The Free Market at Work

Warning: Blog is purely for entertainment and informational value. No comments made should be construed as investment advice or anything resembling investment advice. You should always read every bit of financial information publicly available about companies before making investment decisions. Including the small print. Consult your tax advisors. Or don't, if they aren't that smart. Do not drive or operate heavy machinery while reading this. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

News Alert: (5:00 p.m. ET) Industry-flavor-of-the-day Company sells shares to Big Institutional Investor. Stock price rises.

55 hours earlier . . . 7:00 a.m. PT . . . We join Mrs. Chako and an unnamed, completely uninteresting, and likely unemployed, reporter . . .

Reporter (R): Mrs. Chako, you're leaving the house early. And your wearing you're Anne Kleins. Nice.

Mrs. Chako (MC): Thanks. Yeah, client is doing a stock offering. I've got a comfort letter to do.

R: Those shoes look sharp. Which client?

MC: Thanks. Can't say. That's confidential. If I told you, I'd have to kill you.

R: What's a comfort letter?

MC: Well, its a letter that we give to an investment banking firm who's helping an institutional investor buy our client's stock.

R: What's an institutional investor? Is that like an investor locked in an insane asylum?

MC: Not always. Sometimes, they roam around freely. And have lots of other people's money to invest.

R: I see. I use E*Trade when I buy stock. Like that baby on T.V. Why don't institutional investors use E*Trade?

MC: Because E*Trade doesn't cost enough. Ask Dr. Chako about that. If something is more expensive, it must be better. All the other institutional investors will laugh at them if they use E*Trade.

R: Gotcha. So what's in this letter you give to the investment banker? Top secret company information? Profitability projections? Tax-saving strategies?

MC: Oh, we never give comfort on forward-looking information. We only report on historical information.

R: Oh, like audits. So you do an audit for these guys.

MC: No. We already audited them.

R: So what are you reporting on?

MC: Well, we're reporting on the numbers we already audited.

R: You're auditing them again?

MC: No, we're just confirming those numbers are the numbers we audited.

R: But isn't your audit report with those numbers publicly available?

MC: Yes.

R: So why don't the institutional investors just read the audit report themselves and use E*Trade?

MC: Because then they wouldn't have other people to sue.

R: So they will sue you if something goes wrong?

MC: No, they will sue the investment banker.

R: And the investment banker will sue you?

MC: No. The investment banker's attorneys will sue us.

R: This is getting complicated.

MC: Tell me about it.

15 hours later . . . 10 p.m. PT

R: I'm tired. And hungry. And bored.

MC: Tell me about it.

R: You've been editing that letter forever. What are your writing now?

MC: I'm changing all the dates by one day. The expected closing date just moved.

R: E*Trade is only $6.99 a trade.

MC: Tell me about it.

R: So you're almost done, right?

MC: Not even close. Tonight all of our talking heads need to review this letter. Quality control.

R: But it looks just like that other letter you issued to the same investment banker six months ago that you've been using as an example.

MC: Lot can happen in six months. God created the world in seven days; it's possible our general counsel's office has started using extra commas in the last six months.

R: But I thought they were worried about the numbers.

MC: They are. And the commas. I think damages are based on character count in your comfort letters.

R: This is getting complicated.

MC: Tell me about it.

10 hours later . . . 8 a.m. PT

R: I'm sorry, I must have dozed off. Did you even have time to sleep?

MC: I think so.

R: You've switched to the red Guess by Marciano. Looks like you mean business. Hot.

MC: Thanks. It's a west coast power play. Betty's got hers on too. Smaller feet, though. Bitch.

R: Betty's doing a comfort letter? Wish I was a comfort letter . . .

MC: She's not doing a comfort letter. Or you, for that matter, moron. She's probably out taking pictures of pretty things and buying shoes and counting all the money from her high-paying, international-traveling job while she figures out how she can get even skinnier and hotter. While I'm slaving away . . . bitch.

R: I thought you two were friends.

MC: We are, moron. I use the term "bitch" affectionately. Can't you tell the difference?

R: Clearly not. So you have all the commas in order?

MC: Commas are SOOOOO 10 hours ago. Now we're on to bigger and better things. Now we're onto representation letters.

R: I thought you were doing comfort letters.

MC: But now we're getting representation letters.

R: From who?

MC: Management, the investment banker, . . .

R: Why do you need those?

MC: So we have someone to sue.

R: Gotcha. What are these reams of paper around you?

MC: The last 20 versions of the comfort letter and representations letter.

R: I thought you were an accountant? Where are all the numbers?

MC: Hidden behind a few commas.

R: So when can I read this letter?

MC: You can't. It's distribution is restricted to the underwriters. If I let you read it, I'll have to kill you.

R: Could you do that?

MC: Don't test me. Now shut up. I've got to justify the text . . .

12 hours later . . . 8 p.m.

R: Are you going to introduce me to your friend?

MC: She's not my friend. She's my boss. And she doesn't talk to morons. That is my job.

R: So the beer looks good . . . you two must be celebrating. Get that letter done?

MC: We're not celebrating. We're waiting.

R: What are you waiting for?

MC: The underwriters' attorneys to review the draft letter.

R: But it looks the same as the last letter you gave them. And it's 11 p.m. in New York.

MC: That was then, this is now.

R: S.E. Hinton?

MC: Yeah. Like I have time to read. Could you move away from our table? You're blocking my cell phone reception - they could call at any moment.

R: Sorry . . . can I have some calamari?

MC: Don't count on it.

3 hours later . . . 11 p.m.

R: So they are good with the last changes?

MC: Finally. I gotta go change one more "this" to "the" and then we're final.

R: Whew! I'm exhausted. Ready to go home.

MC: Oh, we're not going home.

R: But I thought you said you're almost final.

MC: Yeah, but we can't deliver it.

R: Why not?

MC: Because it's still today. The letter is dated tomorrow.

R: But it's tomorrow in New York.

MC: But it's still "today" on the west coast.

R: This is complicated.

MC: Tell me about it.

1 hour later . . . 12:00 a.m.

R: So . . . you can deliver it?

MC: Let's wait until 12:01 - just to be safe.

R: But it's 3 a.m. in New York . . . is anyone still awake?

MC: They are getting paid by the hour to stay awake.

R: Gotcha.

MC: There. Done. Let's roll.

R: Hang on, let me finish this trade. Just like the baby says . . . "click" . . .

MC: That's insider trading. You'll be forced to return all your ill-gotten gains. Talk to Martha Stewart about that one.

R: Hmmm.

MC: Besides, just because they are doing a deal doesn't mean you're going to make money. . . what if the stock price goes down?

R: Oh, don't worry. I also sold short.

MC: I'm out of here.

R: Can I touch your feet?

MC: Hmmm . . . I've slept 5 hours in the last 42 hours . . . what the hell? Knock yourself out.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Fool, Me

April Fool's Day.

I'm not much of a prankster, and haven't been pranked much, either.

Yesterday my client told me we were going to do this rush project. Had to be done ASAP - almost yesterday, in fact.

I kept hoping when I showed up today they would say "April Fools!" No such luck.

So I steel myself to prepare for the frantic rushing and unnecessarily tight deadlines and decline in people's social skills that accompany this type of madness. Coincidentally, we are temporarily housed in an office that has a white board with the saying "Your lack of planning does not constitute my emergency." Oh, the irony.

And to start the day, I actually caught my heel in a piece of decaying sidewalk and fell. Literally crumpled in a well-dress pile of suit and computer and papers. I don't think anyone saw. But my pride and my ankle are still feeling it.

Hope the rest of you get a good laugh out of the day.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned . . .

I drive by a small church on my way. It's always packed on Sunday. Doesn't matter if it's been two weeks or a month since the last time I drove by . . . people lined up to hear God's word.

Our Father, which art in Heaven
Hallowed be thy Name

I'm Jewish, so its not even my Sabbath. But I still feel a little guilty. I am not here for God. I am not here for spirituality. I am here for selfish pleasure. I pull my car into a spot a few blocks away. Walk to the non-descript building and let myself in the door at the back of the alley. He's left it unlocked for me. His shoes are on the mat by the door. I know he's waiting for me. Down the dark hall, third room on the right. My own two hours of heaven await me.

Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven

Same sheets. New blanket, today. Scarlet. Even with the candles and low lights, the color is rich and vibrant. Yet doesn't disrupt the mood. The music is soft in the background; familiar and inviting. I slip out of my clothes quickly; I don't even wear my wedding rings anymore. I slide between the sheets, and stretch, like a cat about to nap in a sun spot on the carpet.

He places a hand on my lower back, letting the warmth imprint on my skin. Holds it there, as if saying a little prayer over my prone body. Then begins making small circles on my lower back, moving further and futher outward, until he can feel me relax. Slides his hands down my back, splaying his fingers across the curve at my lower back, then running his hands up my sides, tracing the hourglass shape. I drift into that other-worldliness that always accompanies this little renedezvous.

Give us this day our daily bread

My stomach rumbles, bringing me back to reality for a moment. He only chuckles, quietly, his hands never leaving my body. But it makes me think of the family that parks in the church lot. Selling tamales and churros and other homemade treats to the congregants when services are out. I often think about stopping on my way back home. Back to reality. But they would know. So instead, I always pull my hat down further over my hair and my sunglasses, and stare straight ahead.

And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us

I feel spiritual. He takes me inside myself, inside my head. Never asks for anything other than what we have had for the last three years. Content in our mutually beneficial relationship. So I lay, breathing quiet and deep, feeling the stress fade and my mind clear, focusing only on the rhythm of his hands and the music. In this state, I could forgive. Not forget. Just forgive.

And lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil

It always seems too short. He whispers "It's time." Runs his fingers through my hair one last time. So tempting to stay. But he has obligations. I have obligations. We'll see each other in a few weeks. Some Sunday.

For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.

Some theology teaches that we are all sinners. I am guilty of many sins. Is it sinful for letting a man who is not my husband touch my bare flesh? I don't think so. My sin, if you ask Betty, is that I pay so little for a two-hour massage.

If this is sin, then I ought to start booking my room in hell now.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Someday

Editors note: Fiction alert.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

She tugged at the cabinet door again. Finally the swollen wood gave way and it swung open with a jolt and a creak of protest. In late summer, they always stuck. The combination of the heat and humidity outside, and the dampness from the pressure cooker and boiling water as she canned whatever she could out of her garden to store for the winter, wasn’t kind to cabinetry that should have been thrown out with the rest of the stuff when they gutted the old church downtown.

Frank was so proud when he brought them home. “I got those new cabinets you wanted,” he beamed.

She’d nearly cried. She had visions of him building nice new ones that she would sand and paint. Maybe even do some extra sewing to make enough money for those pretty little decorative knobs. Anything to make this old, broken down home seem more like the ones she saw her friends living in. The ones she imagined living in as a little girl. Instead, she got a ramshackle 50-year old story and a half that didn’t have indoor plumbing the first year of their marriage. And there he was with these ancient, tired cabinets they’d salvaged from the church basement, with the awful Formica top and the peeling paint. When they didn’t quite fit, he’d just taken off the base and cut one end off, leaving them about two inches shorter than a standard cabinet and with one “half” shelf with no door.

She pulled out some more jar lids, and shut the door. The stack of bills on top of the cabinet fell and scattered. She stooped to gather them, cringing at the red “past due” stamped on more than one. She gathered them up and tucked them back in the shelves, looking at her long fingernails, stained various colors by the gardening and the canning, and her hands, cracked and dry from working outside in the fields as they finished the summer haying. She slumped into a sitting position at the bottom of the stairs, and the tears started to roll.

She remembered that sick feeling in her stomach, amplified by the soft undulations of her extended belly, when she heard the news that they’d found his car across the state line. Joe was fine; just wasn’t prepared to be a parent. She had sat in their tiny apartment, trying to decide what to do. Remembering making that humiliating call to her parents and asking for help. Waiting for the “I told you so” that she knew they had to be thinking after the shot gun wedding months ago. Remembered packing her clothes and few belongings, including the baby layette she’d started accumulating, and going back home.

Frank had been mature and charming when they were first dating. It was 1970; a divorced woman with a toddler should consider herself lucky to have found someone with some property, a good work ethic, and, more importantly, who could love and provide for her baby girl. She couldn’t think beyond the immediate situation. Couldn’t take the time to entertain those dreams she still had. Returning to Europe. Summers on the eastern shore. A day at the art museum followed by a moonlight walk on the shores of Lake Michigan. Finishing her commercial arts degree. At that moment, though, Frank just seemed like a fresh start for a woman with few alternatives.

And here she still sat. Hadn’t left the state since they got married. Still living in these same six small rooms, with the worn linoleum, the leaky ceiling, the uninsulated walls and the hand-me-down furniture. Still rising at six every morning to milk the cows and start breakfast for a man who spoke in gruff, three-word phrases and a few well-timed grunts. Still staring at ugly, peeling cabinets that she knew she could never afford to replace. Knowing that this was all just part of a path she had chosen years before, that would never lead her back to those old dreams. She pressed her palms into her eyes, and rested her elbows on her knees, her shoulders shaking with each sob.

“Mom, why are you sad?” came the voice above her head.

She looked up to see her oldest daughter sitting on the stairs above her, a worn copy of a Nancy Drew novel with the library sticker on it tucked under her arm, wearing homemade corduroy pants and second-hand sweater from the neighbor girl. Her daughter smiled, her front teeth slightly crooked. No money for braces, either. She was awkward and skinny at age ten, but smart and responsible. Simple.

She tried to speak, but the sobs caught in her throat. “I hate,” and here she paused, and turned away, before saying “these ugly cabinets.” Wondered if her daughter heard the “my life” echoing in her mind.

She felt a thin, small hand patting her back. “Don’t worry, Mom. Someday, I’ll buy you new cabinets. I promise. Someday, I’ll buy you a whole new house. Just don’t cry, Mom.”

She wiped her eyes and turned to give the girl a hug. “Someday,” she whispered into her hair. “Someday.”

I'm Bored

Yesterday, I'm at work and I get a call on my cell phone from a number I don't recognize.

"Hello. This is Mrs. Chako."

"Yeah, is Son #1 there?"

"Um, well, no he's not. This is my cell phone and I'm still at work. Can I take a message for him?"

(I think the parenting handbook conveniently leaves out that you become your children's message service at age 9 or 10)

"Yeah. This is Ryan. I was, uh, wondering if I could sleep over at your house. It's Spring Break and I'm bored."

It was 4:05 p.m. on Friday. School let out for Spring Break at 3:30 p.m. on Friday, a mere 35 minutes earlier.

I pity Ryan's dad.

At least we're considered the "fun" house.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

DrChako is Home - A Week in Retrospective

Well, he's been home for a week now. Still hasn't figured out how to change the intro header on his blog yet, but we'll give him time. So you may be wondering how the reintegration into family life has been going. I'll give you the recap of some of the ups and downs of reintegration.

• He is fit. Really fit. More fit that when I met him 16 years ago. Solid. Buff. Looks better at 40 than at 25. How many women can say that about their husbands of 13 years?
• Somehow, he has made me put on 3 or 4 pounds. I am no longer as lean or mean. Well, maybe still mean.
• Errands are getting done. Laundry. Dry cleaning. Registering my new car on the military base. Cleaning out the garage. Installing a garage door opener (well, greeting "the man" who will install the garage door opener).
• Sometimes still forgets that "helping with homework" actually means monitoring the homework-doing, rather than saying "do homework" and then leaving to go do a personal project in the garage.
• Have someone to help me do things.
• Sometimes I forget to ask for help.
• Sometimes he forgets to offer help.
• Sometimes doesn't remember the old routine.
• Sometimes I forget to tell him the new routine.
• Good to have part of the revised routine include a kiss, a hug, or someone to talk to who speaks English as their first language and doesn't add to already increased estrogen levels in the house.
• Bed is warmer, for those times when my feet are cold. Which is, say, every night.
• Who the hell is taking up all the space in my bed? And where did my man-sized pillow go?
• It's like having sex with a strange, new, fit man. Every so often I gotta turn on the light and check to make sure it's really him.
• Sometimes I turn the light back off and pretend it's Hugh Jackman.
• He wants sex all the time. Trying to make up for the lost 7 months. Forgets that I still have a 50+ hour a week job, a long commute, two children, and the occasional migraine. And have for the last 7 months. Not to mention a tax return to complete. Hate to admit it, Drizz, but sometimes, life makes it a coinflip.
• Sometimes acts like we're having sex for the first time. Forgets that we've done this for 16 years now. I didn't get re-virginized. I am not breakable. I gave birth. Bring it on.
• Post-deployment leave gives him time to relax, catch up, continue his workout. Still looks good, seems happy.
• Post-deployment leave gives him extra time to shop on line for watches, motorcycles, Ferarris. Go to the Harley store, boat show, etc. I'm thinking of freezing the credit cards, just in case he gets a little punchy.
• Post-deployment leave gives him plenty of time to think about dinner ideas for when I come home from work. For some reason, we're always still deciding where to eat on the way to the car.
• Pats my ass on the way to the shower when I'm getting ready in the morning for work.
• Stands in my blow-drying space at critical styling times.
• Loves my new car and tells me what a great job I did buying it.
• Always wants to drive it.

At the end of the day, regardless of how the pluses and minuses add up, my best friend and my boys' daddy is home. No bullet holes. All his limbs and extremities. And won't be going back.

Sounds like a positive to me.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Shift in the Universe and Don't Piss Mrs Chako Off

Shift in the Universe

Yesterday, Betty and I were mulling over a few things that seemed odd. Unusual. Not so ordinary. Including shifts in our own personal moods and perceptions. Reactions to things. Pondered whether it signaled a shift in the universe.

Then, yesterday, it snowed. Only in our town. Not actually in Seattle. Literally, the snow line stopped 5 miles north of the house. Thank goodness for my new AWD baby.

I sent her a message - "Further shift in the universe . . . hope you aren't close to a fault line."

She is. Good luck, friend. Come up and visit if your place starts shaking. Hope American Airlines hasn't cancelled all of the flights out of California.

Today, more shifts in the universe. And more snow. Only south of Seattle. In our town.

I did double-check though, and Waffles is still ranting, Bam-Bam is still his affable poker-playing self, Bracelet is still modest, and IT is still loving his kids . . . maybe its only a West Coast thing.

Either way, I'm gonna buckle up.

Editors note: I realize, after reading my friend's comment, that I did not clarify. This is DEFINITELY a positive shift in the universe. At least for us West-Coasters. Even the snow. It was beautiful as the sun came out on my commute, sparkling on all of the newly blossomed trees and green lawns. Nothing prettier than pink trees and green grass and white snow. And when I say I'm gonna buckle up - well, I say that when I strap into my favorite rollercoaster, California Screamin', and laugh all the way to the end, too. Oh yeah, Betty, I'm expecting a good ride.



Don't Piss Mrs Chako Off

So I've been working my ass off. Literally. My ass is smaller. Ask my husband.

So when I get clients who give me shitty accounting documentation with bad answers and even worse justifications, it doesn't improve my mood. In fact, makes me a little more feisty. Yesterday, they tried to pull one over on me. I put my foot down. The accounting manager said "I think its because you're wearing black and white. You can't see all the shades of grey. Could you go back to wearing the spring colors you were wearing earlier in the week?"

I'm heading out there again later today. Wearing black and white. Again. Just in case it does impact my judgement. There will be no grey line in accounting today.

And unfortunately, certain members of my team are starting to drink their Kool-aid. I came in yesterday to find two of them poring over a client memo. I picked it up. Flipped instantly to the conclusion page. Said "no way in hell is this the answer" inside of 30 seconds. They gotta get better at seeing through the bullshit. They went to a meeting - only thing that got resolved was that they told the client "Mrs Chako is probably not going to like this answer."

What part of "no way in hell is this the answer" doesn't mean, unequivocally, "no way in hell?"

Felt like writing a big WTF on the memo and handing it back.

But I'm sure I'll put my nice girl pants on (the ones that hang in the back of my closet, next to my big girl pants, Betty) and find a nicer way to tell them. Does "no f---ing way in hell" count?

You've all had fair warning today.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife