Take Charge of my Financial Landscape (35 of 40)

Have you ever done that experiment where you see how many drops of water can fit on a coin? I must’ve done it with one of the kids at some point. I remember we were pretty amazed to see how much water it held before the dome of liquid burst and sent tiny rivers all over the table.

My life feels like a lot that right now; one stressor after another, always pushing the limits of capacity, just crossing my fingers that this next drop isn’t the one to cause the collapse. I don’t know if it’s being a single parent working full time in healthcare or just the being a single person adulting in Southern California, but on a good day, there seems to only be just enough extra energy/emotional bandwidth/motivation to accomplish one single additional thing beyond the scope of basic survival.

Most of these additional things are still related to keeping life moving, like preparing breakfast, lunch and dinner before 9:30 am so the kids have something to heat up at dinner time while I’m still at work.

Or, exercising/stretching my back so that my work day will be manageable and my mental health gets a bit of a break.

Or, researching a pressing topic that relates to the wellbeing and safety of my kids.

Or, doing the laundry.

Or, foregoing those things to attemp something more enjoyable like a social engagement, writing or working on a goal for this list. This one can be tricky because it comes with nagging all-the-other-things-are-currently-not-being-done guilt, but it is what it is.

So imagine my reaction when I opened a letter this weekend from the State of California Franchise Tax Board that kindly informed me that I owed them over $10,000 which should be paid in full by the following Thursday, this Thursday!

If you imagined a heart-stopping pause in which my brain fell directly out of my ass, you were correct.  

Literally shaking and flushed with sweat, I counted breaths as my friend reasoned to me that it was definitely a mistake, clearly a mistype of some sort and, in any case, disprovable by the information I already have. Those facts, however, did very little to dissuade the rising terror of having the IRS’s bright white interrogation light aimed squarely at this single mama.

I panicked. I cried for awhile and then dissociated by watching Instagram reels until it was time for bed. I woke up this morning, cried some more, and then attempted to tackle the beast first thing. #adultingamIright? 

I called the 800 number during their listed hours of operation, sat through five solid minutes of pre-recordings only to receive an automated reply to call back in an hour.

While I waited, I called the tax preparers, who are definitely getting a one-star yelp review, only to receive an out-of-office notice on the recording. Conveniently, they are gone until Thursday, my Thursday!

So 8am rolls around and I'm finally put in the callback queue for the Tax Board. Cut to forty-five hold-minutes later, and finally...a return call! The dude rambled off his name and ID as fast as an auctioneer, asked me a single question, then barely waited for my answer before rapid-firing a number and instructions my frazzled mind could not possibly understand. 

And then he hung up…before I could even say why I was calling!

I cried again. And this time, I cussed a bit. 

I won’t bore you with the following several hours of the same. damn. thing, but needless to say, by mid-day I wasn't much further along than when I started.

I had stopped crying though so at least there’s that.

You may be wondering, what does this have to do with the 40 by Forty list? So much actually. I had a goal this year to become more financially educated, and while I didn’t expect my post about it to go like this, it does highlight a few things I’ve learned about money.

In the early years of singledom, the idea of suddenly having to be solely responsible for my finances felt overwhelming. It wasn't that I was completely naïve about money, but the last time I had to go it alone, I was barely an adult, living in a $400 a month rental with no one else depending on me. This was next level responsibility without a safety net. I wasn't ready to dive right in. Instead, I regarded my finances like a nebulous elephant in the room and I side-stepped around it as much as possible. 

Last year, once the divorce was truly finalized and all the chips had fallen where they would, I decided to confront the beast. 

Lesson one: know my numbers. This includes all checking, savings, and investment accounts. I listed them all out so I had a complete picture.

Lesson two: develop a working budget. I gathered six months worth of spending info, looked for patterns and input a budget using Mint.com. Then I spent a few months tweaking it and making changes as unanticipated things came up. The best advice I received about effective budgeting is to assign high and low value items. For example, one person may spend $100 on eating out, not remember what they ate and feel physically terrible after. This is a low value item because that money had minimal positive return. A foodie, however, who loves trying new restaurants and eating socially with friends would assign a high value to that $100 restaurant budget because it brings meaningful value into their life.

Lesson three: maximize my savings. Conventional wisdom suggests having at least 6 months of living expenses saved in an easily accessible emergency fund. The good advice I found here was to open a high-yield savings account. I found one with a 0.5% APR so now the money I keep liquid is still making me a little somethin'-somethin' on the side.  

Lesson four: invest. This is definitely where I have the most to learn. I honestly did not realize that investing is a two part process. Setting aside money into a 401k or the like is only the first step. Once the money is in the investment account, you still have to actively invest it into the market in order to grow your wealth. This is the difference between having hundreds of thousands of dollars at retirement and being a multi-millionaire. While I am still learning about stocks and managing my own funds, I decided to enlist the expertise of a financial manager. Besides, I really don't want to spend my singular bonus task each day managing investments. 

Money is still a complex and intimidating subject for me but understanding it bit by bit has helped remove some of the fear. This latest issue with the Tax Board is just another reminder for me to take it one step at a time. The sheer panic I felt last night is all but dissipated. Within the span of writing this entry, I was able to get confirmation that the government had in fact made a mistake and I no longer need to worry about coming up with a small fortune in a matter of days! #winning

Get Passports (34 of 40)

My originally-intended 40 by Forty list item was decidedly more lofty than simply Obtain My Passport. Waaaay back, when the most common type of Corona came in a frosty bottle with a slice of lime, I dreamed a dream of European travel. Actually, it was a dream the kids and I dreamed together. In the early post-separation era when the impending unknown was more unsettling than exciting, our collective imaginations were a lifeline of hope in despair. 

Our original idea was to go to England, to visit Stonehenge and uncover all things Harry Potter. First it was to be as soon as I finish school. Then it became after I get established in a job. And just as soon as that happened, the world caught fire, the borders shut down and life as everyone planned it became something new entirely. With four weeks until 4-0, it's safe to say these three Yanks are not going to make it across the pond in time.

Instead, we're going to keep dreaming, allowing life and imagination to morph that small spark of hope into a richer, more meaningful outcome than we originally planned for ourselves. Ava and I are working on learning French, Cash is working on a convincing argument about exploring Japan, and I am virtually walking Hadrian's Wall, a 90-mile route located near the border of England and Scotland, using the Conqueror App. 

And...we are one step closer to our original dream! Last fall I applied for and got my passport and last weekend, I took the kids to get theirs as well. We have plans, BIG, exciting, life-living plans, for 2022 and for the several years to come. Now if only that darn 'rona would cooperate! 

In the meantime, please enjoy (yet another) embarrassing image of 13-year-old Caitlin's passport photo juxtaposed next to my much less awkward offspring:  

Grow Out My Hair (33 of 40)

I was not gifted with great hair.

There’s an odd cowlick on the back of my head that makes it nearly impossible to not have a Something-About-Mary-Moment every time I wake up.

If I dare to go longer than a day between washings, it resembles the greasy mop of a pubescent pre-teen.

The entire thickness of my tresses can be gathered into a nickel-sized pony, creating size envy among exactly no one.

To its credit, post-pool air-drying does tend to result in some pretty waves, but shower hair is an inconsistent limp tangle if not properly coifed.

I’m also half-convinced it’s plotting an escape due to the ungodly amount of it I find on the counters and floors of my bathroom.  

On top of all that, it grows i n c r e d I b l y slowly. One of the first things I wrote down on my 40 by forty list was to grow my hair out. Even at the onset of this adventure, I knew I would need every possible day to make headway in the direction I hoped to end up. More than that, I needed to put it on the list to hold myself accountable so when the inevitable hairbrained idea to simply chop it all off and start afresh attempted to lure me to the dark side, I would remember that this never works in my favor.

Case in point:

Age 17:

(God bless the one who invented red-eye reduction so that those of us with light eyes didn't have to appear demon-esque for all of eternity.)

Age 19:

(This is quite possibly the worst photo of me ever but, what can I say? It was a dark time. Please feel free to shift your focus on my ever beautiful sis. Seriously. Please.)

Age 28:

(I'm almost certain I hadn't slept an entire night in almost a year so I plead insanity. *Side note: look at my BABIES!)

All in all, I did pretty good resisting the urge, only betraying the goal once last fall when I attempted bangs for the second time in my adult life. The problem with bangs is they are a lot of work…and not nearly as flattering on a rounded face with a couple (dozen) extra covid pounds.

I really did like them the first time around though.

One day this last year I was lamenting my lame locks and pondering the many magnificent manes I’m faced with on the daily here in SoCal when a friend let me in on a dirty. little. secret: hair extensions.

Man, I didn’t know so many of ya’ll were faking it! Well-played.

Just as soon as covid-restrictions would allow, I took my split-ended self to the black market salon to inquire about securing some assistance for my troubled tress-situation. The stylist was very nice, in a you-don’t-come-here-very-often-do-you-sweetie type of way. She raked through my hair, pulling it this way and that, exposing the shock of gray that has taken up natural residence at the lower parts of my cranium.

And then she broke the bad news.

Oh, she’d take my money alright (a couple hundred for the extensions themselves and then one-fifty every 6-8 weeks to move said extensions up!) but the results weren’t necessarily going to be great for someone like me who’s hair is somehow both thin and fine.

Grumble-grumble.

I’m vain, but I’m also cheap.

So, I’m just gonna call it. Some could argue that I have an entire month of potential hair-growth left, but let’s be honest, it’s not going to make that big of a difference considering it’s taken me the better part of three years just to reach sixteen inches.

And also, if by chance my follicles were reading this and indeed staging a coup: I love every remaining hair on my head…please don’t leave!

Cross-stitching (32 of 40)

Every other summer from kindergarten through junior high, I spent a week with my grandparents in Colorado. My parents have continued the tradition with a version of their own dubbed 'Camp Gigi and Rompa.' In fact, just this weekend, I boarded my children on an airplane to fly by themselves to Arizona for their annual trip; their love for this magical time with my parents and their cousins the only mitigating factor for the unholy anxiety of watching a plane take flight with my tween babies aboard while my feet remain terra firma. 

My first solo flight was ventured at the age of 5, believe it or not. While I can concede it was a different world back then, I honestly have no idea how my parents let kinder-Caity out into the world without sheer panic informing every part of their being.  

To be honest, I was scared to go. I can still vividly picture the scene I replayed in my mind the night before I left; one in which I arrived to body-snatched grandparents who planned to boil me in their basement cauldron. (Some may call that an insight to my psyche. I'm just going to call it “wildly imaginative.”) Fortunately, I arrived (and survived) unharmed that year and for the many years after. 

My grandfather took my cousin and I fishing for the first time. We listened in horror to his detailed explanation of cleaning and gutting our catch, after which we tearfully insisted he return the now very dead fish to the pond. 

My grandmother taught us to play cribbage and boggle, and showed us off to all her friends at church.

We rode bikes, played pool in the (cauldron-free) basement, and visited Colorado-famous landmarks like Casa Bonita and Swetsville Zoo. Mostly, we made memories and learned skills I never would have without the investment of my grandparents in my life. 

Last fall, my grandmother, Mary, passed away. She loved my grandfather for over seven decades, raised three accomplished and quality children, and adored her six grandchildren and 12 great-grandchildren. I can't imagine a more successfully spent life. We teased her at times about her Mary Poppins-esque fanny packs and her questionable gift-giving (think soap-on-a-rope and ill-fitting cat sweaters), but we never wondered if she cared.

One skill my grandmother taught to my cousin and I during our summers together was cross-stitching: a type of embroidery that predominantly uses an x-shaped stitch. Before she died, she was working on a would-be gift for her twelfth great-grandbaby. Over the years, she had made something similar for each grandchild and great-grandchild born into our family. 

Though in her 90's, the timing of her death was not expected and when the realization set in that she would not be able to finish this project, she asked if I would be willing to take over and complete it. I had not cross-stitched in years, but being so far away, I was beyond thankful for the opportunity to contribute. One of the last requests that my grandmother had was to know the name of her final great-granddaughter. My sister, who was keeping the name a secret until the birth, conceded to share it with her. Grandma Mary thought it was a nice name. 

Lennon Olivia was born a few days after my grandmother passed and I humbly stitched her name in the announcement my grandmother had prepared. 

I have taken the hobby of cross-stitching back up. It's yet another amazing alternative to the varied electronic stimuli available to me at any given moment. I've tried to persuade my daughter to learn the skill as well. She's not quite there yet, but she will be. And she'll know that this is something from our family passed down through the generations. Something small, but something meaningful.  

Learn Spanish (31 of 40)

The weeks left until my birthday are well into the single digits and I’m beginning to wonder if I’m going to pull off writing up the last of my list objectives before the big 4-0. Looking at my coming commitments, I’m less than optimistic, but I’m going to give it my best shot at completion. Hoy, he terminado un gran objectivo.

Last fall I signed up for a course in Medical Spanish. LA County has the largest Spanish-speaking population in the US. Working in the hospital, I very quickly saw the need to be able to effectively communicate with my patients. The pain and fear they are experiencing is greatly amplified by the barriers in communication. Quiero poder hablar con mis pacientes de habla español. 

Today I earned my certificate. It has taken the better part of 10 months and I think I sound like a two-year-old but I’m proud of myself for what I’ve learned so far. And I am thankful to be able to give clearer instructions, answer more questions, and offer some comfort to someone whom* I wouldn’t have been able to before. Me llamo Caitlin, voy a hacer un ultrasonido. Solo sé un poco de español pero intentaré ayudar.

*full-circle moment (see 7 of 40)