Stanislaus County Name Change: Fill & Download for Free

Not like you’d think.In my personal experience, it’s not that different than growing up in any other Western state.I was born here:Auburn, Placer County. This is one of the most out-of-the-way and unimportant places in all of California. The county lies in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada and shares a border with the state of Nevada to the east and Sacramento County to the south-southwest. Apart from its proximity to Lake Tahoe and California’s capital city of Sacramento, Placer County has nothing else going for it. It’s where gold was discovered in 1848, kicking off the California Gold Rush, and today it’s where you stop for gas and lunch if you’re driving between Reno and San Francisco. That’s it. Being from Auburn is no different than being from any other small, quaint old California (or Nevada, or Arizona) mining town. It’s pretty far from anything cool. San Francisco is two hours down Interstate 80. Los Angeles is six and a half hours away, at the other end of the state. Everything that’s quintessentially “Californian” (Hollywood, the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, the Walk of Fame, SeaWorld, Disneyland) is miles away.I was brought up here:Apple Valley, San Bernardino County. Again...hard to think of a more out-of-the-way or unimportant part of Cali. Grand Theft Auto V really nailed it. Nothing grows up there but methamphetamine. Los Angeles is 90 minutes away. San Francisco, seven hours. The beach, three hours on a good day (with moderate weekend traffic). Nobody comes to the desert but conspiracy theorists, drug-addled weekenders from the LA Basin, and off-roaders and dirtbikers.California is such a huge and diverse state that saying, “I’m Californian” is as vague and meaningless as saying “I’m American.” You really have to qualify it by saying what part of California you’re from. At the very least you’d say “Northern California” or “Southern California”—even to somebody from another state. If you’re speaking to a fellow Californian, you usually say what town you’re from, too. If your town’s a small and obscure one—and let’s face it, most of them are—you usually qualify it by saying what the nearest big town is, or how many hours west/north/east/south of it your town is.When I’m introducing myself, I habitually say, “Hey, I was born in Auburn, California. It’s about 40 minutes northeast of Sacramento.” Or “I was brought up in Apple Valley, California. It’s on Interstate 15, smack dab between Los Angeles and Las Vegas.”Counties mean almost nothing, even to Californians. There are 58 counties in California, a very modest number compared to other states, but these counties range in size from San Bernardino County (20,062 square miles and 2,157,404 people) to tiny Alpine County (739 square miles and 1,120 people). People living in one county will probably have never heard of a county on the other side of the state or even counties that are just two or three counties away from their own.I dare you to tell me where exactly Tehama County is, my fellow Californians—those of you who don’t live there. (That means you, Joe Mills.) Tell me where Del Norte County is without looking at a map, Angelenos. Or Trinity County. Or Glenn County. Or Plumas County. Or any county that isn’t coastal or doesn’t have a famous landmark in it.It’s funny sometimes when I go to other states and say I’m Californian. It used to be a mark of renown. People would say “Wow! California? Do you live in Hollywood? Do you know any movie stars?” Nowadays, that’s changed. With all the Californians moving out of California and ruining other states with their rudeness, bad driving habits, and liberal policies, most people have started to look on Californians with the same distaste Californians once looked upon Okies. “Oh, you’re Californian? Will you, ah, be staying long?”When I travel abroad, I still get the same old awed reaction. “Wow, you’re from California?” The conversation rapidly breaks down when I reveal the boring, out-of-the-way portion of California I was born in, was brought up in, and/or am currently living in, which most foreigners have obviously never heard of. Most foreigners’ understanding of Californian geography is limited to San Francisco and Los Angeles. Most of them aren’t even familiar with Sacramento. I had one of my Korean students tell me confidently once that San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Las Vegas were all in the same state.But the idea that I’d know any movie stars by dint of merely growing up in California is laughable. I’ve only ever really lived in rural California. I have no idea what it’s like to live in one of the big cities like Los Angeles or San Francisco. I’ve never seen a movie star. I don’t even really like Californian cities that much. Most of us who were brought up in “the boonies” just sort of shake our heads at the stupidity and craziness of liberal lawmakers in Sacramento and San Francisco and the way the weird people in Los Angeles and the Bay Area carry on. We’ll visit big Californian cities for their beaches and landmarks and events and concerts and football games and theme parks and sushi and Mexican food and craft beer, but that’s about it. My heart lies in the hinterlands. Joshua Tree National Park. Mount Shasta. Stanislaus National Forest. Big Bear Lake. That’s my state. I just want to live here the way I see fit.But that’s the real tragedy about growing up Californian—unless you’re a liberal and you live in the big cities, you’re pretty much forced to watch your beautiful home state being stolen from you bit by bit.You can’t buy the guns you want, because California—and only California—considers certain weapons to be something they’re not, and force gun companies to pay ludicrous amounts of money to have their guns tested by the California DOJ before they can be listed on the infamous “roster” and legally sold in-state—thereby limiting the number of guns that are actually sold in-state without actually banning them.You’re forced to watch ridiculous proposals like Jerry Brown’s “Gunpocalypse” get rammed through, as well as ludicrous boondoggles like the Delta tunnels and the bullet train.You’re forced to put up with increased crime, drug traffic, murders, kidnappings, and rapes because California politicians defy federal law and create sanctuary cities for illegal immigrants. You’re forced to pay sky-high taxes to fund social welfare programs so these illegal aliens can get food stamps and driver’s licenses ($23 billion a year—not million, billion). You’re forced to put up with being called racist when you suggest voter ID laws might be a good idea with all these illegal immigrants running around. You’re forced to watch Los Angeles and San Francisco turn from proud, beautiful, economic powerhouses to third-world slums thanks to the liberal policies of their municipal governments.You’re forced to watch farmers bankrupted and parched by crippling environmental regulations and water allocation policies, respectively. You’re forced to watch your state turn into a giant fireball every summer thanks to more idiotic environmental regulations. (For about a week last year, during the Camp Fire up in Butte County, the air quality in my town was so bad that it was classified “maroon” on the Air Quality Index, or AQI—hazardous to health, no matter what your age or physical condition. People were buying respirators, for God’s sake. And it looked apocalyptic outside, somewhere between Dante’s Inferno and Terminator.)When you’re brought up in California, you’re also compelled to watch other Californians give you a bad name. You’re forced to watch as the Berkeley chapter of ANTIFA do their best to physically assault and intimidate speakers you’d dearly love to hear speak their piece. You’re compelled to witness slimy, pandering politicians like Kamala Harris—who you knew was a corrupt authoritarian before she ever ran for Senator—go to Washington and say stupid things in interviews while she panders to the Democratic base in hopes of being nominated to run against Trump in 2020. You have to watch the state’s Attorney General, Xavier Becerra, sue the Trump administration 50 goddamn times on your dime. And you have to watch that wrinkled old hag Dianne Feinstein spread complete lies about guns in nationally televised hearings. And you have to watch our new governor, Gavin Newsom (already known among us conservative Californians as “Gruesome Newsom” and “Gavin Nuisance”)—the West Coast’s answer to Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez—say things that made even his predecessor Jerry Brown (“Governor Moonbeam”) look sane. The only smart thing Newsom’s done so far, in fact, has been to kill his predecessor’s bullet train project, which wasted $5.4 billion of taxpayer money to no purpose. (Trump is right to demand that money back from the state.) I swear to Gawd, you ought to be banned from becoming governor of California if you’ve ever served as mayor of San Francisco. That’s it. Enough is enough.So…yeah. I think I’ve covered everything. Sometimes growing up Californian is feeling unwelcome in your own home state, if you’re of a certain political bent. It’s definitely not as glamorous as some out-of-towners or foreigners think it is, either. It’s pretty…normal, in fact, if you can ignore the hijinks that go on in the big coastal cities, and the nonsensical things the politicians, the social justice warriors, and the movie stars say and do. It gives you some extra street cred sometimes when you’re abroad, but for the most part you’re content to mention the tiny obscure town you come from, talk up the plentiful California sunshine and gorgeous coastline a bit (just for bragging rights), and then move on. Especially when there are people like Kamala Harris and Nancy Pelosi (who isn’t even originally from California anyway, the old fraud) running amok in the media.

The Golden 1 Credit Union (or Golden 1) is a credit union headquartered in Sacramento, California. There are currently 80 branches located throughout the State of California. Golden 1 currently serves 38 of the 58 counties in California.[4]These counties are Alameda, Amador, Butte, Calaveras, Contra Costa, El Dorado, Fresno, Kern, Kings, Lassen, Los Angeles, Madera, Marin, Merced, Monterey, Napa, Nevada, Orange, Placer, Riverside, Sacramento, San Benito, San Bernardino, San Joaquin, San Luis Obispo, San Mateo, San Francisco, Santa Barbara, Santa Clara, Shasta, Solano, Sonoma, Stanislaus, Sutter, Ventura, Yolo and Yuba.The Golden 1 Credit UnionGolden 1 headquarters in SacramentoFounded in 1933 as California State Employees Credit Union #1, it changed its name to Golden 1 in 1977.As of June, 2016, Golden 1 had in excess of $10 billion USD in assets and more than 787,000 members making it the 6th largest credit union in the United States and the second largest credit union in the State of California.The current President & CEO is Donna A. Bland.On June 16, 2015, Golden 1 acquired naming rights for a new arena in downtown Sacramento to replace the Sacramento Kings' Sleep Train Arena. At a cost of $120 million over 20 years, with an average annual value at $6 million, it is one of the largest naming rights deals for a single-tenant NBA arena.[

I’m just one American among millions, but I’ll tell you what my life is like, and what I imagine it’s going to be like, and you can compare it to the lives of others who answer this question.I live in California. Not coastal California; that’s far too expensive and (to be honest) far too liberal for my tastes. I live in the extreme north of the San Joaquin Valley, in a certain town that’s famous for wine (but not as famous as Napa or Sonoma, two hours west). The winters are cool and wet, around 50-60 degrees, and the summers are dry, sunny, and very hot, usually in the upper 90s or low 100s (although it got up to 117 degrees two summers ago...as hot as Las Vegas!).I live in a squalid one-bedroom apartment with my wife of two years. The apartment has giant holes in the carpet, walls that have been painted so many times that they look like marchpane, an oven that doesn’t heat evenly, and various other cosmetic and functional imperfections. The insulation is old and crappy and so is the weather stripping; the apartment is freezing cold in winter and boiling hot in summer. But it gets us by. The rent is $750 a month, which is ludicrously high for the quality we’re getting, but ludicrously low by Californian standards. And we’re within walking distance of my town’s little old-town area, which has all the cool bars and restaurants where my wife and I like to hang out.We have two cats, Dana and Zuul. Ghostbusters joke. My wife named them. They’re hers, really. Her aunt owns an animal rescue in Napa. The two cats were found there, in an alley, as kittens. They’re probably brothers. They spew hairballs and sneeze all over everything, leave hair and cat litter on every surface, and meow loudly for attention and food. But having them around is a treat, most of the time.My wife used to work at Target, but I’m salaried now (the first salaried position I’ve ever had, and I’m nearly 33). So my wife was able to quit Target, which she hated, and now she works two part-time jobs that she enjoys and which bring her a little pocket money. She works for a small sandwich shop over on the east side of town, taking customer’s orders, and she works as a tutor at an after-school tutoring academy that has 300 branches across the US.I work full-time as a marketing copywriter and the co-manager of my company’s marketing team. I work in the city of Stockton, the 13th largest city in California and the 63rd largest in the United States, with about 320,500 people (as of 2017, anyway). It’s a total crap-hole. Shabby homes, overgrown front lawns, graffiti and garbage and homeless people everywhere, loud thumping music, rude people, rampant crime. It makes Gotham look like a prime vacation spot. I could write volumes on why Stockton and other large Californian cities are like this, but that’s not relevant.Every day I wake up at 6:15 AM. That’s when my alarm is set to go off, at least. I’ve never slept all that well, even though we have a nice Sleep Number bed that my parents gave us. So usually I wake up before my alarm, sometimes as early as 4:45 AM. Some days I look at my phone before I even get out of bed; some days I’m too disgusted with myself to do so. I shower every other day; on the non-showering days, I just wear a hat, a nice grey flat cap that I got about a year ago on Amazon. I used to eat breakfast—cereal or cold leftovers. Then I started being healthier and having protein smoothies. Now I’m doing intermittent fasting and don’t eat until 10:30 AM, when I have a meal replacement shake. Before I leave the apartment in the morning, I take my vitamins and medication. Then I grab my backpack, get in my 1995 Jeep Cherokee (18 mpg surface streets, 20 mpg highway) and drive 20-25 minutes to work. Traffic is usually light, although (this being California) there are lots of idiots on the road—people who drive unnecessarily fast and weave in and out of lanes without signaling. I don’t listen to music or audiobooks during my morning commute; I just think. I park at work and clock in, and sit at my desk for eight hours, writing blog posts or marketing emails or editing owner’s manuals. It strains my eyes and is hard on my back and nether regions, but we have desks which can be raised or lowered depending on whether we want to stand or sit, so it’s not that bad. I leave work around 4:00 PM. On Thursdays, I go bowling with a few of my coworkers at a nearby bowling alley before I go home. At least once a week, I have to stop at Costco on the way home to fill up my gas-guzzling Jeep. Gas prices fluctuate, but I generally pay $40 per fill-up. I drive home on the freeway, driving exactly the speed limit, in the slow lane. Everyone else passes me, and I’m going too slow to catch up to anyone and have to change lanes. It’s relaxing. If it’s Friday and I’m feeling good, I’ll listen to the local classic rock station.If my wife’s home when I get home, we have dinner together; otherwise I just fix myself something, and she fixes herself something when she gets home. I stop eating by 6:00 PM (part of my intermittent fasting regimen). Then we watch TV (Japanese anime, or a sitcom like Cheers). We don’t have cable, and we don’t watch the news. Most of the time I hear about breaking news from my coworkers, or on Quora. I read The Federalist and National Review, and sometimes (just to be balanced) HuffPo and The Guardian and The New Republic and The Atlantic and The New York Times. I also occasionally read The Daily Caller and The Independent and Salon and Slate. Sometimes I check the BBC’s website for news as well.My wife and I watch movies a lot. I describe myself as a cinephile; my wife just likes certain actors and actresses. We have a subscription to Netflix’s DVD service, and there’s usually a cool DVD waiting in our mailbox when we get home from work. Sometimes we play board games or card games. I can’t shuffle very well. My wife shuffles very well and always beats me at gin rummy. We usually have some sort of alcoholic beverage in the evenings, like beer (my wife likes Blue Moon Mango Wheat, and I’m forcing myself to like Michelob Ultra). More frequently we have wine—Chardonnay or Riesling or Sauvignon Blanc. Wine is one of the few things we still unashamedly splurge on. I blew $71 on two bottles of Malbec, two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc, and a bottle of tawny port at BevMo earlier this week. I also bought some Danish blue cheese and some smoked Gouda with bacon bits, too. Good stuff.I make a good salary—the most money I’ve ever made in my life. It lets me support both me and my wife (barely). Ten percent of my check is fun money, ten percent goes into savings, and ten percent goes into an emergency fund. This is the first time I’ve ever been able to divert money from my check into any sort of savings account. My wife and I live on the remainder of my paycheck, as well as the small amount of money her two jobs bring in. I still rely on my credit card to get us by each month.Late last year, I managed to become debt-free, paying off my student loans and a large amount of credit card debt I’d racked up while living in Las Vegas in 2015, before I met my wife. My wife still has a large amount of student debt (five figures). Just recently, however, I went into debt again: I took out a $55,000 loan from Sallie Mae to fund my flight training. That’s right—I’m in the middle of a mid-life crisis, and I’m switching careers. I’m getting out of marketing copywriting and into aviation. In August my wife and I will move away from California, where it’s too expensive and too polluted and too crowded and too liberal, and relocate to Boise, Idaho (which will soon become too expensive and crowded and liberal if Californians keep moving there). I’ll be attending a local aviation academy and obtaining my private and commercial helicopter pilot’s licenses, as well as flight instructor and instrument flight instructor certifications. This should take about a year. Then I’ll work as an instructor for 18-24 months, building up sufficient hours to get a high-paying helicopter job elsewhere in the country. In the meantime, my wife and I will have to work like dogs to pay down our student loans and afford rent. We’re dreaming of having children someday (maybe once I start working steadily as a flight instructor and am actually bringing home the bacon again). But for now, it’s a pipe dream. Eventually, we plan to move to Montana or Arizona and buy a ranch and start a fly-in bed and breakfast. But that is very far in the future, and we’re a long way from being a safe investment for any bank. Our lives are more controlled by our debts and our financial situation than I’d like them to be, but I don’t spare too much thought for it.On weekends, my wife and I often sit at home and do nothing but play on our phones, our PlayStation 4, or our computers; this saves us money. Some weekends we make little excursions—say to an art museum in San Francisco, or for a picnic in neighboring Calaveras County. At least once or twice a month, we go visit my parents up near Sacramento. For birthdays we go to the Sutter Street Steakhouse in Folsom and splurge on delicious New York steaks.Sometimes I save up enough money to buy myself a gun (one of the few that are legal in California), and my coworkers and I go target shooting up in the Stanislaus National Forest in summer. My wife and I also like to go tubing on the American River near my parents’ house. We try to follow the 2-2-2 rule. My wife found it on Reddit or something. Every two weeks, we go out for an evening; every two months, we go away for a weekend; and every two years, we go away for a week. Last year we managed to take a vacation in Hawaii with my parents and my wife’s aunt. Just this past weekend we took three days to drive down into Southern California to visit my old hometown in the Mojave Desert, where my wife’s never been. We covered 1,277 miles in three days. We visited Joshua Tree National Park (my favorite park in California), Palm Springs, the Living Desert Zoo & Gardens, and stayed for one night at the Mission Inn in Riverside. This weekend we’re taking my mom and dad and my wife’s aunt out to lunch in Napa for Mother’s Day, which will be expensive, but I can pay it off with my next paycheck. On weekends when we don’t see my parents, I call them just to check in and get them caught up on our doings.My wife and I both have health problems. She has irritable bowel syndrome and I have ulcerative colitis. She can’t eat garlic or onions or whole wheat bread or pasta (and many other things). I can’t eat sugary or spicy foods, which is a shame, because I love them. I had a very bad time in January, February, and March of this year; I suffered a horrible colitis flare-up and had to be put on stronger medication. I went in for a colonoscopy recently and was found to still have some inflammation and ulcers, so I’m not out of the woods yet. The colonoscopy cost me $1,000. Fortunately, I was able to afford it thanks to all the money I’ve been socking away over the past year in my aforementioned savings accounts. My Jeep, which has never really worked well (and for which I paid $2,500 cash in 2010), broke down earlier this week. Luckily my wife wasn’t working that day. She was able to take it to the shop for me. (We may have limited means, but we do at least have two cars.) Repairs will be another $1,000. This will just about clean out my savings account. I’m slightly concerned about that—I was hoping to have a sum of at least $5,000 saved up for when my wife and I move to Idaho in late summer. But I’m not too bothered by it. I’ve moved dozens of times in my life. When I was a kid, my parents moved from Northern California to Southern California to Ohio to Tennessee to Virginia to Wyoming and then back to California. I went to college in North Dakota. I’m used to moving long-distance and driving long-distance. It’s an American thing.I write myself a to-do list each week. I’m a bit on the tubby side and I’m trying to lose weight so I can train in a Robinson R22 helicopter (which has a maximum per-seat passenger weight limit of 240 pounds) instead of a more expensive Robinson R44. That’s why I’m doing the intermittent fasting. So on the days that I don’t bowl, I try to walk for at least 30 minutes, usually an hour. I listen to my iPod when I do this; music helps me relax and lets me meditate. I used to belong to a local gym, but I quit to save money. I hate running; it makes my shins hurt. So I just walk and eat less, and lose weight that way.I used to have writing on my daily to-do list, but I recently quit trying to write fiction. I believe it was stressing me out, making my colitis worse, and making me lose my hair. Or maybe that’s just my genes. Whatever. Since I quit writing, the only things I routinely have on my to-do list are walking and reading. I stick to a strict regimen of reading; I have lots of books I want to read before I die, and lots of books on my shelf that I bought months or years ago and haven’t gotten around to reading. So I try to read two books a month, 25 books a year. Fiction and nonfiction. Books about good habits, time management, Stoic philosophy, military history, survival skills, travelogues, and so forth; and sci-fi novels and classics of world literature on the fiction side. I’m particularly looking forward to Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck and Superluminal by Vonda McIntyre. I get most of my books through Amazon Prime, as well as any other little things I need or want—a brush for my bowling shoes, Bloody Mary seasoning, a case for my Marlin rifle, probiotics, a whetstone, India ink for the typewriter my wife got me, a phone case, a kukri.Some other items that show up on my to-do lists are journaling (every Sunday), spending time with the wife (I try to be a good husband and remind myself to do this), writing my wife a love letter (at least once a month), social engagements (not too many of these, as they generally cost money), researching cross-country moves and helicopter training materials (in preparation for August), buying presents and cards for relatives’ birthdays, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day, and writing answers on Quora. That’s right—sometimes I’ll pencil Quora into my to-do list, especially when my answer queue has ten questions or more in it. I usually get up before my wife on weekends and that’s when I’ll sit down at my computer, answer questions, and reply to messages. I also check my phone constantly during the week, both to monitor upvotes and comments on my answers and answer my wife’s text messages. (She gets annoyed when I drop out of contact for too long.)Every day, weekend or weeknight, I try to get into bed by 10 PM, sometimes as early as 9. My wife likes to stay up a bit later. She has this nightly ritual where she gets into her car and drives aimlessly around town while smoking a cigarette or two. It calms her down before bed, she says. It’s her dirty secret; nobody knows she smokes, not her friends, not her coworkers, not even her closest relations. When she gets back from her drive, she brushes her teeth and gets into her pajamas. We’re usually in bed with the lights out by 10:15. When it gets warm outside we try to leave the windows open, but our neighbors keep odd hours and are totally inconsiderate assholes who like to come home late at night and have extremely loud conversations in the corridors and slam their screen doors. So my wife and I usually leave the window shut and just turn all the fans on. Our apartment’s air conditioning unit is mounted through the kitchen wall, and a lot of the airflow is caught by the corner of the opposite wall and deflected straight back into the kitchen. The cool air never circulates into the bedroom or bathroom—just the living room. So leaving it on at night is pointless. Someday I’ll have a nice big breezy house in the country and won’t need fans or air conditioning.I don’t dream at night. Well, I do; I understand that everybody dreams. Some people just never remember their dreams, and I’m one of them. I either have to be totally exhausted or have eaten something just before bed to remember my dreams, usually, but that rarely happens.And that’s about it, really. Every few Novembers, I vote. My wife and I spend Thanksgiving with my wife’s aunt and her husband in American Canyon and Christmas with my parents up near Sacramento. I intend to take up hunting and grilling and camping and other outdoorsy, manly hobbies when we move to Idaho, budget permitting. I’ll have kids on the way by the end of 2020—again, budget permitting. I want to buy a ranch in some wide-open space like Montana or Arizona because I hate cities, hate crowds, hate stupid people, don’t like gun control, and love fresh air, distant snow-capped mountains, desert sun, the wind in my hair, and peace and quiet. I want a place where my kids can run around and be crazy, and where I can play loud music without the neighbors complaining, where I can build an outdoor shooting range for my massive gun collection and a dirt strip for the Cessna 206 or 207 that I’m going to own someday and a helipad for the Robinson R44 that I’ll give rides to our B&B guests in. And maybe a pasture for that big old Belgian horse I told myself I’d own someday. My wife, a superb baker, will keep our guests wowed with her baked goods and sweets, and my parents—who’ve expressed interest in joining our B&B/ranch venture—will have a house on our property. My dad, the handyman, will help out with repairs and maintenance, and my mom will help prepare meals and make sure the place is decorated tastefully for the guests. My wife and I will have three kids—Meryl, Henry Malcolm, and Eleanor—and they’ll run around in the sunshine and get big and strong and learn to cook and clean and sew their own clothes and shoot and ride horses and build campfires and toast s’mores and maybe even learn to fly airplanes with me. And then they’ll grow up and move away and go to college and/or get good careers in fields of their choices, and get married and have kids of their own, and I’ll most likely bury my parents on our property, side by side with matching marble headstones, and my wife and I will grow old and feeble, and I’ll probably die of colon cancer or mouth cancer (I’m an avid pipe smoker, after all) or congestive heart failure (I do love me some well-marbled steak).And it’ll have been a good life, living in America.