Trimming The Chewed Fat

Wednesday was the yearly meeting that we must endure with our financial advisor. In case you haven't noticed, Mrs. HM is a homebody who hates anything disrupting her boring schedule. I dread this meeting every year. It's not that I harbor any ill will towards the advisor herself, nor her father before her. They are personable people who have a right to earn their living. I get it. Block in an hour of time for our yearly meeting to review our investments. They are not doing anything wrong. However...

JUST BILL ME FOR AN HOUR OF TIME AND LET ME GO AFTER OUR TRANSACTION IS COMPLETE!!!

That's the thing. We rarely change anything with our account. The only requirement is that I MUST (per law) withdraw a minimum amount from an account that was my mom's. Once I reached retirement age, this kicked in. If I don't, there's a tax penalty.

This official transaction takes less than five minutes!

Seriously. I don't even have to sign anything. Just make a determination of the amount I want to withdraw, and whether to put it into my other account, or take it in check form, which must be mailed from the financial entity, and not doled out by the branch office.

We got there at 1:15 for our 1:30 appointment. Farmer H met me outside, and I made him sit in T-Hoe.

"I'm not going in yet. They never take us back until the stroke of 1:30. I'm more comfortable here than in the waiting room making small talk with the receptionist."

So we went in at 1:25. And sat making small talk. Once called back at 1:30, more small talk ensued, even though our accounts were brought up on the big screen mounted on the wall. At around 1:42, I said, 

"I already know how much I want to take out."

So the Financial Advisor brought up that screen, and was putting in the amount and method of withdrawal as Farmer H was fiddling with his phone to find a contractor who does tuckpointing. Yes. That's right. Farmer H was looking for a referral so the FA could have a guy to work on her brick wall problem.

"Hush up a minute! We're doing actual business here. When that's done, you can talk about your contractors."

Farmer H complied. Of course, it still didn't get me out of the meeting any earlier. We had to discuss the new house the FA is building (I guess even the drop in the market does not affect the profit of the advisor!), and our new flip houses, and the cost of construction per square foot, and how contractors are not the ones to consult about a house design, because architects are more knowledgeable. 

In the past, when the FA was this gal's dad, Farmer H's discussion topics were guns and antiques. Sweet Gummi Mary! Just charge me for an hour, and get the business transaction done in five minutes!

It that too much to ask? No need to chew the fat for an hour while I feel like a prisoner.