The NYT just published an article about women in their 50s giving up their careers to care for parents and grand-kids. Of course, what it means is they are ceasing to work during their most productive years, and when they reach their 80's, they will not have the income to care for themselves. The loss figure is around $325K. For me, it's probably more. I was making $60k a year before I moved to Albuquerque, and $34K after that. Multiply by 10, and you have between $340K and $600K that I am losing, not to mention the loss in retirement income.
While I'm getting paid to do this care-giving, and I am trying to put away some savings, it is interesting to realize that I'm still following the trends. First, I had the problems with my mortgage. Then, I got to experience the reality of Obamacare. Now, I'm facing facts: like many women my age, I've abandoned my work-life trajectory. This has very real repercussions for my retirement and end-of-life.
Actually, this trend is not just affecting women. Many people seem to be just tossing aside their career paths and trying something new. Part of it's the economy and reduction in public service jobs, but I think some of it is lack of job satisfaction. J describes several of her writerly friends who have packed in their secure jobs and moved on. C mentioned a gent who found religion and divorced (not necessarily in that order), and now the Lord is telling him to move to Italy. Several library folk in Portland have jumped ship, not retiring, but finding at-home or contract work. None of them say it, but I'm convinced that they are just tired of the bureaucracy and incompetence. That comes with any job, but is especially noticeable in the public sector, I think.
The article gave me pause. I've already been thinking of my situation, but this is the first that I've really done the math. Up to now, I've mainly been thinking about my psychological well-being, not my financial well-being. When I started this gig, I set a budget for savings, paying off marital and house debts, health, and travel. I was fine with the concept that it'll take 5 years to pay off debts and build up savings, but I hadn't really projected my long-term income. I was in hunker-down emotional-healing mode, and I've been living beyond my means for so long, I was just happy to be saving anything. However, that has changed. In a recent letter to friends, I said, The real issue is that I need to figure out and prepare for my next work. E will be 99 in July, and she is still going strong, but I can't do this for the next 10 years, and I don't think I want to be a caregiver for a corporation. Emotionally, I seem to have come back to myself: the last 9 months have been healing and supportive. And physically I'm doing well, exercising and eating a diabetes-preventive diet. So it's time to buckle down to it, now that I'm no longer PTSD.
Yes, and it's time to recognize that my income and my budget need to be reworked.
It's difficult to give up the travel, though, and I'm doing it on the cheap. For example, this month Mom's birthday present to me was a trip to see her in Florida. It had been 18 months since I last saw her, and she's 85 now, so it's really necessary. And one of the plus features was that my brother L and his wife X drove 900 miles to see us. I haven't seen her in several years.
During the visit, X talked sternly to me about jobs (you are still young, you have plenty of time to walk on the beach and sit around later) and about men (next time you marry, make sure he has a job), and about health (you should try kayaking!) She's basically right, but I do like this lifestyle. It's going to be difficult to go back to a 40 hour work week, and I'm not sure I want to. On the other hand, what I actually have is a 115-hour work week: it makes it difficult to do my extra-curricular stuff. So, going back to a regular hourly job might be an advantage.
I'm still trying to figure out what I want to do with my life, clearly. And now I've added in concerns about end-of-life issues. E and Mom are very lucky in their situations. I will not be so lucky. I don't have a child to take care of me, and my pension is not going to be enough to support an independent lifestyle when I am frail. I need to spend the next 10-20 years preparing for that. It's time to stop lolly-gagging here on my mountain. Or, it will be soon.
I need to set a new trend. Do you think I can publish my iPhone pix and Facebook haiku? It's about all I've produced since I started this gig. Sigh.
Showing posts with label budgets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label budgets. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Sunday, March 25, 2012
"What do you want to do with this?"
Two months ago I received a statement from my 401K. Since I left MCL in April, 2009, I have had access to that money. It halved in value during the recession, and I also had been using it to cover D's debts, my tripled mortgage, and a joint lifestyle that was beyond my means. In the past year the trickle of funds became a hemorrhage. Now, it's almost gone.
I'm still unemployed and so is D. My unemployment runs out in June, and the vacation rental apartment is bringing in half what it did last year. While I have cut travel and entertainment expenses by two-thirds, my mortgage cannot be reduced and I am paying over $600 a month in health insurance.
I face the truth: I can no longer afford my home or my lifestyle.
To stave off foreclosure, I either need to find a new source of income or sell my home. I cannot face the latter yet. Since the job search is looking bleaker every day, I have to find income somewhere else. I decide on more radical measures. Although I've reduced my living expenses as far as I can and still remain married, I have one more option available to me: I will rent my home, live in the vacation studio rental, and downsize my possessions.
I start planning the downsize. Step 1 is a heads' up to family and friends. Is there anything in my possession that they have coveted or treasured over the past few years? It's theirs. Do they know of anyone looking for a nice home, complete with live-in landlords and pets? Bring 'em on. Etc.
The support comes pouring in. I receive names of potential house-mates and professional estate sale managers. I get offers of help, a breathtaking gift of money, affirmations, condolences, and advice. I feel loved. I close my eyes to the emotional reality of this process, and I dive in. I tell myself that this is what I've needed for years, a chance to de-clutter and get out from under my possessions. I have let the sheer mass of things and responsibilities overwhelm me, and nothing gets done. Now I will be able to find what's left and spend my time productively. Or so I hope.
I begin a modest remodel to create a viable living space so I can continue to live in my home. I locate a renter for the upstairs. The revised plan is to live in the downstairs, sleep in the newly refurbished shed, and share the kitchen with the renter. The downstairs bathroom now has a shower.
The downsize is a bigger problem. D is a hoarder, and I am not far behind. We realize that we cannot face the choices inherent in managing a moving sale, and I cut a deal with an estate sale professional. For 35% of the take, she will take care of everything. We painfully decide which rooms will be off-limits during the sale and which large pieces of furniture will be sold. She begins contacting dealers and valuing our possessions. We start the even more painful process of deciding about the "little stuff."
From the start it's a nightmare. There is so much. I have lived here close to 20 years, Dave close to 7. The remodel is still happening, and that slows down the process of moving stuff. We start piling things up, but I really don't want to handle it all twice, nor to live out of boxes. I want to go through the house, choose what to keep, and put it all away in the non-sale rooms. D wants to go through and decide what to toss, and what to sell. It's a radical difference in mind-set, and our discussions are accompanied by bouts of frustration, anger, hysteria, screaming, and tears. I won't say who provided which, but I do start making plans to be gone during the sale itself.
Although I am adamantly not answering D's constant question, "What do you want to do with this?" I cannot escape the reality. I am doing more than selling off possessions. I am jettisoning my life. I have been a musician, artist, craftsman, traveler, reader. Soon I will no longer have the means to be any of these things, or at least not at the previous level. I am selling sheet music and CDs, instruments, darkroom equipment, frames, yarn, craft supplies, paper for origami, junk for "found-object" art, material and scraps, books, luggage, maps. I have also been a friend, lover, daughter, sister, niece. Everywhere I look I see gifts and memorabilia from these beloved people. Soon I will only have my memories. Some of these things are worth real money, some only carry emotional value, but all are worth more than any price the professional will put on them. Do I really want to trash my life?
I cannot be totally ruthless: I put snapshots and letters into boxes which I stash in the attic and under the stairs. Some day I will have to cull these as well. But 90% of the rest must go now. My wall space, closets, drawers, and table tops are going away, and I cannot store all the art, dishes, and clothing.
The last two weeks have been spent walking from room to room, sitting at dressers, piling things into bags and boxes. It's a little schizophrenic: in the rooms dedicated to the sale, I am bagging and tagging things I want to keep. In the rooms that will be off-limits, I am bagging and tagging things I cannot keep. D keeps forgetting which process goes with which room, and then he keeps forgetting that the stuff I'm leaving in drawers or stacking on surfaces is going into the sale. He says, "What do you want to do with this?" I say, "Put in the sale." He says, "Who would buy that (paperclip, broken glass, cord to lost electronic item)?" I say, "That's up to the professional." He says, "What do you want to do with this?"
I snap. I don't want to do anything with "this." I don't want to sell my memories. I don't want to sell junk, I don't want to sell valuables, I don't want to determine which is which. I want to pack a small bag and walk away, move in with my cousin in London, curl up in a fetal position. But, then I discover my expired passport. If I had snapped two weeks earlier, I could have taken that escape route. Now, I'm trapped in the U.S. Besides, I don't really want to leave my husband. I just want him to stop asking me, "What do you want to do with this?"
It's down to zero hour. I have stopped talking about why we are doing this, why we need to let the professional do her job, why we cannot keep taking things back out of the sale. D has stopped saying, "But we might use this." He snatches up one last pile of games he cannot bear to lose, and finally he's done. I wander around the rooms, looking for the mates to 4 shoes. I cannot find them, and I hope they have not been swallowed up by the bags that are in the dumpster I've rented. I do find D's "Rogowski box," a handcrafted wooden piece of art, given to him for his first wedding, and I rescue it. I know this should not be in the sale. But there is so much else. Did anything else inadvertently make its way to the sale tables? Conversely, is there anything else in the off-limits room that could be sold? I decide that this way lies madness, and I limp down the stairs (I tweaked my knee shoving heavy boxes with my foot.)
Now I am up in Port Angeles, staying with cousins while hordes of strangers tramp through my house, my life, and my memories, devaluing it all in the interest of getting a good deal or a quick sale. I have been trying to not think about it, and my worry over Carbon makes that easy. Her laryngeal paralysis kicks in during times of stress, excessive heat, or excitement, and she spent the entire drive up here panting without cessation, sides heaving, laboring after oxygen. I don't know which stressor is coming in to play, but I am facing the fact that yet another loss is imminent. I sit with my arms around my sweet old dog, sobbing. I don't know which loss I am weeping for, but I do know that grief will not disappear with my things.
I'm still unemployed and so is D. My unemployment runs out in June, and the vacation rental apartment is bringing in half what it did last year. While I have cut travel and entertainment expenses by two-thirds, my mortgage cannot be reduced and I am paying over $600 a month in health insurance.
I face the truth: I can no longer afford my home or my lifestyle.
To stave off foreclosure, I either need to find a new source of income or sell my home. I cannot face the latter yet. Since the job search is looking bleaker every day, I have to find income somewhere else. I decide on more radical measures. Although I've reduced my living expenses as far as I can and still remain married, I have one more option available to me: I will rent my home, live in the vacation studio rental, and downsize my possessions.
I start planning the downsize. Step 1 is a heads' up to family and friends. Is there anything in my possession that they have coveted or treasured over the past few years? It's theirs. Do they know of anyone looking for a nice home, complete with live-in landlords and pets? Bring 'em on. Etc.
The support comes pouring in. I receive names of potential house-mates and professional estate sale managers. I get offers of help, a breathtaking gift of money, affirmations, condolences, and advice. I feel loved. I close my eyes to the emotional reality of this process, and I dive in. I tell myself that this is what I've needed for years, a chance to de-clutter and get out from under my possessions. I have let the sheer mass of things and responsibilities overwhelm me, and nothing gets done. Now I will be able to find what's left and spend my time productively. Or so I hope.
 |
| The Master Shedroom |
The downsize is a bigger problem. D is a hoarder, and I am not far behind. We realize that we cannot face the choices inherent in managing a moving sale, and I cut a deal with an estate sale professional. For 35% of the take, she will take care of everything. We painfully decide which rooms will be off-limits during the sale and which large pieces of furniture will be sold. She begins contacting dealers and valuing our possessions. We start the even more painful process of deciding about the "little stuff."
From the start it's a nightmare. There is so much. I have lived here close to 20 years, Dave close to 7. The remodel is still happening, and that slows down the process of moving stuff. We start piling things up, but I really don't want to handle it all twice, nor to live out of boxes. I want to go through the house, choose what to keep, and put it all away in the non-sale rooms. D wants to go through and decide what to toss, and what to sell. It's a radical difference in mind-set, and our discussions are accompanied by bouts of frustration, anger, hysteria, screaming, and tears. I won't say who provided which, but I do start making plans to be gone during the sale itself.
Although I am adamantly not answering D's constant question, "What do you want to do with this?" I cannot escape the reality. I am doing more than selling off possessions. I am jettisoning my life. I have been a musician, artist, craftsman, traveler, reader. Soon I will no longer have the means to be any of these things, or at least not at the previous level. I am selling sheet music and CDs, instruments, darkroom equipment, frames, yarn, craft supplies, paper for origami, junk for "found-object" art, material and scraps, books, luggage, maps. I have also been a friend, lover, daughter, sister, niece. Everywhere I look I see gifts and memorabilia from these beloved people. Soon I will only have my memories. Some of these things are worth real money, some only carry emotional value, but all are worth more than any price the professional will put on them. Do I really want to trash my life?
I cannot be totally ruthless: I put snapshots and letters into boxes which I stash in the attic and under the stairs. Some day I will have to cull these as well. But 90% of the rest must go now. My wall space, closets, drawers, and table tops are going away, and I cannot store all the art, dishes, and clothing.
The last two weeks have been spent walking from room to room, sitting at dressers, piling things into bags and boxes. It's a little schizophrenic: in the rooms dedicated to the sale, I am bagging and tagging things I want to keep. In the rooms that will be off-limits, I am bagging and tagging things I cannot keep. D keeps forgetting which process goes with which room, and then he keeps forgetting that the stuff I'm leaving in drawers or stacking on surfaces is going into the sale. He says, "What do you want to do with this?" I say, "Put in the sale." He says, "Who would buy that (paperclip, broken glass, cord to lost electronic item)?" I say, "That's up to the professional." He says, "What do you want to do with this?"
I snap. I don't want to do anything with "this." I don't want to sell my memories. I don't want to sell junk, I don't want to sell valuables, I don't want to determine which is which. I want to pack a small bag and walk away, move in with my cousin in London, curl up in a fetal position. But, then I discover my expired passport. If I had snapped two weeks earlier, I could have taken that escape route. Now, I'm trapped in the U.S. Besides, I don't really want to leave my husband. I just want him to stop asking me, "What do you want to do with this?"
It's down to zero hour. I have stopped talking about why we are doing this, why we need to let the professional do her job, why we cannot keep taking things back out of the sale. D has stopped saying, "But we might use this." He snatches up one last pile of games he cannot bear to lose, and finally he's done. I wander around the rooms, looking for the mates to 4 shoes. I cannot find them, and I hope they have not been swallowed up by the bags that are in the dumpster I've rented. I do find D's "Rogowski box," a handcrafted wooden piece of art, given to him for his first wedding, and I rescue it. I know this should not be in the sale. But there is so much else. Did anything else inadvertently make its way to the sale tables? Conversely, is there anything else in the off-limits room that could be sold? I decide that this way lies madness, and I limp down the stairs (I tweaked my knee shoving heavy boxes with my foot.)
Saturday, February 4, 2012
The business of vacations
I have had the travel bug for as long as I can remember. The habit of escaping to other places and discovering new ways of being began with my fiction addiction, of course. And it was a matter of course that our humble family vacations involved packing up the station wagon and driving north for a day, to spend the next two weeks with the family in Minnesota. Early on I learned that the world was wide and the daily routine escapable, regardless of finances.
After my MorMor retired, she embarked on a series of travels to Hawaii, Israel, Italy, England, and Norway (of course. Everyone returns to the homeland, right?) I remember reading her Christmas letters. Rather than the usual newsy one-pagers, hers were a pastiche of travelog, historical and cultural tidbits, and idiosyncratic escapades. Hand-written in a spidery cursive, they filled over a dozen pages. Mom was invariably exhausted and busy with Christmas preparations, and had neither time nor inclination to plow through them, but I enjoyed them immensely. There was always a leitmotif. Her friend Hope had a sweater crisis in Hawaii. During the Italian trip, customs inspectors at every border viewed her new, unworn shoes with suspicion. Etc, etc.
I came to understand that travel was about navigating comfort zones, as well as time zones. Little things like purchasing aspirin acquired adventurous proportions when done in a strange place.
When I graduated from college and moved west, my goal was to prove I could take care of the business of living. Once I established that, I began budgeting for a life of travel. I did not want to wait until I retired to have adventures. Every other year I planned a big 3-week trip outside the country. The in-between years were spent on local trips, camping and staying in bed and breakfasts. I usually traveled with friends, most of whom knew the ropes of researching places, transportation, and lodging. I also usually covered a lot of ground, thinking, "I'll come back some day and stay here longer, become part of the local scene." There are trade-offs to both approaches of course.
It took 20 years, though, before I experienced vacationing as a business. That's when I went to my first time-share presentation, at the Worldmark offices in Vancouver, WA.
Mind you, I have never been interested in resorts: they are the fast-food of the travel industry in my opinion. Regardless of the location, you always have the same type of room and set-up. It's usually luxurious of course: pools, hot tubs, spas, boutiques, well-appointed kitchens, restaurants. But you are totally divorced from the place: you shuttle or drive from the airport to the resort, and the only locals you meet are those paid to cater to your needs. You are, in fact, an object, a product of the business. You know what you are getting, and what you are getting is pleasant, but it's not interesting. Hamburger and fries to go, please.
The presentation interested me solely for one reason: I became convinced that lodging expenses would continue to rise until they were beyond my means. This was a chance to maintain a traveling lifestyle while I could afford it. Also, my niece was going to be spending a year at York University, so it would be a nice way to visit her and travel around England.
So, I swallowed the bait, bought the timeshare, and embarked on a new traveling life.
All in all, it was worth the money for a while. Resort traveling is made for couples. We went to Cabo, Santa Fe (for our honeymoon), Hawaii (D's first trip there), and numerous local beaches, alone and with family. It was always comfortable, lodging was affordable, and we were mainly interested in being together.
Then, the business began to be less user friendly. We couldn't get reservations at places and times that we wanted, and the quarterly cleaning fees were raised. It became annoying that we couldn't bring Carbon. Rising air fares put the more exotic locales out of our reach. The over-selling of shares and changing of rules made the weekend getaways a thing of the past. Worldmark's customer service became non-existent, and they sold to Wyndham, which was not much better.
I jettisoned the whole thing during a trip to J-H's more luxurious time-share in Cancun. We traded to Grupo-Mayan which only charged cleaning fees when you booked a stay, and which promised that we could easily rent out our unit when we did not stay.
Fast forward past days of unemployment and declining finances. We still managed to travel: yurts, campgrounds, airbnb trades, the occasional beach trip. However, it galled D beyond measure that the time-share was just sitting there. And then came the phone call....
THREE NIGHTS IN LAS VEGAS! FREE AIR FARE! FREE DINNER AT PLANET HOLLYWOOD! and all we have to do is sit through a 90-minute presentation (and lie about our financial situation.)
D really gets depressed with winter weather, so I reluctantly agree that, yes, this might be nice. We drive over during a Friday rush hour on an absolutely gorgeous day, to be imprisoned in a glass-windowed office building in a strip-mall. The windows are covered with blinds, the staff are all wearing tropical shirts, and the front office features a TV with a very strange show: the actors are all clothed monkeys, mouthing words that are captioned below while a voice over narrates the surreal plot. I'm still trying to figure out what it has to do with selling time shares. Usually they have videos of luscious couples on tropical beaches.
D fills out the form (because I refuse to commit to the lies) and Jerry, a short elderly man with thick white hair, tanned skin and a professionally smile-wrinkled face, walks us back to the presentation room. Tropical-beat music is blaring, and we are presented with a tray of Costco cookies, coffee, and soft drinks. The room is filled with small round tables: two chairs facing front, one facing the back. We take the front-facing chairs, and Jerry starts to work us.
He is also the manager, so he has to leave us for a bit. He gives us a travel survey to fill out, and I start knitting. That's when Jerry the Autocrat makes his appearance. My knitting is ordered away. We are expected to work for our "gifts." Attention on the process, eyes front during the presentation, and you'd better laugh at the jokes and raise your hands when appropriate.
Really?
It's a pretty lame presentation. Shannon, an extremely obese man in his 30s, paces back and forth, trying to generate enthusiasm and a sense of camaraderie. His fellow salesmen chuckle and nod their heads and say "that's right!" The rest of us sit, eyes front and center, nodding occasionally. Jerry leaves us for a bit and D mutters comments to me that I am positive will get us thrown out WITHOUT OUR GIFTS. Then Jerry returns for the followup presentation. Waiving cruise ship brochures, he talks about steak houses: they're all great, but some are better than others. Apparently he's trying to appeal to the snob factor, but what about the vegetarians in the audience?
Whew, now it's time for the individual sell job. This is where Jerry the Car Salesmen surfaces. "What will it take to put you in the driver's seat TODAY!?" He does the routine where he leaves and comes back with a better offer, which actually is not better. He compliments our financial acumen. He disparages other time shares. He smiles and smiles and smiles. And, when D finally makes it clear that We.... Are.... Not... Buying, he pouts.
It's ugly. And I'm not even sure I'm going to like Las Vegas.
He marches us into another room where we wait for our gift. That's when the closer appears. We go through the checklist: did Jerry treat us well? what could he have done to sell us? etc etc. I mention that one way to improve the presentation is to turn down the music. Apparently that cannot be...no it's not about building energy in the room, it's about protecting privacy. Some time in the past, a landlord was seated at a table next to a tenant who was planning to skimp on his rent payment to accommodate the time share payment. The landlord lost it, fists flew, and they had to be separated by the salesmen. And since then, they've blared the music.
We think we are done, but I make the mistake of asking about selling our other timeshare....flip goes the paper, out comes the pen, and a new offer appears. D almost loses it. We hear about changes in real estate laws in Washington and how they affect time share selling. We are warned that we cannot be asked to another presentation, we cannot receive another gift, in fact we must sign a waiver declining the VIP offer.
Gladly.
After my MorMor retired, she embarked on a series of travels to Hawaii, Israel, Italy, England, and Norway (of course. Everyone returns to the homeland, right?) I remember reading her Christmas letters. Rather than the usual newsy one-pagers, hers were a pastiche of travelog, historical and cultural tidbits, and idiosyncratic escapades. Hand-written in a spidery cursive, they filled over a dozen pages. Mom was invariably exhausted and busy with Christmas preparations, and had neither time nor inclination to plow through them, but I enjoyed them immensely. There was always a leitmotif. Her friend Hope had a sweater crisis in Hawaii. During the Italian trip, customs inspectors at every border viewed her new, unworn shoes with suspicion. Etc, etc.
I came to understand that travel was about navigating comfort zones, as well as time zones. Little things like purchasing aspirin acquired adventurous proportions when done in a strange place.
When I graduated from college and moved west, my goal was to prove I could take care of the business of living. Once I established that, I began budgeting for a life of travel. I did not want to wait until I retired to have adventures. Every other year I planned a big 3-week trip outside the country. The in-between years were spent on local trips, camping and staying in bed and breakfasts. I usually traveled with friends, most of whom knew the ropes of researching places, transportation, and lodging. I also usually covered a lot of ground, thinking, "I'll come back some day and stay here longer, become part of the local scene." There are trade-offs to both approaches of course.
It took 20 years, though, before I experienced vacationing as a business. That's when I went to my first time-share presentation, at the Worldmark offices in Vancouver, WA.
Mind you, I have never been interested in resorts: they are the fast-food of the travel industry in my opinion. Regardless of the location, you always have the same type of room and set-up. It's usually luxurious of course: pools, hot tubs, spas, boutiques, well-appointed kitchens, restaurants. But you are totally divorced from the place: you shuttle or drive from the airport to the resort, and the only locals you meet are those paid to cater to your needs. You are, in fact, an object, a product of the business. You know what you are getting, and what you are getting is pleasant, but it's not interesting. Hamburger and fries to go, please.
The presentation interested me solely for one reason: I became convinced that lodging expenses would continue to rise until they were beyond my means. This was a chance to maintain a traveling lifestyle while I could afford it. Also, my niece was going to be spending a year at York University, so it would be a nice way to visit her and travel around England.
So, I swallowed the bait, bought the timeshare, and embarked on a new traveling life.
All in all, it was worth the money for a while. Resort traveling is made for couples. We went to Cabo, Santa Fe (for our honeymoon), Hawaii (D's first trip there), and numerous local beaches, alone and with family. It was always comfortable, lodging was affordable, and we were mainly interested in being together.
Then, the business began to be less user friendly. We couldn't get reservations at places and times that we wanted, and the quarterly cleaning fees were raised. It became annoying that we couldn't bring Carbon. Rising air fares put the more exotic locales out of our reach. The over-selling of shares and changing of rules made the weekend getaways a thing of the past. Worldmark's customer service became non-existent, and they sold to Wyndham, which was not much better.
I jettisoned the whole thing during a trip to J-H's more luxurious time-share in Cancun. We traded to Grupo-Mayan which only charged cleaning fees when you booked a stay, and which promised that we could easily rent out our unit when we did not stay.
Fast forward past days of unemployment and declining finances. We still managed to travel: yurts, campgrounds, airbnb trades, the occasional beach trip. However, it galled D beyond measure that the time-share was just sitting there. And then came the phone call....
THREE NIGHTS IN LAS VEGAS! FREE AIR FARE! FREE DINNER AT PLANET HOLLYWOOD! and all we have to do is sit through a 90-minute presentation (and lie about our financial situation.)
D really gets depressed with winter weather, so I reluctantly agree that, yes, this might be nice. We drive over during a Friday rush hour on an absolutely gorgeous day, to be imprisoned in a glass-windowed office building in a strip-mall. The windows are covered with blinds, the staff are all wearing tropical shirts, and the front office features a TV with a very strange show: the actors are all clothed monkeys, mouthing words that are captioned below while a voice over narrates the surreal plot. I'm still trying to figure out what it has to do with selling time shares. Usually they have videos of luscious couples on tropical beaches.
D fills out the form (because I refuse to commit to the lies) and Jerry, a short elderly man with thick white hair, tanned skin and a professionally smile-wrinkled face, walks us back to the presentation room. Tropical-beat music is blaring, and we are presented with a tray of Costco cookies, coffee, and soft drinks. The room is filled with small round tables: two chairs facing front, one facing the back. We take the front-facing chairs, and Jerry starts to work us.
He is also the manager, so he has to leave us for a bit. He gives us a travel survey to fill out, and I start knitting. That's when Jerry the Autocrat makes his appearance. My knitting is ordered away. We are expected to work for our "gifts." Attention on the process, eyes front during the presentation, and you'd better laugh at the jokes and raise your hands when appropriate.
Really?
It's a pretty lame presentation. Shannon, an extremely obese man in his 30s, paces back and forth, trying to generate enthusiasm and a sense of camaraderie. His fellow salesmen chuckle and nod their heads and say "that's right!" The rest of us sit, eyes front and center, nodding occasionally. Jerry leaves us for a bit and D mutters comments to me that I am positive will get us thrown out WITHOUT OUR GIFTS. Then Jerry returns for the followup presentation. Waiving cruise ship brochures, he talks about steak houses: they're all great, but some are better than others. Apparently he's trying to appeal to the snob factor, but what about the vegetarians in the audience?
Whew, now it's time for the individual sell job. This is where Jerry the Car Salesmen surfaces. "What will it take to put you in the driver's seat TODAY!?" He does the routine where he leaves and comes back with a better offer, which actually is not better. He compliments our financial acumen. He disparages other time shares. He smiles and smiles and smiles. And, when D finally makes it clear that We.... Are.... Not... Buying, he pouts.
It's ugly. And I'm not even sure I'm going to like Las Vegas.
He marches us into another room where we wait for our gift. That's when the closer appears. We go through the checklist: did Jerry treat us well? what could he have done to sell us? etc etc. I mention that one way to improve the presentation is to turn down the music. Apparently that cannot be...no it's not about building energy in the room, it's about protecting privacy. Some time in the past, a landlord was seated at a table next to a tenant who was planning to skimp on his rent payment to accommodate the time share payment. The landlord lost it, fists flew, and they had to be separated by the salesmen. And since then, they've blared the music.
We think we are done, but I make the mistake of asking about selling our other timeshare....flip goes the paper, out comes the pen, and a new offer appears. D almost loses it. We hear about changes in real estate laws in Washington and how they affect time share selling. We are warned that we cannot be asked to another presentation, we cannot receive another gift, in fact we must sign a waiver declining the VIP offer.
Gladly.
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