January 27, 2012

Emergency Funds: “Oh Sh!t” vs. “D@mmit”

Image is from a 3M security glass ad campaign but it makes you wonder: If you had to do something dramatic to access your emergency fund- would you do it so often?

You know those pet peeves that are so trivial, you really have a hard time justifying devoting a lot of thought, much less an entire post to, but you just can’t stop thinking about it and you rant anyways?

This is one of those. And if you just go on and run away from this blog today, I totally get it just come back in the future because I’ve never really done this and I don’t think it’ll be much of a habit for me but today, it’s on.

I am going to make this post even more ridiculous by talking about a trivial pet peeve that is related to something I hardly even talk about anymore– personal finance. Why I don’t talk about it much anymore is another post entirely and we’ll get there one day, just not today.

Today I’m going to focus on the supposedly sacred and magnificent “emergency fund.”

Everyone who knows anything about personal finance knows about the emergency fund even if they don’t call it that but I’m not talking about those people today so don’t think about them right now. For the uninitiated (and it’s a good thing, I’m starting to think), an emergency fund is a bunch of money stashed away strictly for the use of EMERGENCIES.

From Merriam-Webster,

Definition of EMERGENCY

1: an unforeseen combination of circumstances or the resulting state that calls for immediate action
2: an urgent need for assistance or relief

When it comes to personal finance and the “emergency fund”, it’s referring to definition #2. In other words, your life just got a kick in the ass of varying size because something went wrong and it is having a direct impact on your needs being.

Did I lose you?

Ok, emergencies in the personal finance world should be things like:

a) Loss of income due to job loss, severe reduction in hours, medical leave, abandonment by partner, etc.
b) Loss of something/many things critical to daily life such as a main source of transportation, a refrigerator (stores food which is kind of a need), heating or cooling (in extreme weather conditions), a home, etc.

It is these epic “Oh Sh!t” moments that are supposed to be when an emergency comes into play. But if you read some personal finance blogs, you would not know this. And that annoys me.

Why people tap into “emergency funds” for things outside of true emergencies is beyond my scope of understanding. You can have an emergency fund AND savings you know. As a matter of fact, you should definitely have both and they should be built up at the same time in my honest opinion because otherwise you know what’s going to keep happening– tap, tap, tap into the emergency fund. And if, god forbid, a true emergency strikes?

Having a real “emergency fund” is a pretty scary thing because it is a solid acknowledgment of the fact that the world we live in is, at its core, entirely unpredictable and out of our control. And this spans every single aspect of our lives– even the things we cherish most most dearly. It’s terrifying. And having the emergency fund as a real emergency fund is a conscious acceptance of that fact.

You know, we really can’t budget for every single curve ball life throws our way. Some are real gentle and easy to nail but others can be some sharper ones that are much harder to nail. But just because the sharper curve balls cause some sort of unpleasantness in our lives doesn’t qualify it as a real emergency.

A lot of people have a lot of different savings methods. Some people have targeted savings accounts. Some people have a myriad of savings tools in place for a myriad of different methods (like CD ladders plus mattresses plus whatever else it is that lets them sleep at night). And they’re all really cool and I think you should definitely think about something that works for you. Just leave the emergency fund alone.

Here’s an idea– leave the emergency fund for the true “Oh sh!t” moments in your life but have another fund in place for the “D@mmit” moments too, because hopefully those happen way more often in your life than the other ones do. In a perfect world neither would happen, I could eat a plate of slutty brownies without ill effect, and all three of my children would be perfect little angels who make no messes at all, ever. But that’s not the reality of the world and we just need to move on.

If you can’t decide whether or not something is worthy of an “Oh sh!t” or a “D@mmit” ask yourself this– how far are you willing to go to access the money needed to cover the expense of said “Oh sh!t”/”D@mmit” item? The ones that you would do even the thing that would make you cry? That’s an “Oh sh!t” thing and a perfectly good reason to access your emergency fund.

Do you use and abuse the term “emergency fund”? Do you think I’m being sort of insane about this? I know it’s probably a semantics thing at play but god bless my English-loving heart, I can’t let it go! Am I sort of justified? Do you do the thing where you have an emergency fund and you absolutely refuse to let it go below such and such a threshold because that’s too risky? WHY DO YOU DO THAT? Why not just take some of it out and save it elsewhere and then bulk all your savings up together? Is it because saying you have an emergency fund of such and such amount makes you feel better even though you and everyone else know it’s not just for emergencies? Is it a peace of mind thing? But wouldn’t it be better to have another fund and a TRUE emergency fund or would that be too much money in savings for you to be comfortable with? Do I need a brownie?

Mmmm slutty brownies... What was I mad about again?

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January 20, 2012

Mutant vs. Math

On Tuesday, I sat down and met with a Transfer Advisor at the University. She reviewed all of my credits, did a degree audit for me, showed me the differences in required classes for the Bachelor of Art in Computer Science versus a Bachelor of Science in Computer Science, and enrolled me in Pre-Calculus 1 which would be meeting in approximately an hour and a half in the building next door.

And just like that, I was a college student all over again.

This time, it’s different. Which is funny because when you’re younger everyone always tells you how everything is different when you a) are older b) are married c) have kids d) are not what you are right now. And for some reason (my guess would be lack of experience), you always fight against that belief. You roll your eyes and pfft “yeah right whatever” it off. Because we are just so damn sure of ourselves when we’re younger aren’t we?

I am terrified of math. And I am so annoyed that I am terrified of math because it is for a really stupid reason.

In my Catholic middle school, there was one math teacher for the sixth, seventh, and eighth grades. I did not like her. She did not like me. Why a teacher would have a strong dislike for a heavily picked on, super nerdy, late-blooming, glasses-wearing, book-loving middle-schooler is beyond my scope of understanding. But she did.

The problem wasn’t even that she would grab me from my mom’s classroom (next to hers) after school and put me to clean up her classroom, check papers, and do other menial tasks even though she had three children of her own. It wasn’t even that she also made me do this during school hours despite the fact she gave the “better” tasks to the kids she liked.

The problem was she picked on me.

Yes. An adult. Picking on a middle schooler. I was picked on enough as it was by my classmates. Since the popular kids couldn’t be bothered to pick on me, it was the unpopular kids who had field days with me– belittling me, telling me I smelled, calling me names (Mary Magdalene was a favorite- if you’re Catholic you’ll get it), putting dirty drawings in my desk, asking me questions they knew I would be too naive to know the answer to and then laugh at my stupidity innocence. And this teacher? Not only did she do nothing to stop the behavior when it happened in her class, but she also did everything she could to show the world I was not a smart and obedient little girl but I was really just some overly doted on brat who was everyone’s favorite because she was a kiss-ass (her theory, not actual reality: see above nerdy/late-blooming description).

She did this especially well in her math class by exploiting my one fault– disorganization. She required all students maintain a math binder that was so tediously full of insanely ridiculous specifications, I didn’t even try. I gave up. I am horrible with that sort of anal-retentiveness. And so she took much delight in slashing my binders with red pens, making derisive comments in class about my craptastic mathematical abilities, and using me as an example of what not to do. When I would inevitably begin to cry she would scream at me that “Crying isn’t going to change anything” and to stop it right now I was being ridiculous. She’d storm out of her door, knock on my mother’s door (yes, in the middle of class), bring her into the classroom (yes, while all of the students were there) and scream at both of us about what a horrible little girl I was and what a drama queen and that in the real world this bullshit wouldn’t fly.

Now I don’t know if you remember, but the core of the mathematics you are going to use in high school and college are really laid out in Middle School. If you don’t get those concepts then, every other math class is an uphill war. When your math class (and seventh grade homeroom, joy) are torture sessions, you don’t learn much.

Somehow, I absorbed enough to not only not get anything lower than a C+ my entire time in Middle School, but I also scored a perfect score on my high school entrance exam– even in math. However, once I got into the classroom all of the practical application collapsed under the one crushing belief I had cultivated under Mean Math Teacher– I suck at math. High school math was a struggle and I took the easiest math classes I could manage and took the minimum requirements to graduate. In college, I picked a degree that would result in the fewest math requirements possible and even took advantage of a temporary loophole where an Intro to Microcomputers was counting for math credit. I took one actual math class in college (Finite) and passed it with the necessary C+.

Thirteen years later, I’m back at school. I’m starting off with Pre-Calculus. And I’m going to pass this class with higher than a C+. Because the fact is, I’m good with numbers. I crunch them all of the time. In other words, I am great at math. What I stumble on is nothing more than material I simply wasn’t taught because I was stuck with a teacher who cared more about fulfilling her sadistic desires than doing her damn job. And that is a really stupid reason to have difficulty in anything.

The first class was brutal. I was overwhelmed and slow and racing to keep up. When I went home, I overdosed on Khan Academy. Then I did some more the next day. On Thursday, I did the homework and except for a couple hiccups, I had no problem. At class last night, I was having no problem keeping up with the teacher. I even solved some problems ahead of her. Things are clicking. I know I need to do a lot of practice and I’m not entirely sure how I can get that practice (Khan is great but it’s missing stuff) but I’ll figure it out. I also have to kick the habit of getting panicked and frustrated when something doesn’t click right away and shut up the witchy voice that starts in on me.

So wish me some luck this semester and if you have any advice, tips, suggestions, etc. for the maths, I’d appreciate it. Because I would really like to say a big fat mental “F**k You, Mrs. Rodriguez” this semester. Pardon my French.

day 21

“Day 21″ by Kimberlyswhimsy on Flickr

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January 13, 2012

The De-Frumpiness Project

A couple of years ago, I read Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project: Or, Why I Spent a Year Trying to Sing in the Morning, Clean My Closets, Fight Right, Read Aristotle, and Generally Have More Fun. While there are issues I had with the book (one of the main ones being how much she spends to meet her goals throughout the year), I liked the overall concept: Take something you want to work on and break it down into 12 fragments, one for each month.

That appealed to me on so many levels but mostly in that it was  a long-term plan with short-term plans in it. There was instant gratification to be had and then a big payoff at the end. But I never really did my own thing. Until this year.

I’m not even going for a Happiness Project because you know what? I am happy. I have everything I could possibly need and many things I want and happiness is there for me when I’m able to acknowledge it. Kind of like in a fleeting moment as I’m walking to the Metro station, “Wow. I’m happy.” To me, happiness is as simple as that.

You know what isn’t? Fighting off the frumpies.

I blame my 30′s. I don’t really have any hard evidence or whatever but I just find it odd that it was around the time I turned 30 that I started gaining weight at a rate I’ve never seen before in my entire life and in my places I honestly did not believe could hold fat deposits. And it’s also about the time where I just started… letting go?

There’s another a more concrete reason to this and that would be my change in jobs back in 2010 (I actually started my new job the very same Monday of my 30th birthday week).

I take the MetroRail to my new office. And that means I walk from the station to my office. And from my office to the station. And my new job is not at a simple office building, it is in an office building located on a medical campus with all sorts of buildings spread out all over the place including a hospital I have to report to occasionally during my low season and at least twice a week during my high season.

So basically, there is more walking to be done during work hours at my new job. This contrasts significantly with my previous job which involved me driving to, parking at, walking up one tiny flight of stairs, and planting my Cuban butt behind a desk for several hours. Some times I’d get up and terrorize this or that person and some times I’d even go to either the floor above or below me to do that.

So when I made the switch to a new job it was in no time at all I realized something– the stilettos had to go. And not just that but wearing my traditional office job uniform of a pencil skirt and blouse was attracting unwanted attention on the train or the sidewalks. And before I knew it I couldn’t fit into it, or 80% of my clothes, anyways.

Ever since then it’s been a practical luge ride into Frumpidom. And I hate it.

I am not and have never been a high maintenance type of gal. I get my hair cut once, maybe twice a year. I don’t get manis or pedis. I don’t buy up lots of skincare products. I don’t wear  makeup and when I do, I keep it light. I don’t do diets. I don’t go to gyms. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about the way I look. If you saw me on the street, you wouldn’t know that.

The funny part about my new job is that many people on campus dress fantastically. And I wish I could just excuse myself and say it’s only the doctors and the people who drive here but I’ve seen many a polished person on the train as well. So what gives?

I’m not sure but I want to change it because I do believe the way you look affects the way you feel. And for a too-long while now I’ve been feeling dumpy. I’m not on a quest to dress sexy. I’m not on a mission to be a walking fashionista. What I want is polish. And I think I want this because it’s time for me to be kind to Me.

Every morning, I put time into doing Daughter’s hair. Most of the time it’s as simple as pulling it back into a ponytail and adding a cute clip or bow. But you know what? She looks at herself in the mirror and smiles a huge grin. And when one of her classmates or a parent or a teacher compliment her clip or her braid or her whatever, she beams.

Don’t we all?

And being exhausted, worried, stressed, hard-working women, don’t we maybe even need that sort of positive reinforcement in our lives?

There is a part of me that feels conflicted I’m having this preoccupation with my physical appearance, much less doing a year-long project dedicated towards that and not something more “noble” like getting healthier or freeing myself from debt or being more charitable or being a better mother or whatever more noble cause you can think of. I just feel that as much as there is such a thing as unhealthy preoccupation with one’s appearance, there’s also an unhealthy dismissal of one’s appearance. Maybe not for you, but apparently, it’s the case for me.

So I’m doing something about it because what’s the point in whining and complaining except that it could speed up the decline into frumpidom. And I’m going fast enough, thanks.

This month, it’s as simple as lipstick. I love lipstick. I love the texture. I love the smell. I love the taste. I love the way you have to concentrate while you apply it. I love that you have to sort of kiss yourself to get it nice and even. I love that when you kiss someone else, you leave behind a mark– a memory.

So far, it’s been going well. There’s a small group of fellow lipstick wearers on Google+ and I’ve been trying to regularly update with pictures and little things like that to keep it going and to keep it fun. I remind myself every time I’m going to step outside to stop and reapply.

And so far, it’s been making a difference. There’s this brief little happy flutter when I smack my lips and blow a kiss to the mirror. I can’t help but manage a small smile.

That’s not pathetic. Right?

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