It’s Saturday morning and Flippin’ GORGEOUS outside. Like, if Norman Rockwell lived here at my house (you know, if he were still alive and all. Not now, now that he’s dead. That would be kinda freaky) he would be outside all Zen, painting pictures of trees and the lake and ducks and stuff and communing with nature and getting rich and famous for all his awesome paintings on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post every Saturday evening. Which probably neither of the followers of my world famous blog know who he is anyway since that was about 40 years ago when both of them were two.
Anyway – it’s beautiful out and it’s my off day. No running today, have 18 to do tomorrow and since Butt Falling Off Syndrome reared its ugly head I have not yet made it to 18. So I’m laying low today. No hard work, no
Ok, I’m back, sorry, Cat just knocked 32 pounds of stuff off the dresser and I thought the world had exploded. Now she’s hiding in the dresser drawer thinking I cannot see her 10 pound a$$ sticking out if her head is hidden and she’s not looking at me. Dog, meanwhile, has the sense to be sleeping upstairs on the bed where he thinks he’s safe.
Why did Grace Kelly have the opportunity to knock 32 pounds of junk off the dresser and then crawl into the empty drawer?
Because 1) it’s my off day so I’m laying low and taking it easy inside the house and 2) it’s the day most dreaded in my household: Tax. Day.
I HATE ABHOR DESPISE LOATHE DETEST CONDEMN CURSE DAMN and DENOUNCE tax day (www.thesaurus.com)
Every year at 12:01am January 1st the hubs starts talking about getting the taxes ready and my head begins to throb. Of course by then I’ve had like 10 glasses of wine but that’s not the reason.
I hate tax day for several reasons:
For six weeks I’ve been collecting every slip of paper larger than a toothpick which has come in the mail and looks remotely like something that might have anything to do with taxes, interest paid, receipts, etc. Every week hubs asks if I’m keeping track of the tax stuff. Every week I point to the Kelly green file prominently displayed on the desk and say “Yes – it’s all right here IN THIS BRIGHT KELLY GREEN FILE PROMINENTLY DISPLAYED ON THE DESK.” Next week, repeat. The voices are screaming in my head KELLY GREEN. DESK. RIGHT THERE. but if I open my mouth words like this will come out: @!$$ so &^%**() for the %**$%^ $#**&- and ^%&&& your &^%$$$ so I pretend I have to go to the bathroom. Since Hubs just decided he needs to go get a Diet Coke he is probably thinking the same thing about the taxes.
Second, all the other stuff that I was supposed to be accumulating through the year like medical payments and stuff, well…*sigh* they’re all right there in the dresser. In a pile. That looks like the storm from Wizard of Oz went through. They aren’t actually IN the Kelly Green folder. Yet. So maybe they might need to be sorted and organized at which point I will absolutely find one bank statement is missing and it will be the one that is more than 6 months ago because that’s how far back I can go online for statements.
Third, for the past six weeks hubs has also been shooting me emails asking me to look up this. and look up that. and look up the other. and send it to him. Which I do. And last night: he asked me to look it all up again. Now I could do that. It would take me 15-20 minutes maybe to recompile the info. However, my thought is that the %$$# info is already in his email inbox and a 30 second email search would reveal it.
Oddly I’m starting to flashback to the days before my last marathon. That’s weird. And why am I holding three running shoes and some Glide on my day off? Huh.
Anyway, Tax Day. I’m captive by my off day, can’t get a run to blow off the steam but I can damn sure turn it into a mantra tomorrow when that 18 gets a bit tough.
Breathe in … Tax … Breathe out … Day … Breathe in … Tax … Breath out … Day
And why, you ask, am I blogging instead of taxing? Meh. Look who crawled out of the drawer and is now sleeping on my papers:
How cute is that? And look! I found Grandma Alice’s red velvet pincushion and some baby pics I’d lost.