Dad shot the cow
I had half the under-12s basketball team in the ute, driving them home.
“What are you up to tomorrow, buddy?” I asked our point guard, riding shotgun.
“Dad shot the family cow. Tomorrow we’re cutting it up. He says I have to wear gumboots.”
“It’s gonna be pretty gross,” he sighed. Then he brightened. “But we’re having spag bol for lunch. And steak for dinner!”
“MMMMM,” the whole ute hummed in unison.
When I got home I told my wife. She’s vegetarian. She looked at me the way a vegetarian looks at a man who has … just described a spleen to a ute full of children.
My five-year-old looked up from the floor.
“Yum.”
The kid is an animal. He won’t touch anything green (that’s cow food). To him, the paddock is just the menu with legs.
Now Sunday night is documentary night at our place, so I decided to give the kids the sanitised city version of the same story. On went Dr Karl’s ABC series, How Things Work.
First up: meat pies.
My kids inhale meat pies until Dr Karl appeared in a hairnet beside a dumpster-sized pile of what he politely called “beef trim.” (ABC-speak for the bits that didn’t make the cut.)
“That is disgusting,” said my thirteen-year-old, who swore off pies on the spot.
The five-year-old leaned in. “Yum.”
But it was time for dessert. Next episode: how lollies are made.
All four sat open-mouthed as Dr Karl showed them the vats of liquid and paste that become jelly snakes.
“Now this is more like it!” said the five-year-old.
I hit pause. “See that gelatin? What do you reckon it’s made of?”
“Jelly?” my daughter said hopefully.
“No. Cow. Skin, bones, hooves. The lot. Chucked in a pot, soaked in chemicals, dried out and ground into powder. That’s what makes your snakes wobble.”
Blank stares.
“So, hands up who wants a snake?”
One hand went up. You know whose.
The lesson?
The further your food gets from the paddock, the harder it is to know what you’re eating.
The point guard’s old man gets it. Old Daisy was a lawnmower until Friday. But with beef up 13.5 per cent in a year, she’s grass-fed gold in a second-hand freezer. Their family beat inflation with a rifle and a chest freezer.
Gross?
Sure. But that kid knows exactly what’s on his plate, and what it costs.
Your super works the same way. The further it gets from a basic index fund, the shinier the brochure, the more “sophisticated” the fund, the less you know what’s inside.
Buried deep within it is the financial equivalent of that gelatin. A fee on a fee, on a fee, that you never knew you were paying, ground into powder and stirred through your balance so you never taste it.
It’s all disclosed of course, deep in the fine print the size of the ingredients list on the back of a lolly packet. Which is to say: printed so nobody reads it. Not hiding the hooves. Just listing them in a font you’d need a magnifying glass to find.
The point guard eats better than most grown adults invest. He looks in the pot.
So should you.
RIP Daisy.
Tread Your Own Path!
Your Questions & Answers
The 36 Year Old Virgin
I Left My Lawyer’s Office Feeling Sick
The 36 Year Old Virgin
Hi Scott,
At the ripe old age of 36, I’m about to do something I’ve never come remotely close to before: my girlfriend is moving in. Natalie is 25, we’ve been together since March, and things are going suspiciously well. I earn around $700k, she earns $110k. The house and mortgage are in my name. Natalie has $75k in savings.
So … what’s fair? I don’t need her rent, and charging her to help pay my mortgage feels a bit grubby. But I also don’t love the idea of paying for everything. So, should she pay some rent? Cover bills/groceries? Put her $75k in my offset and I pay her the interest? Or keep things completely separate for now? What would Barefoot do?
Tom
Hey Tom,
I’ve had a stick of salami in my fridge longer than you’ve been in this relationship.
In other words, it’s way too early. Keep things cool. Her money is hers. Your money is yours.
What you both earn doesn’t matter yet …
What matters is that she is not a financial trainwreck looking to hook on your little red caboose.
The fact that she’s 25, earning good money with $75k saved, tells me she’s not. It also suggests she should be totally capable of having an adult conversation about money, before you share a toothbrush.
Toot! Toot!
Here are some suggestions for ‘the talk’:
Both of you open an Up bank account, which lets you create a 2Up account (a cute name for a joint account, which can be closed instantly if things go bad).
Sit down and work out how much your living expenses are, and then transfer an equal amount of money to pay power bills, groceries, booze and possibly a cleaner. Make it clear that you are solely responsible for paying the home loan, insurance and maintenance. It’s your house, not hers.
As for the rent, you’re right, you don’t need her money, but you absolutely do need to establish healthy boundaries. I’d first ask her what she thinks is fair. It could be that she pays you whatever rent she’s currently paying. Whatever you decide, have her set up a direct debit to a savings account in your name.
And for godsakes leave her $75k where it is, in her own account, earning her own interest. Don’t let it disappear into your offset this early.
You could also talk about getting a binding financial agreement, which covers you both if things go from “I love you” to “I hate you and I never want to see you again”.
Now, what would Barefoot do?
Well, 15 years ago I was in your situation (though I wasn’t earning as much dough as you!).
I did pretty much what I’ve just advised you to do, though we didn’t get a binding financial agreement, despite the pleadings from my lawyer. We gambled everything on love, and hit the jackpot.
Keep it spicy!
I Left My Lawyer’s Office Feeling Sick
Hi Scott,
My darling dad passed away in December at 96. He loved your column and bought all his school-age great-grandchildren your book. He never owned a new car and lived carefully his whole life. He left his six children the house he built himself 74 years ago, his super, a country block and a share portfolio. A straightforward will, divided six ways.
I engaged a probate lawyer in February. It’s now June, probate still isn’t granted, and he’s stopped answering my emails. At our last meeting he said we wouldn’t see dad’s money for two years. His staff would manage it at $350 an hour, him at $500. His sister would do the conveyancing. And Dad’s shares were “too complicated” to transfer, so they’d need to be sold.
Every time I pushed back he looked me in the eye and said: “Now is not the time to penny-pinch. Your father left you plenty.” He said it three times. I left feeling sick. My dad was such a careful man. He’d be horrified. Should I sack this guy?
Maree
Dear Maree,
Something here does not smell right.
I’m not a lawyer. I rang mine, Dr Brett Davies, and read him your letter.
Here’s the bit your bloke skated over: your father’s estate does not belong to the lawyer. It does not belong to his firm. It’s controlled by the executor. Everything hinges on that one word, so before you do anything, check the will: are you the executor?
If you are, get this straight. That lawyer works for you. He advises you. He does not command you. He does not decide the shares are “too complicated” and flog them off. He does not hand the conveyancing to his own sister unless you say so. And he does not get to pat you on the head with “your father left you plenty” while the meter runs at $500 an hour.
If that were me, I’d have given him the same spray I save for the umpires when I’m in the Demons cheer squad at the MCG. No mercy. He’s a flog.
And he said it three times. Three!
Look, I’m not having a go at lawyers. Just this one. Good ones are worth every cent, and probate with property, super and shares is genuinely fiddly. But there’s a canyon between “this is complex” and turning your careful old dad’s life savings into a fee festival.
So, in writing, ask him for the probate application, the costs agreement, an itemised bill, and a full list of the estate’s assets. Get him to explain on paper why the shares must be sold and why his sister’s doing the conveyancing. And confirm nothing gets sold or transferred without the executor’s signature. Then take the lot to another probate lawyer.
Don’t argue. Don’t apologise. Don’t let him make you feel small. Your dad was a Barefooter. He lived carefully, built his own house, and handed my book to a mob of great-grandkids so they’d grow up the same way. That wasn’t penny-pinching, Maree. That was his character. Honour it.
Thanks for reading,
Scott.