Skip to main content

Delivering Financial Advice for the Family Assets

Whenever we meet with our financial advisor, I feel like I've just taken a crash course in Econ 201 again.

Ok, this is the point where I feel like I have to apologize for having a financial advisor. No, I don't have millions, only a desire to stop working before I'm 70. Of course, husband fully intends to croak in the show ring at the Ohio State Fair some day.

Back to economics...

So our financial advisor is explaining to us the benefit of our new strategy, called active management where we have our small investments managed like a big fund, with experts moving our money around from stocks to gold, to under his mattress, to back into small cap stocks, to Bernie Madoff (luckily we didn't get to that step).

We are having this in-depth financial discussion at our dining room table, which is very convenient except for the fact that our small children also have access to the dining room.

Our three-year-old daughter races in and skids to a stop. She is wearing a marker-stained OSU cheerleader outfit. She stares at the financial advisor, a very nice man who wears a tie, and finally says are you the pizza man?

We shoo her out and proceed to discuss the status of my 401K rollover, and how many millions of today's dollars we'll need to save just to keep ourselves affording Depends, Pepsi two-liters and State Fair passes.

Our four-year-old son marches in and stage whispers to my husband Ryan says that's the pizza man. Disbelieving his father, he says loudly to me, Is that the pizza man?

By now our financial advisor is ready to have us sign some forms and discuss our contribution to Roth IRAs (or something), when our son returns. Naked from the waist down.

He streaks through the dining room, forgets his pants and then streaks back through to get them.

After we had given our financial advisor a detailed peek at the family assets and accused him of working in food service, we sent him on his way.

A few years ago we would have been mortified by this whole experience. But as veteran parents, we simply tossed our son a pair of undies and finished our pizza.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Happily Ever After

Last weekend, in a brief moment of remote control ownership, I tuned into basic cable and saw a very disturbing show called "Rich Bride, Poor Bride." I watched two episodes and didn't see what I would call a "poor" bride--although actually, after they blew their budgets, both brides probably did end up poor. One couple spent about $75,000. They talked her out of having live peacocks at the reception. That makes me think about my own much simpler but very nice-for- Farmersville wedding over a decade ago. In many ways it was a disaster. We were engaged for a year and a half; we had plenty of time to plan but fates conspired against us. By the time we got to the week of the wedding, we had buried two people on the guest list and paid our respects to a distant uncle. One of the people we lost was my husband's grandfather who died Monday, we had visitation Wednesday, funeral Thursday, rehearsal dinner Friday, wedding Saturday. How his grandmother handled

I Know What you Did Last Summer

Good gravy (I have taken up saying this since Husband doesn't curse and I was the only one to blame for our household's junior potty mouths), it's Fall. And I still haven't shown you the before/during/after pictures of my kitchen update. Before : greenish "marble" laminate counters with a yellowed fluorescent light cover--only one bulb working. Carbon dating and a close examination of the many knife cuts evident on the laminate surface have led scientists to believe these counter tops date to the early Aquarius period or possibly late Happy Days epoch. To save money on the almost airline-like add-ons involved in having a big box home improvement chain do this project, we removed the counter tops ourselves. I use the term ourselves very loosely, of course, in that Husband did it. I thought we were well-prepared. Fortunately, they did not have a box on their billing slip for We Pulled out the Oven and OMGOMGOMG!! The workers even kindly looked away while I

Rejected by Nancy Cartwright

Every two years the nationally renowned Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop is held here in Dayton. The event typically sells out in hours, but one way to gain entry is to enter the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition --there is even a category for local writers. Several of my local friends who are great bloggers and hilarious Facebook commenters have been talking smack about winning this thing since we were all shut out two years ago by booger stories. Nancy Cartwright , Dayton native and the the voice of Bart Simpson, judged the finalists this year. Apparently, she did not like my entry. Recently, famous blogger and author Jenny Lawson shared an article she had written that was rejected by Oprah's magazine. So, inspired by her, I will share my article that I'm sure made it all the way to Nancy [it did not] and then was rejected for not being about boogers or port-a-johns. Check out "All the Dreeds of Pigs" in a future post on this blog.