Do you know where we keep the Q-tips?

So last night on the drive home from work John Wayne and I’s conversation somehow turned into this:

John Wayne starts quizzing me about if I know where all of our retirement accounts are located.  I tell him of course and rattle off the two that come to mind.

Turns out, there are six.

I’m not even going to pretend that I’m the financial brains of the family.  John Wayne worked as a financial advisor for several years and then a banker for several years after that.  There’s a reason why, he’s a numbers guy.  Me?  Well, not so much.  One of the deciding factors in the choosing of my college major was the least amount of math courses required.

So after a schooling in where each of our retirement accounts are located; complete with company name, account number, balance, how much it’s earned in the past year and our advisor’s favorite dog’s name {okay, not quite, but it was pretty detailed}, I asked John Wayne one simple question:

“Do you know where we keep the Q-tips?”

It was then decided that he’d be in a much bigger world of hurt if I died tomorrow, then I would be if he died tomorrow.

To further confirm this, we moved onto bank accounts.

I was good in this category; except for one freak account that I had no idea existed at the credit union where we make our car payments. They made an accounting error in our favor once and so they stuck the money in a savings account.

John Wayne excused me on this one, “It’s okay, it’s only like $400.”

To which my response was “Four hundred dollars, that would buy me a new pair of boots!”
“Oh yes, I’m sure if I die, you and the kids are going to need new clothes to wear to my funeral,” says John Wayne.“So there you go, you can use that.”

He proceeds to quiz me on bank account numbers.

To which I know none of by memorization.

I reassure him that it’s okay, they send statements with this sort of info, and again, I ask him one simple question:

“Can you make chocolate chip cookies from scratch without the recipe?”

Again, it was confirmed that he’d be in a much bigger world of hurt if I died tomorrow, then I would be if he died tomorrow.

About this time, we pull up to the post office and he goes in to get the mail.

He comes out and hands me a big stack of envelopes with a funny look on his face.

“See, I told you they send you statements with all this stuff that you need to know,” after I see the eight {no joke} statements we received in the mail yesterday.