... terrorists discovered how to train squirrels to lie down (simultaneously) across the leads on every transformer on every pole in every part of the country? Would we be incapacited by panic, grossness, or laughter first?
... the talking heads on CNBC actually agreed with each other, just once? Would that qualify as a sign of the Apocalypse?
... no one ever took an entire, long, rainy day just to lie in the arms of the one she loves most? Wouldn't that be the worst world, ever?
... 50 really is the new 40? Would that mean I'd have to restart menopause?
Good God, I hope not.
Laugh more today, dream more today, love more today - for tomorrow you, too, might qualify for age-related discounts with motels, restaurants, and plastic surgeons all over the world.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Week, So Far
It began with a bang.
Well, more of a "whump." Sunday morning, the first day, the sun was barely up and the Big Lug and I were dozing in and out of sleep. Suddenly, that sound jerked us into reality. "Was that what I think it was?" he asked, quite clearly. Around here, at least after 9/11, if you even hear an overloaded truck rumble on the breeze you stop and listen for a moment. "Uh-huh," I mumbled, "but the fan stopped, too, and - " I lifted my head, squinted at my alarm clock's blank face, dropped back to the pillow, " - no power. Transformer blew."
It was on the street, and our window was open because it's been so hot. It was zapped once before, but during a thunderstorm, not a clear sky. We both knew that, but he got it first and (just in case) looked at the sky - for clouds, for smoke, for a mushroom-shaped ... nah, that's my job. Anyway, he saw nothing that would have caused a problem. "I'll look for seepage," I heard him say as he grabbed his bathrobe. The basement sometimes leaks long after storms (which we'd had Saturday) have passed, and if we had water we'd need to hook up the generator to the new power-thingie that we had put in for just such an eventuality. "And I'll check the outside of the new panel," I said - or think I said, since I was still half-asleep. "Maybe it shorted out." They hadn't actually put in the new meter yet, and it's still a mishmash of old and new power cable.
Nothing, no problems. I called the electric company, reported the outage and the explosion, and got dressed. There was no way I was hanging around if I couldn't make coffee. I was going to Starbucks. While I was struggling into a T-shirt (it was still hot), the Big Lug got a call and described the incident to a repair guy. I left.
Twenty minutes later, as I was sipping the nectar of the gods, he called my cell. "Squirrel," he said in a slightly strangled voice.
"Nuts," I returned, baffled by this word game.
"No, honey, a squirrel. Stretched out on both leads. Not much left now but a powdery - "
"Ew," I said.
"Uh-huh," he said, "we were awakened by an exploding squirrel."
The company man changed the transformer equivalent of a fuse (involving silicone cable and some kind of "tongue" lever or switch - the Big Lug was describing the procedure in gleeful detail, but I couldn't picture it) and, after moving seamlessly from the fearful to the ridiculous, everything was back to normal.
"Normal," of course, being relative. I am, apparently, once again the center knot in a (student's) parental tug-of-war. You'd be surprised how often that happens - teachers and care providers are cannon fodder in any ongoing war of ex's. Usually, it's a divorced husband and wife - one who paid, and one who didn't - but this time it's a stepmom and a mom. I spoke to both of them, without knowing I was supposed to only talk to the step. Now I have a password that I must ask for before I give any information to anyone, and under no circumstances am I supposed to talk to the mother at all.
Exploding squirrels give you perspective. I chose absurdity.
Good thing, too, because I was digging up more "sod" this morning, and, after a needed and earned break, came out to find this:
Flamingoes. One of the Lug's sisters sent flamingoes. Today is halfway between our birthdays, which, I suppose, is the perfect time to send it, if there's ever a perfect time for flamingoes. Very attention-grabbing, for sure - I was outside stripping sod until the 90-degree mark hit, and every person who passed, in cars or with their dogs, slowed to look, even wave and honk. Amazing what a flocking bunch of flamingoes can do, isn't it?
There was a single, sublime moment, too - I saw a rose-breasted grosbeak at my feeder as I was formatting the type here. I've never seen one in real life before. On my 40th, Mama Angel sent me an indigo bunting, and now I did the same thing I did then, just grinned and grinned and ... yeah, I'm a geek. But what a way to wind down this bizarro beginning-of-the-week.
So next comes a long, cool shower and a couple of tutorial students, then a good book and a snuggle with the Big Lug. At least, that's the agenda. Gotta tell you, though, if there's something waiting that can top flamingoes, grosbeaks, knotty ropes, and exploding squirrels, I won't mind a hiccup in the plan - as long as I can treasure it, too.
Well, more of a "whump." Sunday morning, the first day, the sun was barely up and the Big Lug and I were dozing in and out of sleep. Suddenly, that sound jerked us into reality. "Was that what I think it was?" he asked, quite clearly. Around here, at least after 9/11, if you even hear an overloaded truck rumble on the breeze you stop and listen for a moment. "Uh-huh," I mumbled, "but the fan stopped, too, and - " I lifted my head, squinted at my alarm clock's blank face, dropped back to the pillow, " - no power. Transformer blew."
It was on the street, and our window was open because it's been so hot. It was zapped once before, but during a thunderstorm, not a clear sky. We both knew that, but he got it first and (just in case) looked at the sky - for clouds, for smoke, for a mushroom-shaped ... nah, that's my job. Anyway, he saw nothing that would have caused a problem. "I'll look for seepage," I heard him say as he grabbed his bathrobe. The basement sometimes leaks long after storms (which we'd had Saturday) have passed, and if we had water we'd need to hook up the generator to the new power-thingie that we had put in for just such an eventuality. "And I'll check the outside of the new panel," I said - or think I said, since I was still half-asleep. "Maybe it shorted out." They hadn't actually put in the new meter yet, and it's still a mishmash of old and new power cable.
Nothing, no problems. I called the electric company, reported the outage and the explosion, and got dressed. There was no way I was hanging around if I couldn't make coffee. I was going to Starbucks. While I was struggling into a T-shirt (it was still hot), the Big Lug got a call and described the incident to a repair guy. I left.
Twenty minutes later, as I was sipping the nectar of the gods, he called my cell. "Squirrel," he said in a slightly strangled voice.
"Nuts," I returned, baffled by this word game.
"No, honey, a squirrel. Stretched out on both leads. Not much left now but a powdery - "
"Ew," I said.
"Uh-huh," he said, "we were awakened by an exploding squirrel."
The company man changed the transformer equivalent of a fuse (involving silicone cable and some kind of "tongue" lever or switch - the Big Lug was describing the procedure in gleeful detail, but I couldn't picture it) and, after moving seamlessly from the fearful to the ridiculous, everything was back to normal.
"Normal," of course, being relative. I am, apparently, once again the center knot in a (student's) parental tug-of-war. You'd be surprised how often that happens - teachers and care providers are cannon fodder in any ongoing war of ex's. Usually, it's a divorced husband and wife - one who paid, and one who didn't - but this time it's a stepmom and a mom. I spoke to both of them, without knowing I was supposed to only talk to the step. Now I have a password that I must ask for before I give any information to anyone, and under no circumstances am I supposed to talk to the mother at all.
Exploding squirrels give you perspective. I chose absurdity.
Good thing, too, because I was digging up more "sod" this morning, and, after a needed and earned break, came out to find this:
Flamingoes. One of the Lug's sisters sent flamingoes. Today is halfway between our birthdays, which, I suppose, is the perfect time to send it, if there's ever a perfect time for flamingoes. Very attention-grabbing, for sure - I was outside stripping sod until the 90-degree mark hit, and every person who passed, in cars or with their dogs, slowed to look, even wave and honk. Amazing what a flocking bunch of flamingoes can do, isn't it?
There was a single, sublime moment, too - I saw a rose-breasted grosbeak at my feeder as I was formatting the type here. I've never seen one in real life before. On my 40th, Mama Angel sent me an indigo bunting, and now I did the same thing I did then, just grinned and grinned and ... yeah, I'm a geek. But what a way to wind down this bizarro beginning-of-the-week.
So next comes a long, cool shower and a couple of tutorial students, then a good book and a snuggle with the Big Lug. At least, that's the agenda. Gotta tell you, though, if there's something waiting that can top flamingoes, grosbeaks, knotty ropes, and exploding squirrels, I won't mind a hiccup in the plan - as long as I can treasure it, too.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Writing It
I've been a little whiny lately. (No, really?) I don't know why, and I don't excuse it, but I'm not going to do it any more. Acid Trip told me a few weeks ago that if I don't have anything to say I should say nothing. I have plenty to say - mostly more of the same, which, since I refuse to give into the snivelly side, means this will be a short, news-oriented post.
And it's good, actually. More work this week, more work coming - I'm giving up a couple of Saturdays but it's worth it. I've had enough of the half-checks. I can't eat yard sale finds. I thank Heaven I have a job in which I can increase the hours at will (at least some).
And I don't want to jinx anything, but Head Trip has been approved for the apartment she really wants - bigger than many, and a bit over her head but with a second (at-home) job she can swing it. We're going to check it out together tomorrow - she's seen a similar one, in a different building, and she wants my opinion on the actual place. I'm so proud of her for not only finding her path but being willing to walk it.
The yard is progressing apace - slowly, of course, because of the lack of discretionary funds to blow on it, but piece by piece, bit by bit, I'm not only clearing the beds in front of the house, I'm dumping the dirt and scraggly stuff into the ditches, filling them up like crazy. Rain for the past few days proved it not only won't die but it's a pretty lush green, which is all the Big Lug cares about. (Weeds can be killed next year, right?)
Oh, and I broke into my piggybank to buy a wheelbarrow to replace the one I broke over the weekend. It took an hour to put together today. I haven't used it yet. Cross your fingers.
That's pretty much it. I've been reminded this week that life is mostly about putting one foot in front of the other, about holding onto my inner smile with both hands, and about focusing on and having faith in your goal - because it doesn't matter how much you fight it, worry about it, whine about it, or write about it, everything will work out how it must.
And mostly, that means something wonderful.
Eventually.
And it's good, actually. More work this week, more work coming - I'm giving up a couple of Saturdays but it's worth it. I've had enough of the half-checks. I can't eat yard sale finds. I thank Heaven I have a job in which I can increase the hours at will (at least some).
And I don't want to jinx anything, but Head Trip has been approved for the apartment she really wants - bigger than many, and a bit over her head but with a second (at-home) job she can swing it. We're going to check it out together tomorrow - she's seen a similar one, in a different building, and she wants my opinion on the actual place. I'm so proud of her for not only finding her path but being willing to walk it.
The yard is progressing apace - slowly, of course, because of the lack of discretionary funds to blow on it, but piece by piece, bit by bit, I'm not only clearing the beds in front of the house, I'm dumping the dirt and scraggly stuff into the ditches, filling them up like crazy. Rain for the past few days proved it not only won't die but it's a pretty lush green, which is all the Big Lug cares about. (Weeds can be killed next year, right?)
Oh, and I broke into my piggybank to buy a wheelbarrow to replace the one I broke over the weekend. It took an hour to put together today. I haven't used it yet. Cross your fingers.
That's pretty much it. I've been reminded this week that life is mostly about putting one foot in front of the other, about holding onto my inner smile with both hands, and about focusing on and having faith in your goal - because it doesn't matter how much you fight it, worry about it, whine about it, or write about it, everything will work out how it must.
And mostly, that means something wonderful.
Eventually.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Doing It ... And Overdoing It
It's been a week. Yard work and work-work, babysitting and fence sitting, hunting galore ... I got a lot done. Unfortunately, it's showing.
My hands are twisted and cramped - I can't make a good fist or even straighten my fingers completely. My brain is fatigued as well - I taught two night classes, one day class, and tutorial students who were catching up from spring break. I had a sort of Bacchinalia, too, and the scales reflect every (considerable) extra calorie, but even more so does my waistline - I feel like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man today. To top it all off, my neck and my shoulders are sore and knotted from the triple whammy of shovelling dirt, "lawn," and bull puckies (four calls to and from my parents). I smiled a lot, too, because I dealt with family almost every day - my cheeks ache from simultaneously holding it in place (sometimes) and biting my tongue. Yes, it was just that kind of week.
I loved it.
Okay, not the hurting part, or the eating-everything-that-wasn't-nailed-down part, but the part in which I kept going anyway was very cool. And that's how I felt. Cool. Serene. Able to go with the flow, use every minute for something productive (or something gastronomical). It was truly amazing.
Why am I feeling it then? Because I found out I can't shut it out completely. No matter how peaceful I am inside, apparently, the outside has really bad habits - push my long-standing buttons, and even though the mind knows better, the body reacts anyway. Irritation, anger, frustration, impatience ... doesn't matter how imperturbable I know I am, the muscles know the quickest way to Cramp Central. Yet I managed. Not only managed, but had fun, even found a few treasures - several nice pieces of jewelry (silver, gold, and even diamonds - small and low-quaility, but real), and a couple of nifty toys for the Big Lug. In addition, I filled in two huge chunks of yard where former trees have decomposed into swales, and I planted bulbs and seeds which (hopefully) will sprout this week. I broke the lawn cart, bought a wheelbarrow, priced the stone for the edging on the front beds, and the Big Lug turns 50 today.
Nope, can't just sneak that in, can I? Today's his birthday. His 50th. I'm writing this very early in the morning, letting him sleep late while I get Princess ready for school and hurry through a post - I don't know what we're doing today, but we're doing something. Something not 50-something. Something late. Something ... I have no idea.
Which is good. It's his day, not mine. I don't have to know everything, right? And it's good to admit the numbers, because it helps me acknowledge that maybe the body aches are from work, as I said, or maybe just habit. But maybe the ticking clock is getting to me. If today is his 50, then I have only a few years - okay, twelve - left to reach my goal. That seems like a long time, on paper, but it isn't, especially with the economy doing its best imitation of a sinking ship. Plus, time, a relative thing, moves faster as we age - I'm still trying to figure out where February went (I don't remember any of it). That means my end game is right around the corner, more real (and more scary/exciting/awesome/what-was-I-thinking?) than it ever has been.
Funny thing is, that's as it should be - I am tired, because every day, whether I remember it or not, I am moving forward. Every day is and has been another purposeful step closer to seeing his jaw drop in stunned amazement, his face light up with joy, when I am finally able to give him what he's always given me - a choice.
That's what keeps me going, what keeps me here, even what keeps me calm - knowing that I not only have been but that I will make it to that day.
One nail/shovel/weed/stone/coin/day/hour/minute at a time.
My hands are twisted and cramped - I can't make a good fist or even straighten my fingers completely. My brain is fatigued as well - I taught two night classes, one day class, and tutorial students who were catching up from spring break. I had a sort of Bacchinalia, too, and the scales reflect every (considerable) extra calorie, but even more so does my waistline - I feel like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man today. To top it all off, my neck and my shoulders are sore and knotted from the triple whammy of shovelling dirt, "lawn," and bull puckies (four calls to and from my parents). I smiled a lot, too, because I dealt with family almost every day - my cheeks ache from simultaneously holding it in place (sometimes) and biting my tongue. Yes, it was just that kind of week.
I loved it.
Okay, not the hurting part, or the eating-everything-that-wasn't-nailed-down part, but the part in which I kept going anyway was very cool. And that's how I felt. Cool. Serene. Able to go with the flow, use every minute for something productive (or something gastronomical). It was truly amazing.
Why am I feeling it then? Because I found out I can't shut it out completely. No matter how peaceful I am inside, apparently, the outside has really bad habits - push my long-standing buttons, and even though the mind knows better, the body reacts anyway. Irritation, anger, frustration, impatience ... doesn't matter how imperturbable I know I am, the muscles know the quickest way to Cramp Central. Yet I managed. Not only managed, but had fun, even found a few treasures - several nice pieces of jewelry (silver, gold, and even diamonds - small and low-quaility, but real), and a couple of nifty toys for the Big Lug. In addition, I filled in two huge chunks of yard where former trees have decomposed into swales, and I planted bulbs and seeds which (hopefully) will sprout this week. I broke the lawn cart, bought a wheelbarrow, priced the stone for the edging on the front beds, and the Big Lug turns 50 today.
Nope, can't just sneak that in, can I? Today's his birthday. His 50th. I'm writing this very early in the morning, letting him sleep late while I get Princess ready for school and hurry through a post - I don't know what we're doing today, but we're doing something. Something not 50-something. Something late. Something ... I have no idea.
Which is good. It's his day, not mine. I don't have to know everything, right? And it's good to admit the numbers, because it helps me acknowledge that maybe the body aches are from work, as I said, or maybe just habit. But maybe the ticking clock is getting to me. If today is his 50, then I have only a few years - okay, twelve - left to reach my goal. That seems like a long time, on paper, but it isn't, especially with the economy doing its best imitation of a sinking ship. Plus, time, a relative thing, moves faster as we age - I'm still trying to figure out where February went (I don't remember any of it). That means my end game is right around the corner, more real (and more scary/exciting/awesome/what-was-I-thinking?) than it ever has been.
Funny thing is, that's as it should be - I am tired, because every day, whether I remember it or not, I am moving forward. Every day is and has been another purposeful step closer to seeing his jaw drop in stunned amazement, his face light up with joy, when I am finally able to give him what he's always given me - a choice.
That's what keeps me going, what keeps me here, even what keeps me calm - knowing that I not only have been but that I will make it to that day.
One nail/shovel/weed/stone/coin/day/hour/minute at a time.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Feeling It ... All Over
We had buckets of rain over the past few days. For me, that means puttering around the house - vacuuming, organizing, paying bills ... spending four hours tearing the place apart looking for my car title so I can take it to DMV and clear it (seriously - a year after I paid it off). Today, though, a sunny, warmer day, I've gone back to the garden - well, the yard, anyway. Faced with squishy grass and muddy pools where dirt used to be, I decided to forgo the beds and edge the lawn. It's taken me three hours. So far.
Three hours.
Part of that absurd total I can attribute to laziness (I didn't bother to edge all last year, and my yard went all Chia on me) and part to stubbornness (I have an electric edger but I swore to go green, right?). Mostly, though, it's because of ... yes, it's all about vanity.
I like how I look now. After fifteen years seesawing between 175 and 250, I'm steadying out, buffing up, pulling my ass back (against the incredible force of gravity). The last time I went to Weight Watchers, I hit the 80 pound mark. (Lost. By me. 80 freaking pounds!) It took me 2 years to lose, three months to maintain, but somehow - somehow - I must keep it off for a lifetime.
Diet, yes (addicted to fruits and vegies ... I love summer!). Self-talk, yes (easy 19 days out of every 25 ... impossible 2). But for pure, unvarnished toning, aerobics, and strength work, you can't beat the great outdoors. The garden, especially, is prime double-duty-Bunny territory - every major muscle group gets a workout most days, with the bending and stooping and squatting and pushing and pulling ... and whatever I do, no matter how small the job, my workout makes my home more beautiful. And as long as my shovel holds out, it's free, too. Is that a deal, or what? Since our house sits on a wedge, big side in front, that's (quite literally) a butt-load of edging when you do it with hand tools.
The only drawback, of course, is pain. Between the leg work (cutting the sod) and the back-and-arm work (shovelling off the sidewalk, dumping in a can), I'm feeling the burn. (Oh, Mama, am I feeling it!) I know the parts I'm strengthening (trust me, hard to miss) and I know the parts I'm beautifying (I'll take a picture later, to remind me), and I'm excited. I am. I'm making pretty, upping the curb appeal, caretaking my assets, all that good crap. It's important. I know that. And I'm almost done. At this moment, I have only one bit left, one long pass to go.
One really long pass ...
Hey, how about those Blues? Any other hockey fans out there? I can talk all day about hockey, really I can. Anybody?
What? Of course I'm not avoiding it by lingering here. Honest. I just really, really like hockey. And baseball. And the new Sookie Stackhouse novel. And ... and quantum physics. Honest.
Anybody?
Three hours.
Part of that absurd total I can attribute to laziness (I didn't bother to edge all last year, and my yard went all Chia on me) and part to stubbornness (I have an electric edger but I swore to go green, right?). Mostly, though, it's because of ... yes, it's all about vanity.
I like how I look now. After fifteen years seesawing between 175 and 250, I'm steadying out, buffing up, pulling my ass back (against the incredible force of gravity). The last time I went to Weight Watchers, I hit the 80 pound mark. (Lost. By me. 80 freaking pounds!) It took me 2 years to lose, three months to maintain, but somehow - somehow - I must keep it off for a lifetime.
Diet, yes (addicted to fruits and vegies ... I love summer!). Self-talk, yes (easy 19 days out of every 25 ... impossible 2). But for pure, unvarnished toning, aerobics, and strength work, you can't beat the great outdoors. The garden, especially, is prime double-duty-Bunny territory - every major muscle group gets a workout most days, with the bending and stooping and squatting and pushing and pulling ... and whatever I do, no matter how small the job, my workout makes my home more beautiful. And as long as my shovel holds out, it's free, too. Is that a deal, or what? Since our house sits on a wedge, big side in front, that's (quite literally) a butt-load of edging when you do it with hand tools.
The only drawback, of course, is pain. Between the leg work (cutting the sod) and the back-and-arm work (shovelling off the sidewalk, dumping in a can), I'm feeling the burn. (Oh, Mama, am I feeling it!) I know the parts I'm strengthening (trust me, hard to miss) and I know the parts I'm beautifying (I'll take a picture later, to remind me), and I'm excited. I am. I'm making pretty, upping the curb appeal, caretaking my assets, all that good crap. It's important. I know that. And I'm almost done. At this moment, I have only one bit left, one long pass to go.
One really long pass ...
Hey, how about those Blues? Any other hockey fans out there? I can talk all day about hockey, really I can. Anybody?
What? Of course I'm not avoiding it by lingering here. Honest. I just really, really like hockey. And baseball. And the new Sookie Stackhouse novel. And ... and quantum physics. Honest.
Anybody?
Monday, April 13, 2009
Feeling It
Every muscle in my body aches - the beds in front are big, and since big means clearing sod, and clearing sod, for me, means sitting and peeling it up when I can, hacking out the roots with a trowel until will peel back when I can't, I have used parts of my torso I didn't even know could be used (at least to this extent). Every emotion in my psyche aches, too - over the weekend Head Trip and Princess moved back in, temporarily, with little fanfare (or warning) but with much drama, and feelings I didn't know even existed any more have made themselves right at home, right beside her.
Panic, for instance. I woke at 3 am Friday night in a cold sweat, my stomach in knots, because I was imagining what was going to happen to her. She's not great with money, or at least she hasn't been great in the past (though she's come far). And for many, many reasons I knew that we would not help her out again, not in the way she assumed we would in my frightening vision of the future. I kept seeing homeless shelters (with Princess in tow) and evictions and bankruptcy and ... well, you get the picture.
Frustration, too. I suddenly realized I was about to face a request for the kind of assistance the Big Lug and I had not only decided was destructive rather than helpful, but because my business is slow and our money is tied up in IRAs and credit paydowns we might not be able to give it anyway.
Relief from the latter quickly followed.
The next morning, shame spread like an algae bloom. Here was my daughter, leaving a truly bad situation, and I was neither pleased that she'd lasted so long in it nor that she was standing up for herself. And when I found out that she not only had a plan but that it didn't involve us nearly as much as I thought it would - and she was amazingly swift in implementing it - I didn't feel the pride in her that I should. Heck, I wasn't even thinking about her at all. No, it was all about the burden I was going to bear in this. It was all about me.
Guilt began its assault.
Then I talked to Acid Trip, who was going to spend the afternoon helping her pack. He, too, had guilt about not being able to help her with the bulk of it on Sunday because of prior commitments. I stayed calm and rational as he (basically) escalated while he tried to ... not really decide between his wife (her plans) and his sister (her possible needs) as much as how to make them both happy (while also finding it all unreasonable). His voice was on the rise, so I told him to just slow down and think, and then, in my sleep-deprived stupor, I said a strange thing.
"Feelings make a great weather vane, sweetie, but a lousy compass."
Silence, as (apparently) befits a message from the gods, fell. "What?" I said into the lull, a bit defensively. Truthfully, I hadn't even heard my own mouth. He repeated it, with a touch of awe. I almost laughed. What kind of psychobabble crap was it, anyway? Was I that high on lack-of-sleep fumes?
But since he took it seriously, I did, too. And it was ... well, it turned out to be a pretty good summary of the secret to life, as I'd learned it over the last twenty years. Emotions, as I know all too well, are fair-weather, changeable beasts, influenced by hormones, food, past events, current situations, stress - hell, even a rainy day can change most moods. I've learned (I've had to) that I am at my best when I listen to but don't give in to my feelings.
It wasn't always that way (which you know). Once upon a time, I did whatever I felt like doing - bought what I felt like buying, loved when I felt like loving, cleaned when I felt like cleaning, yelled when I felt like yelling, even worked when I felt like working. In fact, I lived like many people live today, knowing without a doubt that it's my right to do or say what I want when I want and damn the consequences.
Y'know what? I felt like doing the fun stuff a lot more often than the responsible stuff. And it led to to debt, depression, and almost divorce. I had to learn self-control, which meant that I learned that feelings exist for many reasons - warning, need, reinforcement, even critical mass - but that the emotion, by itself, wasn't enough to make a decision for more than that moment. Panic could mean danger (run!), or it could mean hidden depression, righteous indignation, or "protect at all costs." In Head Trip's case, swept away by the unthinking tide, I'd been known to "protect" her into a corner she couldn't get out of, to righteously judge her into retaliation, and to "help" her until she was swathed like a mummy. I had to learn that doing the right thing takes brains, not emotions.
Feelings are weather vanes, not compasses all right, there to help us see which way the wind's blowing, help us adjust our course, or even tell us to hunker down for awhile. But wisdom, conscience, and logic should be the drivers because these guys think ahead. If we focus on what we know instead of what we feel, we will make decisions that we can be happy about for life, not just for the moment.
So I offered HT a bed for the week (longer for Princess, which gives HT more options until May), a month of storage in her area (rather than in my basement), and food and babysitting galore. I slept better Saturday night, for sure.
If Wall Street (and Congress) would learn this lesson so would we all.
Panic, for instance. I woke at 3 am Friday night in a cold sweat, my stomach in knots, because I was imagining what was going to happen to her. She's not great with money, or at least she hasn't been great in the past (though she's come far). And for many, many reasons I knew that we would not help her out again, not in the way she assumed we would in my frightening vision of the future. I kept seeing homeless shelters (with Princess in tow) and evictions and bankruptcy and ... well, you get the picture.
Frustration, too. I suddenly realized I was about to face a request for the kind of assistance the Big Lug and I had not only decided was destructive rather than helpful, but because my business is slow and our money is tied up in IRAs and credit paydowns we might not be able to give it anyway.
Relief from the latter quickly followed.
The next morning, shame spread like an algae bloom. Here was my daughter, leaving a truly bad situation, and I was neither pleased that she'd lasted so long in it nor that she was standing up for herself. And when I found out that she not only had a plan but that it didn't involve us nearly as much as I thought it would - and she was amazingly swift in implementing it - I didn't feel the pride in her that I should. Heck, I wasn't even thinking about her at all. No, it was all about the burden I was going to bear in this. It was all about me.
Guilt began its assault.
Then I talked to Acid Trip, who was going to spend the afternoon helping her pack. He, too, had guilt about not being able to help her with the bulk of it on Sunday because of prior commitments. I stayed calm and rational as he (basically) escalated while he tried to ... not really decide between his wife (her plans) and his sister (her possible needs) as much as how to make them both happy (while also finding it all unreasonable). His voice was on the rise, so I told him to just slow down and think, and then, in my sleep-deprived stupor, I said a strange thing.
"Feelings make a great weather vane, sweetie, but a lousy compass."
Silence, as (apparently) befits a message from the gods, fell. "What?" I said into the lull, a bit defensively. Truthfully, I hadn't even heard my own mouth. He repeated it, with a touch of awe. I almost laughed. What kind of psychobabble crap was it, anyway? Was I that high on lack-of-sleep fumes?
But since he took it seriously, I did, too. And it was ... well, it turned out to be a pretty good summary of the secret to life, as I'd learned it over the last twenty years. Emotions, as I know all too well, are fair-weather, changeable beasts, influenced by hormones, food, past events, current situations, stress - hell, even a rainy day can change most moods. I've learned (I've had to) that I am at my best when I listen to but don't give in to my feelings.
It wasn't always that way (which you know). Once upon a time, I did whatever I felt like doing - bought what I felt like buying, loved when I felt like loving, cleaned when I felt like cleaning, yelled when I felt like yelling, even worked when I felt like working. In fact, I lived like many people live today, knowing without a doubt that it's my right to do or say what I want when I want and damn the consequences.
Y'know what? I felt like doing the fun stuff a lot more often than the responsible stuff. And it led to to debt, depression, and almost divorce. I had to learn self-control, which meant that I learned that feelings exist for many reasons - warning, need, reinforcement, even critical mass - but that the emotion, by itself, wasn't enough to make a decision for more than that moment. Panic could mean danger (run!), or it could mean hidden depression, righteous indignation, or "protect at all costs." In Head Trip's case, swept away by the unthinking tide, I'd been known to "protect" her into a corner she couldn't get out of, to righteously judge her into retaliation, and to "help" her until she was swathed like a mummy. I had to learn that doing the right thing takes brains, not emotions.
Feelings are weather vanes, not compasses all right, there to help us see which way the wind's blowing, help us adjust our course, or even tell us to hunker down for awhile. But wisdom, conscience, and logic should be the drivers because these guys think ahead. If we focus on what we know instead of what we feel, we will make decisions that we can be happy about for life, not just for the moment.
So I offered HT a bed for the week (longer for Princess, which gives HT more options until May), a month of storage in her area (rather than in my basement), and food and babysitting galore. I slept better Saturday night, for sure.
If Wall Street (and Congress) would learn this lesson so would we all.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Rainy Days
Last week, I worked all day to try to find out who votes all those communally-owned shares of stock floating around in the world. I'm still as much in the dark as I was when I began that tortuous quest, but I have a bit of insight, thanks to the Big Lug. He told me that maybe no one votes it because no one needs to vote it - if a mutual fund is doing its job, the managers won't have it when it gets to the point that they need to vote the rats out.
That made so much sense, I just gaped. (He's completely brilliant, I know.) But his perspective raised a host of new questions and concerns. For instance, when a stock is sliding, the only people I know who are buying are those who either want a quick buck (so won't call for huge changes if they want only to sell off once it goes over a certain point) or who are shoring up the prices for appearances' sake (something within the company - yeah, they'll vote themselves out, right?). When a stock hits an all-time low, I'm not sure who is even buying at that point. Not Mr. and Mrs. America, who, by this time, don't trust the rats at all.
This week, I found out that the shareholders probably don't have that much power anyway. Congress is pushing for reforms in how executive compensation is done. They are trying to empower the shareholders to make some of those decisions - should the CEO get a bonus or not this year? - which means they don't have that power now. I understand, to a degree - I'm not in business, so I don't know what it takes to attract the very talented to my organization - but I know I want the best to run my organization. I think what happened is that everyone wanted the same rates, and things on Wall Street were going so quickly that no one cared about paying everyone more - whether the rat deserved it or not. The upper echelons grew at such a disproportionate rate of compensation that the company had to accomodate the change ... until and unless it failed.
It's not as if this is anything new. Monday was the official Opening Day of major league baseball. At least two games were snowed out (that I saw). Snowed out! Am I the only one who freaks out over that? I'm old enough to remember when the games didn't begin until almost Memorial Day and ended much closer to Labor Day. (They're called the "Boys of Summer" for goodness' sake, not the "Boys of Almost-Winter-Summer-Almost-Winter-Again!") The season had to be extended, of course, because the really good players wanted higher salaries, which meant that the league had to add more days to the schedule, then even more, to keep up. And the more the players worked, the more they wanted to make. And so on, and so on, and so on. Baseball, basketball, it almost doesn't matter what sport you talk about - it's the same all over. Until the athlete falls flat or turns into an FPD (freakin' prima donna), no one even notices the salaries any more.
Movies aren't any better. The really big box-office stars now have really big box-office vehicles written practically for them - or as "them" as the studios can get. Talent? Heck, if a guy looks good without a shirt, can give and take a punch, who cares about either the talent of the actor or the talent of the scriptwriter. Just get put George-Matt-Brad on the job and we'll have a hit no matter how cheesy the finished product is! I don't miss the old contract player days of the 30's - 50's because (seriously) we didn't leave it! We still have the same stable of actors over and over, the same group of screenwriters over and over, the same themes over and over, even remake after remake ... it's the same system, darn it - only the salaries of the highest-paid actors have changed. (The television networks are about the only medium that truly has turned over a new leaf - now they don't bother to give new shows enough time to prove themselves, as they used to, because they just don't have the big budgets, and the built-in audiences.)
And everybody suffers - because baseball just isn't made for hot chocolate and spiked oranges, darn it ... nor am I made for the generic flavor of the month, "insert-title-here" "comedy-action-drama" box-office cookie-cutter dreck that chokes both my neighborhood theater's marquee and my nightly lineup on the major networks (except for cable, which tooketh away the network's power, but also giveth back in the form of some really good shows).
Anyway, earlier this year, Congress had considered capping corporate compensation themselves, but changed their minds with the uproar over the spectre of socialization (try saying that sentence three times really fast, especially the first part). While I'm happy they're focusing now on giving the people more power in the board room instead, I'm not sure it's the solution. Will we use it? Really? I mean, we gawk at the latest superstar's salary but we don't boycott baseball or the latest blockbuster dud, do we? (Okay, I do - minor league games for me, not major, and I wait on movies until they get to DVD or cable - but do most people?) And once Wall Street gets back into the higher ranges will we pay that much attention to the executives and the boards of directors then? Or will we fall back into our apathetic, just-give-it-to-me ways?
I won't, for sure. This whole journey has been one of learning, of discovery, and of change. I honestly can never go back to live in that person's skin - lazy Bunny, complacent Bunny. And I doubt very much if I'm the only one to feel this stirring, this rebellious, gotta-change-the-world idealist lifting her head from the cushy pillow of her overly long nap. We can still make a difference in the way things are.
All we have to do is remember.
All we have to do is try.
Anybody want to start a movie studio?
That made so much sense, I just gaped. (He's completely brilliant, I know.) But his perspective raised a host of new questions and concerns. For instance, when a stock is sliding, the only people I know who are buying are those who either want a quick buck (so won't call for huge changes if they want only to sell off once it goes over a certain point) or who are shoring up the prices for appearances' sake (something within the company - yeah, they'll vote themselves out, right?). When a stock hits an all-time low, I'm not sure who is even buying at that point. Not Mr. and Mrs. America, who, by this time, don't trust the rats at all.
This week, I found out that the shareholders probably don't have that much power anyway. Congress is pushing for reforms in how executive compensation is done. They are trying to empower the shareholders to make some of those decisions - should the CEO get a bonus or not this year? - which means they don't have that power now. I understand, to a degree - I'm not in business, so I don't know what it takes to attract the very talented to my organization - but I know I want the best to run my organization. I think what happened is that everyone wanted the same rates, and things on Wall Street were going so quickly that no one cared about paying everyone more - whether the rat deserved it or not. The upper echelons grew at such a disproportionate rate of compensation that the company had to accomodate the change ... until and unless it failed.
It's not as if this is anything new. Monday was the official Opening Day of major league baseball. At least two games were snowed out (that I saw). Snowed out! Am I the only one who freaks out over that? I'm old enough to remember when the games didn't begin until almost Memorial Day and ended much closer to Labor Day. (They're called the "Boys of Summer" for goodness' sake, not the "Boys of Almost-Winter-Summer-Almost-Winter-Again!") The season had to be extended, of course, because the really good players wanted higher salaries, which meant that the league had to add more days to the schedule, then even more, to keep up. And the more the players worked, the more they wanted to make. And so on, and so on, and so on. Baseball, basketball, it almost doesn't matter what sport you talk about - it's the same all over. Until the athlete falls flat or turns into an FPD (freakin' prima donna), no one even notices the salaries any more.
Movies aren't any better. The really big box-office stars now have really big box-office vehicles written practically for them - or as "them" as the studios can get. Talent? Heck, if a guy looks good without a shirt, can give and take a punch, who cares about either the talent of the actor or the talent of the scriptwriter. Just get put George-Matt-Brad on the job and we'll have a hit no matter how cheesy the finished product is! I don't miss the old contract player days of the 30's - 50's because (seriously) we didn't leave it! We still have the same stable of actors over and over, the same group of screenwriters over and over, the same themes over and over, even remake after remake ... it's the same system, darn it - only the salaries of the highest-paid actors have changed. (The television networks are about the only medium that truly has turned over a new leaf - now they don't bother to give new shows enough time to prove themselves, as they used to, because they just don't have the big budgets, and the built-in audiences.)
And everybody suffers - because baseball just isn't made for hot chocolate and spiked oranges, darn it ... nor am I made for the generic flavor of the month, "insert-title-here" "comedy-action-drama" box-office cookie-cutter dreck that chokes both my neighborhood theater's marquee and my nightly lineup on the major networks (except for cable, which tooketh away the network's power, but also giveth back in the form of some really good shows).
Anyway, earlier this year, Congress had considered capping corporate compensation themselves, but changed their minds with the uproar over the spectre of socialization (try saying that sentence three times really fast, especially the first part). While I'm happy they're focusing now on giving the people more power in the board room instead, I'm not sure it's the solution. Will we use it? Really? I mean, we gawk at the latest superstar's salary but we don't boycott baseball or the latest blockbuster dud, do we? (Okay, I do - minor league games for me, not major, and I wait on movies until they get to DVD or cable - but do most people?) And once Wall Street gets back into the higher ranges will we pay that much attention to the executives and the boards of directors then? Or will we fall back into our apathetic, just-give-it-to-me ways?
I won't, for sure. This whole journey has been one of learning, of discovery, and of change. I honestly can never go back to live in that person's skin - lazy Bunny, complacent Bunny. And I doubt very much if I'm the only one to feel this stirring, this rebellious, gotta-change-the-world idealist lifting her head from the cushy pillow of her overly long nap. We can still make a difference in the way things are.
All we have to do is remember.
All we have to do is try.
Anybody want to start a movie studio?
Monday, April 6, 2009
Doing Me In
I'm having trouble sitting still today, at least sitting still in the straight-backed chair at the dining room table, which is where I write these posts. Normally, I don't think about the discomfort - or the enforced posture enhancement - but today I'm the after.
After the yard work. Last Tuesday I actually sprained both my hamstrings (and did some serious back damage) when I weeded the parts of my front yard that were already planted (see last year's pictures) and then started in on the other part. Matted weeds needed the pick-mattock (seriously), regular weeds needed the flat shovel (skim and dump), and the two cut-to-the-ground bushes needed the pick-mattock, the shovel, and a prybar (and still didn't give it up). Digging up shrubs, especially unsuccessfully, can kill a Bunny. Or make her sit with a pillow at her back and an Advil infusion in her bloodstream for several days, leaving only her brain alive to huff and puff and try to blow somebody's house down (see my last post).
After rock hounding. Yep, I went Saturday, despite the lack of bending over I could do (didn't have to as much as I'd thought). I found out that a hunting trip in a quarry involved a) driving into a five-hundred-fifty-foot-deep hole (along the walls - don't look down, trust me), b) choosing whom to follow more carefully than I did (always scope out the most experienced hound - I, apparantly, have a knack for finding someone greener than I am), and c) lots and lots of incredibly theraputic hammer-and-chisel work. I had a blast ... er, an incredibly fun time. I found some prehnite (whitish-greenish), some stilbite (one nice crystal cluster - which forms inside the stone - I found when I harrumphed and heaved rock onto a pile that split the other open), some granite (beautiful slab, great color, too small for a countertop, darn it), and a few others I'm still trying to figure out. Best finds? Not mine - the old dog of the group found some datolite in what, to me, almost looked like a rectangular geode, and another newbie found something green with a streak of lavender that someone said (unseen) might be fluorite, but is probably (now that I looked on mindat.org) tourmaline. Tourmaline! Some girls have all the luck.
But I gotta show the pics. Not the yard - I'm actually going to rent a sod-cutter ("sod," ha!) this weekend to get the beds in shape, so pics later this year - but two of my favorite pieces.
See what I mean? Yes, tourmaline would have been faboo, but this is so very cool! These are the same piece - one in regular light, and the other under long-wave UV light. That's orange, some greenish, and some yellow. (Yeah, yeah, not a great photo, but you try this holding a flashlight in the left hand and the camera in the other!) And this one is great, too.
The red really comes through, doesn't it? I believe the first is calcite and the second is - okay, also calcite, but I'm still researching (baby steps, yes?). The fact that they fluoresce in different colors even though they're from the same mine says ... um, I don't know what it says. Yet.
After more yard work ... and a treasure. Acid Trip came over on Saturday to help with the yard. While I hammered at rocks, he stripped the front of the house (faster than I could), so that when I came home from the quarry I found a nice length of bed just aching for a few bags of compost. So what did I do? What any good (pained and pooped) Bunny would do - I grabbed my metal detector and started looking for a money shot.
And I found one - a nice, high-pitched ping told me there was a quarter at medium depth. Trip dug, I sifted, and we found it just where the magic wand said we would! We were greedy - uh, psyched! I scanned again, and the machine told me a bigger cache was a bit deeper. He dug and hit a rock, tried to find the edge. And again. And again. When the hole reached about two feet across we realized it wasn't a rock but a slab of concrete, tilted at about a 30-degree angle into the hole. Huge. He levered and pulled and strained until I swear I heard his back crack, but we couldn't get it out ("we," ha!). He gave into the pain. But I went back in yesterday before class, found the other edge, used a prybar and a "walking" technique I learned in my theater tech days to finally get the damned slab out of the hole (without ripping too many of the rest of my muscles). No more treasure, though - not even any "pings," except in my back.
Overall, though, it was a very good week, despite the twinges, aches, strains, lack of fist-making ability (and a strange craving for corn). The group's next trip is in May, to look for fossils. My next trip will be Wednesday, to look for diamonds ... at 25% off.
Hey, there're more rocks around here than the ones found in mines and quarries, you know.
And they don't require chisels.
After the yard work. Last Tuesday I actually sprained both my hamstrings (and did some serious back damage) when I weeded the parts of my front yard that were already planted (see last year's pictures) and then started in on the other part. Matted weeds needed the pick-mattock (seriously), regular weeds needed the flat shovel (skim and dump), and the two cut-to-the-ground bushes needed the pick-mattock, the shovel, and a prybar (and still didn't give it up). Digging up shrubs, especially unsuccessfully, can kill a Bunny. Or make her sit with a pillow at her back and an Advil infusion in her bloodstream for several days, leaving only her brain alive to huff and puff and try to blow somebody's house down (see my last post).
After rock hounding. Yep, I went Saturday, despite the lack of bending over I could do (didn't have to as much as I'd thought). I found out that a hunting trip in a quarry involved a) driving into a five-hundred-fifty-foot-deep hole (along the walls - don't look down, trust me), b) choosing whom to follow more carefully than I did (always scope out the most experienced hound - I, apparantly, have a knack for finding someone greener than I am), and c) lots and lots of incredibly theraputic hammer-and-chisel work. I had a blast ... er, an incredibly fun time. I found some prehnite (whitish-greenish), some stilbite (one nice crystal cluster - which forms inside the stone - I found when I harrumphed and heaved rock onto a pile that split the other open), some granite (beautiful slab, great color, too small for a countertop, darn it), and a few others I'm still trying to figure out. Best finds? Not mine - the old dog of the group found some datolite in what, to me, almost looked like a rectangular geode, and another newbie found something green with a streak of lavender that someone said (unseen) might be fluorite, but is probably (now that I looked on mindat.org) tourmaline. Tourmaline! Some girls have all the luck.
But I gotta show the pics. Not the yard - I'm actually going to rent a sod-cutter ("sod," ha!) this weekend to get the beds in shape, so pics later this year - but two of my favorite pieces.
See what I mean? Yes, tourmaline would have been faboo, but this is so very cool! These are the same piece - one in regular light, and the other under long-wave UV light. That's orange, some greenish, and some yellow. (Yeah, yeah, not a great photo, but you try this holding a flashlight in the left hand and the camera in the other!) And this one is great, too.
The red really comes through, doesn't it? I believe the first is calcite and the second is - okay, also calcite, but I'm still researching (baby steps, yes?). The fact that they fluoresce in different colors even though they're from the same mine says ... um, I don't know what it says. Yet.
After more yard work ... and a treasure. Acid Trip came over on Saturday to help with the yard. While I hammered at rocks, he stripped the front of the house (faster than I could), so that when I came home from the quarry I found a nice length of bed just aching for a few bags of compost. So what did I do? What any good (pained and pooped) Bunny would do - I grabbed my metal detector and started looking for a money shot.
And I found one - a nice, high-pitched ping told me there was a quarter at medium depth. Trip dug, I sifted, and we found it just where the magic wand said we would! We were greedy - uh, psyched! I scanned again, and the machine told me a bigger cache was a bit deeper. He dug and hit a rock, tried to find the edge. And again. And again. When the hole reached about two feet across we realized it wasn't a rock but a slab of concrete, tilted at about a 30-degree angle into the hole. Huge. He levered and pulled and strained until I swear I heard his back crack, but we couldn't get it out ("we," ha!). He gave into the pain. But I went back in yesterday before class, found the other edge, used a prybar and a "walking" technique I learned in my theater tech days to finally get the damned slab out of the hole (without ripping too many of the rest of my muscles). No more treasure, though - not even any "pings," except in my back.
Overall, though, it was a very good week, despite the twinges, aches, strains, lack of fist-making ability (and a strange craving for corn). The group's next trip is in May, to look for fossils. My next trip will be Wednesday, to look for diamonds ... at 25% off.
Hey, there're more rocks around here than the ones found in mines and quarries, you know.
And they don't require chisels.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Absurdities
I was watching CNBC this morning (shut up), and I caught part of the interview with Bank of America's head honcho. In it, he revealed that 2009 will stabilize our economy, that by the end of 2010 we'll be headed upward, and that their acquisition of Countrywide will (over time) prove to be a really, really great investment. Oh, and that he's glad everyone in government is slowing down the "emotional" spending, that cooler heads are finally emerging, and ... oh, yeah, the government shouldn't overregulate all the banking stuff.
All his opinion, of course. Of course. What's he going to say? "The economy sucks, it will continue to suck, and it's our fault as much as it was AIG's fault. And we shouldn't have taken a cent of TARP money because of the strings that are suddenly appearing."
Then I heard the usual bull pen of "experts" who spoke of the "burying" of mark to market as a bad thing - the same talking heads who just last fall were yelling about the fact that the President (Bush) could change the accounting system to remove the mark to market system, which, of course, would save the banks from sliding into the abyss of red ink. Of course, that's just their opinions. This month.
Then there are the politicians. The Republicans, at first hollering at the Democrats for running up the deficit, then admitting hints of mea culpa, and finally, this morning (in the same hour as the rest of this) actually saying, in words, that yes, they started this huge overspending by billions and they deeply regret it ... but that the Democrats should stop compounding it and just slow down. Of course, that's just his opinion - which I'm sure he'll tell you, if anyone calls him out about it.
What's this have to do with my quest? With my hunt for treasure? Everything.
Here's the thing: finding old coins and gemstones, writing the Great American Novel (or at least the Wildly Popular American Novel), putting in granite countertops, freeing the world of ugly landscapes forever - all these are great for reaching my goal of $5 mil by 2021. But none come close to the safer, surer, and (for me anyway) faster growth that can and should happen in the stock and bond markets. And I'm not the only one. Everyone in this country has at least some of his or her wealth in a savings or money market account, a mutual fund, a 401K, a retirement plan (that's probably not funded in the success of only his or her company), and/or a home and a bit of land. So, my question is - do you know where your money's really sitting? With which companies? And are any of those companies currently the target of your outrage?
Go ahead. Look up your mutual fund online. See where your money actually goes. I'll wait.
... Muzak version of Dude Looks Like a Lady plays ...
Okay, so, now that you know you own a piece of that company - probably just a tiny piece because the retirement plan into which you put $200 a month puts 25% of that into a mutual fund that owns about two hundred thousand shares of that company (roughly a half-percent of your $200), and so the question is, will you pursue this? Are you outraged enough to use those two-and-a-half shares to start a vote to oust the idiots who made the greedy/improvident/stupid products/plans that we're all so outraged about?
Yes, you are! You want that entire board gone, hung up by their - their thumbs in the town square with no bonuses, no house, no boat, no diamonds, all of it back to the people they shafted, dammit!
But can you? Seriously, can you at least vote the rats out?
I thought I knew, but I wasn't sure so I Googled. Then I read for several hours. And then, when I still didn't find an answer of any kind (even after Yahooing and Asking), I called my own mutual fund company to find out who, if anyone, votes my shares of the individual company.
I was told pretty quickly that, technically, I bought shares in my mutual fund and they own the shares, not me. I can vote their board in or out (and so the managers and employees who came with them). Okay, I knew that. I have no problem with that. But that's not what I wanted to know. Who votes those half-million shares of AT&T (or GE or whatever) that my company owns? My board of directors? The fund manager they hired? Anyone? Bueller?
That answer wasn't as quick to come. The very helpful, very pleasant (and just as curious as I) man to whom I was routed, asked around (as I sat patiently - really - on "hold" and watched The Running Man - very cathartic). Ultimately, however, when he returned, I was diappointed. It didn't look like my guys do anything but buy and sell the shares.
How anticlimactic. And how odd.
I heard a statistic once that 40% of stocks and bonds are owned by mutual funds and managed retirement accounts. Every day companies like AIG and Johnson & Johnson make decisions (bad and good, respectively), choices they make because they're accountable to their stockholders. At least that's why they do it in my idealistic little bubble world - they don't want to disappoint me, Investor Bunny, in fact are a bit frightened of me, quivering in their shoes with the thought I might vote them out of their really profitable jobs if they screw up.
They're not. Not at all. And here's the problem - I get why.
First of all, shareholders aren't going to look too closely or vote anyone out of office if the greedy butchers are making money for them. Second, as I found out, a huge chunk of those shares are (probably) going unvoted anyway (not even proxied in!). Third, who the hell knows not only how to read that prospectus but how to use the information he would find to cause even a mild ripple. (Let's face it, even if John B Public found out something untoward was going on - by accidentally overhearing in the men's room from the machiavellian horse's mouths in, you know, actual English - would he want to wade into the complex and piranha-infested waters that is corporate America today?
I'm not sure I would. I'm embarassed to admit it, but I thought that's why I hired my elves. I thought I could trust them to be smarter than I am, to be my magical wunderkinds, to be my watchdogs and guardians, maybe even my teachers. How absurd that I should think I could simply vote someone into office and then trust them to always have only my well-being, my success, my honor - my best interests - at heart.
We're angry because we're certain that someone let the economy fail - the government because they're supposed to regulate and police (and pull us out of) the incredibly complex system, or the news outlets (especially those who specialize in business) because they are supposed to understand this gobbletygook and at least explain it to us, or even the companies themselves because they're directly responsible to us, after all.
But, it turns out, they're not. Truth be told, in all the voting that's going on (politics, boards, fund managers) it appears that no one fears us, that maybe no one is directly responsible to us, and, worst of all, that no one's going to change it, not in the system, anyway.
Of course they won't. Because - and here's the truly idiotic thing - although it's our billions of dollars in taxes and investments and Nielsen ratings (that translate to ad dollars) we don't seem to care enough to make it change.
Now that's absurd.
And incorrect.
I care.
All his opinion, of course. Of course. What's he going to say? "The economy sucks, it will continue to suck, and it's our fault as much as it was AIG's fault. And we shouldn't have taken a cent of TARP money because of the strings that are suddenly appearing."
Then I heard the usual bull pen of "experts" who spoke of the "burying" of mark to market as a bad thing - the same talking heads who just last fall were yelling about the fact that the President (Bush) could change the accounting system to remove the mark to market system, which, of course, would save the banks from sliding into the abyss of red ink. Of course, that's just their opinions. This month.
Then there are the politicians. The Republicans, at first hollering at the Democrats for running up the deficit, then admitting hints of mea culpa, and finally, this morning (in the same hour as the rest of this) actually saying, in words, that yes, they started this huge overspending by billions and they deeply regret it ... but that the Democrats should stop compounding it and just slow down. Of course, that's just his opinion - which I'm sure he'll tell you, if anyone calls him out about it.
What's this have to do with my quest? With my hunt for treasure? Everything.
Here's the thing: finding old coins and gemstones, writing the Great American Novel (or at least the Wildly Popular American Novel), putting in granite countertops, freeing the world of ugly landscapes forever - all these are great for reaching my goal of $5 mil by 2021. But none come close to the safer, surer, and (for me anyway) faster growth that can and should happen in the stock and bond markets. And I'm not the only one. Everyone in this country has at least some of his or her wealth in a savings or money market account, a mutual fund, a 401K, a retirement plan (that's probably not funded in the success of only his or her company), and/or a home and a bit of land. So, my question is - do you know where your money's really sitting? With which companies? And are any of those companies currently the target of your outrage?
Go ahead. Look up your mutual fund online. See where your money actually goes. I'll wait.
... Muzak version of Dude Looks Like a Lady plays ...
Okay, so, now that you know you own a piece of that company - probably just a tiny piece because the retirement plan into which you put $200 a month puts 25% of that into a mutual fund that owns about two hundred thousand shares of that company (roughly a half-percent of your $200), and so the question is, will you pursue this? Are you outraged enough to use those two-and-a-half shares to start a vote to oust the idiots who made the greedy/improvident/stupid products/plans that we're all so outraged about?
Yes, you are! You want that entire board gone, hung up by their - their thumbs in the town square with no bonuses, no house, no boat, no diamonds, all of it back to the people they shafted, dammit!
But can you? Seriously, can you at least vote the rats out?
I thought I knew, but I wasn't sure so I Googled. Then I read for several hours. And then, when I still didn't find an answer of any kind (even after Yahooing and Asking), I called my own mutual fund company to find out who, if anyone, votes my shares of the individual company.
I was told pretty quickly that, technically, I bought shares in my mutual fund and they own the shares, not me. I can vote their board in or out (and so the managers and employees who came with them). Okay, I knew that. I have no problem with that. But that's not what I wanted to know. Who votes those half-million shares of AT&T (or GE or whatever) that my company owns? My board of directors? The fund manager they hired? Anyone? Bueller?
That answer wasn't as quick to come. The very helpful, very pleasant (and just as curious as I) man to whom I was routed, asked around (as I sat patiently - really - on "hold" and watched The Running Man - very cathartic). Ultimately, however, when he returned, I was diappointed. It didn't look like my guys do anything but buy and sell the shares.
How anticlimactic. And how odd.
I heard a statistic once that 40% of stocks and bonds are owned by mutual funds and managed retirement accounts. Every day companies like AIG and Johnson & Johnson make decisions (bad and good, respectively), choices they make because they're accountable to their stockholders. At least that's why they do it in my idealistic little bubble world - they don't want to disappoint me, Investor Bunny, in fact are a bit frightened of me, quivering in their shoes with the thought I might vote them out of their really profitable jobs if they screw up.
They're not. Not at all. And here's the problem - I get why.
First of all, shareholders aren't going to look too closely or vote anyone out of office if the greedy butchers are making money for them. Second, as I found out, a huge chunk of those shares are (probably) going unvoted anyway (not even proxied in!). Third, who the hell knows not only how to read that prospectus but how to use the information he would find to cause even a mild ripple. (Let's face it, even if John B Public found out something untoward was going on - by accidentally overhearing in the men's room from the machiavellian horse's mouths in, you know, actual English - would he want to wade into the complex and piranha-infested waters that is corporate America today?
I'm not sure I would. I'm embarassed to admit it, but I thought that's why I hired my elves. I thought I could trust them to be smarter than I am, to be my magical wunderkinds, to be my watchdogs and guardians, maybe even my teachers. How absurd that I should think I could simply vote someone into office and then trust them to always have only my well-being, my success, my honor - my best interests - at heart.
We're angry because we're certain that someone let the economy fail - the government because they're supposed to regulate and police (and pull us out of) the incredibly complex system, or the news outlets (especially those who specialize in business) because they are supposed to understand this gobbletygook and at least explain it to us, or even the companies themselves because they're directly responsible to us, after all.
But, it turns out, they're not. Truth be told, in all the voting that's going on (politics, boards, fund managers) it appears that no one fears us, that maybe no one is directly responsible to us, and, worst of all, that no one's going to change it, not in the system, anyway.
Of course they won't. Because - and here's the truly idiotic thing - although it's our billions of dollars in taxes and investments and Nielsen ratings (that translate to ad dollars) we don't seem to care enough to make it change.
Now that's absurd.
And incorrect.
I care.