Money talks, but I don't understand

So I turned 30 a few months ago and it seems that the universe is really trying to ensure I understand that I'm an adult now.

Witness the unsolicited phone call I received from my bank a few weeks ago. It was about refinancing my mortgage. Talk about adult things.

If you know anything about me, you know that I know nothing about finances. Check that, I know all about spending my finances. Spending I've got down. Saving I've got to work on. Refinancing mortgages? That's a foreign language.

So naturally, my first step is to call my daddy. (Same thing happens when I hear a funny noise in my car. Or something breaks at my house.)

My dad listened carefully as I explained what the bank guy said.

E: So then he said something about equity...what's that mean? Oh, and...um...amortization? Is that how you say that word?
Dad: Sigh.

After translating the banker speak into English, my dad follows up with this little gem:

Dad: You can refinance for more than what you owe and use your equity to pay off credit card debt if the numbers work out that way.

My eyes widened. What's that? Pay off my credit cards? So far I've treated my credit card debt with the Becky Bloomwood theory from the "Confessions of a Shopaholic" book series: If I don't acknowledge it, it just isn't there. That theory makes for a fun read, perhaps, but not the most sound financial advice.

Well, that was it. I was sold. Sign me up for a refinancing! I was so proud of myself. I was making a mature decision! I was going to refinance my mortgage and pay off my credit cards all at once! Take that, world!

Then I went to work the next day and told some lovely co-workers my plan. One particular co-worker was incredibly supportive:

Incredibly Supportive Co-worker (ISC): I think you're forgetting one thing.
E: No! I have it all figured out!
ISC: You realize that for this to work out to your advantage, you have to actually stop using those credit cards so much after you pay them off, right? Otherwise this is all going to happen again except you won't be able to refinance that time.
E: Um...
ISC: Yeah, that's what I thought. Never going to happen.

So then he asks if I've considered transferring my balances to a lower-interest credit card and paying that off.

E: Wait, so I can essentially use one credit card to pay off another credit card??

Cue the incredulous look from ISC.

My statement resulted in a full-on financial lesson. Complete with white board drawings, bell curves, a+b=c, and all sorts of other things that had me flashing back to high school math class. It went on for a good 30 minutes. Yet another co-worker appeared to counsel me on interest rates and that amortization thing again.

I feel the need to clarify here that I am not dumb. Math has just never been my thing. So I'm pretty sure I stopped listening around minute seven or eight. I mean they were making sense and I greatly appreciated the help but, wow, numbers are so boring. (Huh, come to think of it, the same thing resulted in me getting a C- in AP Calculus in high school.)

So long story short, I decided against refinancing - turns out after all that, I don't have enough home equity to really make it worthwhile - and decided to just start being more responsible with my money.

ISC had one more idea to help me. Each month, I should just give him $100 to hold for me. I'd get it back after one year when the total grew to $1,200. He'd even toss in interest because I'm nice.

E: You mean like a savings account? I already have one of those. I could just set that aside myself.
ISC: Yes, except let's be honest. You would spend it the second you saw some pair of shoes you wanted.

(Full disclosure: He's probably right.)

Then he pulled out the dry erase board marker.

ISC: Do you need me to explain budgeting again?
E: No! I mean, I get it. Thank you so much for helping.

Lesson learned from all of this? I need to marry a financial advisor.

Boot camp is hard!

So no one would ever mistake me for an athlete. Sure, I go to the gym occasionally, but that's usually for a hip hop class. Coincidentally, that hip hop class is where I learned my parents lied to me for those 11 years I spent in dance classes as a kid, because despite their assurance that I could dance, I actually have no rhythm.

Anyway, so yeah, I'm not an athlete. Nor am I really all that - how do I say it? - in shape. So when I decided to do a boot camp, some people were all like "Oh, you'll love it! It's hard, but you'll feel awesome after!"

But honestly, I had a much more shallow reason for wanting to do a boot camp. I want to look hot in my bridesmaids dress at my friend Liz's wedding in a month.

When there was a $35 groupon thing for boot camp I thought it was destiny. So the smart thing was signing up for a boot camp and getting a fantastic deal ($35 instead of $150! Take that, extreme couponers!) The not-so-smart part? Signing up for boot camp in August. At 6 p.m. Outside.

Holy mother of god, it's hot out there. The heat index was 106 today as I was sweating it out. But before I get to today, let me tell you about my initial session.

First, we were required to bring a yoga mat and 5 lb. hand weights. I owned neither. After purchasing the equipment, I at least felt somewhat prepared.

On the day of reckoning I brought my gym clothes to work, endured a lot of "supportive" laughter from my coworkers who couldn't wait to see me in pain the day after, and drank two liters of water to hydrate myself.

As I drove to boot camp I chatted with the bride-to-be, who I convinced to take boot camp with me, on the phone. The conversation went something like this.

E: We're gonna die.
BTB: Yep, we're gonna die.
E: Why are we doing this?
BTB:  It's gonna be bad.

We arrive and the first thing our instructor does is take us to a baseball field. That we have to run around. As a warm-up. No worries, he says, only one lap today. Usually we do four. At that point I simply thought "F***."

Here's the thing, I don't run. No seriously, I hate it. And actually, if you see me running then you should run, too, because there's either a giant fireball, hungry bear, or mentally deranged killer behind me.

So after jogging 3/4 of the way and doing a brisk walk for the last bit, it was time for leg work...and arm work...and ab work. All you really need to know about this part is that it sucked. A lot.

(Yes, I know. One day in and I'm already bitching. And yes, I know it's only workout boot camp. In my former life as a reporter covering the military, I saw real boot camp and real boot camp is way harder. Good thing I only wanted to date a soldier, not be one.)

So the next day, I'm like, OK, I'm sore, but it's not awful.

Then I tried to walk up some stairs.

Oh dear lord. That hurt. Later, a coworker said something funny and I laughed heartily, and then gasped in pain and said "Oh! My abs! That hurts!"

It hurt for two days. In fact, I still hurt when I went back to boot camp today for the second session. Where he made me run. Again. Three laps this time. Then more ab work. Then running. AGAIN. During a 20-second break, as I'm dripping sweat because the heat index was 106, I just laid on my back on my newly-purchased purple yoga mat and thought "Kill me now."

I glanced at the bride-to-be and immediately read her thoughts. They were "F***. Kill me now."

But deep down, we're both thinking "We got this. Gotta look good in those dresses. Gotta look good in those dresses."

So finally, gloriously, the instructor says we're done for day two. I leave boot camp and head out for a few errands.

Let me be clear: I do not look pretty. My makeup has sweated off my face and onto my shirt. My hair is disheveled and my ponytail has somehow ended up off-kilter. I've sweated through my sports bras and t-shirt. There are random grass bits stuck to my legs.

So imagine my surprise when I stop at the liquor store to pick up some beverages for the bride-to-be's bachelorette party this weekend and this conversation happens.

Liquor store dude: I think we have some of those bottles cold if you want it.
E: No thanks, I need them for a bachelorette party this weekend. They're fine.
LSD: Bachelor party? Are you the stripper?
E: Uh, I said bachelorette.
LSD: Oh, cause you could strip for a bachelor party, you know.
E: Uh, thanks?

Hmmm, is it too soon to call boot camp victory?

Road raging

So I should probably apologize. If you've ever been the driver of the vehicle directly in front of me at any given time, I have likely cursed you and called you an unkind name.

I admit it, I have irrational anger at the car in front of me. Always.

It doesn't matter if it's not you, but rather the moron in front of you who's holding up the traffic line, you are going to catch the blame. You're in my immediate line of sight. Yes, I realize it's irrational, but it makes me feel better to call you an idiot and blame you for all my driving troubles.

But today, I had a rational reason to be angry at a fellow road warrior. Let me set the scene.

It was a miserable, rainy day in Kentuckiana. I had just left work knowing that I had to be back tomorrow for an early morning meeting. I hate early morning meetings.

There was bumper-to-bumper traffic in order to cross the Kennedy bridge over the swollen Ohio River.  Drivers were grumpy; no one was waving after I kindly let them ahead of me in line for the exit. I was grumpy because I haven't seen the sun for days now. (You might say I could blame it on the rain. Yeaaaah yeah.)

So, as those who know me can attest, it was most certainly not the day for a reckless driver to anger me. Unfortunately, Trucker #16973 did not abide by those rules.

As I idled along at perhaps 23 miles per hour (because rush hour traffic always sucks and other people can't drive in the rain) I allowed about a car length between me and the Toyota in front of me. Suddenly, the rain stopped for a brief moment, traffic began to clear, and I was able to hit the gas. But then Trucker #16973 barreled up along my passenger side.

He saw me. He definitely saw me.

Still, he pulled about even with the Toyota in front of me and decided to wedge himself between us, which may have been ok... had he been a car and not a SEMI. It was like he was Cinderella's ugly stepsister's enormous foot trying to wedge itself into the glass slipper.

He just kept coming. I honked the horn repeatedly, slammed on the brakes, yelled at Trucker #16973 in less than ladylike terms that he was not an intelligent human being, and drove into the shoulder. I watched the Toyota in front of me also take a hard left into the gravel as Trucker #16973 squealed its tires into the spot that had seconds earlier been occupied by my little Honda Accord and the Toyota.

I couldn't hear what the Toyota driver was saying, but from his hand signal, I imagine it was something along the lines of "You stupid mother trucker!"

Now, I have never claimed to be a good driver. Admittedly, I failed my driver's test the first time I took it, but only because I gently tapped the curb during the parallel parking section. (Side note, the curb is merely a guideline. I maintain as long as I corrected after tapping the curb I shouldn't have failed.)

So, yes, I've made my fair share of driving oopsies. I am sure there are plenty of people who have shaken their fist at me as I sped by them.

But you know what? I don't have a "How Am I Driving?" 800 number on the back of my car. Sadly for Trucker #16973, he does.

So I whip out my phone and dial the number, all the while still fuming. After I lost a good 10 minutes of my life on hold, I reached Bobby in the safety department.

Bobby: Can I help you?

E: Well, not now. One of your truckers already tried to run me and the car in front of me off the road.

Bobby: I'm so sorry. Do you have his truck number?

E: Of course. It's 16973. So what happens now?

Bobby: We'll radio him and let him know.

E: Know what? That he sucks at driving? That he's a jackass?

Bobby: That he's received a report for unsafe driving.

E: That's it? Doesn't he get a ticket or something?

Bobby: No ma'am, not unless a police officer pulls him over.

E: What good are these stupid numbers then? Does he get his pay docked or anything?

Bobby: It will get noted in his driving record for the company.

E: Yeah, well, that's not enough. He could have killed me.

Bobby: I'll make sure to note that, ma'am.

Whatever. It was a moral victory. Suck it, 16973.

The one in which I get a sister-in-law

A little Erica insight for you: When I was a kid, every birthday or Christmas list I ever created included the wish for a baby sister. (And a trampoline and a puppy, FYI.)

Sadly, I never got a baby sister. (Or the trampoline or puppy, now that you mention it.)

But recently my little brother, Jason, did something my parents never could. He got me a sister!

Last Saturday, J proposed to his longtime girlfriend, Kristin, and she said yes! Bam! Instant sister-in-law. Just add a diamond.

Several years ago my brother very kindly consented to a ridiculous arrangement that entitled me, as the oldest, to get married first. That way, I wouldn't be a loser who had to watch her younger sibling beat her to the altar. But since the last several guys I've gone out with have been, well, losers, J won.

I've known J was going to ask Kristin to marry him since he first brought her home to meet us like six years ago. But then this conversation happened this past fall.

E: So, you're going to tell me before you buy her a ring, aren't you?
J: I guess.
E: You know you can't get married before me, right? You agreed.
J: You better get on it, then.
E: Noted, J. Noted. ...You're going to get married before me, aren't you?
J: Yeah.

So I wasn't all that surprised when he told me in November that he had gone ring shopping. That's right, November. He popped the question in late January. It took him freakin' forever to propose. And knowing someone is going to propose is a hard secret to keep.

But now that Kristin has the ring firmly on her finger, I can confess.

I didn't keep it a secret.

I didn't keep it a secret at all. I totally blabbed. I told everyone I knew as long as there was no chance of those people telling Kristin. I told people at work. I told a few friends. Then I told more friends. To be completely accurate, anytime someone asked me what was new, I told them my brother was going to propose.

You might say I was excited.

And that was before I saw the ring.

Ah, yes, the ring. It's beautiful. My brother did a fantastic job of picking it out by himself. After choosing it, he had it shipped to my parents' house in Louisville and it was supposed to arrive while he was here for the holidays so he could take it back to Chicago with him.

It didn't make it on time. The ring showed up a few days after my brother left. Which meant when it arrived, I got to tear into the package to check it out before I sent it back to him.

And again, now that Kristin has the ring firmly on her finger, it's time for a confession.

(Sidenote to my soon-to-be sister-in-law: Kristin, know that I love you. And please don't be mad.)

I may have tried the ring on.

I couldn't help it! It was just so sparkly and gorgeous. The shine hypnotized me. But that was the only time I tried it on. I promise.

OK, fine. I tried it on again before I mailed it back to my brother.

But that's no big deal because sisters always borrow each other's things without asking, right? I mean, I've never had a sister but I'm pretty sure that's what they do. And I didn't even borrow it per se, I just put it on. For a second. Or maybe two. Or 10.

Don't judge me.

Anyway, Kristin, welcome to the family. I'm so excited that my brother chose such a wonderful person to spend the rest of his life with. You're the best future sister-in-law anyone could ask for.

Oh, and I promise I'll never touch your jewelry again.

Dinner with friends

So I went to dinner Friday with my best friend and her husband.

(Her husband decided he wanted a fake name for his first Ericacentric blog appearance. We'll call him Ricardo Gia. You'll learn why later. We'll call the best friend Vicjams.)

Anyway, do you ever have those long dinner chats with friends where you bounce around from one mostly ridiculous subject to another? This was one of those nights.

Vicjams, Ricardo, and I ordered our drinks at a local establishment that shall not be named and delved into what would become one the most random (and there have been a lot of random conversations in our nearly two-decades long friendship) conversations we've ever had.

It started with Harry Potter, naturally. Vicjams has been caught up in Harry Potter recently as she rewatched all the movies before catching the latest one in the theater.

Vicjams: "It's pretty bad, actually. I used the word "snogging" in a sentence earlier this week."
Ricardo Gia: "I feel like I'm living in f-in' Hogwarts. She called me a Muggle the other day. I don't even know what that means."
Vicjams: "Yeah. It's like Harry Potter world at our house."
E: "You know there's an actual Harry Potter World now, right? At Universal Studios. You can get a wand and drink butterbeer. OMG, that's what we can do for your 30th birthday!"

Vicjams was really excited about that idea. Ricardo Gia, however, told us he'd pay for us to go and he'd stay home. He then begged to change the subject to something else, anything else. He suggested fantasy football. Vicjams and I moved on to Twilight and how it wasn't as good as Harry Potter.

Next, we talked about a movie they were watching recently that involved Richard Gere and a very authentic Irish accent.

Vicjams: "I don't think it's him doing the voice. The accent is really good. Almost too good."
Ricardo Gia: "Is Richard Gere Irish?"
E: "It's time for a Google challenge!"

The resulting search informed us that Richard Gere was born in Philadelphia, has a dad and a kid named Homer, and uses the alias of Ricardo Gia. Oh, and that he got a gymnastics scholarship to college. Um, yeah.

From there conversation took a quick detour from movies to discuss how much Ricardo Gia - as in Vicjams' husband, not to be confused with the real Richard Gere - looks like the baby from that printer commercial with the "I've got a brand new pair of roller skates" song. It's true, they could be twins. I took a picture.

We touched on various topics for the next few minutes including that Vicjams hates food with flavor, how I had to get a new iPhone because mine fell out of my back pocket into the toilet, Harry Potter again, what the homilies at our respective Christmas Eve masses were like, the reason that all those dead birds are dying is because Chuck Norris is playing Angry Birds, whether jokes about Hitler and 9/11 are still inappropriate, and Harry Potter again.

Somehow, we got to the fact that Vicjams and Ricardo Gia had recently rewatched The Hangover. That led to various quotes of our favorite lines from the movie like "His name is Carlos." and "I didn't know they gave away rings in the Holocaust."

It also led to Vicjams quoting Mike Tyson's singing of "In the Air Tonight" by Phil Collins.

Vicjams: (singing)"I can feel it coming in the air tonight..."
E: "Wait, what do they say there? Oh Lord?"
Vicjams: "I thought it was Hold on or Oh long or something." 
Ricardo Gia: "I don't know what it is, but it's not any of the things you just said." (Editor's note: It is, in fact, Oh Lord.)
Vicjams: "Hey, E, what do they say in that song Take Me Home Tonight"
Vicjams and E: (singing) "I don't want to let you go 'til I see the light!"
Ricardo Gia: You two know we're in public, right?

So we stopped singing and went back to Harry Potter. We decided Ricardo Gia was kinda like Professor Slughorn.

Ricardo Gia just played on his iPhone until it was time to leave.

Maybe the next movie we all watch should be Dinner For Schmucks.

I'm back...with the bubbly

So I might have a problem.

No, I'm not talking about how I haven't blogged in a month, but I am sorry about that. One of my many New Year's resolutions is to blog more. I'm on it.

The problem I'm really talking about is my recent penchant for champagne. Since New Year's Eve, I have been involved in the purchase of eight bottles of champagne. Yeah, in four days. Two bottles per day. Bring on the bubbly!

Except actually bringing the bubbly is the biggest part of the problem.

First up was New Year's Eve. I went with a friend - her name is Erin, but we'll call her Other E - to purchase three bottles of champagne for a NYE party. Naturally, we went with the high class stuff. Andre. Extra Dry. $4.99. Oh yeah. She even sprung for a $9.99 bottle of Korbel because we're extra classy.

That evening another friend - we'll call her Sara, because that's her name - picked us up for the festivities. After driving across town, we arrive at the party when Other E promptly realizes that she's empty handed.

Other E: Um, did I leave the champagne at your house?
E: Seriously?
S: You forgot ALL the champagne?

After a few minutes of debating what to do, Other E smiles sweetly and asks us to go back to my house. Since Sara drove and I had my house keys, the two of us reluctantly head to her car to start the long trek.

We made it to the end of the driveway.

S: Forget this driving to your house thing, let's just buy more.
E: There's a liquor store around the corner. We'll buy a couple bottles and keep Other E's for ourselves.
S: Yeah, we'll definitely drink it sometime later.

We bought two bottles for the party, but kept all three of Other E's. Interest.

Fast forward to Monday evening when a group of lovely ladies was gathering to watch The Bachelor. I made it clear that we had extra champagne from New Year's so no one needed to bring wine.

Again, Sara picks me up and on the drive over we discuss how scatterbrained we've been that day. Sara soon realizes that she forgot our Bachelor betting game (don't judge, it's awesome) and we sigh as we head to the door where our hostess Liz politely greets us.

HL: Did you bring the champagne?
E: Son of a....
S: We'll go get more.

For the second time in four days, Sara and I head to the store. We return a few minutes later with three more bottles of Andre.

Grand total purchased since NYE: Eight bottles

S: Everywhere I go from now on, I am going to make sure I am only a block away from champagne. Just in case.
E: Should we be concerned that the pack of gum I just bought cost 1/4 of the bottle of champagne I also just purchased? And what am I going to do with the three additional bottles at my house?
S: Don't worry, we'll definitely drink it sometime later.