The Golden Years

The inevitable passage of time.  The degradations of your mortal coil.  The unstoppable approach of death.  All of these things are cheerful and great, but I’d like to talk about a different aspect of aging.  Specifically, retirement.

Doesn’t retirement sound fun?!  The childhood of old age!  No longer slave to the work day, free to take up painting or goat raising or acting deaf and whapping people with your cane!  The world as your oyster!

 

I mean, but on a fixed income, so. 

SO you can plan for that!  (I know, I know, insert crushing debt and low wages here.  It’s not that easy.  But the days of being old are always approaching, so we do what we can.)

I have no idea if it ages well,
 but this is the book!

When I was a teenager I read a book called Smart Women Finish Rich, and I can directly attribute some solid choices I have made along the years to that book—it gave me a financial literacy system, a series of rules to follow when I started to live on my own dime that, even if I didn’t really understand the whats or the whys, were definitely better than me just feeling it out as I went.  In nature, I have poor impulse control.

But I didn’t have to be just in nature, I had a system; a book that said (among other things), always get the retirement plan, always put a lot of your (crappy, nonprofit-level) salary into it, always be saving.  It was a good framework to start with before I got used to having enough money to buy things—I just got used to not buying things, and hid that money from myself.  Took advantage of all the matching programs, put in the recommended percentages, all that.  

Are they...supposed to be that small?

Never mind that the world went upside down and retirement recommendations aren’t what they used to be, I have a little nest egg locked away where I can’t touch it til I’m 55 and a half, and it’s better than nothing.

Technically I have a couple of nest eggs, because while financial stability is a thing I internalized, long term job stability was not.  But since I’m ignoring all of this anyway for years to come, who cares.

Well, recently I decided to care.  I got tired of never being able to log into any of my accounts because I haven’t in so long I have no idea what the passwords are, and never being able to look at it all in one place, and never being able to make one decision like “let’s invest aggressively!” or “lock it all down, why are we tariffing, who let the horse loose in the hospital?!” and having that work across the board.

(gigglesnort)

So I got a Guy, a Financial Guy, and we started the process of rolling everything into one thing.  That’s what it’s called, it’s a roll over, and it’s something that most people?  Do?  As soon as they leave whatever job and get a new plan at the new job?  I really don’t know.

Basically my philosophy on these retirement investment accounts has been, “ignore it forever and when you’re getting there, see how it’s doing.”  I stand by this philosophy, in that I’m still young

Related note, as of Sept 4, I own *a* Nike stock.

 enough that you might as well and also the people running these mutual funds or whatever are trained professionals whereas I am like, “Dollar General!  Aww, I love Dollar General, I would like a stock please!” and “McDonald’s french fries!  I LOVE McDonald’s french fries!  Two stocks, please!” and

 that is not the most best investment plan for long term growth. 

And like, my accounts, they’re fine, they’re whatever, who cares, the money is imaginary for 

ISN'T THAT ADORABLE?!?!?

all of the more years.  You do what you can, it’s something, and if I was spending that money all I would have to show for it is an even larger collection of ceramic serving dishes charmingly crafted to look like vegetables.   It’s about security and peace of mind more than dollars of money at this point.

But it is my money, which is why this rolling over process has lit such a particular fire in me.

Let me walk you through it.  My Guy tells me how to do a roll over and it’s like this:

     1. Call them.

     2. Ask for a roll over check.

     3. No, that’s it. 

And they are like, cool, great, what address do we mail this to, have a nice day.  And I did it!  At one point I worked for the State, so I had a State retirement account, and it went just like that!  It was so easy!

And then I call the firm that has another of my accounts, let’s call

 them “Ass Utual,” and follow those same steps.  But the Assers, they’re like, great, we have a 15 page long complicated legal document we need filled out, plusandalso this form that we need signed from the employer who sponsored the account, but not just anyone can sign it, it needs to be an Asser Approved Representative at that employer, and then you send us all that and then we send you the check. 

The employer I worked for over seven years ago?

Yes.

The employer who sponsored me, with my name, birthday, SSN, etc. on this account, that match with those same pieces of info I am giving you now, plus any and all other personal verification steps we have gone through so far?

Yep.

But if I wanted to, say, change my investment strategy, then what I have done so far would clear me to do so, correct?

Yep!

But to actually get *my* money, I have to go through these extra and ridiculous hoops?

You got it!

Particularly maddening about this is, as I mentioned, I just got off the phone with the State's retirement people.  Who needed none of this.  The State.  The most bureaucratic and legally CYA entity that exists.  So these hoops, they aren’t a legal thing.  They are a policy thing.  A stupid, abstruse, infuriating policy thing, keeping me from *my* money.  A policy that appears to be unnecessarily burdensome in order to make one give up and leave one’s money with them…or at least do it wrong the first three times so that they keep earning whatever they earn off of having my money in the first place.  My money.  Mine.

MINE.

But here we are, so I take a deep breath and call my Guy.  That’s why you get a Guy, right?  I ask him to pretty please call them and in his most intimidating voice and with his best fancy industry 

language explain to them how effing ridiculous and morally bankrupt their process is (which he does not do, despite the offer of a bottle of nice wine if he ruins someone’s day, because he is a peaceful and professional human person who does not entertain their rage like some of us), and he helps me through the (ridiculous, terrible, very bad, no good) legal form.   Fine, one hurdle down.

Then I reach out to my old employer, where none of the people who

know me work anymore.  Over the next few days I explain my situation and beg them to actually sign the thing but only the right people to sign it please and please make it soon, even though they are busy doing the things that actually make up their daily job and they really don’t know who I am and this process is. so. dumb.

 How I Feel About Dumb Processes: Family Camp, a Case Study:

     Once you are all signed up for Family Camp, they send you, at some point, a piece of paper they want you to fill out and mail back.  It asks for things like your name, phone number, email address, and mailing address, where you are staying at camp, and the dates you are coming.  I got this form, and promptly forgot about it, for two reasons. 

     1. The act of actually mailing something is a pain for me.  I never have stamps, and I hate running errands.  This is a patently stupid reason not to get the thing done, but it is a great reason to put off doing the thing.  (I’m not saying I’m right, I’m just saying I know who I am.)

     2. One hundred percent of the info they are asking for is info they already have.  Know how I know?  Well, they mailed it to me—so there’s my name and address.  We signed up and paid for our spot, so they know the dates.  We requested our top three lodging choices and then they were the ones who had told us which we got.  So.  They have that info.  When lots of time had passed and I hadn’t mailed this form back, they called me (at my phone number they were asking for).  When I still didn’t do the thing, they emailed me (at the email address they were asking for).  Eventually they even contacted my dad and step mom, telling them that if I didn’t get it done my file wouldn’t be complete!!!!  That sounds like they Mean Business, and this is a Very Big Deal!  

But…iiiiiiissssss itttttt?  What happens when I show up at Family camp, which has been paid for at a cost of many, many monies, in rural Vermont, with my entire family, and my file is incomplete?  What is the next step?  Is it…letting me come to family camp?  Here’s a hint: it is.  I am sure they have a reason to have this form, it is part of their process, but it seems to me to be a dumb process, and they called my parents for a form full of info they already have who had to call me and freak out for me to actually do the not-very-difficult-but-essentially-inessential thing.  I would like to acknowledge that it is a very easy thing and I should have just done it…also, I do not have a lot of respect for dumb processes.  Call it a character flaw.

 

This concludes the lesson.

Back to this dumb process.  I contact old employer about signing my thing.  They do this, and are very polite in the face of my constantly checking in to see if it’s done yet—they are actually perfectly lovely.  They ask, do we need to just sign it, or do we fill out the part about how vested you are?  I do not know the answer to this  because there was no vesting in this retirement plan (and because no one walked me through this form, they just said get it 

Sticky-fingered like a toddler.
Like a gross toddler.

signed) and would have taken whatever, except the Perfectly Lovely Lady I was working with checked with, I don’t know, the instruction manual of terrible sticky-fingered financial institutions, and filled out the vestiture statement (I made that word up. I have no idea what that thing is called.)  They kindly email me the form back, I get all my documents together and submit them to Asshattery.com, and I wait for my check. 

But I do not get my check.  Instead, I get an urgent phone call from my Guy.  Assfacers mailed the check to his firm, who can only hold checks for 24 hours before they have to deposit them or return them, so I need to RIGHT NOW do all the paperwork to get an account set up.  Fine, whatever, I’m just happy we’re done with the Asstrash except—what’s that you say? 

You say the check is wrong? 

You say, the check is WAY wrong? 

I have…so many feelings.  Starting with, where is my money.  As it turns out, Connecticut!  Mmmmmmmmaybe I have looked up their brick and mortar facilities online, just…for funsies.  Also, just some random facts about Connecticut, a round trip plane ticket from my home airport costs $218.  Also no one wants me to go to Connecticut, everyone’s day gets worse then, so could someone please tell me where the-mother-of-God my money is.

This is not what I will be doing in Connecticut.

To answer that question, my Guy turns me over to his Gal.  At this point, I was like, DON’T EVEN TALK TO ME UNLESS YOU HAVE A COLD, MERCILESS 

Yes ma'am!

HEART AND THE FIERCENESS OF A RABID PIT BULL, and she was like, I EAT RABID PIT BULLS FOR BRUNCH AND SPIT THEIR BROKEN BONES ON THEIR CRYING ORPHAN PUPPIES, and I was like, Oh, that actually sounds perfect, it's so nice to meet you. 

So we call and my Guy’s Gal is everything I hoped and dreamed.  She knows what to say and what to ask and she takes about as much crap as Auntie Maxine and I love it.  We get an answer that the rest of the money is in a second check because obscure reasons that, at this point, I would like to result in jail time, but it’s on its way.  The Warrior Princess asks, how much is this other check.  They answer and, wouldn’t you know it, the two numbers together do

Not

Add

Up

To the total in the account. 

By two thousand dollars. 

I’d like you to image the following exchange in the kind of careful, even voice that best resembles the stillness of a stonefish in the moment before it strikes.  

If you don't know about stonefish,
they're worth your time.  Pretty dope.

We ask why the money doesn’t add up. 

 Asserator explains that it is because I have not vested.  

I explain that there is no vesting, that’s not the kind of program it was.  

Asstasia explains that it was too.  

I explain that it was not.  

I point out that the paperwork they made me get done across seven years and state lines from my old job says 100% vesting (vestery?  Vestation?).  

**Again, hats off to Perfectly Lovely Lady who checked the Financial Guidelines for Demons handbook!**  

Assibeth hems and haws and says “Well…”  

Warrior Princess says words that I don’t know what they mean but I like her tone.  

Asstopia puts us on hold.

Seriously call them NOW

We are on hold for a long time.  In case you ever call the friendly 

folks in CT, which I recommend you do immediately if you happen to have stumbled into their clutches at any point in your own financial journey, their hold music is a 59 second loop of jaunty jazz intended to make you punch your head through a wall until you are in a coma, relieving them of the need to give up your money. 

Assfoolery comes back and is like, let me call you back tomorrow.  Warrior Princess is on the case, but the long and the short of it is that Assfaces have no more answers now, so we get off the phone.

SERIOUS huge Thank You
to everyone who helped me
 navigate this lunacy.

They do call me back, and I have fond regard for Peggy 

in their call center, who is helpful and competent and invested in doing the right thing even though she works for not my favorite financial institution.  They are so sorry that they clearly made just a small error—their bad!  But no harm no foul, they’re mailing the rest of my money lickety-split!  Now we’re all friends again!

It has been a week and neither of the followup checks have arrived yet.  

The moral of this story is, save your money, invest in your retirement, pay more attention to it than I have, and get yourself a Guy (preferably one who knows a Warrior Princess) (I can recommend someone.).

I hear they have great lobster rolls in Connecticut.