The Free Financial Advisor

You are here: Home / Archives for irrelevant stories

7 Things Guys Should Not Say At Work

by 51 Comments

Time for some serious financial advice:

I’m recycling old magazines and donating books. My bookshelves are busting at the seams with books and periodicals I’m keeping for reasons beyond my knowledge. While I was making stacks today, I came across an Esquire special magazine which featured a HUGE list of phrases guys shouldn’t use at work.

Keeping a job isn’t just a good part of being a guy…it’s part of being financially fit. That’s why, if you’re wondering how the hell this post fits this website, I was able to sneak it in under the wire.

I’m trying to help you keep your job.

Being a guy is part science/part art. Sometimes, I’ll admit, I  don’t even quite understand “the rules.” I admitted at a bar one time that Muriel’s Wedding was one of my favorite movies.

Let’s just say that didn’t go well.

I tried to make it better by telling them that I loathe Steel Magnolias (don’t get me started), but apparently admitting that I’d even seen the film was a reason I’ve been told I have to forfeit my man-card.

That said, if you were a dude and said any of these in the office, it might catch my attention:

 

My Favorites From Esquire’s List of “Things a Man Should Never Say at Work”

 

7) “You seriously wanted me to do that?”

6) “Nice Botox”

5) “I had a dream about you last night.”

4) “How much’re they paying you anyway, sweetheart?”

Zumba

I’d fit in like a lobster at a seafood restaurant

3) “It’s called Zumba. I’ve lost 12 pounds.”

2) “That’s not how we did it at my last job.”

…and my favorite line from Esquire’s “Things a Man Should Never Say at Work”

1) “They’re white-chocolate cranberry. I baked them last night.”

 

I hope these tips helped you hold onto your job a day or two longer. Any I missed?

You Have No Idea What I Paid For This Room

by 63 Comments

Welcome to another installment in a series of posts about an Average  Joe trying to just get along…and finding new and funnier ways to fail at it.

For past posts in the series, catch:

There’s Something Wrong With The Car

Networking 101: Meeting Basketball Insiders (a How Not To Manual)

I’m Not an Expert on Everything

I Miss Checkbooks

Sprint Teaches Me Geography

Blog Post of the Week! by Money Beagle (intro section)

Sometime The Grass Isn’t Close to Green On The Other Side Of The Fence 

 

Our Story

 

I couldn’t believe a girl this HOT liked me. Cheryl was smart AND beautiful AND (the best part!) dating me.

Realizing that sooner or later she’d wake up and actually look at the guy she’d decided to hang out with, I knew I had to impress her fast. Time for some decisive action…something that would really WOW her. …something she’d remember in the middle of the night when she wondered “What am I doing with this dork?” I needed something to counteract that inevitable occurrence…something spectacular and romantic.

I had it: we’d take a long weekend getaway to Chicago.

Checking a few quick travel guides I stumbled on a bonus: there was a boutique hotel called the Claridge just north of the corner of Rush and Division (home of many bars and nightclubs!). Reviewer after reviewer said this place was a hidden gem, nestled among brownstones in a nice neighborhood.

We were college students. I was paying my own way through school, working three jobs: building radiation walls (crappy work), as a telemarketer (even more crappy work), and as a DJ at frat parties and weddings (awesome work, but with horrible hours). Somehow I scrounged up $250 for two nights at the Claridge (now a boutique Hotel Indigo…here is the website), enough for gas to get from Detroit there and back, and a little more for food and spending money.

Out the driveway in Detroit, the trip was immediately a success. We laughed the whole way to Chicago, listening to music. Holding hands. I thought, “It can’t get any better than this.”

 

Oh, it did.

 

A room at Hotel Indigo (The Claridge when we were there)

My hotel choice was freakin’ awesome. The neighborhood was gorgeous, and sure enough, among the quiet brownstones, a little narrow hotel rose into the sky. Although the place was old, it had been recently renovated and had an old city charm. You would never know, with all the greenery and the families strolling outside, that some of the busiest bars in the city were only three blocks away.

We parked the car ($20 a day in 1992. Are you kiddin’ me?). Valets carried our bags and I made my way to the reception desk. Seconds later I had my key and we were on the elevator upstairs.

We opened the door to our room.

There wasn’t a view of the city, but who cared. We had a carefully appointed room with classic prints on the walls, a big beautiful bed and nice little bathroom.

I’m from the country. This farm boy had never seen anything so upscale.

Get this: there were even terrycloth robes in the closet! Terrycloth robes!

I put one on. Cheryl snapped a picture of me in it.

She went into the bathroom to freshen up, and I flipped on the television.

That’s when I noticed it.

There was a fridge in the room.

This wasn’t like a spring break fridge next to the scary kitchenette. Nope. This was a high end hotel.

This was a FULLY STOCKED refrigerator.

Nuts, beers, chips, those little Jack Daniels and Schnapps bottles, and more. I grabbed a beer, some macadamia nuts, and settled into a football game.

I’d worked my way into the peanut M&M’s when Cheryl appeared in the bathroom doorway.

“I think you have to pay for those,” she said.

I smiled at the silly, silly girl.

“You have no idea what I paid for this room.”

She smiled, said, “Really? Cool!” and grabbed a little single serving wine bottle and the Toblerone.

After our on-the-house snack we hit the town hard. A little shopping on Michigan Avenue, Pizza at Gino’s East. Dancing at Mothers on Division.

Imagine our delight to find chocolates on our pillows and the bed was turned down. This place was awesome.

Even more awesome?

Someone had completely restocked everything we’d eaten from the fridge.

 

Day Two

 

Make sure you visit Shedd Aquarium when visiting Chicago

The next day we were up early. After a morning at the Art Institute we had Chicago-style hot dogs off a cart in Grant Park. Then we toured the shark and penguin tanks, among others, at Shedd Aquarium. On the way back to the hotel we stopped at a steak place on Rush Street and then listened to some sultry sounds at a jazz bar. We were both tired from the day out and headed back to the hotel.

Fridge? You guessed it. Restocked again.

I loved this hotel.

I immediately grabbed us a nightcap from our now-personal supply. We’d be leaving in the morning and I wanted to get my $125 per night worth. M&Ms, chips and wine up late talking with the hottest girl I’d ever dated.

This was the life.

 

Leaving

 

The next morning we packed early. Cheryl and I both had busy days coming up, so it was an early start, but I was sad to go. We left the room and were halfway to the elevator when I realized: the fridge.

“Where are you going?” she said as I turned and marched back to the room.

“Just meet me in the lobby.” I opened the door, crossed the room and laid my suitcase in front of it.

Why hadn’t I thought of this before? This room was expensive as all get-out. I couldn’t leave these riches to waste. I’d already remembered to swipe the shampoo and conditioner. I’d stayed at a Days Inn before. This was just a Days Inn on a much grander scale, and I needed to take full advantage.

In fairness to me, our minibar didn’t have the pressure pads OR warning this one is equipped with.

I opened the fridge door, took my hand and in one motion swiped everything from each shelf into my suitcase. Then I grabbed the drinks from the side holders and carefully placed those among the other treats. At the very least, this would help subsidize the trip and give us some snack food on the drive home.

There was so much, we might not even have to stop for lunch. Bonus!

This was before quick checkout procedures were popular, so I stood in the world’s longest line just to hand over my keys and grab the receipt. By the time I reached the desk, there was still a monster line behind me. Like I had with the people before me, I’m sure they were hoping I’d get out of the way quickly.

The front desk person smiled and said, “How was your stay?”

I handed her the keys. “This hotel is incredible. We had a wonderful time.”

“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” she said as she typed in my information. “Did you enjoy the mini bar?”

What difference is it to you? I thought. But, she was being pleasant, probably passing time while she looked up my record.

“Yes, we enjoyed it very much. It was great.”

She reached below the counter and produced a piece of paper. “We have the record of the first two nights, but if you could just mark anything you had since seven o’clock last night, I’d appreciate it.”

 

The List

 

I was shocked.

Those macadamia nuts? $5.25. Each beer? $6.00. The Toblerone? I was in shock and don’t remember exactly, but I think it was around $1,245,435.09.

I glanced at my suitcase full of treats and then back behind me. The line now stretched across the entire little reception area.

“Sir? Is everything okay?”

I glanced up at her, looked down at my bag again and across at Cheryl waiting patiently across the lobby.

There was truly only one thought going through my head:

I’m the world’s biggest dumbass.

I looked back up at her. “Everything is fine. What did you say?”

She appeared confused. “Just mark everything you had since we restocked the bar last evening, and we’ll put it on your card. Is that okay?”

I looked at her, trying to keep the pained look off my face. The keys to the room were still sitting in front of me. All I had to do was grab them and run for the elevator. I’d put it all back.

The guy behind me grunted, a little impolitely, and I glanced over my shoulder again. Cheryl was staring at me from across the room and pushed up her shoulders as if to say, “What’s going on?”

I made my decision. I looked back at the woman.

“I had all of it.”

She leaned forward. “Excuse me sir?”

I tried not to glance at my suitcase.

“I had all of it.”

This woman was a true professional. The corners of her mouth only rose slightly before she said, “Very good, sir. Just sign at the bottom. Should I put it on this American Express card?”

I’d brought the AmEx card only because I needed something for incidentals. I had no intention of using it.

“Sure.”

“I hope you enjoyed your stay.”

I tried to smile over my shoulder, not sure how I’d pay this huge amount off my card. “You have no idea.”

 

Photos: Chicago: Bert Kaufman; Hotel Indigo: Jim Moore; Shedd Aquarium: JohnCarlJohnson; minibar: James Fraleigh

 

Any good hotel stories to share? Let’s keep the idiocy rolling in the comment section!

Enhanced by Zemanta

Americans Are Worried About Retirement. Really?

by 18 Comments

Yesterday’s USA Today featured a study commissioned by the Consumer Federation of America and Certified Financial Planner Board of Standard, which revealed that more households are struggling financially than 15 years ago.

I’m not shocked by this “revelation.” Talking to one of my favorite bloggers, Len Penzo (from the aptly named Len Penzo dot Com) a couple weeks ago, Len commented that a “big” financial blogger is lucky to find 700-800 unique visitors per day. I know that financial blogs don’t always have the money answers, but on a recent visit to web-traffic website Compete.com, I saw that another favorite, humorist writer The Bloggess receives about 1400 unique visitors a day.

So, using my extraordinary math and non-scientific research skills, it appears that about double the number of people enjoy humor during their day than seek out financial management techniques and discussion.

 

Are we really worried?

 

People sometimes think that financial plans are for the rich. “I don’t have money to plan,” you may be telling yourself right now. But how can you get out of debt if you don’t plan your financial future?

The survey shows that when low-income families put together a financial plan, they’re able to stay out of debt and pay credit card bills in their entirety. However, only 31% of people surveyed have put together a financial plan (with or without an advisor’s help).

31%? And the headline reads that we’re “worried about retirement?”

More evidence of financial ennui from the study: more people are living paycheck to paycheck, less are saving toward their college-bound children’s education, less can retire at age 65 and more think they won’t be able to cover basic expenses in retirement.

It sounds like we have big financial headaches and 69% of people aren’t attacking the problem.

Normally, I’m a “glass half-full” kind of guy. However, in this case, I think the headline “Americans Worried About Retirement” should be replaced with “Americans Screwed and Not Doing Much About It.”

I’m glad you’re visiting today to be the few…the proud…the 31%!

Captain America photo: Gage Skidmore

 

Let’s vote: Glass half full? Half empty?

In The Trenches: New Advisor Tales

by 18 Comments

I’ve been traveling across the country this week, so I haven’t read enough blogs to decide on a Blog Post of the Week! Instead, how about if Uncle Joe tells you a story about the good ol’ days….

I’ve had requests from people who read this blog for stories about how advisors are trained. I obviously can’t put a dot on “the one way” people are trained. Even within the organization I worked in, some were trained well and others poorly. Some came with great skills and others with none.

Here’s how my journey began:

I always imagined that anyone working in the financial planning business spent most of their day either in meetings with clients or in a room full of computers drawing up strategies or watching them unfold.

Yeah, that stuff happens.

In fairy tales.

Nope. Conditions in my office were so bad initially that I’ll tell everyone reading this not to follow my route. It was an ugly way to start a career.

 

How We Spent Our Days

 

My early clients would never want to hear that I didn’t have time to prepare adequately or follow up enough with their plans. We spent about 80 percent of our time making phone calls. By “we” I mean me and about 12 other brand new recruits who were trying to break into the business. We’d gather daily in a large conference room, pop a film like Rambo or Wall Street on a television and call as many people as possible.

 

Young Financial Planners

Why we wore suits is still beyond me. I could have been in sweatpants and felt more comfortable while I cold called hundreds of people a night.

 

Why didn’t we work on strategies more? The reason is simple: I couldn’t survive on three or four clients and the management machine knew it. Sure, I was ignoring my early clients, but I needed to still have a job in the future if those first clients ever expected to get decent help from me.

When people tell you that you should hire an advisor who’s been in the business 10 years, it’s for two reasons: first, they’ve been in the trenches and have probably seen damned near everything. Second, they don’t have to worry so much about marketing and actually DO spend time on client strategies.

When did we work on a client’s business? Maybe for about an hour each morning. They weren’t very well thought out. We had calls to make.

 

Our Marketing Strategy

 

The call strategy, no longer used by the company I was with, was called “A/B.” On call A we’d offer free literature about tax planning, retirement planning, or college planning, whichever the victim of my call thought might be most helpful.

How did we get names? We used phone books.

If someone took us up on our offer, we’d call back after sending them a generic brochure to see if they had questions about the literature and just exactly “why they requested it.”

Here’s a typical call. This happened about 24 Million times:

Me: So, why did you request the information, sir?

Them: I didn’t request the information, you called and asked if I wanted it. I said I don’t care.

Me: Well you must have thought tax planning was important at some point.

Them: Listen, I just declared bankruptcy. I don’t really care about taxes.

But, once in awhile, I’d hear this response:

Me: Why did you request the information.

Them: I’m not happy with my financial advisor and I was hoping your firm would do better.

Me: (pause. I’m pissing my pants. Somebody said something positive.)

Them: Hello? You still there?

Me: Uh…yeah. We’re really good advisors. (why did I say that? I’m such an idiot.)

Them: Can I  come in and meet with you?

Me: (I just want to do a dance right about now) Sure. When would you like to stop by?

Them: I’m sure you’re pretty busy. What times do you have open.

Me: Pick a time next week and I’ll be here waiting.

I was that desperate.

So was everyone else in the room. Most people washed out.

Why did I stay? How did I make it?

It was because of a woman we’ll call Renee.

 

Renee’s Story

 

I earned the nickname Gepetto because Renee, this older, gray haired Russian woman who sat next to me during the end of my first year, was a liar. She escaped to her car a few times every day to drink vodka, and come back glassy eyed and give every guy in the place back rubs. It was more than a little uncomfortable.

Worse? Wait til you hear what she’d say to clients on the phone.

Renee: What rate you get on CDs at you bank

(everyone in the room would stop talking because we knew there was a whopper on the way) She’d listen on the phone, unaware that we were all hovering around.

Renee: 4 percent? You get 4 percent? We give you 6 percent. Guaranteed. I guarantee you that when you come in, you get 6 percent here.

(I’m not making fun of her accent here…there was plenty about Renee that I could make fun of, but the way she spoke wasn’t one of them.)

I felt bad for her, so I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. But on the other end, being one of the senior people in the room (I had the second highest seniority in my office once I hit the one year mark), I had to help her learn that it wasn’t acceptable to just throw out a rate of return. Plus, we were planners, not brokers. Regardless, I didn’t know of ANY CD at the time that paid better than 4 percent. Anywhere.

So, to save her feelings, I started to call her Pinocchio. It was a way of hinting at the fact that she might not be entirely truthful.

So, the crazy people I worked with started calling me Gepetto.

By the time she was fired, this woman had eight clients. Eight people had sat across from this woman who CLEARLY lied and definitely was drunk a fair amount of the time and said “She’s the kind of help I need.”

So when people ask me how I succeeded and made it through the system without any really successful planners to emulate and only spotty product training, for the most part it was because of Renee. I knew if I worked hard enough, no matter how bad things got, that I was better than Renee and she had eight whole clients. If she can get eight, I should have 800.

It’ll work for you, too. I think in any field if you work hard and realize that life is about pressing on, you can find your opening and build a career.

How about you? Any horror stories about where you work/worked? Let’s hear about some in the comment section. I’d love to know how you got started in the trenches….

 

Photo: Businesspeople, Businessman: Victor1558

7 Financial Hacks to Avoid

by 29 Comments

I spend all day on the internet.

I was moaning with a friend yesterday at lunch about the COUNTLESS posts on your budget and being thrifty. Everything from the Latte Factor to How Stupid Is the Latte Factor? and I’ve Got David Bach’s Latte Factor Right Here.

Yawn.

I was thinking this morning that I’m searching for something new. Something meaningful. Something that helps me walk the straight and narrow financial path.

What would this post look like?

I think it’d be a little negative. It would be a post about all the quick roads to frugal you SHOULDN’T pursue. People are often motivated by fear, it’s said.

This post would help people avoid some of the big problems out there.

Folks from all parts would line up for this type of post, I’d think.

I couldn’t find it, so I created it.

Welcome to:

 

7 Financial Hacks to Avoid….the list.

 

1) Underwear is expensive. Why buy it? Nobody can see the stuff anyway, unless you want them to (and in that case it’s going to end up wadded up on the floor pretty soon). Get rid of underwear. You’ll feel more free and casual all day. A four pack of Haines tidy whitees costs $15.50.  Imagine how many smokes that’ll buy.

2) McDonalds dumpster dive. McDonalds throws away food that’s still incredibly edible. Why not sit in your Ford Pinto and wait for the trash to go out? When I worked at McD’s back in the day, the food they threw out was all still wrapped up. You could get a McDouble, take it home and microwave it…and it’s almost good as new!

3) Disconnect your internet. Everyone complains about cable and how expensive it is. What about internet access? Uggg. That’s a bundle. Are you really making any money on that blog anyway? Let’s be realistic. You’d save time AND money by just pulling the plug right now. …money you could be spending on your cable bill and time you could have been doing something useful instead of reading this post. Double threat.

Very happy. Know why? No underwear.

4) Sell your bicycle and weight set. Who needs gym equipment and a bike when you’ve got only so much time in a day? If you weren’t worried so much about how you look, you’d finally be able to get in all that extra overtime your boss wants from you. Plus, imagine the sick days you’ll get off when you’re feeling lousy? Time Off + Daytime Television = Heaven.

5) Do you have kids? What have they done for you lately? Forget allowances: Let’s talk quotas. Bring $30/week to Papa Joe or I’m sendin’ you packin’. Give them clear warning and direction, though. You don’t want to seem heartless.

6) Shampoo? Soap? Dish soap is nearly the same and is far less expensive per fluid ounce. Use dish soap for all of your personal health needs. You’ll have a lemon-fresh scent and will never have to worry about dishwater hands with Palmolive. And, if you don’t care about how your hands look, just go unbranded. Ubersavings!

7) Finally, I know that food is expensive and my second tip above might be impractical, so here’s another: Why not find creative ways to invite yourself over to dinner at someone else’s house? Offer to bring a few hamburgers with you if you think you can pull off tip #2 in a combo deal. If not, offer to bring drinks and fill a pitcher with ice cold water. They’ll thank you with their health later, no matter what they say today.

 

See? I think that’s a marvelous list, don’t you? No lattes or practical “how to’s.”

This list in itself is a huge timesaver.

In fact, another hack would be: forget about writing lists. You don’t follow them anyway.

I feel compelled to follow absolutely nothing that’s written above and don’t feel bad if you don’t either. I don’t have time for that nonsense….or rather lack of nonsense.

What tips have I forgotten? Let’s add a few in the comments. Ready? Go!

Sometimes the Grass Isn’t Close to Green on the Other Side of the Fence….

by 15 Comments

Ah, the stock market. The only spot where intelligent people are quite at home with the words “soared” and “plummet.” (Imagine if those were your choices in an elevator…).

And yet, is there much difference between the ups and downs of the stock market and those on a family vacation? In both cases, you’re in danger if you become too emotionally invested. You might get your heart broken when what you expected and what happened turn out to be two totally different things.

That was the case in this instance.

On one memorable trip, I felt like Clark Griswold loading two eight year olds and my wife into a car jam-packed full of camping equipment and making the six hour drive to Mammoth Cave, Kentucky. It sounded like fun to spend a few nights out under the stars, singing around the campfire, so I booked us four nights at the Jellystone Campground, in Cave City.

This place is custom made for kids. There was a pool, water slide, mini golf, and arcade. Heck, who cares about the kids, I was fired up.

I needed a break.

I was a financial advisor and it was July of 2002. I spent every day on the phone with clients reassuring them that the financial meltdown wasn’t swallowing all of their money. I’d revisit our defensive strategy. In fact, even on this trip, I’d been sneaking off for an hour each day to keep making phone calls.

I felt guilty being on vacation, but I kept reminding myself that this was “recharging the ol’ batteries” to keep fighting the good fight. The markets had started tanking 24 months earlier and hadn’t stopped.

Of course, the second we jumped in the car the Dow Jones took its worst turn of all. We didn’t know it at the time, but I was vacationing at the very bottom of the market.

So I’m just hanging up after strategizing with a client on the third day of our trip when the activities coordinator (who looked to be about 17) approached me.

Him: Sir, would you mind helping me with the hayride?

Me: Sure. (Are you kidding me? I wanted to hug the guy. I’d pay money to do anything besides talk about how the worst time to sell was when the market happened to be in free-fall).

Him: How’d you like to be Yogi Bear?

The Yogi Bear Show

The Yogi Bear Show (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Me: Come again? (I didn’t know if I should be offended. I knew I’d had a few beers in my day, but my waist was still fairly trim).

Him: Yogi Bear. I like having dads play the part of Yogi Bear on the hayride.

Me: You’ve got to be f$%#ing kidding me. Hell yeah. I’m in.

He tells me to be back at 2:30 to get into costume. I’m practically skipping as I cross the campground to tell my family. This is my big break. Maybe I’ll be able to turn this into a full time job as the hay ride Yogi Bear. It sure would beat having the same conversation over and over and over and….

Cheryl: Better day than yesterday?

Me: You’ll never believe how much better. Guess who’s Yogi Bear?

Cheryl: Is that some kind of code? Because I’m not Boo Boo.

Me: No! Guess who’s going to be Yogi Bear on the hayride.

Daughter: Oh no.

Son: No you’re not.

Me: Am too. High five me. (I’m pretty sure kids don’t do that, but I’ve never tried to be hip. These Jordache jeans are a little snug, but they go with my mullet.)

Cheryl: Don’t do anything stupid.

Me: What are you talking about?

Cheryl: Just do what the guy tells you. Don’t try to be funny.

Me: I wouldn’t try to do anything funny.

Cheryl: Like the time you tried to break dance at that wedding.

Son: Or when you tried to start the wave at the Tiger game.

Daughter: Or when you were trying to get the neighbor’s attention and she thought you were a peeping Tom looking in their window waving your hands.

Me: None of that was my fault, except the wave, and those were some lousy fans.

Cheryl: (sigh) Okay, good luck.

So….2:30 rolls around and I’m standing outside the campground office, ready to completely forget about the financial markets. In fact, I’m so stoked, I’d showed up ten minutes early.

Director: There you are, ready?

Me: Sure. What’s the belt for?

Him: Well, it’s about 85 degrees. Inside that costume it’s going to be a furnace.

Me: (totally sure this is overkill) Is it going to melt my pants off? Why the belt?

Him: Feel it.

I do. The huge pockets around the parameter are all ice. I can’t imagine why I’ll need that.

We head up a little hill where there are houses that are supposedly home to Yogi and Boo Boo. He unlocks the largest house and we step inside.

There it is.

My escape from the markets: hanging on the hook is a pristine Yogi Bear costume. Next to it on a bench is that big ‘ol crazy Yogi Bear head.

Me: This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Him: (laughs. Thinks I’m joking.)

We put the belt around my waist. It’s freezing. Immediately I’m freezing.

Me: This is too cold.

Him: Put on the suit.

Me: Can we just take the belt off first? I don’t think I need it.

Him: How about this. If you’re complaining about ice once we get the suit fitted, we’ll take it back off.

I realize he’s placating me, but it’s good enough reassurance. We put on the suit. Now I have a pair of shorts, tee shirt, ice belt, and furry Yogi suit.

Him: How does it fit?

Me: I might get one of these for home.

We put on these huge hands. He shows me how to wave. Then he feeds me the great Yogi Bear hayride secret. I’m not to talk. At all. That sounds like heaven. After the last two years of client call after client call, I’m glad to have someone tell me to shut up.

Him: If you talk, you’ll try to sound like Yogi Bear. You won’t sound like him. I’ve had dad’s try. Don’t talk.

He shows me how to wave, and tells me that once we have the head on, I’ll need to turn my whole body if I want to look at things.

Don’t approach kids unless they approach me. Some kids cry. If they do, don’t try to console them; you’ll scare them more.

Cool. I think. I’m ready.

That’s when he puts that flippin’ head on me.

I’m not sure of the exact temperature, but I think it must have been somewhere in the range of 162 degrees.

Me: It’s hot in here.

Him: That’s why you have the ice belt.

Me: I still have on the ice belt?

He presses it into my skin. I feel a sharp stab of cold. But now it doesn’t radiate.

He’s talking to me and I can’t see him. Even when I turn my body like he told me I have a hard time tracking just where the heck his voice is coming from.

Him: Ready?

Me: No. How do you see out of this–

Him: Okay, let’s go. I’ve got your hand. Wave.

Ignoring my protests he opens the door and here comes the activities director and a sweating, bumbling Yogi Bear.

Twice I almost fall. Somehow, we make it to the wagon. They help me in. I’m sitting along a bench that runs the length of the thing. Kids jump on all around me. From time to time I see them. I’m waving like the queen on steroids. Every once in awhile I hear an adult say to a whining child, “maybe if you put your hand higher, Yogi will be able to see you.”

Hayride in Turner County, South Dakota

Hayride in Turner County, South Dakota (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Thanks for the hint, parents.

Then I’d look down, almost dropping my Yogi head. Their pride and joy is standing right under me, hoping for a hand shake.

I deliver somewhere between a high three and high four. Usually I miss the kid’s hand altogether.

It’s now 199 degrees, but its okay because we’re singing songs. From time to time the wagon stops and more kids climb in. For the most part I hear this but don’t see them because I’m still trying to figure out how to see through that little hole.

We launch into “Old McDonald.”

Old McDonald had a —

All the sudden, I’m nearly yanked off the bench. Someone was pulling something in front of me. Then they let go.

“…farm, eee, iiii, eee, iii, oooo. And on his farm—“ I look around. I can’t see who did it. Hell, I can’t even find the little hole I’m supposed to look out of. When I straighten up there’s just some guy in his twenties. If he’s doing it, he must be a client I’d forgotten to call.

“he had a duck. eeee, iiii, eee, iii, ooo. With a qua—“ I’m just starting to figure out how to clap my hands and someone yanks me toward the floor again. I have to hang onto the side of the wagon to stay upright.

I can’t see anything out of the little f%$ing hole in the mouth. Sweat is dripping from every pore in my body.

Finally I find my culprit! Sitting right next to me…almost on top of me, is a little blonde kid. Maybe four. He’s staring right into the little hole I look out of. The guy in his twenties must be his dad.

The kid smiles, reaches up, grabs my tie, and forces me to the floor again.

I grab for the kid, but miss, and this time I go down. People stop singing. The director is helping up Yogi Bear. I’m trying to keep my head on and maintain regular breathing because it’s only 265 degrees. Something is baking. I’m pretty sure it’s my ass.

Director: Hey, don’t pull his tie, okay?

Dad: Who are you talking to?

Director: Your son is pulling Yogi’s tie.

Dad: Oh. Sorry.

I realize by his tone that Dad isn’t sorry at all. He’s barely paying attention. I’m horrified when the director lets it go and turns away.

This time I knew it was coming. Like slow motion the kid reaches up again, but I can’t stop it.

The second–and I mean the second–the activities director turns his head away I watch the kid reaches up, grab my tie, and yank the hardest he’s ever yanked anything in his whole life.

I have my feet dug in this time, and avoid the first Yogi Bear hayride accident on record.

I turn my body so the little eye hole can find the dad. He’s staring at me, with a monster grin on his face. Suddenly, I realize: he thinks this is hilarious!

Now they’ve gone and gotten Yogi Bear angry.

I’m going to grab that damned kid by the throat and choke him. I’m sure the heat wasn’t helping curb my rage. What about the ice belt, you ask? What $%#! ice belt? I had steaming hot water in a pool around my waist now. My nerves were shot.

Yogi Bear had one thought: Damn kid’s goin’ down.

I didn’t care anymore. That punk was about to learn a lesson.

Luckily for us all, the hay ride ended right then. Everyone got off. The director marched me back to Yogi’s house. He lifted the head off me and suddenly I could breath again. We took off the costume and I was a free man.

Thank goodness I hadn’t gone after the child, although I think it would have been a memorable YouTube video: Yogi Bear beating the $%!T out of some kid at the Jellystone Mammoth Cave Campground.

I marched back to the campsite.

Son: We saw you!

Daughter: You were funny.

Cheryl: What did you think? Fun?

Me: I’ll take calling clients about the market any day over being Yogi Bear.

Any day.

Enhanced by Zemanta

You Can’t Make This Stuff Up

by 13 Comments

Blog Post of the Week! will return next week.

I was riding the elevator this morning at Crittendon Hospital in Rochester, Michigan.

What was I doing there, you ask?

My daughter, who’d come to the Intensive Care Unit with us, wanted to get a drink. I could have used a strong one….but it was only a coffee shop and I wasn’t about to be the drunk guy at the hospital….

Autumn and I were sharing stories about my father-in-law, “Papa Dave,” as we have all week. He’s one my best friends. Last Saturday he fell while walking the dog and suffered a closed head injury. As I write this from the family waiting room, he’s expected to pass away any moment.

While we were talking, remembering, and thinking about Papa Dave’s last moments here, the elevator door opened to let more people onboard. A grandmother and three freckled kids, all between the ages of four and eight, piled into the elevator. One held flowers and another clutched a brand new teddy bear. They looked pensive and it appeared they’d been instructed to be on their best behavior.

I sickened. I’m sure Autumn had the same thought as me: they’re here to see a loved one die, too.

Autumn wiped away a tear and smiled. The grandmother couldn’t keep it in any longer. She spoke quickly.

“We’re getting a new baby brother this morning!” she beamed, nodding toward the girls.

The oldest one blushed.

I asked if they were excited. Each nodded.

When the elevator door opened, they piled out, rushing to see the new member of their family arrive while ours leaves.

There’s irony all around me today.

So, because I need a laugh, I’m going to provide one. Here’s one of my favorites….again, not suitable for little Jimmy or Julie, unless you want to show them what really goes on with Elmo Behind the Scenes.

Go hug somebody today.

j.

Sprint Teaches Me Geography

by 14 Comments

Just to keep it real: that headline was a joke.

 

Backstory: I’d just gone fishing with my dad and some of his friends in northern Ontario. I wasn’t sure if my phone would work in the Canadian wilderness, so I asked my dad.

Dad: Sure, it’ll work fine.

Me: You sure? I have to stay in touch with the office if something goes haywire in the markets or with my clients.

Dad: You’ll be fine.

The short story:  I wouldn’t have a tale for you today if it’d worked. The owner of the fishing lodge bought me a phone card on a trip to town for supplies. I was allowed to stand in his living room and use his personal phone for about 15 minutes each day.

 

It was ugly.

So, a couple months later I was headed to Toronto for a business meeting. Being the think-ahead-guy I am (you may recognize that as another joke if you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time), I decided to call Sprint to verify that I could keep in touch with clients and my office.

Sprint: Thank you for calling Sprint. This is Betty. How may I help you?

Me: I’m headed to Toronto in the morning and I wanted to verify that I’ll have phone service.

Sprint: I’m happy to help you with that, sir. First, I need to verify some personal information.

It’s clear to me at this point that she didn’t even listen to my question. We verify that I really am AverageJoe, quite a sexy dude.

Sprint: Okay, now how can I help you sir?

Me: I have a work trip to Toronto, and I’d like to make sure my cell phone will work.

Sprint: Certainly. I can look that up for you. Where was that again?

Me: Toronto, Canada.

Sprint: Hold on a moment, sir. I’ll find out for you. Can you hold please?

She’s gone for flippin’ ever. I don’t mean “walk around the house” ever. I mean “fix lunch and dinner and mow the lawn before she gets back” ever.

Sprint: I’m sorry for the delay, sir.

Me: (I was starting to think she’d hung up on me) That’s quite alright.

Sprint: Where was it you’re heading?

Me: (amazed) Toronto. Ontario. Canada.

Sprint: Certainly, sir. Can you hold again? I apologize.

I remember her being very nice about it. Now I’m starting to think something is wrong.

It turns out, something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

Sprint: Sir?

Me: Yes?

Here’s where the Sprint woman gave me the awful news for Americans everywhere.

Sprint: It appears that Toronto, Canada isn’t a part of the United States.

I couldn’t help it. There was only one possible reply.

Me: (indignant) SINCE WHEN?

I hung up. I couldn’t stop laughing.

(Not that it matters, but my phone worked. There were huge roaming fees…maybe so they could hire geography experts.)

(photo credit: Phones: David Paul Ohmer, Flickr, Toronto: Steven Harris, Flickr)

 

How about that? Canadians, are you sad you aren’t a part of the United States? Americans, are you sad the awesome city of Toronto isn’t part of the United States? What’s your best customer service story?

The Worst of the Free Financial Advisor Podcast: Print Edition

by Leave a Comment

Because Joe couldn’t be bothered to put together a podcast this week (he’s secretly out of town on business), we interns have decided to give you something more…..thrilling.

Here’s a shocking newspaper story from a top news source about intelligence in infants that we thought you could read rather than waste your precious time on the podcast.

Seriously.

You have better things to do anyway.

Enjoy the reprieve.

Love,

The FFA Intern Team

PS – AverageJoe has threatened assured us that the podcast will return next week.

I Miss Checkbooks

by 33 Comments

Another in the series of AverageJoe’s day-by-day attempts to just get along. And failing. For other stories in the series, check out:

– There’s Something Wrong With The Car

– I’m Not an Expert on Everything

– Networking 101: Meeting Basketball Insiders (a How To manual)

– Blog Post of the Week! by Money Beagle

 

A recent post at DebtBlackHole.com showed some awesome Wonder Woman prints, and reminded me that we’ve probably come to the end of the golden age of taking out a pen and actually writing a check.

I miss that sexiness in my banking. I’m not referring to Wonder Woman’s …ah….assets, either.

My debit card has a free picture of a baseball on the front, but there was once a time when people would whip out a cool pad of Bugs Bunny checks to purchase a new toaster. Or pizza rolls.

Those were the days.

 

Better You Than Me

 

I’m that guy.

There’s no way I’d ever give up the few extra dollars it costs for Skeletor or the Detroit Tigers logo on my checking account. My checks are and always will be white with the name of my bank across the front.

Beyond creative.

But that doesn’t mean I’m a hater. I love creative checks if you use them.

Checks are gone partly because scammers figured out that it didn’t matter what you wrote on a check. If you shopped at Sears, you could make the check out to “Mickey Mouse” and write “One million, seven hundred and seventy seven dollars” across the front. If the little box said $32.50 in it, guess how much money was deducted from your account? You’ve got it. $32.50. And it wasn’t made out to your favorite mouse, either. The cash went to Sears because they’d presented it for deposit.

But that’s not the reason I miss checks. I have a better one for you. Read on…..

 

My Irrelevant Tale

 

My daughter, like many, played youth soccer from about six years old on. I’m not the world’s biggest drinker, but I so wanted to be drunk at these games.

The kids swarmed like hungry wolves around the ball, all kicking each other at the same time. You had no idea which kid was yours. Then again, it really didn’t matter.

The coach yelled, “Don’t bunch up!”

He was a nice guy, but if the best soccer advice you can offer is “don’t bunch up,” youth soccer strategy might be over your head.

Luckily, I met some nice parents at the games. Many are still friends today. One who isn’t, is Dick Smith.

I’d plop down my chair next to this dad, Dick, who was out there like me, taking one for the team every week. He was a flat-out super guy. Distinguished looking grey hair. Tall and thin with an easy smile and easier laugh.

I’d always try to sit next to him because Dick was a vice president at a frozen food manufacturer and always had good engineering stories about process management and green beans. I’m a sucker for logistics and keeping veggies icy, apparently, because I had tons of questions and always was mesmerized about how the shipment to northern Ohio dethawed while the trucker frantically tried to keep the refrigerator running.

I’d pull up a chair and say, “Hey, Dick! How are you?”

He’d smile back at me as I slumped next to him. We’d watch our daughters kick each other and the ball for about 45 minutes and chat.

This went on for about two and a half years.

 

So far, so good, right?

 

Each week I’d walk down the sideline. He’d be sitting there, pretending like he wasn’t trying to pull his hair out. Then his miserable look would melt as he’d see me and smile, “Joe! How are you?” I’d reply, “Hey, Dick! Mind if I join you?”

Of course, he never minded.

It took the pressure off watching the game.

Our daughters went to the same school. In a big parent money-grab for the Parent-Teacher Organization, semi-annual teacher conferences dumped into the library, where a huge Scholastic Book Fair sucked money out of our checkbooks.

It was expected that you’d buy your kid a book after the conference.

Dick and his wife, Margie happened to be in the book fair when Cheryl and I finished meeting with the teacher. As always, our daughter had a fine conference and we were doing our duty by buying her a book.

The line for the cash register was a mile long. I thought about heading to Barnes & Noble to buy our book. Who’d know? My daughter wouldn’t have a clue where it came from.

I was just telling Cheryl that we should ditch the fair when I saw the Smiths.

“Hey, Dick!” I said, waving. My mood changed immediately. Now I could stand in line for a long time if Dick was there. We’d just talk frozen food, sports, or whatever.

The four of us chatted for about a half hour before we finally made the front of the line. Dick motioned to Margie.

“Can you hand me the checkbook?”

“Sure,” she said, rummaging through her purse.

She pulled out the checkbook. Dick opened it and took a pen from his pocket.

Because I love checkbook art, I leaned in to see what print the Smiths were sporting and turned white.

Across the top of the checkbook it said Mark and Margaret Smith.

….I know now…..

I can’t believe he’d kept smiling at me for two and a half years…..