T-1

The next big, "pass or you're fired" test is tomorrow at 8am. I was going to study more tonight for Erika, but I fell asleep and then my Dad called four times to wake me up. Good news - I'm up. Bad news - I didn't study any more.

Here's hoping that Houston doesn't close down the freeways tomorrow. Fingers crossed for me!

The Rule of 5 and 3

The only thing blander than my posts about a pair of fat shoes (which I need to return to the store) and my impending liquid diet has to be my geekdom enjoying studying all things financial in the world of legal finance.

 

Under the Uniform Securities Act (USA for short – yes, really), the statue of limitations for criminal penalties is five years, the maximum fine is $5,000, and maximum sentence for prison is 3 years. 5-5-3. For civil penalties, the statue of limitation is either two years from the discovery of the offense or 3 years after the act occurred. 2-3. The fines are worse on the civil side. Under the Securities Act of 1933 (more three’s), a person that purchased a security based on a false or misleading statement of a material fact or omission can sue:

 

• Every person that signed the registration form
• All directors of the security issuer
• All their attorneys
• And their accountants (although presumably not your attorney’s accountants. Probably just the security issuer’s accountants)
• The appraisers
• The underwriters
• A parent company
• AND Everyone and their Mom for your court fees, attorney fees, and the cost of the security OR the current market value of the security, whichever is greater.

Here is what I learned today: Crime pays. Committing fraud doesn’t. As long as you don’t mind three years in a federal minimum security prison (and really, your sentence will most likely be reduced if you are a high-profile criminal like Martha Stewart on her insider trading charge), $5000 penalty, and the revocation of your securities license from here into eternity, a criminal charge is the way to go. Basically, make sure the profit from your crime is large enough to sustain you after you get out of prison, and after the civil litigation which will almost certainly ensue, because you most likely won’t be able to get a job and the talk show circuit only pays so much. Just keep that in mind That’s the rule of 5 and 3.

 

 

 

Curse this Blog

I have a bit of a blog curse with this blog. As soon as I write about how excited I am about someone or how much I like them, a gray cloud immediately hovers over the relationship. Sometimes I'm blinded by the lightening flashes, wondering "where in the hell did that come from" and other times its just a steady downpour of rain.

This weekend I was profoundly hurt by a series of bad decisions. It was one of those situations where I should have known far enough in advance that it was going to hurt, like when you avoid putting your hand directly over a hot stove because you know you are going to get burned. But I went and put my hand over it anyway because I thought that was what was expected of me. I try to be all bad ass on this blog and say, "fuck the expectations. I'm going to do it MY WAY" but really, I'm one giant pushover away from being a loud-mouth, passive aggressive woman that can't deal with other people's disappointment. So, I suppressed everything and tried to pretend that I wasn't really experiencing what I felt. At least I'm cognizant enough to know that never really works. Now, I'm left with a sea of questions and doubts.

I thought for sure that I had outsmarted the blog curse. I waited nine months to blog about someone that I was dating and he doesn't even read this blog! Surely, this was enough to allow me a little bit of space in my little sliver of the Internet. Guess I was wrong.

I consoled myself tonight with a blender. I actually bought one that wasn't the absolute cheapest on the market, which is a new experience for me. This baby has 450 watts of power and can crush ice in under three seconds. I've decided that I'll taper my meals down to the liquid diet, which starts on Friday. Instead of doing anything vaguely healthy with the blender, I decided to show Zac what a homemade milkshake tastes like.

Nothing like soothing myself with food. Just for the record, they were pretty damn good milkshakes. I have manged to learn everything and nothing, simultaneously.

EDITED: I was in the shower trying to wash the at-home hair dye out of my hair and realized that I had kind of threw Clicker under the bus. He's a generally good guy and I didn't acknowledge my responsibilities for some of the bad decisions that were made. So, to use a grossly drawn-out vague metaphor, I present (ta-da!) a trainwreck.

At any point, I could have stopped the train from colliding with another train, but I didn't. I could have stopped the engineer from getting into the engine and tooting the train's horn, but I didn't because I thought it would be fun to hear the engineer toot the train's whistle and I like the way the engineer wore his hat a little to the left at the thought of making a really loud noise. Then the train started rolling. I could have picked which track it went on, but I let someone else decide. Even when I saw the other train approaching, I could have said, "No! Wait! Put on the brakes. There is a train approaching!" but I didn't want to cause a false alarm on the slimmest of possibilities that we would avoid the collision. The engineer even turned to me and asked my opinion about the on-coming train and I shrugged my shoulders and thought it was going to be ok. Then, it was so not ok. It was a giant trainwreck in the middle of the damn tracks and now I wish I would have taken the bus instead. End of story.

Clicker!

Since I went on and on about Clicker in my last post, I thought I'd give you some more details about him. I should also probably mention that he doesn't read my blog, so I have free reign to write whatever I'd like about him. Sweet!

So, Clicker and I met off a website around April 2010 (we think - the exact date is a little fuzzy). I was attracted to his intelligence, confidence, and sweetness. He was a bit awkward in our initial phone calls, but he volunteered to drive down to meet me from Huntsville, TX. We got along great and started dating seriously after our second or third date. I had to get used to the fact that he was 2 1/2 years younger than me and he had to get used to the idea of dating a single Mom.

I think he met Zac fairly early on in our relationship. He was....how can I say this politely? A bit standoffish with Zac. He didn't want Zac getting too close to him and he didn't want to get too close to Zac. He thought the best way to avoid this was to not make any direct eye contact or indirect touching with Zac. Zac didn't care. Zac is a little like a cat. The more you try and avoid him the more he will put his butt in your face and swirl around your leg while you are trying to walk. If I don't tell you soon, remind me to tell you the story of Zac meeting the guy that helped me get my current job (and is now my parents' broker).

Anyways, back to Clicker. He knows more about cars, guns, computers, and video games than anyone I know. That doesn't sound like it would be attractive to me, but damn, being able to change my fuel pump over one hot, summer weekend is sexier than shit, even if he made me sit out there and randomly hand him tools. I'm fine with the guns as long as I don't see them and occasionally I like to quiz him during movies to tell me the manufacturer and caliber of the gun on the screen. I think he and I would make a kick ass team at Trivial Pursuit. Although he's a gun advocate, he's a liberal Democratic from a liberal family. He named himself Clicker from his time as a photojournalist with three newspapers. He takes amazing photos, which I'll post a couple of.

Basically, he's a great friend. We've been dating for about nine months and he's gotten much closer to Zac. He let Zac sit on his lap as he showed Zac how to play a car racing game on PS3. It was very sweet. Zac waits to pounce (I mean hug) him as he walks through the door and Clicker reads to him at night before I tuck Zac into bed.

Here's one of the first pictures he showed me on the website where we met:
(d'oh! No more pics of Clicker. Want to guess who asked me to take them down?)

And here are some that he took. These pictures are going to serve as my "before surgery" pictures. Clicker went with me on Zac's first day of school in August 2010 and photographed the whole drop-off:

Walking my buddy to the car. His backpack is almost as big as he is.

I'm pretty much in love with Zac's face in this picture.

That's my boy. God I love this kid and the man that took the picture.

Pre-Op Madness

I'm not sure if the word madness in the blog title refers to how disorganized the hospital was today or how I reacted to the constant waiting and general confusion. Turns out that after years of not being hormonal, I'm suddenly working like clockwork, once a month. It sucks, mostly because I can never remember how much time has elapsed between visits.

Well, it turns out that about four weeks have elapsed since my last hormonal roller coaster. I didn't realize that, of course, while I was waiting in three different waiting rooms at the fancy-schmancy hospital where I'm getting my surgery. Clicker, my boyfriend that I blogged about back in April, went with me, much to his dismay. The day started off with us arriving late to my first appointment to get an echo cardiogram and EKG. The primary reason I asked Clicker to go with me to my appointments was to help me get through the cardio tests. The last time I got an EKG, I started freaking out as soon as I laid on the hard table and the technician placed the sensors on my body. My heart rate was over 100 and I was told that I had tachycardia (Aunt Jen said that they were overreacting since a pulse rate of 100 is borderline). The technician told me to focus on calming down and left the room for a while. I meditated and got my pulse down to 80, right until the technician walked back in and my heart rate shot up to 100.

Today was a bit different, although even with Clicker there, my heart rate was still 94. We both got a great view of my heart during the echo, which was cool in its own right. Went then went one floor up, checked in with another receptionist and then waited for another 30 minutes. I was taken back alone to get an abdominal ultrasound (which involved a lot taking deep breaths and holding it, which gave me hiccups. After more undressing and putting on the world's smallest gowns, I waited in a private lounge for another 30 minutes and had a chest x-ray. Then I went back to the lounge, waited another 15 minutes, and got an upper GI exam complete with barium. The funniest part of that exam was drinking the barium, then being reclined completely on my back and being told to roll over in a complete circle. The doc said he wanted to coat my stomach. The only problem was that the examination machine was hanging just two feet from my body, so turning over and over was a bit difficult.

Almost an hour-and-a-half later, I reunite with Clicker and go up to the 22nd floor for "labs". At least that is what I was told I was getting. I was ushered into a hallway with chairs and told to wait there. I waited another 30 minutes and finally started complaining loud enough that called me back. Apparently, I was in the outpatient, walk-in clinic. Clicker and I went back to a room and waited. Then we waited some more. Finally, a nurse came in and told me that I was getting a pre-surgical evaluation by her. She got my vital signs (again) and told me to pee in a cup. While I was gone, one of her patients fell in the parking garage and had to be escorted to the ER. Clicker and I waited some more. She came back, I signed five consent forms and she said....wait for it....to wait some more. I had been fasting since midnight and had a headache. Apparently, I also had PMS. This is a combination leading to disaster. Add in over five pre-surgical procedures and five hours of wait time and I'm ready to kill someone.

Finally, I convince a woman to take my blood, although she doesn't know why she's doing it or how many vials of blood she needs to take. I get a call from the doctor's coordinator saying that I need to be medically cleared for surgery. I stared at the phone. What the hell had I been doing for the past six hours, if not getting medically cleared for surgery?

I don't understand. I'm confused and frustrated. This hospital is supposed to have a world-renowned bariatric center. All I got today was shuffled around and told they didn't have my orders for the test.

This sucks. It is most definitely, NOT the easy way out.

Conversations with My Unreasonable Expectations: Part 1

Me, sometime this summer: “Why hello there Size 8 pants! Gosh, I don’t think we’ve ever been acquainted. I’ve heard a lot about you, though, and I gotta tell you, I wasn’t sure we would even get to meet after my surgery”


Size 8 pants: “Thanks, thanks. Really, I’m a very humble number in the vast sea of department store sizes. Do you notice that you never see me while shopping? That’s because I’m so rare. I’m really like a unique snowflake when you think about it.”

Me: “Hmm…you are pants, yet you are a snowflake. That’s so deep. Please tell me more.”

Size 8 pants: “I’m brilliant and will make you brilliant by proximity to my greatness. My cousins and I can make your ass look fantastic in a pair of jeans”

Me: “Wait. I thought you were humble. I was really shooting for a size that I wouldn’t automatically make women hate me. I really only picked you because you are half of a size 16 and designers don’t make a size 9 for women”

Size 8 pants: “Well, you would know more about me if you hadn’t just skipped over me in puberty and went straight into a size 12”

Me: “*gasping* Who told you that? I think I was maybe a size 8 for a month in the 8th grade. That was a very formidable month in my development. “

Size 8 pants: “Was that before or after you got your stretch marks?”

Me: “Bitch!”

Size 8 pants: “Hate the game, not the playa:”

Me: “What does that even mean? You’re a pair of pants! The only thing you are playing with is a wedgie. You know, some people think big asses are hot. I’m told that I have meat on my bones. Size 10 complimented me just last month on it.”

Size 8 pants: “Girrrrrl, there is always a size 10 around when you need them. They are mutton chop while I am a prime rib. You have to specially request me.”

Me: “That doesn’t give you the right to insult me”

Size 8 pants: “Yes it does. Just ask all the other size 8 women. Most of them are wearing pants that are too tight because the size 8s won’t come off.”

Me: “Why did I want to do this again? *shaking my head*”

*********
Yes, in my mind, a pair of size 8s would totally talk trash about larger sizes, including her generously proportioned size 16 and 18 counterparts. I suppose that I could imagine that I would actually be more loving and kind to my smaller self, but I’m having surgery, not a complete personality dissection.

In my mind, size 8 pants would always be bitchy. My favorite part about this unreasonable expectation is that underwear are called pants in England, which gives the conversation a whole other twist. Wedgie indeed

I Heart My New Job

I just past the three-month mark at my new job in late January. Basically, all I’ve done in the past three months is read, attend lectures and presentations, attend more presentations, wonder why all variable annuity wholesales seem to be talking in code and wonder if they make sense to each other, take a licensing exam (which I passed!), and read some more. That being said, I’m in love with the freedom and benefits of my new job. It also doesn’t hurt that I’m interested in personal finance and have been exposed to many of the concepts I’m learning through my MBA course.

 

In random order, here are some of the things I heart about my new job:

•  Learning all sorts of things about the financial industry through reading The Wall Street Journal and study materials for my licensing exams. The financial nugget I learned today is regarding IRS taxation. The IRS loves symmetry. For example, you have to wait 9 months after conception of a child to claim the child as a dependent on your tax returns. Basically, anyone inutero is considered property of Mom (or more accurately, part of Mom) according to the IRS. On the other end of the life spectrum, you have 9 months after the date of someone’s death to pay their estate taxes. Estates are only taxed on property or assets AFTER your funeral costs, debt obligations, and marital and charitable deductions. Provided you aren’t married, this gives your beneficiaries a really good excuse to throw you a $20,000 funeral and spring for the mahogany casket to avoid some tax liabilities. Just saying. Your funeral could be the best party that anyone has ever thrown for you. You also might make that case for the day of your birth. There is some symmetry here.

• I work in a suburb now, so I can go to the mall or shopping centers during lunch and never worry about parking. This is such a dramatic change from my working career on the East side of Houston, where even policemen patrol in pairs. I went shoe shopping at lunch today after receiving my first, full child support payment since August (and yes, I realize that makes all payers of child support – FOBs – want to hit someone. I can almost hear the single, divorced Dads screaming: “Child support is to benefit a CHIILD!” Yeah, well I’ve benefited a child for the past six years with little help, so maybe cut me some slack). I went and got my foot measured at the store that Erika, the other female broker in my office, recommended. I am a perfect 8 ½ wide. The salesman went into the back and come out with no less than 7 pairs of shoes for me to try on. I chose a sleek, fitted pair of heels that don’t make me want to hurt someone. All that I was back to my office in under an hour.

• Bariatric over rider on company health insurance. Seriously. Can I get a Amen? Cash rates for lap band run anywhere from $9,900 (not including lab fees for pre-surgical testing) to over $18,000. I have to pay my deductible and up to the annual maximum of co-insurance. Let’s just keep this between us, but I have something/someone called a bariatric care consultant because I work for such a large company. 

• I can also go and get a massage and go to the chiropractor at lunch.

• My commute is 15-minutes when I hit the traffic lights. It’s about 10-12 minutes when the lights are green. That’s added an hour and a half onto my day that I’m not spending commuting.

• Getting paid to read and take tests for three months.

• Free food at lunch twice a week and most afternoon presentations. Occasional free alcohol at happy hours that are sponsored by wholesalers.

If there is some line between grateful and bragging, I hope I've managed to stay on the grateful side. Of course there are negatives, but I'm looking on the positive side.