How do you cook a Nauga?

Today started with a list of things to do. Get a muffler fixed, stop at the bank, get some boots repaired, buy some new shoes, grocery store and so on. Dan and the dog-face boys took care of the car drop-off at a local muffler shop, a small independently owned place that has done work on all of our cars. Dan has a relationship with them and they once even signed some custom work they did on his 1960 Ranchero. They know him there and he likes to take his business to the small shop.  

I lounged in, loving Saturday morning until Dan and the herd returned.  When I got up I looked around the bedroom. Quite a mess as I’ve been trying on clothes to see how they fit since my recent landscaping. Very pleased with what I’m seeing in the mirror, the resulting debris of cast-off costume changes needed some attention. Included in that pile were a pair of boots that never quite fit properly. 

Dan did a quick Google search to find out the hours of the local shoe repair shop. The search led to one of those sites where people leave reviews. The owner of the little shop really ticked off a customer with a rant about folks from a political persuasion other than theirs (and ours as well). This led to a discussion of patronage – do we go to the most local shop, or do we find another place for the repair – simply because of this review and the owners political affiliation? Does it matter if we take our business to a shop in Wauwatosa or West Allis? 

We went to the Tosa store and turns out the owner doesn’t care to do that type of repair work. He did give us the name of the one shop in town that might help us and no political commentary. Off we went to downtown Milwaukee, to a store that has been in business for over 75 years. This felt good. The proprietor took a look at the fix we wanted and declined to do the work. Turns out the original purchase, made over the internet, was not of sufficient quality to warrant the amount of work needed for the repair.

Next was a stop at the “big bank” to close our checking account of over 30 years. Since last November I’ve gone through the tedious exercise of moving all of our automatic bill deductions from the bank to the credit union.  A quick check of the remaining bank balance yesterday uncovered another fee deducted, I suspect from going under the “minimum required account balance.” Time to bail. Asked why we were closing the account I mentioned fees and loss of services. Dan placed his hand on my leg – a gentle reminder that getting snarky with the woman stuck working on a Saturday, and with no control over these things, was not the person to vent on.

This led to a discussion of what does “local” mean. Here was an individual, working “locally” at a bank whose home office is in another country.  Didn’t our use of that bank constitute local support of their employees? Which led me to thinking about an all-hands meeting at my employer yesterday where we discussed economic issues in Europe and Asia that were impacting “our” projections. I work locally, don’t I? For a multinational. Am I a hypocrite in my fight against the big bank?

Next stop, locally owned shoe store to pick up some new running shoes. I’ve been advised by my physical therapist that now is the time to transition to more foot/body friendly natural running shoes. The shop is tiny. The shoes are made in China. Damn. Apparently the only barefoot running that I can do, that is guaranteed to be made in the USA, is my own bare feet. Shoes purchased and now I was feeling really conflicted.

Leave it to Dan to bring me back to reality. Through all this chasing Dan was puzzling over how to fix the “unfixable boots”.  Back at home he exclaims, “I’ve got naugahyde!  I bought it before we got married to fix those scratch and dent end-tables we had.  I can use that to fix the boots.”  So, once again, my do-yourself-husband will implement a home made fix with a material older than the internet on a cheap internet purchase. And I think I need to buy another cow, or pig, or nauga through the Heifer project just to balance out the karma for the day. Does anyone know—are naugas white or dark meat?

Shell Game

Recent efforts to close our 30+ year-old checking account with a big bank and move our daily finances over to a credit union have me thinking about money in an entirely different way. The impetus for this transfer was some mailings from the bank regarding changes in the fee structure and loss of the opportunity to earn points. Frankly, the bank had just stopped selling itself as the financial provider of choice and it was time to move on.

For those of you who have had a long term relationship with a bank, you know the transition is not easy. I’ve had to start over with direct deposits, automatic withdrawals and on-line bill pay. I keep remembering yet another entity that hit the checking account without me having to think about it. In addition, the current bank has a nifty auto-reconcile feature using Quicken, something the credit union does not offer. Math is not my forte.

What’s funny to me is that throughout this whole process I haven’t touched a single piece of currency. It’s all virtual. In fact, when I think about it, I haven’t actually been paid in cash for work in years. Neither has Dan. The money I’m dealing with seems like more of an idea than a reality.

How many of us can draw a straight line between work and money? When was the last time an employer handed you cash that you in turn took to the grocery store and used to buy food? I haven’t received cash for work since I provided in-home childcare services. The money I earned seemed to mean a lot more to me then. Its immediacy to the job I performed gave it special relevance. I bypassed using the bank because I had the cash I needed to access the goods and services the family consumed on a daily basis.

So, I have to wonder, if as a society (broad generalization here) we’ve become so disconnected from currency and it’s real value that we no longer understand what it means not to have money. It’s just numbers on a computer screen, or a point of purchase touchpad. For so many of us it’s a magic card that works like a Disney fast pass, providing instant gratification.

On Saturday, our debit card was cancelled due to suspicion of fraudulent charges generating from Bolivia. Our card was declined at the grocery store, the computer ink store and the ATM. We couldn’t pay and we couldn’t get currency. Brief panic ensued until we regrouped and tapped other options. I had momentary flashbacks to living “from check-to-check” and praying that an unforeseen ear infection didn’t derail our delicate financial balance. In that instant I was reconnected with so many people in the US that are just trying to have their voices heard. They’ve watched the financial shell game go on long enough, as banks and governments shift virtual dollars, playing chicken with real people managing the real needs of real lives.

Somewhere in Bolivia someone charged $63.00 for a cab ride. Somewhere in California there are some protesters getting over pepper spray. All over Milwaukee there are moms wondering what they are going to do about rent…and breakfast. Just south of us a close relative is moving on after being laid off last week. Somewhere in Canada there is a millionaire banker who couldn’t care less that Paula Johnson moved her checking account to a little credit union. We lead a blessed, blessed life, and I need to be reminded of it more than once every 30 years.