Tag Archives: financial planning

If you need me, I’ll be in the bell tower

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I am trying to book a hotel room, and I’m really tempted to book the “Housewives on Hiatus” package just for the stupid name.

A better idea is probably to check into a monastery with a vow of silence until the baby arrives. Then I will have the baby out in the woods, like animal, away from everyone who annoys me. At this point, “everyone who annoys me” includes just about everyone but the cat. It’s no fault of everyone’s own. Science knows that weeks 31-40 of parasite hosting are when husbands become intolerable. They can’t help it, the dear little creatures! It’s the hormones acting on their delicate systems.

Despite being all Phantom of the Opera and hissing and scurrying into darkness, I still manage to show some restraint. When I think of all the people I did NOT kill over the past few days, I am truly amazed. The person at Starbucks who ordered a half-caf, half-syrup, skim caramel macchiato with one Equal. The financial consultant. This freak was referred to us by a relative (remind me to send a card). Freak assumed I was a housewife rather than asking the more reasonable “And what do you do for a living?” Oh, hey, do you see those many thousands of dollars of computer equipment in the office? That’s just so I can play The Sims when I take a hiatus from housewifing.

He directed all questions about investments and expenses to Mr. H. Mr. H knows about as much about where the bodies are buried as the cat. So I kept having to answer. The parasite sensed evil, and kicked the ever-loving crap out of me the whole time the guy was here. When he tried telling me about fund choices, I asked about ethical investing options. He looked at me like I was insane. I said “Well, for instance there are some companies we don’t patronize, so I can’t feel good about making money from them either.” He asked for an example, and I said Wal-Mart, I mean duh. He was shocked. “Wal-Mart? I never heard anything about them being bad.” I booted him out the door, but not before he left business cards containing both a Hotmail address and his “title” in “quotes.” If he’s not a “Wealth-Accumulation-Strategist,” then what is he? I have formulated several hypotheses, but the one that makes the most sense is “Not coming anywhere near my no money.”

Explanation of Benefits

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Someone always wants my damn money. Apparently I had $192 of lab work done once. The insurance plan went from “Great, go to the doctor all you want, you beautiful hypochondriac” to “You have a $2,500 deductible.” I think the lab work was the “Is the baby a mutant?” test. Would I have gotten my money back if she were?

My Worst Elm order came today, and dang was that a production. They pack huge, cumbersome things in one box, even though that box contains pieces. But five curtain rods come in five separate boxes. Oh yeah. In the lobby, the UPS man got scared by a three-legged dog of my acquaintance. Who’s a pretty girl!! “Dogs hate the uniform,” he explained. Then we entertained the notion to heave the huge boxes through the window instead. We do not trifle with doors and walking long distances. We care not for hassle nor friendly dogs.

Now I have to go to the accountant to pay more money. Tomorrow a financial planner is coming over to tell us what to do with our no money. I hope he remembers to bring the glitter putty. I can’t financially plan without it. I am not making him any fucking coffee. He can walk over to Top Donut if he wants a coffee.

Mainly bent, with moments of radiant joy

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Forgive me, for I ate up all the oranges in the crisper drawer. I think you were saving them. Oh, no, wait, you are too lazy to peel an orange on your own. You wait for me to peel them and feed you slices. Damn. That’s OK. I like to peel them animal style, with my bare paws. My pappy, he used to use a paring knife, and he could take the peel off all in one long curl. Who am I talking to? Well, I don’t know either. This orange is totally not as good as all the oranges I had last week. How am I supposed to know if I’ll ever have the best orange in the world? Maybe I should be living somewhere warmer. Today is an ordeal, and you should see how filthy a keyboard can get.

In other news, I am at a content loss. I heard a German cat got the bird flu. Do you think I can make a truly delicious Marsala sauce without a shallot? Is it a bad sign that my mortgage company’s SSL certificate seems to have expired, but they will show my information anyway? The Ethicist replies: No, it is a bad idea in the first place to even have a mortgage. Pay cash next time.

Which one of you maggots wants to take me to Paris

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Financial planning has always been a topic near and dear to my heart. It involves less hallucinogens and guilt these days, but I’m still the one who knows where all the bank accounts are, and more importantly, how to extract money from them. My darling Mr. H says “Dee buh dee buh dee?” and gets direct deposit. I am the evil overlord who makes sure his student loans get extracted on the 12th of each month, as opposed to the 12th of never, his previously preferred date.

Normally, our system works well. I improved our credit scores over the years through the folksy homespun wisdom of paying the bills. To allow some illusion of mutual control, he is a guest user on my Amex. It generally doesn’t occur to him to spend money anyway, just as it didn’t occur to him to pay bills. He’s too busy thinking about complicated pieces of code. I don’t spend that much either, since I was brought up by people who believed “Why buy it if you can make it out of chickenwire?” If I must, I prefer to splurge on things I didn’t get in my youth: things like well-made shoes, hotel rooms nicer than my house, and x-rays performed by a licensed technician.

But the other day, I caught him playing with a Bugaboo stroller. This stroller is nearly $900, or about the GDP of Madagascar. It operates on the principles of the Rubik’s cube or a Transformers toy, so after a lot of flipping and clicking, you end up with an amphibious assault vehicle or Optimus Prime or a detachable bassinet. I’d always just assumed that only assholes who live in Park Slope or the aggressively European couple we know would get a Bugaboo, but damned if he wasn’t communing with one. My poor innocent, attracted to the engineering and oblivious to the social status baggage.

The saleslady pounced and demonstrated, including stealing someone else’s kid to show off the turning radius. I’ll admit that it’s lightweight and impressively easy to spin, but it’s still a little SUV-sized and overpriced for my taste. Then again, I spent a lot more than that on the Democratic party in 2004, and I did not get a foot muff for that investment. I got no muff at all.

Now he’s fairly adamant that the parasite should get trundled around in this contraption. The problem is that I had planned on trundling the parasite through Europe in my abdomen, because I want a goddamn last vacation before she starts playing at nonsense like breathing. Once she’s here, I had assumed that she’ll sleep in a file drawer and get carried in a pillowcase with air holes, just like the good old days. I thought about playing the “we have no money” card since he will never actually look at an account, but this will create problems with my recreational goals. So I see that I have no choice but to weave a convincing Bugaboo replica out of chickenwire if I want a chance to eat my weight in croissants before June. Damn you, the Dutch! You and all your industrial designers. Or perhaps I will just go on vacation by myself and leave Mr. H to push the cat around in the Bugaboo. That way we can afford to do both. What would Madagascar do?

Oh, today in cats: Flop-bott of the bottom system. That will probably end up costing an extra student loan payment.

Am terrible person

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I woke myself up this morning by laughing at my own joke in a dream. Ha! Haha! It was so funny that the parasite got the hiccups.

I’m doing my taxes, er, filling out the worksheet from the accountant. Did I start a farm last year? Please refresh my memory. I probably should have. This question seems leading.

Also, it’s Valentine’s Day. I have festooned the place with red confetti, and I’m wearing a fur bikini. By that, I mean mismatched socks. But they are pink! Who loves you?

I’d like to build a value chain, in perfect harmony

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Bitches, this is the year I need to monetize all my channels. Because other bitches straight up do not pay on time, even bitches that are normally totally good for it because they have, I don’t know, comptrollers or CFOs or whatever. I do not know what the problem is. Everyone must be off making New Year’s Resolutions like “get organized!!!!” on little Post-It scraps. Mine is “I will bury you.” I had to cancel all charitable giving, and a guy is going to repossess my floors and key my car if you all don’t pay by the end of the month. So watch out, Big Content. I am going to “blog” every day, and I am going to put ads all over the place. You will like it. There will be mention of gumjobs. I might even start spellchecking for you.

All the folks in my life are mystified because Mr. H and I do not exchange Christmas presents. These are the same folks who will go on to ask me “Is he/she a good baby? Does he/she sleep?” And then I’ll have to say “Naw, he/she is a total douche bag of a baby.” I answered the “what did you get for Christmas” question by staring blankly. Sometimes I would grudgingly say “…a house? impregnated?” People. Honestly. We have no money, like orphans! Mr H. had to give the guy at Home Depot a reacharound in exchange for a laser level. I guess his Christmas present was when I explained what a “rusty trumpet” was. Don’t say I never told you nothing.

OMG OMG OMG

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I am a hideous monster, born of the briny, briny deep. I am wearing pants without a waist band.

Hey, would anyone ELSE like a copy of my bank records or my social security number? Because I will totally fax that right over to you. I’ve been playing “justify my existence” with several financial entities this week, and it’s getting wicked old. I used to care who had my social security number, but not now. It’s 229-43-8817. Or is it? Did I even give the right one to the bank? Maybe not. That could be the trouble. Actually, there is no trouble. They just want my birth certificate for scientific purposes. They are going to build a better Licketysplit. Then the condo board wants a photo of the cat. Whatever. I hope my clone gets properly toilet trained.

Also in OMG, at IKEA yesterday I saw a woman eat a 15-piece Swedish meatball plate with extra gravy, fries, a side of macaroni and cheese, and two slices of cake. NO, it wasn’t me. I was busy gumming my way through an ADEQUÄT potato. It was a boiled potato. Boiled things have no calories, don’t worry.

What’s your sign?

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PICK UP PIE TODAY. That’s mine.

Also, SUCKER and CHUMP. The mortgage guy calls from a cellphone listed under someone else’s name. The condo fee is now $40 a month higher, and we haven’t even closed yet. haha.

And let’s not forget SPECIAL. Mr H made coffee in the French press again today, putting on airs and all, and he poured me a cup and showed it to me. Like someone showing a dog the disgraceful leavings on a carpet. NO BARK. Here, HERE, girl. Right HERE. It’s not like I don’t deserve it. The French press was sitting one foot to the right of the coffee maker yesterday. A smarter dog would have noticed and called 911.

This just in

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A letter from the Bureau of Foolish Decisions arrived to tell me to buy flood insurance. Apparently there is a 1% chance per year of encountering a Hundred Year Flood, based on the fact that the place is basically a fucking houseboat. I don’t get it, because it’s not a 100 year mortgage, so, duh, we’ll never make a 100% chance. At least that’s what I think I learned in seventh grade math.

I don’t even know what term the mortgage is. We’re giving them some money, and then that continues until we get tired of the place, just like renting. In the end, we don’t actually own anything, because only $12 a month goes to principal. But theoretically we’ll make money via this not owning anything since the non-owned property becomes more valuable when other people pay more to not really own in it in several years.

I need to lie down. I done thought too much. I am going to see if buying a canoe would count as flood insurance. It seems like a handy thing to have anyway. And I could beat bird flu victims to death with the paddles.

Oh, internets, I can’t stay mad at you!

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I want to get on with my life, I rilly rilly do, but how can I when there is breaking Zellweger news? It’s bad enough that Britney’s heartburn and upset stomach turned out to be pregnancy. I think Preston is a great name for a baby. This name is shared by the chicken farmer who lived down the road from me during my childhood.

La Zell has split up with the man who brought us songs like “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy.”  I don’t like to make fun of adults with good intentions who made decisions they now regret, unless they are a part of FEMA. I make terrible decisions all the time. Just ask me how!

In other news, did anyone catch that last issue of BusinessWeek? Woo fucking boy. The “Sleepless Nights” infographic is amazing.

I’m thinking for my next life, I will buy Videodiarrhea.com and just show a web cam day of me doing something boring around the house. Watch me order Tamiflu online. Watch me practice huddling under my desk. Watch me flirt shamelessly with the DHL guy. This will expose the crushing pointlessness of blogs and modern life, and maybe make me some money if I take my top off every hour on the hour.