My middle name is Claire. My Social Security number is 144-56-8742. And Bradford is my mother's maiden name.

Somebody, anybody, steal my identity!

If anyone deserves a break from being me . . . it's me.

Call it avoidance. Call it laziness. Call it disorganization. Call it anything you want, but my credit-card woes aren't my fault. Frankly, I didn't even want one. But one afternoon in 1989, as my friend Jane and I walked through the student union, we came across two bank workers who'd been dispatched to campus to sign us up. I would've ignored them were they not offering a free dictionary right then and there. Besides, I thought, I'll never use a credit card: they're dangerous. Only in case of an "extreme emergency" would I even consider it.

Sure enough, on the very day my neighborhood bank sent me my plastic, that emergency arose: $200 Ray-Bans.

Yeah, I looked fuckin'-ay. Little did I know I was simply fucked.

Since then, it's been a dozen years of bobbing and weaving, and I'm exhausted. I screen my telephone calls, throw away huge stacks of mail, and never, ever pay a bill till it arrives in an envelope of a menacing color with LAST CHANCE stamped across it. Most times, though, I don't even pay those.

But I don't feel bad; I feel confused. I thought I was in line with the status quo, consistent with the rest of America's consumers. "The more you buy, the more you save," after all. Hey, Mr. Collections Officer, I'm not the one who crafted that motto. Don't blame me if it made sense when I couldn't decide between mules and sling-backs.

There's only one way to climb out of the debt hole, credit counselors warn: pay up. Good advice, I decided. Beat the Man at his own game by paying ahead of time and sending in even more money than he wants each month.

But then it struck me: it's not like I don't know what I'm supposed to do! And I'm not alone. Lots of people are pros at spending way more money covering our butts and futilely winnowing away our finance charges, way-over-the-limit fees, and over-overdraft-protection fines. We know the routine better than most. That's bullshit advice to give a credit rogue, I concluded.

What we need is a plan. And I think I've got a painless, multipart one.

First, under no circumstances should you check your credit history. Are you kidding? I have no intention of reliving what took me so long to ignore. Sure, there's a chance a monolith computer made an error I should have fixed. But do you know how long I'd be on hold? That would eat up all my cell-phone minutes. Verizon's aggravated enough.

Instead, I like to treat every day like it's the first day of the rest of . . . the days I have to kill for seven years. That's when my credit is allegedly supposed to be clear, should I walk the straight and narrow starting tomorrow. Which, of course, I aspire to do.

Second, do nothing to verify that seven years is indeed how long it will take. I've heard it several times from several people. Confirmation enough, don't you think? Should you find out there's no hope . . . well, let's not even go there.

Third, when someone suggests that you should live within your means, ask for names. I bet he or she can't come up with 10 people who stick to a budget -- especially with so many temptations. And if someone's father is on that list, tune out immediately.

Fourth, and very important: trace the history of your credit card. In my case it coincided with the dawn of bank mergers, worldwide consolidation, and networked computers. Reliving this horror reminds me again who the real culprit is. I was, after all, a guinea pig in a new world order. I have no doubt that you were too.

Remember those Ray-Bans? I bought them with a cool little card from a local bank that had tellers. Months later, however, that cool little bank with four branches was bought by a very uncool bank with which I was already embroiled in a dispute. They said I bounced checks. I said I had enough money in the account; it was their stupid system that kept it from being transferred in time. We were at a standoff. I was more pissed when I realized they could now limit my credit. The standoff reached a new, more complicated level.

Ha! They were soon bought by an out-of-state bank. Too bad those folks were also jerks. Minimum payments were jacked up. I was no longer granted the luxury of skipping a month's payment without consequence -- a completely reasonable accommodation that both parties had previously found satisfactory. Finance charges for paying late? Reduced spending limit? I was none too pleased. Honestly, I was like a dog they had trained incorrectly from the beginning. How could they expect me to fetch and beg after I'd been allowed to just sit around and lick my privates for so long?

In all, my credit card was purchased a total of five times. Perhaps more. But I had long been written off by Nations Bank or NationsBank or Westovia or Bank of United States, I forget. Alas, the damage was done. Cable bills. Utility bills. Department stores. Name one and I bet I avoided its collections department with cunning. Sorry, wrong number. Melissa doesn't live here anymore. Me llamo Juanita.

But you tell me: am I to blame? Maybe I haven't been as diligent as I should have been in breaking these plastic shackles. But I imagine I'd do just as well trying to dig a hole with a toothpick or fight a lion with a switch. If only I'd thought to incorporate. Empirical evidence suggests I'd get off scot-free.

Finally, let's rally an army of 18.9-to-21-percenter credit ghosts against the real problem: the credit-card companies. Write your governor, senator -- heck, the president -- and tell them to regulate.

Let's outlaw finance charges, cut percentages. Maybe then I'd be inclined to pay up. And I bet I'd do it fast, because there's a cute pair of loafers on sale at Cole Haan.

This column was originally published in the San Francisco Bay Guardian. Melissa Houston can be reached at Melissa@sfbg.com.

Issue Date: April 26 - May 2, 2002