How I Make the Financially Savvy Cry

When library patrons do things like try to locate materials by ISBN number instead of call number, I try to remind myself that I'm equally ignorant when working with services from institutions I don't understand. This weekend I had to call my sister while I was purchasing stock shares for my IRA because there were terms I didn't understand and as we were figuring out what a few options meant, I thought that if financial advisors heard us talking, they would weep. Really, really not interested in money except to feel smug when I get a great thrift store deal and to want a lot of it to spend on European pastries this summer.

And when I talk to the mechanics at a garage, this is how it goes:

Mechanic: So, what's the problem?

MBC: It sounds like there's a tiny opera singer in my wheel well.

Mechanic: What?

MBC: A little opera singer. A very small one, stuck on a high note. Living beneath my car.

And then the mechanic asks me a bunch of stuff about my car that I don't know. And I think, I brought it to you, because I DON'T KNOW about cars. I just gave you my BEST theory: tiny, singing creature.

OR at the beauty school. They're always asking me what I want, as if I even know what my options are. I don't. Square one. Slithering. Zero point. These things mean nothing to me. I'm not in beauty school.

Beautician: So what are we doing today?

MBC: I want my hair cut to just above my shoulders. And I like layers. The kind of layers that don't end up making my hair look like a triangle. But not too thin. Somewhere between the triangle and a mullet is perfection.

It's no wonder my hair always has problems.