Hey – How's that American Dream working for you?

When I was 10, I went to my cousin's birthday party. It was a posh affair, as parties went – hot dogs, burgers, cake. And a magician. He performed the usual array of scarf and card tricks. But then he instructed me to blow quickly into a bowl he held up to my face, and plunk! Out dropped a shiny quarter. Yup. Those were the days of magical, happy deception. I thought all that was behind me until I discovered a modern day disappearing act.

Let's talk finance. But take an antacid first.

The current Now You See It Now You Don't is, of course, less fun than party tricks. Jobs – held for years with pride – are dropping away. Retirement accounts – 403(b)s, 401(k)s, 40whatevers – are now close to a number known as zero. I never fully understood what "403(b)" stood for. But I'm beginning to. It goes something like this (think greeting card):

Thanks for lending us your hard-earned dollars, and all we can say is a big, heartfelt "Oops!"

My husband, Ted, and I used to think about semi-retirement – maybe going south for the winter. Lately, "south" has a new twist. The word Portland comes after it. I used to grumble about staying late at work. Don't even have a time card now. We used to wonder aloud how to leave a little something to our kids, for after we're gone. Problem solved.

OK, I know things are supposed to get better. There will come a day when we dare to open our retirement statements when they arrive. When I won't feel less-than-cherished when stores wish me a cheery Happy Birthday by offering to take $5 off a $20 purchase. And jobs will return. But meanwhile, I wonder just how long my husband can put up with me following him around the kitchen like a dog on crack, screeching, "Don't throw that away! Don't! Don't! Don't! That will make a perfectly good soup for tomorrow night!"

"But it's just one slice of tomato!" he counters.

"Toward a lovely homemade dinner I'll make with the other spoonfuls of things uneaten in the past few days! Like applesauce and dark green leafy vegetables and pieces of scrambled egg – and only slightly stale barbecue potato chips – Ted? Ted? Don't you feel well?"

Oh, yes. I've gotten very creative in an effort to protect our finances. Those solicitations from charities that we get? They make excellent bath mats. The animals we watch from our farmhouse window? It's the new "movies." Our answer to the yearly vacation plan? A game of checkers. Invite another couple over to play cards and you've got yourself a night out on the town. The town of Westbrook.

Along with "scrimping and saving," I've noticed coping with finances is similar to the stages of dying:

• The Denial phase ("I think it'll be OK. I think it'll be OK.")

• The Anger stage ("IT IS NOT OK!") And I apologize to that nice young oil delivery man who was just trying to do his job. I hope he has heard all those words before.

• Bargaining, which involves really disturbing things like doing good deeds, forgiveness, and all that junk. (Note to my former neighbor who never returned our shovel: Not you.) I'd hoped that somewhere in the universe, my newly found loving attitude would somehow straighten out my sad, lonely little checkbook. I was wrong. But it felt hopeful, like a day when the sun stays out for more than an hour.

• Depression – or as I like to call it – the Anti-Rapture. It was then that my husband became seriously concerned about me. He caught me robotically throwing out our cherished leftovers one night, while I was mumbling, "Tomato soup. Cabbage soup. Surprise soup 'it's all just soup, soup, soup.'"

• Acceptance – the final stage. I accept that the investments we boomers...