Fledgling Economy

I give my kids play money for doing chores... and they love it! A new currency was recently born in my home and, though it has no real-world value, it is sought after and tightly held. We now operate in a new micro-economy based on (wait for it)... "Covey-Bucks".

A few years ago we started handing out allowance (in US Dollars) as a vehicle; to encourage saving, to teach about making wise purchasing decisions, to manipulate the children into cleaning their rooms, and so we can say "That's what you get allowance for!" when they beg for everything shiny at Wal-Mart.

My kids (now 7, 9, and 9) are learning well and have demonstrated skill in managing their own money. I thought it was time to move beyond the simple save-and-buy model into a broader lesson in basic economics.

Covey-Bucks come in three denominations (1, 5, & 10) and only have value in our home. They are awarded for chores, favors, good grades, and they can be used to purchase goods and services from other family members. Our simple home economy empowers my kids to be sellers, traders, price negotiators, and even employers. It is a free market economy where prices set themselves and anyone can succeed or fail.

Imagine, not having to nag your daughter to clean her room because she pays her little brother a negotiated wage to do it for her... until she runs out of money, at which point the tables may turn.

My title is "Banker" though my role is that of the Treasury. I'll be feeding this economy with a fresh supply of cash and watching Covey-Bucks devalue as the market becomes flush with an oversupply of bills. Perhaps, serving the role of Government, I will need to stabilize the new currency, protecting it from runaway inflation, by imposing a monthly flat tax... or charging fines for bad behavior to reel back in Government over-expenditures.

The rules of our new micro-economy are simple enough:

1. Covey-Bucks only have value in our home. Though they can be cashed in for US Dollars (exchange rate TBD based on market valuation) prior to family vacations.
2. It is a free market economy but is heavily regulated. There are no complex financial instruments like Collateralized Debt Obligations (CDO's) allowed, such dealings are a threat to economic health.
3. The Bank does not loan any money. Don't even ask.
4. There will be no bail-outs. Crying changes nothing.

After a brief introduction to the new economy, my kids were excited about the opportunities of a free market. I believe this will be a valuable lesson in economic concepts, market forces, and the ideals that shaped America into the power it is today.

Apparently, however, they already have an understanding of how money moves in America... within 20 minutes of receiving their "seed money" (40 Covey-Bucks each) the three were conspiring to sue each other.

The Bread Winner

I live with a self-described "food elitist". She makes grocery lists that I am often tasked with filling... the lists say what I should buy but, for the most part, I have to rely on my home-schooling to know what not to buy. I don't always get it right. One week the list said "Hotdog buns (not the bad ones!)". Grocery lists are not supposed to have punctuation.

In college I learned about simple and complex carbohydrates, that starch is essentially a sugar and gets metabolized as such, but it took my wife to convince me that bread made from highly refined wheat is no better than a marshmallow loaf. It seems obvious, I guess... but my adoration for everything bread-like has kept me blinded by love.

I can't imagine life without bread. Heck, I can't even imagine LUNCH without bread! How do you pack a school lunchbox without a sandwich? Mind boggling! My family is fortunate, however, not to struggle with weight or diabetic tendency so bread stays on the menu at my behest.

It can be hard to find the right bread, though. Our grocery store probably stocks 100 (or more) different kinds of bread... and nearly every loaf declares something evil in its' ingredients list like "High Fructose Corn Syrup". Even I am on board with avoiding this industrially invented sweetener.

So there I am, shopping for the right hot dog bun... picking up one package after another and reading ingredient labels, looking for a winner with a focused intensity common to any guilty pleasure. Standing behind me was an older couple for whom my zealous efforts did not go unnoticed. I heard him say to her, "Watch this guy. Whatever he gets... we get".

The Widowmaker

For most of us, reciting the vow "until death do us part" is a romantic and binding gesture of love, but for some it has a more sinister appeal. These are the Gladiators... poised in the marital arena waiting for the Emperor to cry out, "TO THE DEATH!".

My wife, Cristy, works out 6 days a week religiously. She runs on a machine that strengthens her heart, she lifts weights, she can drop and do 100 pushups without breaking a sweat. She emerged from her personal gym one morning with her arm cocked up by her head and said to me, "Look at this bicep!". It was somewhere between Michelle Obama's arms and Lou Ferrigno's thighs.

She eats well too. Organic stuff; no chemicals, no hormones, no cured meats. Her diet lacks the artificial ingredients, fillers, and sweeteners the rest of us call food. She makes "chips" out of Kale (lettucey type stuff) that can only really be appreciated by someone who hasn't had an actual potato chip in years.

Her primary goal, I believe, is to get rid of me. She's too smart to bump me off now, my untimely death would raise suspicion. No... her quest to make herself a widow is a deviously calculated plan to outlive me.

The odds are already stacked in her favor; I am four years further down life's road than Cristy and, as a man, I'm not expected to celebrate birthdays the average woman will. However, she is not taking any chances... her current trajectory should land her in the grave a good 30 years after me.

That's three decades of unattached freedom. Just imagine how many times in all those years the toilet seat won't get left up. And once I'm finally out of the picture she'll be able to relax on her bus rides home from Knitting Club, content in knowing that when she gets back to her small, cat-filled apartment she won't need to worry about washing anyone else's underwear.

Ah, the life of a single gal.

Dear God

Dear God, my dishwasher repairman (known hereafter as "Bill") has informed me that the unit's electronic control panel has been destroyed by an apparent power surge. Now I don't know much about the forces controlling electric power fluctuations, but apparently both Bill and You do... because Bill has fingered You as the culprit.

Unfortunately, the 3 year warranty which covers my dishwasher's electronic control panel excludes damages incurred by You ("Acts of God" in legalese). It seems to me that, with the whole world in Your hands, You'd have more than enough to keep Yourself busy. I understand You have several million children displaced in Darfur who might benefit from an end to the violence there, but I digress.

Why my dishwasher? With all Your power, grace, and love, could You not have found a more constructive outlet for Your destructive Self? I struggle to interpret this message You've delivered via the public electric grid. Could it be....

1. The food bits my dishwasher removes are part of Your creation and so their destruction offends Thee?

2. Cleanliness is next to Godliness and we were just getting too damn close for comfort?

3. You moonlight as a Quality Control technician for KitchenAid and You were just checking to see if they'd installed a fuse or surge protector?

4. My dishwasher has died for my sins?

Regardless of the reason, or the intended message, the dirty dishes are stacking up. If You're not busy later, would You mind? I'll wash and rinse if You would please dry. Thanks.

Your son,

Scott Coveyduck

P.S. - Reimbursement for the repair bill would be appreciated. You probably don't have a checking account, I know banks prefer You to have a mailing address, but we can work something out. Perhaps You could infuse my boss with a little generosity before my next annual review.