After a grueling 4 hours, I emerged with a passing exam. I studied a surprising amount for this exam, largely because I know people who have failed, multiple times. I had heard that there are questions where people didn't even know what the hell they were asking. That turned up the heat a little. Plus, if I failed, I would have to endure another 30 days of hellishly worrying and preparing and another 4 hours of sitting in front of the glaring screen, attempting to remember how to calculate a WACC with just the risk free rate, risk premium, and beta provided. Was simple 7 years ago. Now, not so much.
For anyone out there searching terms like Series 86 tips (I did and it turned up nothing), the study materials for the exam are particularly horrid. Beware. You'd be better off studying CFA materials and corporate finance textbooks, not to suggest that this nightmare comes close to rivaling the CFA. While I may have been on the fence before, wondering whether I should subject myself to the exam, now that I've been through this, I think the chances of me sitting the CFA exam just went to hell. At first, I thought I went to the wrong school. Now I'm thinking I probably went to the right school, but I have, yet again, chosen the wrong career.
That said, my job is getting a little more interesting. Can't say much, but I am looking forward to being the catch-all girl who's slumming with the masses. Once I initiate and can speak openly about my sector, I'm sure it will be the source of many laughs. I'm off to Baltimore to kick some tires. Yee haw!
I've been meaning to write for a while, but being busy takes its toll, so here's a synopsis of life over the past couple of weeks.
My Hair's Off to You:
I've been growing out my hair for a while, partly because I was interested in donating it to Locks of Love, a charity that collects long hair and makes wigs for kids in need. Recently, two people I know have been diagnosed with cancer. I joked with one, who wanted me to send positive vibes her way, that I have a whole collection of hats from which she may borrow. She appreciated the levity, thankfully, and assured me that there would be no need, as she felt that the cancer was past tense. I recently found out that her hopes had been wishful thinking, and I decided around then to make my donation out of consideration for these two lovely individuals I know who are suffering.
There was a local Lock of Love charity event happening in San Francisco at a fancy salon, so I signed up. Now, if I were running the event, I would make sure that the people volunteering would have an excellent experience to thank them and to potentially win them over as long term customers. But I'm a big customer loyalty proponent. This salon was not.
From the start, they made us long-haired volunteers feel like second class citizens. We did not get to change into a fancy gown / robe. We did not get served tea. They called us up, put our hair into a ponytail, and cut. I watched other volunteers go have their hair washed. My stylist was running late. She decided to disband the hair wash and just cut my hair dry. My hair with all of the weird kinks in it. It was definitely a rush job. I went home to show my friend, a style expert who was too busy packing for her move to Germany to accompnay me and watch over them to make sure they did a good job. She figured based on the place, it would be good. She examined my hair and shock her head. Why is it crooked? Great question. Why aren't the layers even. Yet another great question. My stylist said she likes messy hair. Was that simply a rouse so I wouldn't ask too many questions? In my goal to see things more optimistically, I just kept thinking that I had hopefully made some deserving little girl happy.
Panic Attack:
Last week, I was scheduled to take one of those horrid registration exams. In fact, as I type, I am postponing my studies for yet another to occur in a day and a half. One o fmy applications wasn't workin properly. The tech came to tak e alook and after 2.5 hours of messing with it, just hours before this stressful exam, he said he'd have to rebuild the whole thing. Excellent. I had him assure me that all of my files would be saved. I have photos that can't be replaced. Prose over which I labored and poured my heart. He assured me.
That evening, as I prepared to go out, I got an email stating that I had to meet with HR and the tech guy first thing in the morning (which means 6AM in my world). I was freaking out. Thought for sure I was going to be canned. I called up my office mate and asked hiim whether he had ever read our policies on emails and files, to give me a sense of why I was in trouble. I recalled the WSJ test. If something saved on your computer were to be published on the front page of the Wall Street Journal, would you cringe. Hell no. Publish your heart out. Let WSJ readers know I'm single. I'm a libertarian. I have grand ideas of publishing works of fiction and non-fiction. Let them see my training schedule as I gear up to do more endurance sports. Show them the recipe for tuna tartare and that delicious salad dressing.
I was in a panicked state as I partially dried my crooked "messy" hair and ran to the ferry building while talking on the phone. I looked just lovely, I'm sure, bathed in sweat (I hate being late) and talking on the phone as I arrived at my destination.
What was the big to do? The computer guy mistakenly erased all of my email history and files. Why HR had to be involved, I have no idea. I couldn't sleep at all during the night, tossing and turning, sorting through my blackberry to see what offending information would warrant a 6AM meeting.
I felt relief for not having done anything wrong. Then disappointment. I had so much personal writing that is now gone. I had funny articles I had penned, a love story waiting for a conclusion, ideas of plots. All gone. I put myself into the computer guy's position and I knew that I would feel just horrible had I done something like this to someone else. Getting angry would have done no good, as I believed he had already beat himself up over it. I shrugged and figured that it's sometimes good to have a fresh start.
My Job, My Life:
Having a job that requires you to be lucid while it's still dark out, despite daylight savings, can definitely cramp a single girl's lifestyle. Explaining what I do for a living is a chore. Getting people to believe that I do what I do when I do it and for the number of hours required is an even more difficult task. Why do I have this profession? Because it's interesting to me, for now. Why can't I meet for a drink at 11PM? Because I'm in bed by then. Why is it more important for me to study for my exams than to hang out with someone who's frankly not that interesting? Because doing decently in my job is important to me. I've gone through this song and dance. Truth be told, if someone absolutely wowed me, I would make the time, though I really can't change when companies report earnings or the time that the opening bell rings in New York.
Hanging out with my friend who does this job but commutes to Menlo Park is refreshing. There's an understanding why we start yawning before midnight. Meeting friends of friends who are bankers is even more refreshing. I've never had to come home from a wedding, arriving at the airport at 8PM, to take a cab into the office on a Sunday night, staying until 3:30AM and getting up at 7:30AM to do get in to work.
That said, I've spent the day cursing as I must answer 73 out of 100 multiple choice questions correctly to finally be listed on reports and talk to clients. The material is daunting. Why is debt to capital calculated using long-term debt and not all debt? Does enterprise value consider all debt or just long term debt? How do I calculate the cost of equity created by a new issue of stock?
My friend recently reminded me of that great quote, "Serenity now!" The lights just went off, and I am feeling loopy. Time to depart, taking my materials home to study for another few hours. I canceled my social plans for the next two evenings in my attempt to add a few more right answers to the list so I can surpass the 73 needed.
OK. Maybe the non-supporters have a point. What the hell am I thinking, doing what I do for a living, when I do it? This past weekend, all I did was worry about this damn test. I just keep telling myself it's got to get better. I just have to pass this test, and life will be better. I just have to publish this note, then life will improve. There's always something crazy going on, but I guess if there weren't, I wouldn't have any material on which to blog.
Last weekend, I bought some marvelously cute shiny orange shoes. They make me oddly happy. They are comfortable, and they are orange, matching my lovely orange cashmere hat and scarf that were the butt of jokes for a while. Of course, the Ho's color palette is limited to black and shades of black, so the criticisms weren't unexpected. I stand by them as great choices for adding a bright and cheery flare to a cold day.
I also bought tall eskimo-style shearling boots in "ice princess" (Isn't that a cool name for a color that could easily be mistaken for "natural" or "light tan"?) that are "very runway," according to the stylish Anh. No one in my office commented about them, though they got plenty of looks. On my way to Safeway, a construction guy yelled out that he appreciated my ensemble. I had paired the eskimo boots with a short leather skirt. Yes, I did wear that to work. No, I didn't get in trouble. No one, but for my office mate who won't tell a soul, saw me the entire day. I knew I had some leeway.
And today, I am donning my new furry, reversible capelet with puffy sleeves. Tomorrow, perhaps I will wear my new poncho. I've wanted a poncho for how freakin long now? Too long. And I finally broke down and bought a refined BCBG silk one, mostly because the striped trim, with red, orange, and brown, made me happy.
Orange used to be my favorite color as a kid. I remember the days of jumping up and down on our huge brown foam-filled pillow chair and having insightful conversations with my adorable little sister. I was around five at the time, and she was probably two or three. We would chew our orange Trident gum, put on our orange flavored Chapstick, drink that orange sugar water from McDonald's, order orange sherbet at Swensen's, and talk about how orange is the prettiest color because it's a mix of red and yellow, and those are pretty colors. We would save the orange crayon because it was our favorite. OK, I'd also save that aqua one, but this is an ode to orange and not aqua.
In college, I used to eat an ungodly amount of food. It was utterly ridiculous and had my classmates wondering whether I had developed a tape worm. The dining commons manager wanted to know how I could eat so much and stay so slim. I think the 3.5 mile daily runs contributed to the slender part. And, now that I'm in my 30s and still do the runs but no longer fit the size 2s, I see that being in my early 20s was probably also a contributing factor. I used to feast on between 6 - 8 whole oranges at breakfast, in addition to a pile of bacon and sausage, eggs, and waffles or pancakes. Kevin used to buy those crates of oranges from Costco, and he'd have no fear of them going bad for lack of takers. This past winter, car-less, farmer's market-less, Costco-less, and Kevin-less, I suppose the build up of orange remnants in my system from years of feasting kept me from getting scruvy.
When I went to Paris in January, following the height of the orange cashmere accessories ribbing, I met Sarah. I knew we would be life long friends when she invited me into her home and put on her orange hat and gloves to take the dog for a walk.
I also like that nothing rhymes with orange. It's a unique word that stands on its own, with the breadth to be used as an adjective and a noun. I see my life similarly. I have an odd kooky brightness mixed with a zesty tangyness that is so orange. I've been used as an adjective and a noun. I stand alone often, and I've learned to embrace my solitude, regularly goading my self into accepting my possible destiny as a hermit, living among quirky shoes, boots, handbags, capelets, and ponchos cast aside my conventional dressers, landing lovingly in my closet by way of the markdown racks. Perhaps if I achieve greatness that is worthy enough, my memoirs will be written and can be titled, "The Color Orange."
This weekend, I had a lesson reinforced that I should have known all along. Never go shopping with someone who is taller, skinnier, and prettier than you are. Long, slim pants just look plain old dumpy on a shortish (5'5" and wearing flip-flops), fattish (size 4 or 6 depending on the brand) person when compared to a tallish (5'6" and wearing heels), slim (size 2) one.
I've attempted to tackle my weight and self-image problems by taking up running. I have avidly participated in the Nike runs every Wednesday night for the past couple of months, augmented by many miles logged on my own or with friends. Surprisingly, I've only managed to gain weight. And don't give me that bullshit about gaining muscle. I have a fat measuring scale (so I'm a little obsessive), and the scale is NOT telling me it's muscle I've gained. How my clothes continue to fit just fine, rather than getting loose like I expected them to serves as evidence that I'm really not getting leaner, though perhaps I'm getting meaner.
Perhaps it's my lack of willpower when it comes to peanut butter oreos (they were on sale so I had to buy them) and general eating to pass the time as I tackle work's little problems. I try to spin my situation positively. I'm getting a head start storing up for winter. And I'm signing up for a marathon in October. A girl has got to have goals.
A few weekends ago, I ran the Emerald Nuts 12k. With a few minutes to go before my wave started, I discovered (as if it suddenly appeared) the ned to urinate. My running buddy, Benny, told me I would sweat it out, but with each pounding step on the pavement, my bladder was screaming for relief. After the first mile, I spotted an outhouse and sprinted ahead. I blame my pit stop and it taking a while to get to the starting point as reasons for a rather slow pace. That said, I actually beat the time I had set for myself. With each step uphill, I psyched myself out of the game. Benny, a seasoned regular at the Nike runs, pushed me to keep a decent clip, but during the last couple of miles, I had to beg to start intervals. In retrospect, especially with my strong finish, I could have and should have done the whole thing straight through. Completing a psuedo-endurance event is so much more about mindset than physical abilities. Doing well requires both, but those days for me are long gone, following my XS and size 0 jeans to the Goodwill.
I must have been tired after the run. I got home and decided to treat myself to a bath. I never get the recommended hours of sleep, and the evening before the race was no exception. I ran the bath and relaxed. It was quite warm, so I let the water drain. Next thing you know, I found myself naked in an empty bathtub, realizing I had dozed off. Pathetic. I'm not sure what's a worse statement about my sleep deprivation, falling asleep in an empty bathtub or crawling under my desk in my office cuddled up next to my space heater to power nap. Funny how I've been accused of having too much energy.
Anyway, it's about that time for me to shake the junk in my wide trunk and catch some rays.