Monthly Archives: April 2010

Just a little crispy crust.

Before I talk about the best way to cook chicken, fish and pork, I have to dog-and-mommy-blog for a minute.

My almost eleven-year-old daughter came into my room last night while I was trying to avoid the family folding laundry and said she had a question.

“Why are there bad words?” she wanted to know.  “I mean, if we’re not supposed to say them, why do they exist?”

I thought for a moment.  “That’s a really good question.”  She looked at me expecting more.  I started babbling.  “It’s like burping at the dinner table.  It’s not polite.  Or like wearing dirty, ripped jeans to a funeral.  It shows a lack of respect.”  She then reminded me that grown-ups curse all the time.  “You just don’t want us to.”  Good point.

“You know, Goldie, sometimes we get so frustrated or angry, instead of hitting someone or something, we say bad words.  It lets off steam.”

As their mother, I will admit to having something like automobile Tourette’s.  Stuck in traffic when there shouldn’t be any, I swear like the most profane truck driver on the interstate.  I combine my bad words into incomprehensible sentences while pounding the steering wheel.  Sometimes I cry.  I’ve also been known to drop f-bombs and say the s-word when I stub my toe or break a fingernail.  Yes, occasionally, I’ve cursed after burning toast or forgetting to unlock the gate for the gardeners.  Once in awhile, it’s true, I take the Lord’s name in vain when I can’t find the remote, or the girls wear down the battery on my iPhone.  And yes, yes, maybe it’s happened, I’m not sure, but when the alarm goes off in the morning and I hit the snooze button, four letter words may have tumbled out of my mouth like so much garlic breath.

Shortly after swearing, I always tell the girls NEVER to use those words.  When I say them, I usually scare the living %#@! out of my daughters, so I’m pretty sure the fear factor helps.  They associate bad words with scary mommy so…

“Goldie, using bad words, especially when you write, often shows a lack of imagination.  And sometimes, it’s just better to wait until you’re older when you have a better sense of what’s appropriate –“

She looked at me like I disappointed her…again.

“I still don’t get why they exist,” she sighed and left the room.  Shit, parenting is hard.

Okay, the dog.  Took her for a walk this morning with plastic bag in hand.  She deposits a gift on someone’s lawn, I scoop it up, tie a knot in the bag, toss it in a nearby trashcan.  About ten minutes later, still touring the neighborhood, she squats to drop another, except she’s having trouble and I don’t have another bag.  While she pushes, I look around for something and only come up with a giant leaf, which I then have to use to pull a partially digested granola bar wrapper out of her butt because it’s stuck and dangling.  She’s grateful but as we’re walking down the street, I’m asking the universe if THIS is where I’m supposed to be in my life – pulling detritus out of dog’s ass (it’s a 3-letter word, okay?) while searching for a place to drop it without anyone seeing.  Did President Obama pull a soggy, mangled sock out of Bo’s rectum this morning before meeting with Cabinet members?  What about J-Lo before feeding the twins?  Sometimes I question my purpose here on earth.

Okay, so sear-roasting.  Appetizing segue, no?  Finally discovered this method for myself a few years back and it’s now almost the only way I cook chicken and fish (and also, pork and beef).  You know when you order salmon at a restaurant and it has a nice crust?  It’s been sear-roasted.  Once you get the hang of it, you’ll feel like the chef at your favorite eatery.  It’s fast and you can decide on a multitude of sauces whipped up afterward in the pan – or you can use something you find at Trader Joe’s, spooned over the top.

You’ll need a large, heavy, ovenproof skillet for this.  I have Calphalon, non-stick.

Also: 4 boneless chicken breasts, or salmon fillets, beef steaks or boneless porkchops

2 T. olive oil

Course salt and fresh ground pepper

Ingredients for sauce (see below)

First, preheat the oven to 425°.  Pat the meat or fish dry with paper towels.  This is essential for browning.  Generously salt and pepper each one.  Heat the skillet over medium-high heat for about a minute.  (If you flick a droplet of water in the pan and it vaporizes in 1 second, you’re good to go.  Getting the pan hot enough, but not too hot, is important.  Again, it takes about a minute or so.)  Pour the olive oil in the pan and swirl it around.  Evenly space the meat or fish in the pan and allow it to cook for two minutes WITHOUT TOUCHING IT.  Lift a corner of the meat or fish to see that it’s both well-browned and easy to lift.  If not, cook for a minute more.  Flip it over and cook for another minute.  Transfer the skillet to the oven.

Chicken and pork should cook for 5-8 minutes, depending on thickness.  Salmon and beef for 4-7 minutes.  I’m pretty good at pressing on the meat to check for doneness, but you can use a quick-read thermometer if necessary.  Chicken, 165°.  Salmon, 135°.  Beef, 130°.  Pork, 145°.  Keep in mind that the meat or fish will continue to cook on the inside for fifteen minutes after you take it out of the oven.  In other words, if you cut your chicken breast open and see it’s just slightly pink, you don’t have to continue cooking.  Remove it from the pan and tent it with foil while you prepare a sauce.  It should be perfect by the time you serve.  Overcooked anything is just a big, fat bummer.

After removing the chicken, I put the skillet back on the burner on high and add about 1/3 cup red wine,

I really do need a food stylist.

scraping the tasty chicken bits that may still be lurking.  After reducing (about three minutes), throw a can of petite diced tomatoes in, along with some oregano and parmesan, cook for another three minutes and spoon it over the top of the chicken.

For salmon, add white wine to the pan after, along with chopped shallots and rosemary.  After reducing, remove from heat and add cubed butter, about half a stick for a tasty beurre blanc.

For beef, add red wine and beef broth to the pan, along with sliced mushrooms (on high) and cook for five minutes.  Add 2 T. heavy cream and some chives.  Yum.

For pork, and I’ve never made this, I’m sending you to a guy named Kevin at Closet Cooking for a balsamic-fig sauce.

Practice this sear-roasting technique and you may never cook another way again.

Wendy and I, sadly, are still slightly stiff from our relay marathon last weekend, so we ran flat through the neighborhood this morning.  One of the first talking points to come up was a mutual, overriding feeling that the Carmel weekend, year after year, is over much too soon.  If you were to look up the term heaven on earth, next to it you’d find the words “Big Sur – Carmel”.  The rugged coastline, the ocean, the trees, the air.  I’m lightheaded just thinking about it, which led me to this proposal:

If I can get enough individuals reading Daily Cup of Jo, I might be able to turn it into a lucrative endeavor.  Of course, my primary goal is to entertain, enlighten and inspire but let’s set those aside for a sec.  After paying some essential bills, perhaps I could put a down payment on a small cottage nestled among the cypress off Highway 1.  It would be big enough for guests, as you’d all be welcome any time except when I don’t want you there.  I’d create a mini Chautauqua Institution and offer seminars and round table discussions where we would attempt to solve problems big and small, internationally and local.  There would also be wine and cheese and crusty bread, and a roaring fire during the colder months.  Whaddya say?  Are you willing to copy and paste my site wherever you can for the good of us all?

I’m shameless, and kinda pathetic.  I apologize.  Let’s get back to the task at hand.

Last week, speaking to my brother-in-law, I took my own stab at a Goldman Sachs-football betting analogy, thinking it couldn’t possibly be as simple and obvious as I described.  Yesterday, Missouri Senator Claire McCaskill, in Washington for the Senate hearings, attempted the same.  I like her but I don’t think it went so well and I’m bitter at her for trumping me.  Here’s my take, more simplified than hers:

Imagine I’m the bookie.  It’s Saturday.  Mary gives me money, placing a bet, because she believes the New York Jets are going to win their game on Sunday.  Ricky also gives me money, betting that the Jets are going to lose.  Lots of people are giving me money on this game and for each bet, I take a fee.  The Jets lose.  Ricky and everyone else who bet against the Jets make a profit.  I pay them with the money I got from Mary (and others) who bet the Jets were going to win.  Back up now and imagine that I have inside knowledge that Mark Sanchez, the Jets quarterback, just drank a beer laced with Drano.  There’s a great chance that without Sanchez, the Jets won’t win.  I still take Mary’s money (and the bets from all her friends) and never tell a soul what I know about Sanchez.  I go to another bookie and place wads of cash on the Jets to lose.  They do lose, remember?  I reap profits from the bets I’ve taken AND from betting against the Jets myself.  That doesn’t sound nice, does it?  I shouldn’t have taken Mary’s bet.  Or if I did, I should’ve told her about the beer and the Drano, right?  That’s the ethical thing to do, yes?  Goldman Sachs is accused of being unethical.  Instead of bookies and bets, they’re dealing in CDOs (collateralized debt obligations) and lots of other acronyms.  It’s still Vegas, any way you look at it.

If you watched any of the hearings yesterday (C-SPAN carries them live), you’d conclude that the Goldman Sachs guys are guilty, guilty, guilty.  When Senator Carl Levin (D – Michigan) repeatedly asked Goldman CEO Daniel Sparks a very simple question and Sparks continued to act as if Levin was speaking Croatian, all I could figure is that Levin is taking an anti-depressant which increases the serotonin level in his brain allowing him to stay calm in the face of indescribable folly while preventing his head from exploding.  At no time did I get the sense that the Goldman fellas were about to admit any wrongdoing.  I have no idea what will happen to them but I know why we should care.

On Monday, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid took a vote for cloture, meaning he wanted to try and get sixty votes on the Senate floor to allow for limited debate on the financial reform bill before a vote is taken on the bill itself.  He failed. Republicans are concerned about an issue involving a $50 billion dollar rainy day fund in the event of another bank catastrophe, paid for by the banks themselves, and Democrats have offered to revisit the provision.  I’ve read pages about it and still don’t understand how Republicans view it as another potential tax-payer bailout, which I know we all can’t stomach again.  What concerns me most is the Republican claim that the proposed regulations on derivatives (the CDOs, the credit default swaps, etc.) are too far-reaching and will be devastating to the economy.  Huh?  These same derivatives are among the very products that led to the financial meltdown in the first place.

Republican concerns that outside investors (i.e. China) will take their business elsewhere (countries with less regulation) is sort of goofy.  How can they defend a marketplace that sells a product that is at the very least, faulty, at worst, deadly?  In the GOP’s defense, Senators Chris Dodd and Congressman Barney Frank, behind the language and spirit of the financial reform bill, hardly have a history of looking out solely for the best interests of Dick and Jane.  But it appears that, even after three failed attempts at cloture, Harry Reid is going to eventually find the votes to begin debate, and soon.  Unlike healthcare, there WILL be some bipartisanship involved, if for no other reason than the November midterm elections.

The American public will not, should not, cannot accept the financial services status quo in this country.  And if anyone believes it simply won’t happen again, let’s recall the dot com bubble of the oh-so-very-recent 90s, when venture capitalists and Dick and Jane participated in the Ponzi scheme of Silicon Valley and millionaires, on paper, became a dime a dozen.  California is still reeling from the shenanigans of state politicians who believed there was no limit to how high a stock price could go on a website that offered no product and had no revenue.

I’m up to one thousand eighty-nine words now on this post and that’s too many.  Let me just close with this: if all the American public does is speak up and steer the debate, it will be more than we did while this whole mess was going on and it may just end well, or at least better than it’s been the past five years.  We, the average citizen, the plebe, thought things were too good to be true.  Turns out we were right.

Perhaps tomorrow, I’ll get back to entertaining y’all.  I’ll be in the kitchen.

Their motto? Ditat Deus, meaning "God enriches".

Back in March, I wrote a post titled “Arizona makes sense to me”.  Daylight Saving Time was killing my family and me and Arizona doesn’t honor it.  It made Arizonans appear enlightened as they were probably more well-rested than most of the country.  Before I go any further, let me just say that I have friends who live in the land of the Grand Canyon and they are not members of the Arizona congress, nor are they misguided.  They just happen to live in a state that’s gone mad.

I’m not certain I can add more outrage over the state’s House passing a law requiring presidential candidates to show their birth certificates if they want to be on the ballot in 2012.  The reality is I’m not outraged.  I’m amused.  Keep in mind that the bill has not yet been voted on by the Arizona senate and most likely will not pass.  Imprudent Arizona Governor Jan Brewer has not agreed to sign the bill should it come across her desk.  And by the way, I misplaced the original proof of my glorious birth in Teaneck, N.J. some time ago.  I now have in my possession not a copy of the mangled piece of paper they wrote up at Holy Name Hospital in the 1960s, but the beautiful new document they now issue.  It’s suspiciously similar to the one President Obama’s people are trying to pass off from the Hawaii Department of Health.  Honestly, the birthers are wackadoo.  Let’s move on.

My next-door neighbor’s parents are from Mexico.  She looks about as illegal as any Latina here in the Southland.  You’ll even hear her speaking Spanish on a regular basis to other dark AND light-skinned persons of questionable citizenry.  Yet other than her brown skin, hair and eyes, we’re practically interchangeable.  Her three daughters are roughly the same age as mine.  One of them attends the same school.  Eventually, the other two will follow.  Our husbands work at the same company.  Both of us grew up in Catholic institutions here in the San Fernando Valley and bear the emotional scars to prove it.  We both ran the LA Marathon in March.  She even belongs to the local country club, a bastion of white men.  She is not required to carry proof of her right to be in this country.  In fact, if you asked for documents, you’d be sorry.  I definitely would not mess with her.

When Arizona Governor Brewer signed SB1070 into law this past Friday, I thought of my neighbor.  I imagined what it might be like to not look as I do, with reddish blonde hair and pale skin.  Perhaps I’d be in Phoenix, driving my dinged up minivan (missing a hubcap two weeks ago) with no less than five screaming kids in the car, looking mighty Hispanic.  Undoubtedly, I’d do something suspicious like roll through a stop sign and get pulled over.  Before asking for proof of insurance, the police officer would ask for proof of citizenship.  I’d flip out and, in a high-pitched hysterical voice, ask him for proof of his manhood or something equally inappropriate and crazy, and be led off to jail in handcuffs for insubordination.  The kids would no longer be screaming.  They’d be scared.

Perhaps I’m overreacting.  I hope I am.  I hope soon this spectacularly xenophobic, misguided law will be overturned.  In 1994, 59% of voters in California passed Proposition 187, which denied illegal immigrants from using social services, healthcare and public education in the state of California.  It was known as the “Save Our State” initiative.  To me, it was simply mean spirited.  In 1997, it was found to be unconstitutional.

Illegal immigration is a huge problem in this country, particularly in states bordering Mexico.  This is not new information, nor has anyone come up with a great solution in combating it.  From imported criminal activity to reduced tax revenue, the list of grievances is long.  Personally, I’m a bleeding heart.  I believe the only difference between me and the guys who hang out at Home Depot looking for work is my luck in being born in this country and their misfortune at being born south of the border in a place where they can’t find enough employment to support their family.  Sure, there’s a process many have patiently worked through and waited for to obtain the right to be here.  I wish we could figure out a way to funnel more people through that system efficiently.

The public school system in Los Angeles is a mess, more than anything else because children of illegal immigrants whose parents don’t pay taxes attend these schools.  But I absolutely want those children in school.  And I would be such a big, fat liar if I told you I’ve seen the documents proving that each of my gardeners and every Latino man who worked on my house over the past several years was here legally.  I’m not a righteous patriot.  I know we drove Mexicans out of California in the 1800s.  I wish I spoke Spanish as much as I hope they learn English.  Unfortunately, I wish and hope on this issue because I don’t have answers.  But I can smell a rat and Arizona’s SB1070 stinks.  Requiring immigrants to carry their papers around with them and allowing police to question anyone that appears reasonably suspicious?  Giving citizens the right to sue the police if someone doesn’t think the police are doing their job in this area?  Are you fucking kidding me?! I have NEVER used that word before on Daily Cup of Jo and I hope to never use it again.  (Sorry Mom.)  But what idiot woke up and thought THIS was the way to go?  And at what moment last Friday did Governor Brewer lose her mind and subsequently decide to sign the damn thing?  Seriously folks, what’s next?  Something like Manzanar?

On the bright side, I’m not alone in how I feel.  Bleeding heart liberals are not the only ones outraged over this lunacy.  Congressman Lindsey Graham (R – South Carolina), as well as the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, Janet Napolitano, has spoken out and up and Graham has suggested it may even be unconstitutional.  Ya think?

Don’t live in Arizona?  Won’t be affected by it?  Pause for a moment and imagine being asked for proof of citizenship in a country you call home.  Outraged?  God, I hope so.  Speak up and speak often.  Facebook already has several petitions going.  Arizona Governor Jan Brewer would LOVE to hear from you.  (Click on her name and leave her a message.)

Just because someone has a solution, doesn’t mean it’s a good one.

I gave. The girls were impressed.

I can’t help thinking I’ve written this post before, but I can’t find proof, and it is what’s on my mind this morning.  At the very least, it bears repeating.

About twenty years ago, I sprained my ankle playing basketball while working at a summer camp in Los Angeles.  Shortly thereafter, on crutches, I returned to New York City where I was living at the time.  Getting around Manhattan efficiently requires two good legs, or the kindness of strangers.  I received the latter, abundantly.  On the subway, riders nearly fell over themselves trying to help me and I remember being curiously interested about why this was.  New Yorkers have a reputation of being tough, “don’t mess with me” kind of people, yet when I needed them to literally open doors for me, there was competition for the job.

Another example: I had my three daughters in about five minutes and so when they were young and I was out and about on the town, I was often pushing a double stroller with Miss T in the Baby Björn.  It was ridiculous but it was my life.  It wasn’t unusual to see me sitting somewhere nursing the baby while Goldie and Bun Bun snoozed.  Then one of them would need a diaper change and watching me manage was comical.  It’s a wonder they all got through the toddler years.  Too many times, I took on more than a reasonably sane mother of three would but always, always, there were strangers asking how they could help.

At Disneyland one afternoon, before meeting up with friends, I was sitting outside the Tiki Room finishing up feeding Miss T.  It was time to go in and hear the parrots sing and I had to get her off my boob, snap the Björn back up and get the other two out of the stroller.  Other than laying Miss T on the ground (she wasn’t sitting up yet), there weren’t a lot of options.  An older couple, desperately missing their grandkids, walked up and offered assistance.  Without hesitation, I handed them the baby while I adjusted my gear.  When I took her back, I could see that I’d made their day.  In addition to giving them a “baby fix”, I’d allowed them to show their goodness, their ability to help their fellow man.

In New York and at Disneyland, had I been a filthy, partly toothless, hollow-eyed person, I would not have received such support.  I realize this but it doesn’t alter the point I’m about to make.  Given the opportunity, most people want to help.  (It’s a shame most of us are so awful at asking for some.)

Yesterday, I gave blood up at my daughters’ school.  The Red Cross loves me and the red stuff that fills my veins.  Like most people, whether I’m aware of it or not, I often experience discontent at how little I do to assist my fellow man.  Doctors, especially surgeons, are accused of having God complexes because of their ability to save lives.  I say let ‘em have their swollen heads.  I’d have one, too, if I spent my day making people better.  However, most of us are not surgeons, although I did impressively bone a turkey breast last week.  A lot of us, though, can be donors and are not.

By virtue of the blood I was born with, I’m kinda special, or at least the Red Cross makes me feel that way.  Only about 38% of Americans are eligible to give blood.  I’m one of them.  I haven’t spent much time oversees, I’ve not taken a bunch of medication which the Red Cross doesn’t like, and I’ve never had sex with an African monkey.  Less than 30% of the US population have CMV negative blood, which is essential for premature babies because it does not contain the cytomegalovirus, which I guess is really bad for them.  Guess who has CMV negative blood?  Yep.  So yeah, giving blood is my little way of feeling good about myself.  Sometimes, it’s all I have.  (I hear the violins.)  Besides, afterwards, the Red Cross volunteers order you to sit down and eat chocolate chip cookies.

Is a friend sick?  Bring them food.  Someone in the hospital?  Visit them.  See a stranger carrying too much to their car?  See if you can give them a hand.  Hold the elevator door.  Let that car in that’s pulling out of the driveway.  Heck, hand out a compliment today to someone who looks like they could use one.  You might make their day and move them to do something nice for someone else.  It could lead to something unexpected and change the course of the world.

Too much?  Okay, but you never know.

To give blood, click on Red Cross and find a donation center nearby.

The New York Stock Exchange.

I apologize for the silence at Daily Cup of Jo.  I took my annual trip this past weekend to Big Sur/Carmel to run the Big Sur Marathon Relay and became consumed with certain dining rituals, insane discussion about race logistics and the love of six dogs, four horses and that goat named Hooligan (again).  I did, however, manage to devour more literature about the global economic meltdown in a further attempt to make sense of it all.  Perhaps you’ve already done so.  Maybe you’re not only versed in ABSs, CDOs and credit default swaps, but you’ve figured out a way to prevent a repeat of economic Armageddon.  If not, keep reading.

It all still begins with Dick and Jane wanting to buy a house.  Additionally, the Clinton and Bush administrations (remember “ownership society”?) thought they’d look good  getting more Americans into homes, and so they pushed Dick and Jane.  After all, isn’t part of the American dream owning your own piece of paradise?

We’ll call the mortgage that Dick and Jane received the “asset”.  And remember, this is Jo and this is MY site.  I can call it anything I want.  Ultimately, this asset is what banks and investors want to own because it accrues money through interest over its life span (i.e. 30 years).  However, in order to have a lot of these “assets”, you have to have a lot of money to lend as mortgages.  Okay, so shoot, I’m a lender and I don’t have any more to lend.  Will someone buy these mortgages from me so I can offer more?  Back in 1938, that’s when Fannie Mae (Federal National Mortgage Association) came to town.  Freddie Mac (Federal Home Loan Mortgage Corporation) joined her in 1970.  Note the “Federal” in their titles.  This is part of the government.  I point this out in case you don’t know, in case you want to believe that all the bad guys are non-government entities.

Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, along with the likes of Goldman Sachs, AIG, Lehman Bros., Drexel Burnham Lambert in the 1980s, and Countrywide Financial are just some of the companies who tried to make ridiculous amounts of money (returns) on such financial derivatives as credit default swaps (CDSs) and collateralized debt obligations (CDOs).  Let’s talk about credit default swaps.

In its simplest form, CDSs are about insurance and were originally intended as a protection device in the event of Dick and Jane not being able to pay their mortgage.  Dick and Jane are now a grain of sand in the sand castle that is the mortgage or asset backed security (MBS or ABS) that’s at the heart of the CDS, but I’m going to keep them as lil’ old Dick and Jane for explanatory reasons.

Okay, so the Bank of Bubba loans Dick and Jane $1million to buy the house.  The Bank of Bubba then agrees to pay $20,000 per year to Izzy Insurance over 30 years (forget the numbers, they’re not really important right now) in case something happens and Dick and Jane can’t pay the mortgage.  Woops.  In fact, something does happen and Dick and Jane can’t pay for the house and so Izzy Insurance pays The Bank of Bubba whatever amount they agreed upon, usually depending on what Dick and Jane still owed.  The Bank of Bubba has protected itself.  Obviously, if Dick and Jane pay their mortgage, Izzy Insurance just gets to keep all the $20,000 payments they received from Bubba over the years.  The point I want to make here is that The Bank of Bubba has a dog in the fight, so to speak – their $1million dollar loan.  (Izzy is just hoping to make money.)

Put another way: my husband and I keep upping his life insurance policy with Izzy, paying her a little more every month so that, God forbid, I accidentally kill him for leaving the cap off the toothpaste again, the girls and I will be okay.  Izzy the Insurer will give me a wad of cash to live on in the event of his demise because we’ve paid Izzy money and have an agreement.  My husband and I really have “a dog in the fight” (the welfare of the family) and Izzy hopes to keep our money because they believe my husband will live a long and happy life.

Imagine you have inside knowledge, or a great hunch, that a ticking time bomb was implanted in my husband’s nose and he’ll blow up sometime next year.  Though you don’t know my husband nor have any connection to him whatsoever (except about the nose bomb), Izzy the Insurer is going to take an insurance payment from you based on my husband’s life.  Izzy is happy to take your money because they think he’ll live to be ninety-seven.  In the event of an earlier death, Izzy will pay you, say, one million dollars.  A year later, my husband blows up and you’ve just made a nice chunk of change.

I hope that all made sense.  Credit default swaps were originally intended as protection for parties with a financial or personal interest in the thing being protected.  They weren’t necessarily evil derivatives.  But then guys like Michael Burry were smart enough (like me and Wendy) to realize all these mortgages given to people like Dick and Jane with no jobs and Carol and Bill with not a cent in the bank were going to fail.  The money would not be paid back.  Burry and others bought protection from Izzy even though they hadn’t loaned Dick and Carol the money.  Izzy was an idiot or simply swept up in the madness and sold the insurance policies to Burry and the like.  When the mortgages failed, Izzy was out A LOT OF MONEY.  Burry and his investors were flush.

How does any of this affect the average American?  This is redundant from last Thursday’s post, but individuals, small businesses and corporations give money to Fannie Mae, AIG and other investment entities to grow their money for the purpose of retirement, company growth or pensions (in addition to other things, like buying a yacht or eating expensive cheese).  Fannie and Freddie, AIG and Citibank were dubious on so many levels that were all tied into Dick and Jane, and guess who lost their shirts?  Everyone (except Michael Burry and the like), because few really knew where their money was invested.  And if you’re sole reason for investing was to eat expensive cheese and now you can’t because Fannie lost all your money, the cheeseman goes out of business.  It all trickles down from there.

In agriculture, the futures market was created to help a farmer, grocer or distributor protect itself in the event of a bad crop.  The stock exchange was created (in this country) over two hundred years ago as a way to raise money for a new business in exchange for a share of future profits.  Good intentions, wouldn’t you agree?  Needless to say, these “good intentions” became a business in and of itself and the United States became the global leader in financial services and products, with little to no regulatory oversight.

And the road to hell is paved with…what?

In part three, I’m going to wrap this up, play a little of the blame game, and talk about the procedural vote on the financial reform bill today in the Senate.

To my husband: don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you.