Living with Mom and Greg, a financial consultant I am not

I was awakened by a telemarketer but was able to re-establish my dream connection, since I was very tired still and had more dream juice left in the glass.

I was living with my mom and Greg in some version of a condo setting, similar to Santa Monica but different. The dynamic was much the same, though, alas. I was the underachieving, sloppy teenager with no goals, just skating by, and they were the ever-hopeful, prodding parentals, providing me with food, shelter and opportunities, which I took for granted or disdained altogether.

I was in their bedroom listening to rap music, some Notorious B.I.G., and in general making myself as odious as a teenager might. I was supposed to be taking out the trash but neglected the chore until it was trash day. I wound up crashing the trashbin, spilling the contents, as I wheeled it out to the street at full speed.

Another opportunity/responsibility I had was a job with Greg's firm. I was to be a liaison to a client whose finances they were managing. She only had one stock, and I was to write up a one page proposal about how to best proceed with handling her investment and present it to her, one on one, at a meeting. It sounded so easy, only a caveman could blow it, but that's what I proceeded to do. 

First off, I completely forgot about the paper until the day of the meeting. And I'd neglected to even research her stock, as well. My last minute scramble for information only produced the vaguest awareness of what her company was all about. Something about bugs. It had a ladybug tattoo for a logo.

Completing my perfect picture of ineptitude, I was unkempt, unshaven and generally looked like a bum. For the meeting, I'd grabbed one of Greg's old '70s suits, a three piece off-white number, from his closet in an attempt to look business hipster chic. I thought I was pulling it off, with my mop of tossed brown hair and John Lennon beard, but Greg felt otherwise. He insisted that I at least shower and began yelling at me as he read my poorly researched paper. 

"I can't have you meeting with clients dressed that way," he said disapprovingly. "And this is a less than adequate proposal for our client. I don't think you are capable of handling this client at all."

I was still thinking I could pull it off, just a quick shower and a re-write of the proposal, but Greg was already pulling the plug. I was off the account. My mom chimed in weakly to my defense, but his mind was made up. He would handle it himself.

"Well, why was I put in charge, then?" I countered. "Who puts a teenager in charge of someone's financial affairs, anyway?" 

I'm still not clear about that, but my guess, now that I'm awake, would be that I was being given a small amount of responsibility with the firm in order to prove my worth. Well, surprise surprise, I fucked that one up again, didn't I?