After getting just 22 miles per gallon in my gas guzzling SUV, I wanted to go electric. I considered buying any EV not named Tesla. (Tesla’s build quality is rickety and I get the feeling Elon wants to build a whites-only space colony.) New EVs were way out my $30,000 price range. Fortunately, they depreciate quickly. 

I settled on a certified 2022 Polestar 2. It originally sold for $63,000. Two years and 19,000 miles later it was $28,000. 

Like yours truly, the Polestar is fast, powerful, and sexy. It goes 0 to 60 miles per hour in 4.5 seconds. The interior features a big ol’ panoramic roof and Google infotainment system. And it gets 250 miles on a full charge. 

My wife and I flew to Atlanta to pick up the Polestar. The dealership had offered to ship it for $1,000. Nope. Figured I’d save money and use the 600-mile road trip to learn more about my new whip. 

The drive home was simple. (Outside of my yelling when Amber hit a pothole. “AMBER!”) Google told me in advance when I needed to stop for a charge. If I was being hard-headed, it reminded me again. And Polestar’s pilot assist did some of the driving for us.

(Here we are during an overnight pit stop in Lexington, Kentucky. We met Abe Lincoln and ate collard greens and catfish for breakfast.)

One issue during the road trip: fast charging stations price gouge. It’s similar to what gas stations do after natural disasters, except there was nothing unusual going on. I was just trying to get home. Rates at ChargePoint and EVgo were like seven times higher than my home rate. Many of their charging stations were near Walmart. That was interesting. Plug the car in and wander around Walmart for 20 minutes and experience Real America, you damn “EV-driving supporter of Commie Harris and Tampon Tim Walz!”

I’ve owned the Polestar for over a month and have a Level 2 charger installed in my garage. A full charge takes six hours overnight, which I do once every 4 to 6 days. My electric bill was $18 higher this month; $18 gets me a quarter tank of gas in the ol’ SUV. The cost for the charging unit and install was $1,000. That’s not cheap, but the math’s bad if you own an EV without being able to charge at home.

I won’t go back to a gas vehicle. Driving my Polestar like a maniac is one of the biggest dopamine hits I get each day. Right up there with drinking a Victory Golden Monkey while watching Instagram reels forwarded from underemployed friends.

And I definitely won’t lease again. This week I got a bill from Mazda. I owe a $350 disposition fee. They charged me just to return the vehicle.

-Dewan Gibson

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Nope. I called back the following Tuesday. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gibson, but it looks like your account was closed on Monday due to inactivity.” 

Inactivity? I paid bills with the account and had more than $3,000 in direct deposits going in each month. Shit, this account was hyperactive! 

I moved up the Wells Fargo chain and no one could provide an answer as to why my account was closed. The department manager told me, in his So Cal bro voice, “Even a blind man can see that your account was not inactive.” He said a more thorough investigation was needed. I was to hear more within 24 hours. I never heard from him again. 

Wells Fargo may be the worst of the worst big banks. They have been caught opening accounts without customer permission, processing transactions largest to smaller to increase the number of overdraft fees, knowingly selling mortgages with misstated borrower information, and, at the top of the list, trying to avoid paying my $400 bonus.  

So I went big on ‘em. I filed a complaint with the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau (shout-out to Senator Elizabeth Warren). It’s the governmental agency that ensures banks don’t screw you over, at least not without first telling you in tiny print. I wrote:  

On February 28, 2019, I opened a checking account with Wells Fargo. As a condition of opening this account, I was eligible to receive a $400 bonus if I received $3,000 in direct deposits for three consecutive months. On Friday, May 17, 2019, I reached that objective, and called Wells Fargo on May 18, 2019 to inquire about when I would receive the $400 bonus. The customer service rep I spoke to said she did not know when I would receive the bonus. The following Tuesday, May 21, 2019, I logged into my Wells Fargo checking account and learned the account had been closed by Wells Fargo. I called customer service and was told the account was closed, “probably” due to inactivity. This despite the fact that I paid bills with the account every week, including credit card payments, my mortgage, and utilities…I believe the account was closed simply because I achieved the goal to receive the $400 bonus.

About a week later, I received two envelopes from Wells Fargo. The first letter said that my checking account had been canceled, though no reason was given. In the second envelope was my Wells Fargo bonus: a cashier’s check for $400. I deposited that bad boy instantly—in my Capital One account—and celebrated my mini-triumph over America’s fourth largest bank.

I should have known from the start not to deal with Wells Fargo. But churning bank accounts is a profitable side hustle. I open accounts for the free money and then move to the next bank, only keeping permanent accounts with my financial love, Capital One. It’s a small hassle to change direct deposit information at work, and in this case file a complaint with the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau, but it is worth the extra $1,500 or so I’ve earned in the past year. Thanks, Wells Fargo. And now I’m applying for your credit card that’s offering a $200 bonus. Hopefully we handle this without the feds.

-Dewan Gibson

The post I Went To Battle Against Wells Fargo And Won My $400 Bonus appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

I promised myself in June that I would salvage an otherwise swag-deficient year by submitting one article each month for publication on websites that pay writers and have much larger audiences than my own. Here’s the first, published by The Billfold: “The Cost To Clothe A Minimalist Family of Five.” It’s about hand-me-downs, washing Chuck Taylors, and saving money on work clothes by wearing only a skull cap and bathrobe. You can read a preview below; hit the link for the rest. If you don’t see me talking about a new publication next month, that means my ass got rejected.

A common misconception that comes with being a frugal family is that people think we’re poor. Well-meaning friends offer us bags of used kids’ clothes, and extended family gift us hip clothing fit for the coolest preschool Instagram models. We donate a lot of what we’re given, and the clothing we keep is shared among our three boys, ages 4 to 6. Otherwise, we try to keep our clothing expenses minimal and our kids looking somewhat presentable. As for us parents, we buy the clothing we need and some of what we want.

Over the past year, we have spent just under $400 on kids’ clothes. Our biggest expense was $97 for three winter coats from Target, which we had to buy after leaving Southern California for the face-freezing weather of Ohio. We expect the coats to last at least another year, maybe longer if you count the hand-me-down bonus. READ THE REST AT THE BILLFOLD…

-Dewan Gibson

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Air Condition: Towards the end of the winter it was like 10 degrees outside and our HVAC system was struggling to keep the house warm. Whatever. We just turned on the fireplace. Spring arrived and the AC wouldn’t blow cool air. My solution was to hang out in the basement where it’s cold or spend more time at Barnes & Noble to “borrow” their cool air. But my wife reminded me 27 times to have a technician look at the AC unit. I called the company who installed the system 10 years ago and made an appointment. Yelp told me they’re ripoff artists. I canceled the appointment and figured I’d give the AC time to see if the system could regenerate itself. My wife went ahead and made an appointment with an HVAC repair company that had good reviews. The technician sealed a hole in the compressor, and the system should last us “another 2 to 3 years.” It’s now hot outside but cold inside at a cost of $350.

Electrical Work: Some of our upstairs outlets stopped working, and our lights would go off and on when they felt like it. I unscrewed a few outlets and everything looked fine, according to what YouTube taught me. Turns out we had a wiring problem. An electrician fixed the problem for about $300. He was in top physical condition and made strong eye contact with my wife. Just fix the problem and be on your way, bro. But thanks!

Carpet and Floors: I imagine the person who lived in our home before us was a nice person, but maybe not because she had turquoise, green, and red carpet throughout the house. We replaced the downstairs carpet with bamboo floors and had Beyoncé brown carpet installed upstairs. The floors will last a lifetime, or at least I tell myself that to justify the expense. As for the carpet, I don’t mind eating off the floor if I drop something, so it’s nice to have carpet that only we’ve stepped on. Although carpet and floors are not technically a maintenance expense, I included it because I needed to get rid of that colorful mess to maintain my inner peace. Total cost: Man…about $11,000.

Landscaping: The California environmentalist in me insisted in buying all electronic lawn gear (mower and trimmer), which set us back $400. Then we paid for lawn chemicals to get rid of the brown patches; that was another $200. Add another $80 to re-mulch the front and backyard, plus a couple-few dollars for fish to put in our tiny pond, and we’re at a total of $700 to compete with our neighbors in the 2018 Lawn Olympics.

Paint and More Paint: Our new-to-us home was built in 1997, a time when “Return Of The Mack” and wood decor was popular. We painted the trim and are about halfway done with painting the kitchen cabinets, having spent around $400 to somewhat complete the projects. Not bad, but there’s more painting to do upstairs. Bonus: My brother-in-law is a climber and didn’t mind going two stories high to repaint the great room.

We’re a year in and have so far managed to avoid my big fears of having to buy a new roof or HVAC system, for now. Of course there are more projects to complete (ex: a bathroom remodel), but we’ll get to those when the money’s extra right. Still, regardless of our homeowner expenses, renting a similar home would cost twice our monthly mortgage payment, and the owner would have kicked us out because our kids are loud and ruthless. By owning, we’re accruing equity and in the nearish future the house will be paid off, leaving us with only taxes and of course…more yearly  house maintenance costs.

-Dewan Gibson

The post One Year Of (Expected And Unexpected) Home Maintenance Costs appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Diversity
San Diego’s a majority-minority border city and a popular destination for international newcomers, so you find pretty much everyone there, though unfortunately very few black folks. Pickerington is mostly white, maybe 15 percent black. There’s also a Latino family across the street who waves when I see them cooking tortillas in the garage. Columbus, our closest major city and the 14th largest city in the country, is 20 minutes away and doubly black/African. In addition, there’s a growing populations of Asians and Latinos. Bonus: There are a lot of interracial couples here. Columbus may very well be the swirl capital of the United States, or at least the Midwest. It’s nice to get supportive head nods from fellow “cornball brothers” while at the store buying pumpernickel with our wives. Still, I miss the international vibe of San Diego and my dear Tijuana.

Weather
In Ohio we have this strange phenomenon called seasons, which result in horrendous weather from November to February, if not longer. During this four-month period I’d say about 30 to 40 of the days are brutally cold. So cold that my dog refuses to take a dump outside.

But, as I remind San Diego friends who post pictures of themselves at the beach in December, all shirtless with crusty nipples showing, technology has advanced to the point where I can press a button in my house or car and become as warm as I want within minutes.

The biggest adjustment to winter after 15 years of California has been getting the kids bundled up, especially since they have to ride in car seats. Amber and I don’t see eye-to-eye on this, but I’m always like, “You don’t need to wear a coat, hat, gloves, and scarf. We’re walking from the parking lot and to the store. Takes 10 seconds! Wear one of your hand-me-down sweatshirts!” The cold ain’t that bad.

Housing
Our house in Chula Vista (San Diego County) was a 3 bedroom, 2.5 bathroom townhome in a recently built planned community. The front yard was more of a porch and our backyard was a street where neighborhood kids would play dodgecar. We bought the place for $200,000 during the Great Recession and it nearly doubled in value before we moved. Our new home has the same number of bedrooms and bathrooms, but also has a big ol’ loft, dining room turned craft room, finished basement, deck, front yard, and a backyard with a bootleg Japanese garden thing going on. It’s more room than we need, but the kids have space to fight and run around without bugging me. And if I ever make new friends (more on that later) we can entertain at home. We bought the house for $219,000 and should be mortgage-free in the next four years. A similar home in San Diego would have ran us at least $800,000 and would have been paid off in 2000-never. Not to mention property taxes in San Diego were more than twice what we’re paying now. And oh yeah, HOA fees! We were paying our association $200 a month to have a landscaping company care for a yard that didn’t exist.

Social Life
Well, as of now, I don’t really have a social life or new friends. I say what’s up to the mailman and I once held a conversation with the cashier at Whole Foods, but if I’m not traveling I mostly stay inside. I just like my house and Netflix and lots of wine. The family’s pretty cool, too. And of course the internet never gets old. My best friend asked if I was depressed. I don’t think so. I’m just really comfortable, a condition for which the big drugmakers are not currently selling prescriptions, but you never know.

Amber and I do go out together out once a week. (She has friends nearby, so she’s out more often than I am.) The nightlife here seems to be centered around craft beer, much like San Diego. Our favorite restaurant foods–tacos and sushi–are easy to find and the only difference is the price, with the cost of both inflated the farther one goes east from California. I have gone to a nightclub twice (the same club that plays ’90s hip hop once a month) and I enjoyed it. However, if I was single and childless, I’d be more willing to pay the So Cal premium to enjoy bar hopping options every night and beach wandering during the day. Roommates could help reduce the outrageous costs, but I’m not sure I’d want to be leaving Do Not Disturb signs on my bedroom door at 38.

Jobs
My employment connections were well-established in San Diego and outside of one or two bad gigs I was respected as a pleasant guy who brings a lot to the table. This was not the case in Columbus. During our first few months here, I was just another name in a stack of resumes, constantly interviewing but unable to land a well-paid contract. Thankfully, I still had a job in San Diego and I was able to commute until growing tired of the travel in May.

In September, I started drinking wine before interviews and landed a three-month work-from-home contract with a large healthcare company (in addition to a gig with a social justice organization in California). The healthcare contract was renewed for a year in December and now I’m making as much as I ever made in San Diego, but paying an Ohio cost of living. Amber substitute teaches once or twice a week and may go back to teaching full-time once our youngest is in first grade. As long as we refrain from buying brand new cars and other forms of po’ folks kryptonite, we’ll be financial independent. I’m not sure this would have happened in San Diego.

The Future
I’m glad we moved to Pickerington, Ohio and I think this will be our permanent home, though we’re looking forward to spending a year or two abroad once the kids get a little older. (I’ve been making the case for Portugal, Amber wants Spain. Maybe we’ll find a city on the border of the two countries.) Obviously you can’t replace San Diego, its perfect weather, and the optimism you feel when moving there or just visiting for a weekend. But if you’re thinking of cashing out and leaving California, Ohio and many other parts of “flyover country” offer a pretty good quality of life, even more so if you rarely leave your house.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Leaving California For Ohio: Reflections After One Year appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Even while traveling Walmart was one of my first stops in a new city. It gave me a feel for the locals, and like the Greyhound station, it was a fair representation of Real America. But I’ve realized no matter how much I love-ded Walmart, it was an unrequited love. And now, I’m done with ’em. As of January 15, 2018, I will never shop there again. Here are my reasons for boycotting Walmart.

For one, the customer service has become terrible. The store greeters don’t even say hello anymore. I look at them and think, “Yo’ ass got one job to do! And that’s say hi! Can I even get a head nod?”

And it gets worse once you get past the greeters. Just a few weeks ago I was at my local Walmart trying to buy a bottle of wine from their alcohol clearance rack. The regular price was $17, but it was marked down to $9. However, it rang up as regular price. I told the associate who was overseeing the self-checkouts that it was on sale. She insisted it was not. I asked her to follow me to the aisle so we could check the price tag together. I mean, I know my discount wines. She refused. We went back-and-forth and then she got all sassy and said, “If you don’t like it, don’t buy it!”

I stayed calm and asked to speak to the associate’s manager, who confirmed–with an attitude because she had a line of people waiting–that the wine was, in fact, on clearance. But…they were unable to do a price change on alcohol. So they changed the price on another item I was buying to almost equal the difference. The whole episode was a waste of adrenaline and 20 minutes. These slights are typical of Walmart.

But this was just one of the factors that led me to divorce Walmart. A friend, who was also my former coworker and “work mom,” got a job at Walmart after moving out of state. She’s high-energy (despite pushing 70) and funny and of course hardworking. I know because I used to send her to the local jails and prisons to do health education presentations. That’s not easy work. Anyhow, she got injured while working at Walmart and management intimidated her into not filing a workers’ compensation claim. Her manager’s words were somewhere along the lines of “YOU WON’T WIN.” This, on top of the lack of benefits and peasant pay, leads to low employee morale, which in turns creates “If you don’t like it, don’t buy it!” customer service.

Lastly, Walmart’s just full of plastic. They provide customers the smallest and thinnest bags possible, knowing full well everybody’s going to double and triple bag groceries and everything else. This isn’t a problem in states like California where there’s a plastic bag ban and everyone brings their own (or pays five cents for a thick plastic bag). But for most Walmart stores it is, and they play a large part in polluting marine life and sickening the fish that I’m supposed to be eating. Man, don’t mess with my (sustainable) sushi!

So far, ditching Walmart has been surprisingly easy. Come to think of it, I should have left them back in the ’90s when they falsely accused me and my older brother of stealing. To make a long story that I’ve told before short, Walmart’s undercover security jumped him as he was leaving the store, pinching his nutsack to get him down. He ended up spending the holiday weekend in jail, where a bigger guy took his lunch. I got off because I was two weeks shy of 18, but not before some punk policeman threatened to “beat the shit out of (me)” if I ran. Thanks, Walmart.

Anyway, I’m buying my households goods from Target and groceries from Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods. Excluding the illustrious meat and seafood I get from the latter, the prices are comparable. And I’ll probably end up saving money because these stores close at reasonable hours and I can no longer make 1 a.m. impulse purchases. (Lawd, please don’t let me start shopping on Amazon at odd hours.)

So, Walmart, peace out. It’s been real and often real interesting, but I’m going to “Save Money and Live Better” elsewhere. Step your customer service game up, jabroni.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Unrequited Love: Reasons For Boycotting Walmart (After A Long Love Affair) appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

But of course, with three little ones and a wife, it ain’t really about my feelings. So each holiday season I hang in there and and try not to show my true colors as DeScrooge Gibson. And man, it was a struggle this year.

I kicked off the holiday season by spending Black Friday at Walmart. Not to buy gifts, just to see the spectacle up close. I lasted about seven minutes. It felt like I was in a crowded nightclub, with a fight brewing over liquor spilled on a new shoe, or, in this case, the last Fingerlings baby monkey. There was no “excuse me” from customers, no “Can I help you find something?” from employees, just a bunch of rude shoppers and fed up workers. It was stereotypical America: loud, excessive, unworried of debt, and obsessing over stuff-stuff-and-more-stuff.

By the start of December my wife was asking how much should we spend on Christmas. I avoided giving a direct answer for like 10 days, subconsciously hoping the holiday would be canceled due to some extreme circumstance. (Thanks for nothing, North Korea.) More time passed and she started to get upset, “Some of the things I have in my Amazon account won’t even make it here by Christmas! We’re waiting too late to buy!” Inside I’m thinking, “Hell yeah!” but I gave in and was like, “Just get what you need to get.” My goal was for us to not spend more than $1,000. But! That $1,000 included gifts, Christmas lights, Christmas dinner, gas money to see family, Christmas cards, and income lost due to decreased productivity…add all that shit up!

Christmas was about a week away and we were still a bit below my $1,000 limit. My sister texted and asked if I was getting our younger brother a Christmas present. I wrote, “Nope! He’s almost 30!” But see, she was really asking if I was getting her a present, which is a more realistic form of the so-called Christmas spirit: People generally get gifts for people who buy gifts for them. My answer was still “Nope!” But the three of us did combine our money to get our parents a hotel stay and dinner in one of America’s most underrated but hippest cities: Columbus, Ohio.

And then tragedy struck. The kids cracked the screen of our newish TV, which was actually the second TV they had cracked in about a week. The first screen broke after being hit by a flying remote control that was thrown during a fight between our two youngest kids. The second, an LED TV with 4k resolution, was intentionally broken by our middle child, who wanted it to look like “a TV in a haunted house.” Man, that boy has an imagination.

Much respect to his creativity, but I had a fit and accidentally gave up the truth about Santa: “I’m taking all your Christmas gifts back to the store so I can buy a new TV!” Oops. Luckily the kids didn’t catch on, or maybe they figured I would sell the toys to the store. Who knows what in the hell goes on in their little complex minds. See, it wasn’t really the cost of the TVs (both were relatively inexpensive “open box” purchases from Best Buy), it was what the TVs meant to us. Binge watching Netflix and Hulu on a high-resolution TV while getting drunk is an important part of our marriage and sex life.

Anyhow, Amber said it wouldn’t be fair to take back their toys, especially for our oldest, who was uninvolved in the crimes. I calmed down and agreed. Christmas would go on as reluctantly planned.

Christmas morning arrived and the kids were going crazy, but in a good way this time. They yelled and ran in place with excitement as they opened toys, even little toys like Pez dispensers, which might as well have been a Playstation to them. And of course they went insane when they saw their big gift, an indoor bounce house designed to keep them occupied and away from us grown folks. As Amber said throughout the holiday season, “It’s magical.” I wouldn’t go that far, but my Scrooge level did decrease while seeing them elated.

Our Christmas ended with a trip up to Cleveland to see my parents and nephews and siblings, minus my older brother who doesn’t like or talk to us anymore. But big bro was there in spirit, as we got some jokes off at his expense. From Dad: “What kind of nigga don’t even call his MOM!” (To be a Gibson is to know that there is no subject that cannot be laughed about.)

Anyhow, my parents got a kick out of having five grandkids under age 7 around for the holidays. I actually enjoyed this Christmas, too, though I still feel the stress in my stomach when I think of the weeks leading up to it.

Also, I bought a new TV the day after Christmas, which I hung to the wall while giving a “Don’t even think about EVER touching it” lecture to the kids. Of course it pushed us way past our holiday budget. But I guess that’s the Christmas spirit.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Surviving Christmas As A Parent Who Doesn’t Give A Damn About The Holidays appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Getting the job was easy. The only requirements were a college degree and a bit of common sense. There’s no interview. If Pearson likes your resume they email you and ask you to accept the job offer online. Hell, that’s right up my alley. Efficient. And no need to get all dressed up and wear my patent leather wedding shoes to an interview.

Keeping the Pearson gig is more difficult. You have to pass a test during the paid training. In short, the scores you give the standardized practice test have to match the scores given by the experts at Pearson. If you fail twice…peace out. I’d say about five of the 40 or so people in my group did not make the cut.

Week 1
It had been awhile since I worked in such a structured environment. Hours were from 8 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. We were allowed two 15 minute breaks and 30 minutes for lunch. Cell phones were a no-no, though that did little to stop my addiction. The only perk was free candy. But even that was no longer free once they put a donation tray next to the candy jar.

The pay was not good. I made $12.10 an hour with the potential for a $30 bonus if I graded more than 420 elementary school essays in a day. That’s a lot of essays to skim. I was the only one on my team to make the bonus our first full day. It was my biggest accomplishment since winning my kindergarten Monopoly tournament.

But chasing the bonus wore me out. Most of the essays were terrible. I felt bad for and angry at the kids. If they didn’t improve their writing they’d never land a temporary test scorer job with Pearson.

Week 2
I missed two days of work because I had to fly to Los Angeles for an interview. My supervisor thought I was an unexcused no-show. I had reminded her the previous week of my upcoming absence, but rules were rules and if I missed another day that would be the end of my gig. But at least she said it with a smile and a “honey.” Older black women always show me love.

I got the contract with the company in L.A. It paid double what I made at Pearson and I could work from home. I thought about quitting, but I didn’t have much else going on in Columbus besides some day trading and this here blog. I also needed to get out the house. Even my wife has been like, “You should go out.” Back to grading 420 essays a day, I was.

I started talking to the guy seated next to me. He was disabled, seemed to be recovering from a stroke. We had sat in silence most of the first week. It was my fault. I assumed he didn’t want to or was unable to talk. His speech was slow, but it helped his comedic timing when he joked about the subjectivity of the grading system. I came to admire him. He caught the bus to work and wore a suit.

Week 3
It stormed one morning and my well-dressed work partner would miss that day and all days thereafter. He was not the only one. I’d say about a third of the original team had stopped showing up.

Monotony had set in and people started to crack. There was a balding, pony-tailed white man in the break room nearly in tears asking for migraine meds. I wished I had drugs for the both of us. And there was an older East African woman, about 60, who flipped out and yelled at the guy sitting in front of her. According to her, he distracted her by moving in his seat too much. She may have also needed meds.

I felt the stress, too. My eyes hurt and restless leg syndrome set in, which Big Pharma says is a real thing. But I found peace in a gender-neutral bathroom. It had one toilet and was usually empty. I’d grade 100 essays at a time and then go hang out in the bathroom to play on my phone. This, along with my real breaks, brought my actual work time to about six hours. And I got more done because I was so focused on earning that bathroom break.

Week 4
I had another interview late Monday morning and called to let Pearson know I’d try to make it in late. I never showed. In the past seven work days I had graded 2,578 essays on the same topic and like the LeBron vs Jordan argument it was overkill.

Human resources called that afternoon to say the project was ending a week earlier than expected, and not just for me. We bonus chasers had graded too fast and there was no more work. I believe Jay Z would refer to this as “hustlin’ backwards.”

I felt relieved, though thankful to earn a little extra money. Please make sure your kids know how to write a coherent essay.

Note: Pearson also offers work-from-home gigs, which sounds like much better experience than my job with Pearson, if only because you would not need to hide in the gender-neutral bathroom.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Monotony Hurts: A Review Of Working As A Pearson Standardized Test Scorer appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Food stamps, officially known as CalFresh in our state, became part of our lives after Amber left her teaching job to be tortured as a stay-at-home mom to our three boys. The registration process was straightforward. We completed an online application, where we uploaded bank statements and attested that we had never been convicted of trading benefits for guns, drugs, or explosives, the latter of which sounded pretty exciting. A week later, we received a letter listing a day and time for a phone interview with our caseworker. Be available, or be hungry.

The phone interviewer was polite but prying. She asked about income from past employment and my reasons for leaving. As a contractor, also known as a glorified job hopper, my history was difficult to explain. We were less than halfway through the year and I had already completed contracts for three different companies. As for my income, I was on pace to make anywhere from 55k to 75k.

“So who was your employer?” she asked. “Well, I was a contractor, so myself.” Bad answer. The interviewer said I would need to submit last year’s business tax returns. I explained that I didn’t file business taxes, but I was self-employed and temporarily worked on projects. We went back and forth. I was tired of trying of explain and the interviewer was tired of trying to understand. She asked that I submit the same bank statements I had already uploaded. I did not argue.

We were awarded $407 a month in food stamp benefits. This may sound like a lot of money, but to put it in Feed the Children terms, it came out to about 55 cents per meal for each of the five of us. Still, I wasn’t complaining, as the federal name of the food stamp program (Supplemental Nutritional Assistance Program) suggests, the benefit was meant to supplement our existing food resources.

But dammit, that extra $407 made me feel food-rich. We still bought our staples—spinach, whole chickens for roasting and soup the day after, milk and eggs—but on occasion we would “splurge” on foods that were new to us, like bison steaks from Super Walmart and swordfish from Trader Joe’s.

With such good eating for free, I did, at times, feel like a government moocher. There I was, educated and employed but accepting a handout. I thought of Newt Gingrich, the smug former Speaker of the House, calling President Obama the “food stamp president.” It was a race-loaded term, and Newt damn well knew it. Yet, I was giving credence to the stereotype: a black man benefiting from the system.

The self-pity passed in the time it took it took to sear a swordfish steak. After all, I worked and paid taxes, though sometimes not until IRS threatened to garnish my wages. Plus, the food stamp program, I learned, was only two percent of our federal budget, less than half of what taxpayers spend on corporate welfare, though there was never any talk of drug testing corporate welfare recipients. And like America itself, the racial makeup of the program was diverse, though still mostly white.

As my wife and I “came out the pantry” and told others that we were on food stamps, we learned some of our friends, also middle income, were benefiting from the program, including a small business owner with a stay-at-home wife and two kids; a semi-retired couple who worked part-time in the service industry; and a successful doctor. Well, the doctor was actually buying food stamps from family members at half value. Hey, it beats trading them for explosives.

After a few months on food assistance, I got an additional contract, which reduced our monthly benefits. Then we sold the rental property and used the profits to pay off most of our consumer debt. I also treated myself to a new pair of desert boots and bought the family a year-long membership to the Children’s Museum. Ballin’!

Shortly after, we came up for food stamp re-certification, a time when the County double-checks your income to make sure you’re still po’. We submitted updated paperwork and completed another phone interview. My job(s) again became an issue, though this interviewer was much less lenient. Apparently, “the contract ended” was insufficient proof that I had moved on from a previous job. I would need to submit written evidence on company letterhead detailing dates of employment and reasons for leaving. They asked my wife for the same, even though she had left her job well over a year ago.

Well, I was too damn private and proud to ask past employers for the letters. I’ve done a lot work in the social services industry, and I know “employer documentation request” is code for “broke ass on welfare.” I explained this to my caseworker, and she understood, but not enough to bend the seemingly arbitrary rules.

Our benefits were canceled. We’re still managing well, though we eat fewer bison steaks and more roasted chickens.

Update, February 2017: My tax bill for 2016 was $6,237. F**k!

-Dewan Gibson

The post Educated, Employed, And (Temporarily) On Food Stamps appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Still, despite my frugal ways, kids are costly. Fortunately I moved to California before accidentally becoming a parent, a state that operates as a quasi-Scandinavian-style social democracy when it comes to children.

Babies always come with hidden costs, even before they de-womb. When my wife, Amber, was pregnant with our third child, doctors recommended she get a cerclage. In plain speak, they wanted to stitch her “incompetent” cervix so the baby wouldn’t get curious and crawl out the birth canal before his time.

After the procedure, Amber was told to stay off her feet as much as possible. This was not likely to happen at home—we already had two rowdy toddlers—or at her job; she worked as a 7th grade teacher.

One or the other had to go, and kids these days can’t look after themselves until they’re like 30. So she took off work for the remaining two months of her pregnancy and was paid 55 percent of her salary, as required under California’s Pregnancy Disability Leave law. This safety net played a large part in enabling her to be barefoot and pregnant instead of barefoot and pregnant and broke.

Once our son arrived, Paid Family Leave kicked in. California’s one of five states where parents can be paid while bonding with their new child and/or recovering from birth-related bodily torture. Amber again received 55 percent of her salary for an additional six weeks (paid for by employee contributions).

Then she took six more weeks of unpaid leave. The three months were great. Our boys were lucky enough to get fresh direct-from-titty milk and plenty of co-sleeping.

With that said, the time off didn’t much compare to the 52 weeks of paid leave Denmark offers new parents, but it was something. Plus it gave Amber the time to physically and emotionally heal, though all the pain came rushing back the day she had to return to work.

After family leave, Amber caught the stay-at-home bug. She resigned from her job at the end of the school year, which meant we, a family of five, had to rely on the often fluctuating income I earned as a contract worker/gig getter.

Around this time, we thought our oldest should go to preschool. Like his father, he was shy and withdrawn and not too interested in having human friends.

I price-checked some of the area schools and YMCAs. To send him would have been the equivalent of a second mortgage. Then I came across the California State Preschool Program (CSPP). It’s a Head Start-like program for middle income families, with 10 percent of classroom spots reserved for families over the income limit.

Our nearest CSPP was 15 minutes away in what was considered a “tough” neighborhood. I say this because homes near the school had bars over their windows. Plus there was a Church’s Chicken within a couple of miles. Anyway, I had no idea what to expect. Would there be school-sanctioned toddler fights? Would the school have metal detectors, and if so, would students get gold stars for passing through without a beep? Would my son relearn his colors as Crip blue, Blood red, and Gangster Disciple black? Hey, you never know!

Well, whatever the case, the program only lasted three hours per day. I was sure my boy could handle himself for 180 minutes, five times a week.

The school was actually great. They encouraged parental involvement, had lots of activities for students, and the teachers really took a personal interest in each child. They also helped my boy come out of his shell—he performed his version of Michael Jackson’s dance moves in front of teachers and classmates. We enrolled our second son this year.

Now we’re moving back to Ohio, where they largely express love for families and babies by regulating abortion in an unconstitutional manner, though some of its cities have adopted six-week paid leave programs. We don’t plan on having more kids—not that we ever planned—but we do hope California-esque prenatal policies become law in more states. These programs are state budget friendly (California has a surplus), and may even increase the national birthrate, lest we become Japan or Germany, both of whom are on the verge of perfectly fertile but childless people ruin the financial future of their countries.

Most importantly, family leave programs are good for kids, and at an estimated cost of 250 damn thousand dollars per child, we should aim for more for our most valuable assets.

-Dewan Gibson

The post If You Like Babies And Paid Time Off, Consider Living In California appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Our townhome is located in the East Chula Vista community of Otay Ranch. It’s an upper middle class suburb (the Great Recession allowed us to sneak in) full of diverse young families and fancy parks with splash pads and pools. There are also a number of rich Mexican housewives who drive Range Rovers and do not make full stops at stop signs.

Anyhow, Trader Joe’s is a five minute drive from our home, and the world’s best Walmart is just two minutes away. I’m being serious: Our Walmart was recently named Walmart of the Year. It stays open 24 hours a day and also functions as neighborhood’s only nightclub after 11:00 P.M.

As for “real” San Diego, beaches and bars and craft beer galore, that’s just 20 to 30 minutes away. The always eclectic Tijuana, Mexico is 15 minutes south. Most importantly, Otay Ranch schools are within walking distance and are ranked 9/10 by GreatSchools.org. That must mean something good.

Now to our home: It has three bedrooms and three bathrooms, wood floors downstairs (I never actually checked to see if they are real or laminate), and high ass ceilings. The carpet upstairs is new. Well, it’s like 18 months old, but since we’re still paying it off, I say it’s new. The master bedroom has its own bathroom and a big ol’ closet where my wife keeps all the clothes she’s ever owned, including decades old prom and homecoming dresses. This, I will never understand. The kitchen is pretty spacious by San Diego standards, especially if your kids can learn to keep all their s**t off the counters.

You can view the full listing on Zillow. If you’re interested in viewing our place or buying it right this second for around 360k, please contact our listing agent or shoot me a message.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Please Buy Our Home In San Diego So We Can Move To Ohio And Live With Regret appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Wedding Venue=A Year’s Worth Of Mortgage Payments
The average cost to rent a 100-person wedding and reception venue in San Diego was over $15,000, which was double our entire wedding budget, and about as much we pay over the course of a year to avoid homelessness.

A cheaper option was to get married on the beach. All we’d have to do is arrive early and have recently paroled family members block off the perimeter to prevent random beachgoers from interrupting. Unfortunately, there was a permit and reservation process that could take up to 12 months. Our wedding, scheduled for Valentine’s Day, was just four months away.

Parks were also a consideration. Space would be cheap, and the grounds would be well-maintained. Plus there was a bonus: Management allowed drunkenness provided the alcohol was ingested through a plastic or aluminum container. But the restrooms would be a bit of a problem. Sure, they were usable and fairly clean, but not to the level where a bridesmaid would feel comfortable hiking up her dress and letting one rip. The internet told me luxury porta potties were a thing. They were a bit more costly than I anticipated, but still cheaper than renting a venue. This seemed to be the way to go.

My fiancé, Amber, did not agree with my vision of luxury latrines. So we rented a relatively unknown wedding and reception space at a nearby golf course. It was well-kept and sat atop a hill with distant views of the ocean and the stacked homes of Tijuana, Mexico. They provided chairs and most of the setup. It even had an outdoor dance floor. If the weather stayed nice, great. If it rained, even better—we’d have a melodramatic first dance. The total cost for six hours at the venue, including beer and wine: $2,640.

Do We Really Have To Feed People?
Strangely, many people prefer to have food with said beer and wine, thereby foregoing the more intense and efficient buzz that comes with drinking on an empty stomach. At first glance the costs of catering were obscene, $25 or more a plate. Our upcoming wedding began to seem more like a fancy group date for 100 guests. I was not feeling that generous.

We settled on a vendor to provide the only item, food or otherwise, that’s affordable in San Diego: tacos. Authentic, all-you-can-eat street tacos filled with guacamole, homemade salsa, cilantro, and the meat of your choice: steak, chicken, or pork. We also had side dishes of rice and beans, along with horchata to drink. To feed and serve 100 people, the taco man charged us $1,100.

It was more fun dining than fine dining. People had to get their asses up and stand in line for tacos while holding paper plates. Well, at least the paper plates were the top-shelf special occasion ones. Overall, we got a lot of compliments on the food, and most weren’t sarcastic, except from the DJ. During the rehearsal meeting, upon learning of our choice of food, he broke out in laughter and said, “Damn, that’s ghetto!” He would go on to eat mass amounts of tacos.

Maybe Instagram Can Cherish Our Memories Forever?
Amber took the lead on finding a photographer and after learning of their rates, I couldn’t help but think how everyone’s a photographer these days thanks to Instagram. Obviously that’s terribly dismissive of a professional’s skill in properly capturing one of the most important days of our lives, but damn, a couple-few thousand dollars for pictures?

A hashtag wedding sounded like a viable option. We’d rely on our guests to snap photos throughout the day and evening and mark each picture with our hashtag of choice. Sometime after the wedding, or possibly never, we’d go through the pictures and print the most memorable photos to create a wedding album.

That’s a lot of trust to put into guests who may very well be snapping pictures with a drink in one hand, phone in the other. So we searched the internet and found a photographer who fit our budget. He was great; he used clever one-liners to relax his subjects and constantly lurked to catch intimate and staged-to-appear-intimate pre-ceremony photos. Overall, he was worth the $1,000, though we couldn’t afford to keep him around for the reception.

As our luck would have it, we found out the week before the wedding that a friend of a friend was a videographer. The videographer and his co-producer were only like 15, but they seemed enthusiastic and eager to provide child labor. In the end, they produced a really high-quality video synopsis of our wedding. Had it aired on Netflix it would have at least received a four star rating. We paid them $250, which is like fifty thousand kid dollars.

Don’t Rent a Tux, Buy A Low-Quality Stylish One
My goal in choosing a tux was to pick something classic that would minimize the amount of laughter from my children when they look at our wedding pictures 20 years down the road. I searched the usual tuxedo rental retailers and much of what I found was boxy and swag-deficient.

So I went to H&M, a great place to buy fashionable clothes that you can wear once before they rip. I bought a slim-fit tuxedo and shirt for just $142, and later, a purple paisley bowtie from eBay for $12. I asked my groomsmen buy the same tux from H&M before the New Year’s rush. Three of the four did. The one who missed the sale was at least able to snag the jacket. He bought tuxedo pants from a different store because that’s what guys do.

Amber went the traditional route and purchased a $500 wedding dress from David’s Bridal. It was form fitting and elegant and had a section that detached in case she wanted to dance or quickly re-consummate our marriage. It was also strapless, which enabled easy emergency nursing of our youngest boy. Her bridesmaids bought above-knee dresses that reached Amber’s criteria of not looking homely.

Can You Even Make Things, Bro?
I cannot. But my wife can. She is handy and creative and owns a fancy drill and sewing machine. As far as craftsmanship, I bring nothing to the table besides complaints about having to tag along with her in the arts and crafts store.

For our wedding, Amber bought flowers from Trader Joe’s at a deep discount and used them to make the bouquet, corsages, and boutonnieres. Then she “borrowed” flowers from the golf resort (with permission from the venue manager who understood our struggle) to decorate the wedding arch. She also cut pages from our favorite books–the theme of our wedding was literature–to create centerpiece candles and bookmarks as wedding favors. And she cut and sewed satin to make table runners.

Amber’s do-it-yourself skills saved us a lot of money and I shall always speak fondly of arts and crafts stores, provided I don’t actually have to go inside.

Relationships Are About The Little Things, And So Are Wedding Budgets
When it comes to surprise line-item costs, weddings rival medical bills. In addition to everything mentioned above, we also paid for outfits for the kids, a hotel room for my parents, hair and makeup, alterations, a marriage license, wedding bands, and various other costs I didn’t immediately think of when planning a celebration of our departure from a life of sin.

Still, the wedding was well worth it, even for someone like me, who previously saw weddings as little more than a stressful and overpriced opportunity to publicly express love until it makes others cry. Sure, we could have married at the courthouse and saved a lot of money. (I have friends who have gone this route. Most planned to have a larger celebration down the road, but life happened. Years passed and they became sane and end up putting the money towards a new home, long vacation, or a divorce lawyer.) But I’m glad we splurged to make our big day memorable. A day we’re still reminded of with each monthly credit card statement.

Originally published in The Billfold.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Frugal Couple Throws Reasonably Priced Wedding, Manages to Avoid Looking Like Tightwads appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

To become an Uber driver one must pass a background check and have access to a newer four-door vehicle that can pass an inspection. The background check was easy: I’ve never been arrested for the crimes I may or may not have committed. The vehicle inspection, well, not so much. I failed. According to the tech at the Uber-approved tire chain, my rear brakes were bad but could be fixed “right away for $400.” I told the tech I would call around and price the repairs, and suddenly, he offered a 15 percent discount, provided I paid in cash.
“I’ve seen plenty of Uber drivers make $400 in just a weekend,” he added. I left and got the brakes repaired at a shop in Little Saigon for $133. The following Monday, I took the car to a mechanic at Uber’s corporate office and passed the inspection.

I picked up my first Uber rider on a rainy Thursday night. The process was simple: The app alerted me to a ride request via a grating beep and pulsating circle. I pressed the circle to accept; Google Maps took over from there, leading me to the passengers. It was not until the customers entered the car and I pressed “begin trip” that I found out exactly where we were going. I also found out that it’s a bit uncomfortable driving with an empty passenger seat while people sit behind you. We made small talk but made no eye contact. I turned back a couple of times, and they quickly turned away, as if they didn’t trust my ability to drive with my head turned.

Their trip was short, to a hotel not even two miles away. But thanks to high demand surge pricing the fare was $17. Minus Uber’s cut of 20 percent and a the cost of gas, I made about $13 bucks in 10 minutes. The exhilaration of losing my shared vehicle economy virginity was overwhelming. I was jittery with excitement, probably a bit too much to drive. I turned off the app and went to a bar for a celebratory shot and a beer. I was officially an Uber driver, or “partner” as the company put it, perhaps to passively remind the public of the controversial policy that drivers are contractors and not employees.

The initial excitement of being a high-tech cab driver lasted for a few months. I became Mr. Uber, as a stoned teen named me while we waited in a Jack In The Box drive-thru. I chose to drive four days a week, usually three to five hours a day, and I made good money, about $22 an hour after expenses. The gig was easy, and in most cases, it felt like I was just dropping off friends. The only downside was that temptation cut into profits. I’d see everyone else going out to have a good time and end up taking a “lunch break,” which usually turned into a few hours at a pub.

I even applied for a marketing job with Uber corporate, where I hoped to use my enthusiasm to oversee a recruitment program. The “partnership” would be an easy sell: the freedom, the weekly pay, the lack of meetings about meetings, or for that matter, any meetings at all, the adult interaction! I went above and beyond to create a marketing plan in preparation for my phone interviewer with the lead recruiter. Unfortunately, she missed our meeting and never called back. It was around this time that I had my first unsafe experience with an Uber rider.

I picked him up near a sushi spot in an area that I mostly knew from the local news. He was covered in grime from “lifting an engine” and bothered that the app had not led me to the 7-Eleven where he was waiting. He sat next to me and began fumbling through my console. “Where’s your charger! Get a charger, bro!” he yelled, not allowing me time to answer.

I stayed calm, “Here you go, man,” and handed him a USB plug. We started our trip. He had failed to enter a destination in the app. “Where we headed?” I asked.

“My girl’s having a baby in a week, bitch has a restraining order against me,” he answered.

“Man, sorry to hear that…where you trying to get to?”

He ignored me and rambled on, “Let’s get meatballs. I need you to knock on my girl’s door and give her meatballs. And when she answers, give her this message. Dude, you got kids?”

The more we drove, the more incoherent and aggressive sounding he became. “Don’t let me down! Just don’t let me down! Give her the meatballs and let her know! Can you do that?” The situation was sort of like that movie Collateral starring Tom Cruise as a hitman and Jamie Foxx as his taxi driver hostage, except Cruise’s character spoke kindly and didn’t sully Foxx’s cab.

I was worried about my safety began to explore my options: I knew if I told him to get out the car I might be in for a scrap. I sized him up. He was taller and outweighed me by about at least 50 pounds. He also may have had drug-enhanced superpowers, like that guy in Florida, who passed up numerous fast food joints to eat a homeless man’s face. I began running red lights in hopes of getting stopped by the police. No luck. Man, what I wouldn’t have done to get pulled over, even for driving while black.

I drove to the police station. He was oblivious the whole time. We got there and the damn place looked closed. But there was a mall next door. We went, and I played along with his craziness, “Let’s have some tacos before we get the meatballs.” I grabbed my phone and left the car, but he didn’t move. I sprinted into the food court and called the police. I tried to keep my breathing calm, or at least maintain some sort of dignity as a man. You know, they record these 911 calls. I whisper-yelled at the dispatcher, “I’m driving for Uber and there’s a crazy guy in my car!”

I cautiously looked to the parking lot while talking to the operator. The big man was outside the car, walking in the parking lot, as if he was looking for someone. I left the taco shop and walked down the adjacent parking row to get to my Nissan. The 911 operator was still on the line, asking his whereabouts and my name. “He’s right by the mall taco shop.” I hung up, jumped in my car, and sped home. My night with Uber ended early.

I received a call from the rider the following day. He was able to reach me through Uber’s phone line, which allows drivers and riders to communicate without revealing each other’s contact information. He was yelling, more intelligibly than the night before, but still out of control. I finally got a word in edgewise. “I left you because I felt you were a danger to me and yourself.”

He responded with curses, “I can’t believe I got f****d over by a black guy!” That may have very well been a compliment, but I hung up and asked Uber to not let him contact me again.

After my experience with The Big Addict, I mostly drove Uber in the daytime. I also kept a Swiss hammer in my side console, just in case. Surge pricing was less frequent, and I earned less money, no more than $15 to $17 per hour, but the riders were more predictable — mostly people going to a baseball game or the beach, but all going somewhere.

Still, the workplace peculiarities involved with driving for Uber began to wear on me: people would request rides from pedestrian only streets; some would eat in my car without permission and leave trash, even the plastic wrap from the soft mints that I had just given them; others embraced rider-driver power distance and assumed social status, issuing stern commands, but neglecting to use words like “please” and “thank you.” Then there were the indecisives. I’d accept a ride request, drive for a few minutes or miles, and they would cancel as I neared arrival. Uber once reimbursed me five bucks for this, but never again for some reason I did not bother to explore.

The amount of time I spent driving Uber slowed big time. I took two weeks off in hopes I’d regain lost enthusiasm, but the relationship was not rekindled. The time away was unpaid, per the terms of the “partnership,” which provided no benefits, not even full coverage auto insurance. Well, I was given one thing: a 20 percent discount on my ATT cell phone service, a savings that was much-needed considering constant use of Uber’s app usually resulted in data overage fees.

I got a new job writing grant proposals for a non-profit organization. It’s boring, but I appreciate boring these days. Still, I keep Uber in the back of mind in case I have to tell my boss to go to hell. I’ve also found a more lucrative industry within the sharing economy: We’re renting out our home on Airbnb.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Full-Time Dad, Part-Time Uber Driver appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

However, there are few commercial flights from the United States to Cuba. Charter flights are available, but those are thousands of dollars and sound like something you should take if you’re over 70 or seeking to find yourself after a divorce.

I happen to live in south San Diego, just 10 minutes from Tijuana, Mexico, where you can find any vice imaginable and also daily connecting flights to Havana. My wife and I took a vacation to Cuba in March 2016, for journalism, I guess, although I was tempted to check the “other” box on the travel affidavit and write in, “We’re long overdue for a honeymoon, and a roundtrip ticket to Havana was only $442.”

We caught an Uber from home to the Cross Border Xpress, a recently-opened 400-foot tunnel (of the legal variety) that allows travelers to walk directly into Tijuana International Airport from San Diego. The convenience was well worth the $12 fee. We were through security and customs and had our bags checked in about 15 minutes. Tijuana’s airport was adequate. It looked like any ol’ airport in a small American city, except Tijuana isn’t small. The gates were really crowded, but personal space norms are different in Mexico. People typically don’t mind if you stand in front of them and block their view with your ass while they sit.

Once boarded, we were surprised by the luxuriousness of the Aeromexico plane. It was everything American airliners used to be before colluding to lower standards. Each seat had its own touchscreen monitor with free movies—the very same movies I had paid to download on my Chromebook the night prior. Bonus: Beer, liquor, and snacks were also free.

We arrived in Mexico City two and a half hours later, which, along with Cancun, is the south of the border meeting spot for Americans looking to fly to Cuba. Airline staff in Tijuana had said we would need to recheck our luggage prior to boarding the connecting flight in Havana. Staff in Mexico City said, “They don’t know what they’re talking about,” which was true. Our bags were already being loaded onto the plane to Havana. We did have to buy our visa for Cuba. It was about $18, plus an additional $25 in expenses for a steak and panini dinner and a bag of Jelly Bellys.

DAY ONE

After a three-hour layover and another 2.5 hour flight, we got to Havana at 11 p.m. For such a supposedly taboo destination for Americans, entry was relaxed, made more so by the attire of airport security. Some of the men had on tan uniforms but most male staff wore nightclub attire — untucked polo shirts or button downs, fitted jeans, and those hip bowling-type shoes that Steve Madden popularized before going to prison. Women wore tight tan skirts and fishnet stockings. We foreigners were required to take a picture after showing passports, maybe to ensure we were sexy enough for entry. The attendant asked if I had been to Africa in the last 30 days. The question caught me off guard. I actually had to think about my answer. “No.” She then asked if I wanted my passport stamped. I did, and she smiled. My wife, Amber, refused the stamp. She got a disappointed look in return.

We grabbed our bags and walked past a long line of people checking pallets full of goods. Our driver, Ismael, was there holding a sign with my name on it. The owner of the casa particular (private house) we reserved had arranged pickup. The three of us managed a stop-and-go conversation through limited English and Spanish as we waited to exchange currency.

(Note: About that currency exchange…Cuba has two currencies, the Cuban national peso (CUP) and the Cuban convertible peso (CUC). Visitors to Cuba use the latter, because it’s pegged to the U.S. dollar. However, there’s a 10 percent penalty on exchanging American dollars, in addition to a three percent exchange fee. So you’re better off exchanging American dollars for Canadian dollars or euros prior to your arrival, which can be exchanged penalty-free in Cuba. We had $440 set aside for our five-day trip (the Trumps we are not). This $440 netted us 565 Canadian dollars at a currency exchange in San Diego, which we then exchange for 405 Cuban convertible pesos in Havana.)

We arrived at our casa particular around 1 a.m. It ran us $89 a night through Airbnb, which was steep for Havana, but it was right next to the Malecón, Havana’s famous seawall. The apartment was simple and private, separated from a modest home by an in-house wall-to-ceiling gate. The phone was rotary and the furniture decades old. The bed could comfortably fit two people provided that both slept in a fetal position. The water got hot after bit of a wait and the bedside lamp was soft enough for reading.

We unpacked and found a bar at the top of what looked like a tiny castle. The drinking options were limited. An elderly woman and bar-back served the national beer and aged rum as groups of brown, black, and white teens danced and grinded to reggaeton. A Jackson 5 concert played on a box TV. This would have been a cool spot if I didn’t have regrets older than most of the people there. We left and walked alongside the Gulf of Mexico. More teens sat on the seawall, making out and tossing empty beer bottles into the sea. Hunger set in, but there was no food to be found. Even the corner grill advertising food “24 horas” said they had nothing left to serve.

DAY 2

My shower was interrupted by a visitor: the zika man. The island had a single case of the disease so President Raúl Castro sent 9,000 soldiers door-to-door to fumigate for mosquitoes. I can’t imagine this happening at home. We can’t even conduct a census, let alone prevent a potential public health emergency, without actual elected officials claiming it’s part of a plot by our president (who may have been born in Zamunda) to implement slave camps. Anyhow, Private Zika seemed perturbed that my shower and lotion routine had taken him a minute or two off schedule. I said hello as I rushed out the room carrying shoes and socks. My greeting was not returned.

Cab rides in classic cars are fun and all, but Havana’s a great city for a walking vacation. While there’s a chance you’ll be swallowed by crater-sized potholes and suffocated by diesel fumes, walking is the best way to experience the city’s vintage allure. That morning, we started what would end up being a 20-plus mile voyage. Our first stop was a fancy restaurant in Vedado, one of Havana’s more well-to-do neighborhoods. By “fancy” I mean the plates were anywhere from 5 to 10 CUCs, with, again, one CUC equaling one U.S. dollar. We filled our stomachs with ceviche, octopus, and sausage skewers. It looked like something from an Anthony Bourdain show. I could almost see him there enjoying it, a toothy dark-yellow grin across his face as he cracks an off-color joke.

We continued on to Centro Havana, rudely looking through the open doors and windows of tiny shacks filled to capacity with generations of families. It seemed most people had something, but many had very little. The standard of living would be considered second world, but there were far fewer street beggars and homeless than you’d see in any major American city. The people we met in passing were surprised when our accents gave us away and happy to have us there. Many had an American connection and story—a son, brother, or ex-wife who was living in the United States.

The hours and miles piled up as we made our way through the shops and sites of Old Havana and various side streets that all seemed to blend together. Excitement and curiosity kept us strong as we dehydrated ourselves with spirits from tiny bars. We bought art, an original painting featuring the bright hues of Havana’s homes for 20 CUCs, and of course more food, including dinner at a more typical, less touristy Cuban restaurant for just 18 CUCs. We had been in the streets for over 10 hours. We went back to our casa for a nap to prepare for a long night of bar hopping. The nap lasted until morning.

DAY 3

My right thumb healed. It was tender and burned from years of obsessive scrolling on a heated smartphone screen. There’s absolutely no internet or phone service in Cuba for customers of American service providers. Even for Cubans, wifi is very limited and people are forced to interact with their heads up. We were able to make one phone call in Havana. It was from a landline in a hotel lobby, manually connected by an operator who sat within earshot of the phone booth. The cost of a three-minute call to see how crazy our toddlers had driven Grandma and Grandpa: $12.45.

The highlight of our day was a free outdoor concert by Major Lazer, the first show by a major American artist here in over 50 years. Thousands packed into a square half the size of a football field. More stood atop the seawall, bobbing to the music and waving the national flag. However, there was a conspicuous lack of twerking and marijuana. (I later learned anti-marijuana laws in Cuba are very strict. Users can face two years in jail. Twerking is legal but evidently not widely practiced.) I also didn’t witness a single fight. People didn’t mind if you accidentally stepped on their shoes, though they weren’t wearing Jordans. It was as if no one wanted to be that person who ruined the big event. I found that refreshing and much different from home, where some people actually go to a concert just to mess it up for everyone else.

After the concert and miles and miles of walking, we stumbled upon an outdoor restaurant. Two locals loitering nearby took it upon themselves to join our table. They asked about American football and our lives back home. I enjoyed the conversation about as much as one can enjoy having two grown-ass strange men seat themselves at your dinner table while out with your wife. I asked them to leave, and they politely agreed. They came back maybe 20 minutes later and asked if we had anything to give from the U.S. I had nothing besides an unopened Hot Wheels car. I felt bad, having just engaged in typical American excess by ordering two meals for myself after being unable to decide on a dish (total cost was just $7). He gladly took the Hot Wheels. We left the table an hour later and one of the guys popped up again, asking if we had plans for the night. I yelled “home!” and strongly walked away.

We were actually going to a nightclub. Unfortunately, my stomach wasn’t going for it. I’m unsure whether it was the ice cubes or the two dinners, but I needed to make an urgent drop-off at the nearest restroom, which happened to be in an emergency room. It turned out to be a typical public bathroom in Havana: a filthy toilet without a seat, no running water, and not a lick of tissue. My first thought is to call for Amber, as she’s supposed to be there for me through sickness and health. But she’s in the waiting room and we don’t have working cell phones. Plus, the rush has already started. Damn. My squat was too high and I splashed the back of my pants. I removed my socks, special pink and purple ones that my son picked out for Christmas, and used them as tissue before tossing them in the trash. I stormed out the bathroom and into the waiting room, embarrassed and soiled. I yelled like DMX, or Teddy Pendergrass when he’d tell his woman to turn off the lights: “Amber! Let’s go!”

DAY 4

We awakened to a blackout. Havana is a hard working city. People are constantly in motion fixing cars or patching infrastructure, but the loss of power put most at a standstill with little to do but sit on the sidewalks and chat and stare at my wife. We walked over a bridge and through Miramar, Havana’s upscale beach community full of colorful large homes and foreign embassies, and found a restaurant near the water that had power. The view made up for the two-spoonfuls-and-done seafood soup and flying table umbrella.

After a nap, we went to buy cigars. I’m more partial to the occasional puff of reefer and know very little about cigars, but of course all my hyper-masculine friends asked that I bring some home. Apparently, legit Cuban cigars are marked with a hologram and only available in state stores. The costs vary from a couple-few dollars each to “Damn, I better not even touch that box.” I settled on a $15 box of three Habanos. Americans can bring back up to $100 of Cuban cigars and rum and $400 of other goods. However, U.S. custom agents may or may not be familiar with those rules.

Later that evening, we passed the scene of The Emergency and went into the nightclub we had failed to make it into the previous night. It lacked the character of Havana’s side street dive bars, but made for great people watching. The men had their hair styled more than the women. Designs were shaved into the sides, while the hair on top was teased and flipped. They danced in groups, surrounded by decor that looked as if it was designed by Tubbs and Crockett. There was no DJ, but a DVD and sound system played reggaeton. It was actually the same DVD we had seen in airport driver’s car. After a martini for Amber and a double shot of aged rum for me, we called it a night.

DAY 5
We got less than four hours of restless sleep. There was an early morning fuel delivery to the gas station adjacent to our casa particular and it filled our room with fumes. We tidied up the place and spent our last moments in Havana shopping for small gifts — candy and more cigars. Our driver and his friend arrived to take us to the airport. They talked amongst each other as we shot video from the backseat of the car, getting a passing glance at areas we had overlooked. I felt a bit of regret for not staying longer, but I also felt lucky to have made the trip before the arrival of McDonald’s and Walmart. We reached the airport and exchanged our last bit of currency for 30 Canadian dollars.

After arriving in Tijuana, we walked through the Cross Border Xpress and waited to cross through U.S. Customs. I claimed the Cuban cigars; the agent said I couldn’t bring anything back from Cuba unless I had a direct flight from Havana. I explained President Obama said something entirely different. The agent replied, “That’s good enough for me.”

Amber was not as lucky. The agent she saw, a beefy guy with a heavy Russian accent, demanded she go into secondary inspection for questioning about a single cigar. (I forgot to keep all the questionable items in my bag and therefore failed as a husband and mule.) She was asked to empty her bag completely. “I have to clear this with my supervisor,” the agent said. I was told to leave the area. Twenty minutes pass and Amber came out unscathed. We walked back into the United States. My phone vibrated endlessly with hundreds of text messages and emails, almost all of them completely unimportant, but I still had trouble pulling myself away. We were home.

(Update: Donald Trump rolled back President Obama’s Cuba legislation. Yes, Americans can still travel to Cuba, though it’s supposed to be with highly regulated tour groups. Airbnb is still available, but financial transactions with state-run businesses are banned. As of June 2017, there is no date as to when the new regulations take place, and there likely will not be for many months. So go soon! Or if you go later traveling through Canada and Mexico would be an option. You may also consider voting Trump’s ass out of office in 2020.) 

A Cost Breakdown Our Vacation To Cuba
Two plane tickets: $884.32
Casa particular via Airbnb (four nights): $358.00
Uber rides (had $25.74 in Uber credits) : $5.01
Cross Border Xpress passes: $48
Visas for Cuba: $34.96
Airport Food & Snacks: $25.72
Cabs in Havana: $70
Food in Havana: $163
Snacks & Drinks in Havana: $52.80
Phone Call: $12.45
Gifts & Souvenirs: $49.25
TOTAL: $1,703.96

Originally published in The Billfold

The post The Cost Of A (Somewhat) Legal Trip To Cuba appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

The condo, built in the early ’80s, was being sold by a real estate investor who was looking to cash out and retire to Texas. It was listed for $20,000, well below the $80,000 it sold for during the market’s peak. The neighborhood was fair. The main positive was that the property was located near a small, private college. The major negative was that many of the people loitering in the streets after dark appeared to be graduates of the School of Hard Knocks, with advanced degrees in alcohol and drug abuse.

Still, the property was clean and newly renovated with no-frills appliances and laminate floors. Plus the most recent tenant had rented it for $550 a month. So after a couple hours of deep thought, much of which involved thinking of that Pitbull song where he raps, “Scared money don’t make money,” I agreed to fork over my life savings and buy the condo for a heavily negotiated price of $14,500 cash.

After the title was cleared and in my possession I searched for a property manager, as I lived five hours away in San Diego and knew very little about real estate. In fact, I didn’t even own my primary residence. I quickly hired a small family company who charged a $300 signup fee, payable upon a tenant signing a lease, and 10 percent of the rent each month in exchange for minor maintenance, rent collection and basic legal services.

Nearly a month after I signed the management contract, my property was still vacant. In fact, it took a week of constant reminders for the manager to even list the condo. Also, as I learned by calling them in my “bro voice” and pretending to be a potential tenant, they were horrible at responding to voicemails. I canceled the property management contract and decided to rent the place out my damn self.

I ran an ad on Craigslist, but found the bulk of my prospective tenants from the site’s “housing wanted” section. These were people with special circumstances who had trouble renting an apartment in a traditional manner. Some were victims of the housing crisis who had their credit ruined with a foreclosure or bankruptcy and needed to move immediately. One woman was an escort (with a great website) who was paid in cash and didn’t have a bank account. Another guy was a convicted felon with a steady job and fondness for sending me long emails on a daily basis that described his reintegration into society.

The woman I ended up renting to was an unemployed single mother who was pregnant with her third child. She was more than pleasant, and intent on returning to the workforce. The coming baby was to be adopted by a well-off family who would to pay the mother’s bills for the next four months. The nonprofit agency who handled the adoption agreed to issue me checks to cover her deposit and monthly rent.

The first four months were easy money. I had a $550 check in my hand by the third day of each month, which left me with a positive monthly cash flow of $370 after homeowners association fees, taxes and insurance. My only other expense during that period was $150 that I spent to pay a handyman to tune-up the air conditioner. This handyman, by the way, was really dedicated to his work. So much so that he pulled a gun on a tenant who threatened him and attempted to charge him money to open the complex’s gate after the code I gave him failed to work. He was also really considerate in calling me when the police arrived to let me know that he has a “permit to pack heat” and would fix the AC as soon as the authorities confirmed this. He kept his word.

But my real estate romance ended as soon as the adoption agency stopped paying the rent. The tenant didn’t give me a dime during the fifth month. Her mother, a self-described “housing advocate,” assured me that she would pay at least half the rent for her before month’s end. The sixth month came around and I still had not been paid. So the tenant and I made a deal: If she moved within two weeks and left the place in move-in condition I would not pursue an eviction. Two weeks later she was still there.

I called three attorneys and could not find one who would file the eviction for less than $500 plus fees. Thankfully, the Maricopa County Recorder had a fairly good explanation of the eviction process on their website. I was able to complete the paperwork on my own and spend less than $200 on court costs.

The eviction process took less than two weeks and the tenant didn’t even bother to show for court. The frustration of not being paid money that was owed subsided with the judgment, but soon morphed into regret. I felt as if I’d become a ruthless businessman in a red state who was much more focused on money than people. Kick a mother and her rugrats to the street over unpaid rent?

Sure. Garnish her nonexistent wages to ensure she has an even more difficult time getting back on her feet? No doubt. What in the hell was I becoming, a Republican?

But whatever sympathy I had for the tenant was gone by the time I was legally allowed to enter the condo. The place was trashed; it smelled like chitlins with a hint of open ass. Dirty diapers were thrown across the floor, someone had pissed his name on the wall; the fridge was molded. At that moment I would have definitely traded the condo for a used Kia.

I found housecleaners on Craigslist and somehow they had the place spotless in four hours. They even managed to save the refrigerator. Within a week, I was able to rent it under normal circumstances to a new tenant with a job. It’s been six months and she has yet to miss a rent payment. Housing prices in Phoenix have gone up 25 percent this year alone, and I’m looking for a second property — on Craigslist of course.

Originally published in The Billfold

The post I Bought A Condo For The Price Of A Used Kia appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.