Those would be the days, before I drove onto the great information highway to nowhere, when my broker’s statement arrived every month by snail mail. I would toss them, unopened, into a corner of the towering pile that is my desk, where they would molder until I had to go through and file them at year’s end. “Wow, look at that!” I would girlishly trill. “The market’s been up and down like a hoor’s drawers since the last time I looked!”
Now, I get the bad news every twenty minutes, courtesy of my laptop or, if I’m away from home, my iPhone. And, as I watch the market slide ever deeper into the toilet, I hear commentators on the radio telling me that it’s all due to the “irrational fears” of the market players. That’s supposed to make me feel better? Knowing that my life’s saving are in the hands of a bunch of scaredy cats, spooking every time a mouse stirs in the stock exchange?
