CSS or the FCS-- The Financial Cavity Search

Claire-Adele is a senior and is applying to college for next year. We were at a picnic last week and every single adult she spoke to asked her about her plans for next year. What is often considered polite conversation starter: "Where are you applying?" is considered by Claire-Adele to be a crazily invasive question. Afterward, she said she wanted to wear a sign that reads "Please don't ask me about college."

I can appreciate her stress. She is applying to some serious reach schools where it comes down to luck as to whether or not she'll get in.

In support of Claire-Adele chasing her dream schools, Jack and I (mostly I) worked on the FAFSA and the CSS forms this weekend. FAFSA is the Free Application for Federal Student Aid. That form asks for some basic tax info from the previous year and how much money you have in cash and investments. They don't care about retirement or the value of your home. It didn't take that long to fill nor was it complicated as long as you have a copy of your previous year's tax return in hand. Enter your AGI, the amount of taxes paid, the balance in your bank accounts and your kid's accounts, and you are basically done.

Jack and I know the kids aren't going to be eligible for much (or any) financial aid until the Boy starts school, and even then it might be dicey, especially now that I have a job. We filled out the form anyway as a baseline in case something happens to our cashflow and we can no longer afford tuition. Jack could lose his job or become disabled. Both of us could encounter elder care expenses for our parents. Seattle could get hit by an earthquake or Jack could run off with another doctor at the hospital and we could end up divorced. None of these are likely to happen in the near future, but the probability isn't zero, so I buckled down and filled out the forms.

Fine.

The FAFSA was one thing, then there is the CSS, sponsored by the College Board, the same organization that charges $60 (or whatever) for every high school student to take the SAT and $100 (or whatever) to take an AP exam. The CSS is the College Scholarship Service, but it should be called the FCS, the Financial Cavity Search. Most private colleges want both the FAFSA and the FCS. Here is a summary of the FCS:

• How much money did you earn last year and this year? How much do you expect to earn next year? 
• When did you buy your home? How much did you pay for it? How much you owe on your mortgage? What is your monthly payment and how much is your home worth now? (Damn you, Zillow!!!)
• How much money did you put in retirement funds last year? 
• How much did you spend on healthcare?
• Are you being supported by other people? 
• Are you supporting other people?
• Do you own a vacation home? Family business? Farm?
• How much money did your kid make last summer? Next summer? 
• Do you have a trust fund?
• Life insurance?
• How many cars do you own? What are the makes, models, year and how much did they cost?
• How much money are you hiding in your mattress? 
• Have you looked in the cushions of your couch? 
• How much money is in your coin bucket?
• What is your non-taxable income? (This one is for the likes of the Corleone and Gambino families. Michael Corleone went to Dartmouth, after all, but I doubt he applied for financial aid.)
• Are your parents rich?
• Are your parents old and decrepit and you need to take care of them? How much are you paying for that nursing home?
• Do you have a rich, childless sibling who is going to pay for your kid to go to college?
• Is there any money anywhere else that you are not telling about, because if there is and you are not telling us, you are in big, big trouble, Mister!

Oh. My. God. It was awful. I only made up three of those questions on that list. The rest of them are true, and I left some of the other ones out because I blocked them out from the pain of answering them. The only question they didn't ask was how much jewelry I owned and how much was it worth. I bet next year it gets added to the list, or else they know not to get between a woman and her bling. They also didn't ask about the cash back program for my credit cards. Oh shit--would that be non-taxable income? Too bad. They didn't list it as on option on the form.

Yesterday was a beautiful, sunny day, one of the last before the hellish Seattle rainy winter brings nine months of gray and gloom, and I spent it exposing every financial detail about my life to the internet. People aren't supposed to talk about money but here I am having to financially strip down and be evaluated by complete strangers.

I would have said FTS to the FCS and not filled it out. I might have gone rogue and said "Ha! I am not playing your games and and and...wait, how much does this dream school of my daughter's cost? Really?" and then I buckled. They might decide to give us some money some day, I thought. We should fill it out on the off chance something bad happens.

I entered the list of all of the colleges she is going to apply to that require the FCS and hit submit, when I got a delightful* surprise: It was going to cost $110 to send all of my private financial information to all of these schools. It is bad enough my daughter wants to leave me and move to the East Coast. And now I have to pay for the privilege of having my family's financial situation scrutinized?

Kill me now, I thought. Kill me now.

* By delightful, I mean hellish.

Cramming and Fasting for Hamilton

In less than two weeks, I will be in the room where it happens. Jack is running the NY Marathon and the family will tag along. Part of Jack's bribe to bring us along were tickets to Hamilton.

Squee!

I am so excited I can't stand it. The Boy brought home the music home in seventh grade, and he and I became hooked. "You'll be Back" was the first song I heard. The first time I listened to the entire soundtrack in one stretch, I cried so hard I had snot bubbles coming out of my nose. I would listen to the soundtrack as did my physical therapy for my knee.

I have told very few people that we are going because I don't want anything to jinx it. We bought the tickets almost a year ago, and I am afraid to mention that we are going in case something terrible happens and we miss it. I am hoping there won't be a hurricane, flooding, windstorm, nuclear war, or other epic disaster that prevent us from getting to NYC.

While the Boy and I have almost memorized all of the music, I have one more thing to finish before I see the show: Ron Chernow's biography of Hamiton. As I friend of mine once said describing my reading of Les Miserables, I have a long-term relationship with Alexander Hamilton. I started reading it more than a year ago, but put it down to read other stuff. I am on page 266 out of 818. Thankfully, the last ~100 pages are footnotes.

I picked up where I left off, in the middle of a discussion about the Federalist papers. John Jay wrote five, James Madison wrote twenty-nine, and Hamilton wrote...the other fifty-one. In one of my next posts, I will quote all of Hamilton's brilliant ideas about executive power and how if he met President Trump he would verbally eviscerate the man. But not now.

In contrast to trying to read as much of the book before I see the show, I am trying to avoid listening to the soundtrack. I want it to be as fresh as possible when I see it in less than two weeks, so I am "fasting" from the music. I slipped today and listened to "Wait for It" and "Best of Wives and Best of Women" at work on my headphones. The Boy and I have talked that the hardest part of watching the show will be trying not to sing along. Awhile ago, there was a meme about "Mirandize" where it means not being able to think about anything other than the lyrics to Hamilton. Been there. I had the lyrics of the second song running through my mind this morning when I woke up: "Well I'm going back to sleep."

Hot Seat

Monday night while Jack was at a dinner for work, I took the kids out for dinner.

"I thought we were having fajitas for dinner," said Claire-Adele as I loaded her and her brother into the car.

"I thought your dad was going to be home," I said. My greatest weakness is going out to eat when I don't want to cook. I didn't feel like making an overly involved meal by myself while the kids lounged on the couch.

We went to Santorini, a mom and pop Italian restaurant across the street from the Boy's former middle school. The food is good and everyone in my family will eat there. The waitstaff are the owner's* kids and are there every time we are there.

At dinner, I was tired, so I sat and listened to the kids, not saying much. The kids were talking about their social lives, and I am happy to be a fly on the wall for the conversation. Before the salads came, Claire-Adele turned to me and asked about my high school boyfriend. "When did you break up with Sean? Before or after you left for college?"

The Boy was quiet, waiting for my answer. "We broke up at the end of my senior year, but he wanted to get back together at the beginning of my freshman year. I was already on and off dating another guy who was a senior..."

Claire-Adele paused. "You were dating a senior when you were a freshman?" The Boy looked equally curious. "How did that happen? Were you hot?" she asked rather incredulously, as if she never could have imagined that possibility.

As much as Claire-Adele was surprised that I landed a senior, I was surprised at the question. I had never really thought about if I was hot or not before. I always had a boyfriend, and that was good enough. Since I always had a boyfriend, I didn't need to be hot. Or so went my logic when I was in high school and college.

With their father not around, both kids peppered me with questions about my college and high school dating life, and for the first time in a really long time, if ever, they were genuinely interested in me. I was in the hot seat, and didn't mind. They asked clarifying questions, and I answered them as truthfully as was reasonable.

When Jack got home from his dinner, I told him about my dinner with the kids. He thought it was hiliarious and "Were you hot?" became the catch-phrase of the day.


* Funny story. The owner is a woman about my dad's age. When my dad came to town, the Boy and I  went to Santorini for dinner with him. The owner came out to our table and started chatting with us, asking about our day, the food, whatever. She never comes to our table for small talk when it is just Jack, the kids and I. Just sayin'...

$5

I was on the sidelines of the Boy's soccer game today talking to moms. The boys won 5-1 in case you are curious, especially compared to last week's cluster which was the first topic of conversation on the sidelines. Two moms weren't there and the witnesses relayed the horror. When the boys are winning, the moms chat. I missed the Boy score and then his "textbook corner kick" which got the team a goal. Oh well. I would say I'm a bad mom, but it is rude to cheer for your kid's team when they are dominating the game.

One of the moms talked about "Mom's Eyes" where she can find things in the fridge and around the house that her children can't see even if it is under their nose. 

"You mean this?" she said as she pretended to grab a mayonnaise jar out of the fridge. 

"When my family tells me they can't find something, I tell them 'If I find it, you owe me five dollars.' They immediate start looking much harder than they did before, hurrying in case I find it first. It is perfect!" I said.

After the game, I dropped the Boy at home and picked up Claire-Adele from her volunteer activity. On the way home, we stopped at the grocery store. Unlike shopping with a toddler, teenagers can run around the store and pick up red peppers and avocados. A half-gallon of blueberry cheese cake ice cream made it to the cart, but I figured that was a small price to have her help. 

We were in the aisle with the canned tomatoes. The shelves were nearly empty. I wondered if there was a blockage on I-5 and tomato trucks didn't make it to town this week.

"Where are the fire roasted tomatoes?" I said.

Claire-Adele picked up a can off a barren shelf and said, "You owe me five dollars."

Apocalypse Planning

I am a firm believer in planning. My family is mixed on my love for planning. The Boy hates it when I ask him what his plan is for the day, yet Claire-Adele is happy that I've saved enough money for her to go to college. I want to have enough money in the bank or retirement accounts so I could live to be 112 without being supported by my future grandchildren or living in a tent under the highway. (Or more likely, Ravenna Park, which would be nicer.)

But now I am worried that I might need to take cover. Our President told the media while standing with a group of military families that this is "the calm before the storm." How does one plan for that?

While I would argue that our President is an evil idiot instead of an evil genius (see: Hitler, Pol Pot, any other leader who has orchestrated genocide), Trump still has tremendous power to cause widespread destruction without having to think. All he has to do is press a red button and he can wipe out millions of people by releasing nuclear weapons. The act of pushing a red button needs no special skills or brain power, just the will to say yes.

My new copy of The Atlantic came in the mail yesterday with an article on Google's Moonshot program where "regular investigation into the absurd is not just permitted, but encouraged." I propose a question for the group:

What should we do to prepare for the a nuclear holocaust? 

First, we need to ask:

Would we die or survive? 

If we plan as if we are going to die in a thermonuclear blast, then preparation would be different than living in a nuclear winter. Let's call death Scenario 1 and survival Scenario 2.

Scenario 1: My preparation would be "Screw everything. I am going to die anyway. Might as well have good time." This would be something just shy of hedonism. I often wonder if I were to be diagnosed with terminal cancer if I would get chemo or take a world cruise. I think I'd take a world cruise. Maybe. I don't know. I have enough money saved that I could live to be 112, but what would be the point if I didn't see the world because I died at 48?

Preparing for Scenario 1 would be fun, but highly problematic if a nuclear holocaust did not occur.  I'd look ridiculous having oysters and Veuve Clicquot for breakfast when everyone else is having coffee and a bagel. "Why is she drunk at 8:30 in the morning?" people might say. I might lose my job and if the nuclear holocaust didn't happen, I'd be unemployed and hard pressed to explain why. HR people would write "Unstable" across the top of my file. (I would say type or enter that comment into a database instead of write, but there would need to be a field for that comment.)

Most importantly, I don't want to be one of those people who then hopes to die in a nuclear war because I've spent all of my money, have a nasty hangover and don't want to face the rest of my life.

Scenario 2 is far less inspiring.

• What will run out sooner if there were nuclear destruction: electricity or gasoline? If I bet gasoline will run out, then I should buy a Tesla. 
• What would be the risks of drinking contaminated water versus dying of thirst? There is no food left because trucks that deliver food to the Pacific Northwest can't drive here because of lack of fuel. Should I eat my dog? 
• I have enough money. Should I buy a gun and bully my way on to a plane to another state that hasn't been obliterated? Should I pack up my panniers and try to bike to Idaho where the air and water isn't as polluted? 
• Would I leave my kids behind and fend for myself? More likely, would they leave me behind?
• Would people in Idaho or Ohio have a ban on nuclear holocaust refugees? 
• Would I have to live my last days, weeks, months, or years in a fallout zone, surrounded by death and decay? What if I were one of a dozen people left in Seattle, ala Station Eleven? What would I do then?

Perhaps it is time to invoke Occam's Razor: the simplest solution is often the best. Instead me and possibly the Google X people trying to figure out how to plan and prepare for a nuclear holocaust, perhaps we shouldn't give the power of negotiating world peace to an unhinged bully.

Mondays, or the Car Ride Home

After this weekend, I was happy to go to work. Most of the weekend wasn't too bad. Friday night Jack and I went to the UW Meany Center and saw the modern dance troupe Bandaloo after the Boy's Cross Country Chili Feed Fundraiser. (Note to self: If the Boy stays gung-ho about XC, someday I might have to host this event. Good thing I know how to make chili.)

Saturday I cleaned the house, read the newspaper, and then became depressed. Sunday morning, I went to my writing group which was fun.

Sunday afternoon, I drove to two hours to Aberdeen for the Boy to play soccer. Ugh.

Thankfully, it was a sunny and warm afternoon. That was the best part of this trip--the weather. Last year, the Boy's team crushed the Aberdeen team 8-0 back when they were in the Bronze league. This year, they are in the Silver league and the team they played was much better. I would say they were heads above, but they weren't. Half of the boys on this team weren't even five feet tall. But they were awesome. My guess is that this was the top team in Aberdeen, and the really good players played up.

"We are getting our asses kicked by a bunch of toddlers," said one of the Boy's teammates during half time. Dan, the player with the highest record of fouls and Co-Captain with the Boy, ranted at the team.

The Boy continued: "($#(&! and @#*?."

"How cute!" said Annika, Dan's mom. "The Boy is swearing at his teammates!" Annika is the only person who could have said this to me and it wasn't offensive. Neither of our boys are chill. About anything. She was welcoming me to the "Your Teenage Son is a Douchebag" Club. Oy.

"I have better things to do today," said the Boy as he packed up his bag at halftime. The very last things I wanted to do was hop in the car and drive for two hours with him in a snit. I'd rather be in the car for two hours with a raccoon.

The coach took the Boy aside after his mini-tantrum at his teammates and talked him off the ledge. I want to know whatever the coach said to the Boy so I can use it when trying to get the Boy to school, off his phone, do his homework, etc. After the talk with the coach, the Boy put on his shin guards, and went back on the field, this time as a left wing, not his usual center-defensive position.

The game continued to be brutal. The score was 5 to 2, and the boys were losing with about ten minutes left in the game when Jordan got a goal and then a red card and was pulled from the game. After Jordan's goal, the goalie took a swing at him. Jordan--who is a foot taller than the goalie--walked back to the goalie in a menacing way when the red card came out. Rightfully so, goalies are well protected by the foul rules. The ref didn't see the goalie's swing, but he did see Jordan march back to the net.

The Boy's team was now down a player with ten minutes left and they were down by two goals.

It's over, I thought. I was really, really, beginning to dread the car ride home. Two weeks ago at a home game, the Boy's team won and the Boy was in a snit because it wasn't a shut out. That ride was intolerable, and it was only five minutes long. Still, we had to stop on the way home and ply the Boy with a cheeseburger, onion rings and a milk shake to turn his mood around.

I turned to Annika. "I'll take Dan home in my car and you can take the Boy," I said. She laughed.

"Or, Jack and I might leave," I said. "And you can give him a ride."

Annika laughed again. "I'll tell him 'Something came up,' and you had to leave," she said.

Then the Boy's team went Braveheart. Dan, the Foul King, was benched. He paced the sidelines, coaching his teammates. They turned into a tsunami of brute force and scored two goals in the last two minutes. The last goal was kicked in by a defender from thirty yards away. It hit the back of the net three feet off the ground.

The parents in the stands relaxed. The car ride home would now only suck because it was two hours long, not because we'd have surly teenage boys in the car. To paraphrase Hamilton, which we listened to on the way to Aberdeen, they snatched a stalemate from the jaws of defeat.

"On that last goal, that ball must have been going sixty miles an hour," the Boy said on the car ride home.

I told my manager the story.

"So that's why moms cheer on the sidelines," he said. "You care more about the car ride home than winning."

Yep.

Working Mom Dating Profile

Today is the weekend, a day most working people dedicate to family and/or hobbies. I looked at what I did and I am glad I am not single, because I thought of what my hobby list would look like on an internet dating profile.

Middle-aged Woman in Search of...I don't know. Impress me.

Hobbies:

• Vacuuming
• Folding and sorting laundry
• Balancing the checkbook*
• Applying for Financial Aid
• Loading/unloading the dishwasher
• Walking my dog because he won't poop within 1/4 of a mile of my house
• Driving people places
• Calendaring
• Gardening*
• Going out to dinner because after all of that I am too tired to cook or go grocery shopping

The worst part about this is that I wouldn't want to date anyone who would be remotely attracted to any of the things on the list.

* I like these for real.

Mo Dowd's Sheet-Caking

Unless you have been living under a rock--which is starting to sound appealing, you know this was a super shitty week in America with a hurricane ripping through Puerto Rico and a massacre in Las Vegas. I was eating lunch with people at work and the conversation turned to events of the week.

"Did you read the article in the New York Times about 'bump stocks' used by the shooter Vegas?" my manager asked.

Ah, no. Since living under a rock isn't viable, I've been skipping the first section and reading the second, third and fourth sections of the New York Times. I should be reading the front page, but I don't. I can find out what is happening from people at work, my dad, my kids and my friends Facebook. Even the business section is nauseating these days with constant reports of sexual discrimination in Silicon Valley. Yesterday, Harvey Weinstein was on the front page for harassing women half his age. Bleck.

What did I read the other day? A piece by Maureen Dowd on the actor Idris Elba. If the Boy had been a girl, her name would have been Maureen. The most beautiful girl in my high school was named Maureen, and Maureen Dowd is one of my favorite newspaper columnists, second to Mike Royko. Mike would have been a funny name for a girl, and even though the Boy was a boy, there are too many Michaels in my family to add another.

I digress. This must Mo Dowd's version of Tina Fey's sheet-caking. After years of writing hard-hitting pieces about what now seem to be reasonable and rational politicians, it seems like she has given up.

I imagine what she thought: I could write a piece about the evil, idiot President, or I could interview a hot actor. 

After about three seconds, she chose the hot actor.

As much as I love Maureen Dowd, I had to wonder: Does this piece count as journalism? It seems like she is mostly interested in getting laid here, and she is not too transparent about it. Or, maybe I am reading too much into the piece. Maybe she is nothing more than an adoring fan. Here is some evidence. The article reads like a booty call to me, but you can judge yourself...

"In a world where most movies disappoint and true stars are rare, Mr. Elba is magnetic. He is tall and muscular...His father once advised him to look people in the eyes. In our A.D.D. planet, it works. Mr. Elba does not look away at his phone, at the waitress when he asks for a knife, at his publicists trying to hustle him along or at his steak salad and steak and eggs. His expressive brown eyes are always on you... His vibe is cool but his career is frenetic.

So at long last, we need to know: Does he like martinis? Offering his most suave look, Mr. Elba murmurs: “I like them stirred. Not shaken. Jesus Christ, did I just say that out loud?”"

What did I do? Did I say, "This is a ridiculous piece of fluff," put it down and read about hurricane victims with no power? Did I write the New York Times and say "Mo Dowd has the hots for this guy. You call this journalism?" and read instead about the cancer epidemic in Africa? Did it matter that for six lines out of a few hundred Dowd asked about racism and Trump, and the rest were dedicated to whether or not Elba would be the next James Bond?

Nope. I read every word of what Maureen Dowd wrote.

Twice.

Favorite Part of My Day

My favorite part of my day is part of my morning commute where I ride my bike through the upper level of the Westlake Light Rail Station. I put my bike in the elevator, take it up to the second floor and then ride across the granite floor with the trains and buses running down below. I only do this when the weather is dry. I don't want to grease it with wet rims on the polished rock.

Why is this so wonderful? Why does it bring me joy? It is because I am riding inside on a beautiful floor? Because I've never rode my bike inside before? Because I am breaking a rule and cheating by riding instead of walking?