Tiffin wallah in Mumbai (food delivery)

Spending: Convenience or necessity?

Yes, in fact I do know it all. Until someone points out that, in fact, I have my head under my wing. This is about the blog post I didn’t write.

Recently, I saw individual Horizon Organic Milk packs advertised at Whole Foods.  I was about to write a scathing post about how the price was about 4 times the cost of a gallon of organic milk, how you could afford to let some of that gallon go sour and still be money ahead, and how you could just buy your kid a thermos—reusable and better for the planet than a ton of packaging.

Besides, if it’s popular or pitched to millennials or moms, it’s a ripe target to make fun of. We like to cast them as lazy over-spenders who complain about inadequate wages, right? But heaven forbid we should actually give credit for creating or buying into good ideas.

A recent Facebook post by Stephanie Tait on September 5th screwed my head on a bit straighter. Please search for this, and be sure to read the comments.  (Sorry, Stephanie, but I can’t figure out how to link directly.) Correction: here’s the link. Don’t miss it!  I’m just going to cite a few of the issues and products mentioned.

Waterproof case for cell phone

Ms. Tait kicks off with this—oh yeah, millennials are so hitched to their phones they can’t take a shower without them. Uh-uh.

Ms. Tait points out that for many disabled people, the phone is the lifeline and only way to call for help if needed. Without that, showering is far too dangerous unless someone else is actually in the house. This introduces a host of corollary issues: someone else’s schedule, whether you’ve gotten sufficient sleep to conform to that schedule, your state of health or exhaustion on any given day, and on and on. Makes a waterproof case seem like a simple solution, well worth the money.

Rent-a-closet services

You’re an arrogant spendthrift if you subscribe to these services. At anywhere from $100-$160/month, you can outfit yourself in designer duds that you don’t need, while returning them when you tire of them or they need maintenance. For $1,200-$1,920/year, you could buy quite a few wearable pieces, particularly if you keep things for several years. (I’ve been wearing one black dress for 9 years, but hey, that’s me.) You’re a lazy, status obsessed victim, right? Uh-uh.

Let’s say you’re someone with a need for professional appearance and low vision, or disabled in such a way that selecting or shopping is a major effort. (I always think shopping is a major effort, but again, that’s me. Dear daughter has always been disappointed in this.) Subscribe to a wardrobe service and you won’t need to shop, outfits will be coordinated and appropriate, and you’ll have an amount-certain budget item.

Pre-assembled meal kits and delivery

I’ve really laughed at these: frozen foods where you provide the slave labor and pay twice as much for someone to chop things for you, introduce lots more microbes, and get tiny amounts. Why not just cook on Sundays and put stuff in the freezer? Can people really be such inept morons that they can’t broil a piece of meat, steam some vegetables, and make a pot of rice? Uh-uh.

When my mom got too sick to cook, my dad was at a complete loss. In more than 50 years of marriage, he had never cooked a meal, and was extremely proud if he toasted the bread for a sandwich. We tried meals on wheels (at that time, about the quality of a student lunch), and Seattle Sutton (once Mom spotted that carton of yogurt, it was all over). Dad couldn’t manage grocery shopping, so I did it, and I brought over tons of frozen meals. But not everyone has a daughter who lives 5 miles away and can drop everything. Also, Mom felt incredibly guilty for getting old and sick, and they both felt an extreme loss of independence—they were stuck with what I cooked, and were too embarrassed to ask for anything different.

I think Dad could have managed cooking a meal kit. It would have saved shopping, given them interesting things to eat, and Mom could have given useful input even if she wasn’t the one standing at the stove. There are a lot of steps and mandatory excursions involved in cooking for yourself, and meal kits eliminate a lot of them.

Restaurant delivery services

You’re working hard just so you can pay for expensive restaurant meals whose expense means you have to work even harder. And you’re lazy and entitled and can’t be bothered to learn to cook or plan ahead, right? Or even manage to cook a meal kit? Uh-uh.

For many people, getting out at night is challenging and dangerous. There’s the difficulty of transportation, seeing at night, danger for vulnerable or frail people, getting dressed up—it’s a lot when you’d just like some pad thai. Curiously, no one thinks twice about having pizza delivered, but when the meal might actually be pricey, stay-at-homes aren’t entitled to that. When my daughter was sick in her dorm room on a fairly isolated campus, the value of this for any home-bound person hit me square between the eyes. If you don’t have help on-site, or are tired of asking your friends, or would just like something special, accessing a service such as this can contribute more than its cost in both pleasure and utility.

 

Good design for disabled people, or the elderly, whether of space or services usually turns out to be good design for everyone. Who doesn’t like the handicapped stall better?! I, for one, am going to try being slower to judge and put more effort into understanding. If something allows more people to have a better quality of life, and participate more fully in society, it’s well worth the cost.

Ukulele

What I learned at Ukulele Camp that applies to finances

I’m pretty die-hard about DIYing everything I can. Yes, I know there’s a lot of argument that you should pay someone to do things while you’re out earning more per hour at something else, but I don’t buy it entirely. First of all, most of us spend plenty of time scrolling Facebook, binge-watching Netflix, and staring into the refrigerator. None of that is billable time.

There are a lot of projects that just require brute force and minimum skills—I’ll paint my bedroom over a weekend before I pay someone $800 to do it. However, I draw the line at danger (painting the trim on my second floor from a loooong ladder), back-breaking difficulty or heavy hauling (digging post holes and installing a fence), or things that I’m not confident about learning from YouTube (installing a new kitchen faucet and drain).

I’ve had quite a few music lessons over the past, um, decades, so I have been pretty convinced that I could teach myself to play ukulele and guitar from the huge number of books, YouTubes, and online courses available. And, they’ve worked pretty well. Feeling somewhat confident, I went to a few jam sessions at the Old Town School, where I discovered I had miles to go before I cheep. I definitely needed some real-time instruction.

This weekend we trucked up to Midwest Uke Camp in Olivet, Michigan. I came home, not only reinvigorated about playing, but about the place of music in life in general—playing, performing, singing, dancing. With all the grinding away, I had lost sight of the pure joy of it all. And since November, 2016, I think I’ve lost sight of some of the joy available in life. As so many blues masters knew, no one can take music away from you.

But, like everything else I do, I did see some parallels between the very delightful Uke Camp experience and our financial life:

  • When there are a lot of choices, you can’t swoop up everything.

For some time slots, there were 3 or 4 classes I wanted to take. I tried to find out who was a good teacher (all of them!) or offered something particularly appealing. No matter how much you wish, you can’t take more than one—and you probably can’t afford to hook on to every good investment. Go with what you can, given what time and knowledge you have available.

  • It’s not possible to make the optimum choice every time.

There was one class where, maybe, I could have chosen better. The teacher’s style just wasn’t right for me, although his music, omg… But that doesn’t ruin the whole selection, nor the other seven or eight choices I made. Similarly, for every given number of choices (investments) you make, some will not turn out as well as you expect. And some will perform far better—who knew I loved Django Reinhardt gypsy jazz? You have to look at the total experience (performance), incorporate what you learned, and try to do better next time, where you will make mistakes again. Improvement is not perfectly linear, but it should lurch in the right direction.

  • In person makes a difference.

I adore self-study. I can make all kinds of mistakes and make them LOUD, and no one will hear me, except for my dog. When she sees me grab the uke, she immediately asks to go out.

Nevertheless, there’s a lot to be gained from the personal interaction with a good teacher. They can correct subtle mistakes in real time, come up with a trick that solves your individual problem, and there’s the serendipitous addition of techniques and information they just happen to think of that’s not in their books or videos. A good teacher always knows more than they’re putting in print. That’s the chief benefit—the individualization. Sure, you can learn a lot about playing (and financial planning) from a pre-fab program, but at some point, you need it to apply to you, particularly. I think online lessons, websites, asset allocation programs, and all that jazz are great, but everyone has some unique challenges. In fact, if you come to the professional already having a good background, you can probably get more benefit from the one-on-one.

The interaction with other people can often give you new insights and ease your mind about how you compare. It’s oddly comforting to see other people struggling or making and recovering from mistakes. I’d love to see more opportunity for people to be part of investment clubs.

  • Seize the opportunities when offered

The best teachers may not be back. The event probably will not go on forever. It can be hard to find fiduciary, fee-only advice. The crowd was mainly older than 50 and so many said they wished they’d done it, younger. I hear it all the time about financial planning, too. Don’t put it off—neither playing an instrument nor making a financial plan are as difficult as they seem in your imagination.