancé, too! Grandma never handled Grandpa's driving well either, though. I am just like her. She used to get so worked up and nervous just driving down the street. She'd blurt out, "John!" as she reached for the "oh shit handle" even though nothing was wrong. Six-year-old me was too carefree to be scared of his tailgating or abrupt stopping patterns. Grandpa and I just laughed, because obviously she was being silly.
So I'd like to say to my 8th grade counselor that voicing my concerns got me nowhere--thanks for the advice.
When we're out of breakfast food at home, Mike and I stop at Kwik Trip before we get on the highway to come to work. So with one hand he'll eat his croissant sandwich and hashbrown sticks, while driving 60 mph through bumpy construction and a cement wall inches from me. Sometimes knees are used while he unwraps, or sips some O.J., because God forbid I assist. And that's when panic mode begins. Knees don't have thumbs. Hands have thumbs, and that's what should be used to steer a car. My heart races as my eyes dart from the steering wheel to the cement wall. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, grasping the door handle for the slightest sense of security.
And while I express my concern EVERY time, I'm told that it's fine. That he's never been in an accident before. Well guess what, just because you haven't yet, doesn't mean you won't in the future, and I don't care to be in that crash. I don't care for you to be in it either. All I ask is for ONE hand on the wheel. ONE. Because you don't know that your knees can steady the car if you go over a big bump in the road. Or if the car next to you decides to cross the center line. Or if the car behind you pulls into your trunk.
Of course Michael is not the only distracted driver I know. I see them daily on my commutes. Sometimes even I don't dedicate 100% of my focus to driving (sometimes Chapstick is more important). But I trust me. You'd think I'd trust my fiancé, too! Grandma never handled Grandpa's driving well either, though. I am just like her. She used to get so worked up and nervous just driving down the street. She'd blurt out, "John!" as she reached for the "oh shit handle" even though nothing was wrong. Six-year-old me was too carefree to be scared of his tailgating or abrupt stopping patterns. Grandpa and I just laughed, because obviously she was being silly.
So I'd like to say to my 8th grade counselor that voicing my concerns got me nowhere--thanks for the advice.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Credit Report
I'm currently in the process of being approved for a home loan. Super exciting! But, upon applying I found multiple errors with my credit report. I have a really awesome credit score that I'm proud of, but there were collections, bills, employers, addresses and former names that did not belong to me. After I checked ALL my credit cards and one car loan five times trying to match up the account number, and collected myself from panic mode, I called the bank. They sent over the report they obtained and told me to dispute the claims that aren't mine.
So, I filled out the online dispute form with Equifax, one of the three national credit bureaus. I was doing a live chat with one of the customer service reps, because I had a question about the process and I didn't want to do this wrong. I literally got this as an answer, "I don't know. I don't have access to the website here." To which I replied, "OK." I waited a few moments, thinking there'd be a follow-up of "Do you mind waiting while I check on that for you?" But instead he said, "Is there anything else I can help you with?" I am still in shock. But, I figured it out on my own and they are still in the process of disputing them. It can take up to 45 days, so that's a bummer.
Lesson learned: Check your credit score annually for misinformation! It's free to request a report from each of the three national credit bureaus once a year.
So all of this got me wondering if the girl listed as my former name has my SSN and is using my identity at the hospital, cell phone store and applying for an apartment. Am I victim of identity theft? When I had spoken with a lady at the bank, she mentioned that her husband has a similar name to someone else, so they often have to dispute claims because they get put on his credit report. She made it sound common. I wasn't being asked to pay any of the collections or unpaid bills listed. I was recently approved for a credit card with what I would consider to be a high credit limit. (When I first applied online for a home loan pre-approval I applied for a credit card by mistake. I was approved for $5,000. Not quite enough to purchase a house with though! ;) ) I didn't have any unexplained purchases on my existing credit cards either. So I ruled out identity theft.
How the heck does this happen? I searched online and found some alarming statistics, and very insightful information:
Source: http://www.creditreportproblems.com/common_credit_report_errors.htm
So it seems that there's nothing we can do to prevent these errors, other than to check regularly and dispute them.
I'm always cautious at the store--I don't hold my credit card out of my wallet while waiting. (People can take photos of it with their phones.) I use an actual credit card, not my debit card, to make online purchases. (I learned this one from a friend, who had some purchases she didn't make on her statement. The police told her to be sure she uses actual credit cards because a lot of them have policies where they won't make you pay for purchases made by a thief, and there's not a direct link to your bank account with credit cards). The above link also has some other identity fraud prevention practices if you're interested. Be safe, everyone!
So, I filled out the online dispute form with Equifax, one of the three national credit bureaus. I was doing a live chat with one of the customer service reps, because I had a question about the process and I didn't want to do this wrong. I literally got this as an answer, "I don't know. I don't have access to the website here." To which I replied, "OK." I waited a few moments, thinking there'd be a follow-up of "Do you mind waiting while I check on that for you?" But instead he said, "Is there anything else I can help you with?" I am still in shock. But, I figured it out on my own and they are still in the process of disputing them. It can take up to 45 days, so that's a bummer.
Lesson learned: Check your credit score annually for misinformation! It's free to request a report from each of the three national credit bureaus once a year.
So all of this got me wondering if the girl listed as my former name has my SSN and is using my identity at the hospital, cell phone store and applying for an apartment. Am I victim of identity theft? When I had spoken with a lady at the bank, she mentioned that her husband has a similar name to someone else, so they often have to dispute claims because they get put on his credit report. She made it sound common. I wasn't being asked to pay any of the collections or unpaid bills listed. I was recently approved for a credit card with what I would consider to be a high credit limit. (When I first applied online for a home loan pre-approval I applied for a credit card by mistake. I was approved for $5,000. Not quite enough to purchase a house with though! ;) ) I didn't have any unexplained purchases on my existing credit cards either. So I ruled out identity theft.
How the heck does this happen? I searched online and found some alarming statistics, and very insightful information:
- 46%-70% of credit reports contain mistakes
- 40% of credit reports contain public record information belonging to someone else, credit accounts that do not belong to the consumer or accounts incorrectly marked as delinquent
- 26% of credit errors are serious enough to deny an application for credit, housing or employment (fn1)
Mixed or Mismerged Credit File/Mistaken Identity
A mixed file is a credit reporting error that occurs when a credit reporting agency puts the information belonging to one consumer on another consumer's consumer report. This happens most often when the two consumers have similar names or addresses, but not always. Through our cases and work, our firm has learned that the credit reporting agency has known about this problem for years and can prevent it from happening but often does not.Inaccurate or Stale Collection Accounts
Debt collection accounts also account for a high percentage of credit report errors. Often the debt collector does not get sufficient information from the creditor to identify the correct consumer or get an accurate account status. As a result, collection accounts end up on the wrong consumer's file or on the correct consumer's file with wrong information. In addition, many of these accounts get "re-aged" by the debt collector, meaning that they appear to be recent delinquencies and end up on the consumer's credit report longer than the law allows. Even if accurate, most adverse credit information can only stay on a credit report for 7 years, 10 years in some instances.Source: http://www.creditreportproblems.com/common_credit_report_errors.htm
So it seems that there's nothing we can do to prevent these errors, other than to check regularly and dispute them.
I'm always cautious at the store--I don't hold my credit card out of my wallet while waiting. (People can take photos of it with their phones.) I use an actual credit card, not my debit card, to make online purchases. (I learned this one from a friend, who had some purchases she didn't make on her statement. The police told her to be sure she uses actual credit cards because a lot of them have policies where they won't make you pay for purchases made by a thief, and there's not a direct link to your bank account with credit cards). The above link also has some other identity fraud prevention practices if you're interested. Be safe, everyone!
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Memory Triggers
A long time ago in school I was told that out of all your senses, scent is the most powerful memory trigger. I have never agreed with this, personally. For me it's always been sound. But, there is one smell that makes me flash back to my childhood--the smell of diesel. I always say, "It smells like ice fishing."
When a truck cruises by me emitting those toxic fumes, I remember that time when I was 7 years old, and my dad took me on the lake in the brisk winter weather. I was walking down the line of fishing holes to grab some bait in a metal bucket, and on my way back I stepped in a hole. I screamed as my left leg plunged into the freezing water. To this day I swear a fish bit my boot!
When my dad pulled me out I was crying, and he was laughing. My polka dot pants were frosting over, so Dad sat me in the truck while he packed his fishing gear up.
I think the diesel smell reminds me of the big heaters that were in the ice shanty; they must have been gas powered--do those even exist?
The sound that triggers my memory the most often is that low grumbling of an airplane. Even in winter, when a plane flies over me, it's instantly August. I'm wearing a purple Looney Tunes T-shirt, jean shorts, clear Jelly shoes and my hair is in a pony tail. I'm standing in the narrow yard between my grandparent's house and their neighbor's. I'm next to the "edible" flowers--the orange and black tiger lillies. My cousin Justin runs past me. We're pretending we're Mario and Luigi. Suddenly I remember that grass is lava, and I need to move quickly! I make a run for the picnic table. Safe.
When a truck cruises by me emitting those toxic fumes, I remember that time when I was 7 years old, and my dad took me on the lake in the brisk winter weather. I was walking down the line of fishing holes to grab some bait in a metal bucket, and on my way back I stepped in a hole. I screamed as my left leg plunged into the freezing water. To this day I swear a fish bit my boot!
When my dad pulled me out I was crying, and he was laughing. My polka dot pants were frosting over, so Dad sat me in the truck while he packed his fishing gear up.
I think the diesel smell reminds me of the big heaters that were in the ice shanty; they must have been gas powered--do those even exist?
The sound that triggers my memory the most often is that low grumbling of an airplane. Even in winter, when a plane flies over me, it's instantly August. I'm wearing a purple Looney Tunes T-shirt, jean shorts, clear Jelly shoes and my hair is in a pony tail. I'm standing in the narrow yard between my grandparent's house and their neighbor's. I'm next to the "edible" flowers--the orange and black tiger lillies. My cousin Justin runs past me. We're pretending we're Mario and Luigi. Suddenly I remember that grass is lava, and I need to move quickly! I make a run for the picnic table. Safe.
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