1 - (worn out)

When you've worn out the letter stencil on your keyboard and then worn through the sticker intended to replace the stencil.

Missing ET.

Maybe I should file my tax return.

Eh, there's still time.

2

When you type

" let me knowif you needth attachmeents "

...it's time for bed.

3

My usual routine is: roll out of bed, nudge the computer to life, put on clothes (athleisure - where the emphasis is on neither athleticism nor leisure), log into work.

A couple of days ago, I put my shirt on inside out and thought, Who cares? I left it that way. Besides, it was a Seahawks shirt and Russell's gone so, again, Who cares?

This morning, I didn't bother getting dressed. I just went to work in my bathrobe. Somehow, that just feels right.

Three more days. . . .

4

I was pretty proud of myself for getting up and starting work at 4 am on a Saturday morning until I realized it was only Friday.

Four more days.

5

Please don't talk to me before I've had my coffee.

It's going to be a long day, so maybe you shouldn't talk to me until after coffee.

In fact, just don't talk to me at all.

For five more days.

6

My greatest amusement these days is #TaxTwitter. Nothing like reading the frustrations of overworked and overtired tax preparers when you're one yourself.

If I'm going to go crazy, at least I'll have company.

7 - head just exploded

One week left to get your taxes done if they're not done already. One week of dawn to dusk work hours. One more week without a day off.

Yesterday, Monday, was a productive and relatively sane day. That's saying something for a Monday. But the day before, my head exploded.

After work, I went out (as in out of doors, having showered and washed my hair) for a beer. I was telling Hubby that I had come across a reference to a K-3, a tax form a writer on Twitter wished to set fire to.

I didn't actually see the K-3 (thank goodness, because it's a 20-page form). One taxpayer's documents just made reference to one. As I was telling Hubby about this my right earring popped right off my ear. It was a hoop earring with a spring-hinge closure. 

Hubby said, "I think your head just exploded."

Indeed, I was a little light-headed and started to worry about the perilous height of the barstool. I only had one beer and then Hubby thought it best to get me home. 

Like I said, Monday was better. No exploding body parts.

Yet.

8

 She's breaking up .... She's breaking up!

9

Yesterday, Hubby and I both woke up at 6:30. We both started to dress.

"Go back to sleep," I told him.

"I've got to go to work," he mumbled.

"You don't have to go to work," I said.

"It's the working hour."

"Only for me," I explained. "It's Saturday."

Poor guy. Either tax season is contagious or he was having a bad dream. He slid back under the covers complaining he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again.

I got about an hour to myself, working from my remote, remote office (the living room), before he was up again.

Nine more days. I'll sleep on the tenth.

10

There are 10 days left to this year's tax season. Of those ten days, nearly half are days otherwise known (to non-tax professionals) as weekends. Half.

So while you're sitting by the pool, sipping on something cool (I hear the folks in Massachusetts drink a lot of beer - 3.1 gallons per adult according to the Brewers Association) or whatever people do on weekends (I wouldn't know!), the people who are crazy enough to prepare other people's tax returns will be *ugh* working.

Twitter is my relief. Reading other tax professional's frustrations is hilarious at the end of a long day. You know, to tax people. Like this one:

" My first K-1 with a K-3 attached. I can just set it on fire, right? "

Another one:

" I define the life of luxury as having the time to cut your toenails. "

And this:

" You know it is late in the season when you need to issue an office proclamation making sure that staff know it is not acceptable to actually stab clients. It is OK and acceptable to want  to stab clients but that following through is not acceptable nor condoned. "

 Another one that I saved from last night contains adult language. A lot of it. Which was pretty damned funny at the end of the day but maybe not so good in the light of day with a cup of coffee. I'll share it with my office mates at the end of the day today. Which, to you, is called Saturday - a word that has been drained of all meaning for me and mine.

10 more days.

In the meantime, do not tell me your travel plans for next freaking week. Do not post pictures of you doing fun things outside. Do not post pictures of outside.

10

           more

                         days.

Just under two weeks to go.

I'm in full panic mode now, wondering if it's possible to a) cross the finish line, b) intact. I am not very sure of my survival. My sanity begs to crumble.

On a happier note, I have a pair of new shoes which will be delivered today which is something to look forward to. I wonder how well they will go with my pajamas. They will certainly dress up my work attire although washing my hair today could do as much.

I'm also getting a delivery of freshly roasted coffee beans from Coachella Valley Coffee which I plan to munch like candy. Drinking the stuff seems to have lost its impact and I lack the equipment for direct infusion.

Hubby has decided that any repairs and maintenance that need to be done around the house should be done in these last days before April 18. Oh joy to be sharing my pajama/cork wedge shoe working ensemble with a a parade of tool-belted individuals. Maybe they will take a fashion tip from me.

But today, I plan to leave the house! Breathe fresh air. I will wash my hair, put on clothes and my new shoes, and greet other people with words rather than numbers. I will talk about anything but tax returns because there is absolutely no one who wants to talk about that, thank god. Still, it will be after 10 hours of work but it will be something.

Later, I will crawl in bed and listen to something soothing and try not to dream of panic. Resting for a few hours before starting all over again. Pushing forward because there's nothing else to do. Hoping the pieces will all fall into place because there's no other option.

I can't decide if it's comforting or scary as hell that there are less than two weeks left.

No joke.

 

via Gfycat

This comes from an astute - and much younger - co-worker. She noticed something peculiar about our (very expensive) tax software. There's a function in the program to calculate the return which is to say after we input the data, we must click on a tiny calculator icon to see the results populate in the form of a tax return. In office parlance, we "calc" the return.

Every time we calc, an animated calculator appears on the screen - much like the spinning ball or hourglass that signals you must wait. The little calculator flashes itty bitty numbers on its itty bitty screen as miniature accountants behind the screen crunch the numbers.

What my co-worker was able to see that I was not, were the actual numbers on the calculator screen. They go by fast so to see them all, I needed a really big tax return. Fortunately, I have plenty those. I also needed to slide the tax program from my smaller screen on the right to my larger screen on the left before I hit the calc button.

Seeing as she told me this secret on April 1st, I was fully prepared to be fooled but it was no joke. The tiny numbers on the tiny calculator calculating the big return with really big numbers scroll out:

8675309

Thanks to JBBG for pointing that out. That was the highlight of Tax Season 2022.

Before you feel too sorry for me . . .

This is the view from my desk.

 

The Sky is Falling

It's that time of year when getting through Tax Season seems impossible. There's no way all the tax returns will get done. Science proves there are only so many hours in a day. Math dictates there are not enough hours to complete all the returns. Ergo, impossible. Somehow, it always comes together. Defying all logic, science, and reason. 

This fails to comfort me. Every year we get to this point. Every year, I can point to last year's success. Still, I don't believe it.

It's hard not to crumble, impossible to not feel the stress. Pushing back the edges of what feels like insanity. It's like running a marathon. Everyone knows it's crazy, yet people do it, pushing beyond.... It's a test of endurance. Of sheer willpower.

But why? Why would anyone choose to do this? (Why would anyone choose to run a marathon?)

Sadly, I have no answer. Sad, because I have three weeks to go and still go forward. I feel a strong loyalty to my teammates and I can't let them down. I can see the finish line and I know I'll get there even if I have to drag myself over that line. I know there's a martini and a dinner reservation waiting for me when it's over. (I know Hubby is tired of taking care of me and wants me to cook for him.)

Luckily, there's an upside. A recent study shows that staying indoors decreases the risk of head injury from falling spacecraft debris. It's not likely I'll be outside much (if at all) for the next three weeks so I should be pretty safe.

xkcd.com - h/t Grump

Do they make helmets for that? (Would they be deductible?)

I'm still here. Barely.

Today is the first day in almost a month I didn't get up and go straight to work. If you're paying attention, you'll note today is Saturday but weekends mean nothing during Tax Season. One day streams to the next without delimiters. Nothing to signal rest, refresh, restock, reset.

I needed a break and decided to sleep in.

My bladder, however, had different ideas and woke me at sunrise. I am not sad about this because the sunrises here can be beautiful. I dressed, poured coffee, and went outside. And then, I did a Sudoku puzzle. I haven't done a puzzle in weeks and it felt like a dirty secret. 

March 22 was National Goof-Off Day, of which I was informed only after the day had passed. I figure I'm owed a makeup day. While today probably isn't it, I figure I deserved an hour to myself.

The puzzle solved, the sun risen, and the hour expired, it's time to get back to work. My only exercise will be to fetch the newspaper from the driveway sometime later this morning. Hubby will have to remind me to eat and bathe, and I will have my head down for another three weeks and three days.

I just thought I'd take a moment to let you know I'm still here. Barely.

(And to my friends in the industry, Hang in there!)

Up to 100% reliable.

 

Can I apply this to, say, my taxes? I'll pay up to 100% of what I owe!

This makes me think of our cloud server which is up to 100% reliable. Which is to say, totally not 100% reliable. Actually, there's an inverse relationship between reliability and an impending tax deadline. Doesn't matter what the deadline is, the cloud will fail just days before. This leaves workers - accountants, in this case - reaching for the closest bottle. (I had the foresight to stock up on the extra large bottles from Costco.)

There's about five and half weeks left of tax season. I figure there will be at least one more down day between now and then.

At least.

Nothing to see here.

 

Monday's Coffee Calamity

To get ready for the week, I like to brew Japanese-Style Iced Coffee which I pour into a glass growler and store in the refrigerator. It yields about seven cups of coffee. It's been my preferred brewing method for years. Yet, this week I ground the beans as if for espresso - a much finer grind than for iced coffee. It was also more than I needed to make a latte.

My instinct was to throw them away and start over. When I make coffee, I measure the beans before grinding. I didn't know what the proper measurement was for ground coffee.

In an unusual moment of "winging it," I stored the ground coffee in a small, sealable container before staring over. When I made my latte later, I just guessed at how much coffee to use. Sadly, I didn't think to use any kind of scoop so some of the coffee got dumped directly into the sink. Now I didn't think there was enough left for tomorrow's latte. Should I grind more? How would I know how much to grind?

While pondering this conundrum, I proceeded to make my latte by adding water to my soy milk rather than steam. At this point, I was just grateful to have any cup of coffee and no longer cared about the specifics. At least, I had a cup of coffee.

Maybe tomorrow will go more smoothly.

Something must have been lost in the translation.

A local grocery store advertised in the paper they had A-5 Japanese Wagyu New York Steaks available for $99.99 per pound. I thought this an astronomical price for beef so I checked their website. No mistake. A hundred bucks for steak.

Turns out that might have been a good deal. A5 is the highest grade given to Wagyu beef and you could spend a good deal more. The ad suggested the savings was $50. Indeed, Costco has it available at $150 per pound.

What tickled me about the ad was the the item's description: "taste and flavor that spread out in the mouth, and the smooth texture." While not smooth, a sweaty sock would have flavor that spreads out in the mouth. I couldn't tell you from experience but maybe liver is smooth and would fill my mouth with flavor. That doesn't mean I want to try it. Especially, at $100-$150 per pound.

By contrast, the item featured just below the beef was Barramundi Fillets for $14.99 per pound. I didn't know what a Barramundi Fillet was except from the picture I could tell it was some sort of fish. By contrast, this lesser priced protein had a description worth more than that of the Wagyu beef. The fish "has a mild, buttery flavor with a hint of sweetness and a dense meaty texture. . . ." That sounds more like something I would like to try.

Yes, but will it fill my mouth? I wonder.

Maybe just 10-15% of it.

It hasn't even started yet and I'm already planning for the end.

Tax Season doesn't officially start this year until January 24. That's when the IRS will begin accepting
2021 returns. Don't get in a hurry, though. They're still processing 2020 tax returns. However, if your 2020 return is being held up, that's no excuse for not filing 2021. Death and taxes, man. They can be delayed but they can't be avoided.

Nothing about 2020 and 2021 has been "normal" and, sadly, 2022 is shaping up to be no different. Tax Day was delayed to July 15 in 2020 and to May 17 in 2021. Even though April 15th falls on a Friday this year, the tax deadline will be April 18th (or 19th if you live in Massachusetts or Maine). So yet another weekend will be ruined this Spring preparing returns.

For states that have income tax filing requirements, the deadline is also April 18th except in the following states:

• Delaware - May 2
• Iowa - April 30
• Louisiana - May 15
• Maine - April 19
• Massachusetts - April 19
• Virginia - May 2

But I know you. You aren't even going to start until October. And, as luck will have it, the 15th of October falls on a Saturday meaning extended returns aren't due until 17th of October, ruining yet another weekend. If that's you, don't forget your extension and any tax due (even if you're extending) must be filed and paid in April. On the 18th. Or maybe the 19th. Or maybe in May.

Please send chocolate.

Which is the lesser of evils?

The last time I washed my boyfriend jeans I ran them through the dryer. Because, well, they're boyfriend jeans. They are made from faded denim and have holes in them. I figured the risk was low in drying them. Today, however, they fit more like skinny jeans which makes me think that putting them through the dryer was a mistake.

One said hole is large and exposes my right knee. It's big enough for me to put my hand in there which is exactly what I do. After I shower, all I want to do is jump into my clothes. (It might not be as cold here as where you are but it's cold enough for me to want to avoid it.) In winter attire, I try to moisturize whatever skin is still exposed: hands, feet, and when I'm wearing my boyfriend jeans, my right knee. I can't get to my elbows, my décolletage, or the rest of my legs. It's a quick and easy way for me to ward off winter dryness - as far as you know. And, it's effective. 

When I go to take my pants off at night, my dry legs sorrowfully greet me in their neglect. All but my right knee which is conspicuously smooth and moisturized. "Don't worry," my right knee says to my left. "Shorts weather is around the corner and moisture is on its way."

"Not all good news," the left replies. "Because then we need to shave."

What's the math on that?

Four cups, three coffees, two people.

Hubby is easy. He has one cup of coffee in one cup. Simple enough. In red letters, his cup reads, The man, the myth, the legend. He has a shirt with the same thing on it. Must be true.

I have two cups of coffee but I use three cups. Each has a different purpose and story, you see. My first cup is from Coachella Valley Coffee and is one of very few non-red cups in my cupboard. But, not only did CVC deliver my coffee beans to my doorstep the very day they were roasted, they also sent me a cup - white with black lettering. How could I ignore such a gesture and drink their coffee from any other mug? (They have a customer for life in me.)

However, the non-red mug is only tolerated for the first cup of the day. The second coffee is a homemade latte for which two red mugs are essential. The one I use for steaming the milk is red ceramic with etched lettering in white that reads Now & Then. It's the only merchandise (not available for sale) associated with a story I wrote of the same name. A fan, and truly beautiful person, had it made for me. I will always remember her and her husband for that gift (and their readership).

After the milk is steamed and the espresso shot is pulled, it gets served in larger red mug. This mug is big enough for soup, a cozy vessel well suited for a large latte. I inherited this cup from a rabbi, in a manner of speaking. She sold me her condo which was fully furnished. When I sold it five years later, I also sold it with all the furnishings - all but the red cups. These, I took with me. (I left the new owner with the yellow cups which, while lovely, were not red.)

If you were to come to my house, you would not be served coffee in any of these cups. These cups are reserved for their specific purposes. However, I have red cups to spare you would not be denied coffee for that would not only be rude, it could, in some instances, be dangerous. You may have as much coffee as you like but you only get to use only one cup. It makes for simpler math.

Home Town Cookbooks

 Mine are all from Ohio and all are handed down by grandmas. 

I have three such cookbooks on my countertop right now. Granted, two were given to me by a grandma who lived in Ohio. The third, while actually from Fort Myers, Florida, still has a connection to Ohio. The granddaughter of the author of What's Cookin' at Shell Point (signed "Enjoy, Love Grandma)" was from Granville, Ohio (which is about 30 miles northeast of Columbus). That's enough of a connection for me.

The recipes to be found in these cookbooks are strange to me. I have never lived in Ohio although I had family there and visited many times over a lifetime. I have eaten at Skyline Chili so while I have an appreciation for weird, these cookbooks use ingredients I would, today, neither fathom using nor promote using.

Here is a sampling of the table of contents from What's Cookin':

• Chicken and Biscuits (which includes the instruction "make your own biscuits. . . . "
• One-Step Crockpot Stew (which is comprised of 7 steps - 8, if you include "Do not peek!")
• Bacon-Cheese Onion Things (There's really no better way to describe this.)
• Zucchini Surprise (I'm going to go out on a limb here and say there's always a "surprise" in any hometown cookbook.)
• Taffy Apple Salad (While I didn't find a salad in this cookbook that contained mini-marshmallows, I did find this one which included Cool Whip. It did not, ironically, include taffy.)
• I skipped the chapter on seafood intentionally. (I have been to Ohio.)

For more down-home goodness, I present a sampling of the contents from John Paulding Historical Society Cook Book + Recipes + Reflections signed by Grandma R. with the words of "I love you" in 1992:

• Brides Punch (which includes orange juice, can frozen lemonade, can pineapple juice, quart ginger ale plus two cups of sugar!) [emphasis mine]
• Cornmeal Mush with Tomato Gravy (This doesn't even sound appetizing. I read the recipe and my opinion did not change.)
• Fireside Supper ("Fireside" is not mentioned anywhere in the recipe except the title.)
• Sinful Potatoes (which includes Velveeta cheese and a jar of Miracle Whip which sounds pretty sinful to me.)
• Overnight Fruit Salad (This one includes mini-marshmallows but no actual fruit other than canned.)
• There are a lot of recipes in this one for "balls" in Appetizers, Main Dishes, and Desserts, but I din't find any "surprises."

Cooking with Friends also comes from Paulding, Ohio. The inscription is dated 1997. 

• Under the heading of Appetizers, the reader is advised that appetizers are treats that can be served before a meal, at an open house, or at a reception. The first example was "Caviar flavored with onion juice." I skipped the rest of this section.
• It surprises me what passes for salad but it often includes Cool Whip, sugar, or cream cheese or some combination thereof. Canned pineapple is also featured.
• Mystery Crackers are made of oyster crackers, buttery popping oil, and two packages of Lipton Cup-A-Soup mixed together. The mystery is "why?"
• There are five pages in the Vegetables section of this cookbook. In all recipes, the vegetables are disguised by ingredients such as Ritz crackers, grated cheese, sour cream, Jiffy corn muffin mix, Velveeta, corn flakes, boxed stuffing mix, Marshmallow Cream, Cheese Whiz, Bisquick, and a variety of canned soups.
• There are 20 pages in the Cakes, Cookies & Confections section. This is separate from another 10 pages of Desserts.
• Cream Cheese Pound Cake contains only a half pound of cream cheese.
• Honeymoon Cake will likely lead to diabetes and/or divorce. Its main ingredient is one pound of fruit cocktail and is topped with coconut-pecan frosting and whipped cream. If that doesn't do it, try Coffee Marshmallow Cake made of marshmallows, whipped cream, vanilla wagers, plus sugar.
• In the Beverages section, there's a recipe for Party Punch. Even as a kid, I knew there was something inherently wrong with a beverage that included Jell-o, fruit juice concentrate, ginger ale, and sherbet all mixed together and served in a punch bowl, served with a glass ladle into little glass cups. Was it supposed to be elegant or decadent? What's more is no parent ever stopped their child from drinking it. That's midwestern goodness right there.

What I love about hometown cookbooks is their down-home-ness. They represents comfort food from the heartland. They are recipes passed down from generation to generation, preserved in a book that no granddaughter has ever referenced. Either she already knows these recipes, having grown up with them, or she has moved out of Ohio and developed different culinary tastes. Nevertheless, these books contain the love of grandmas and so live on in kitchens everywhere. 

They aren't as much about the recipes as the people behind them. And, that's the best ingredient of all.

Looking for an Invite

 Today, I engaged in one of my favorite holiday traditions: scheduling phone calls with my family at the exact same time as when dinner preparations need to begin. The beauty is that I've been getting away with this for more than a quarter century. Hubby, being both hungry and valiant, gets things started in the kitchen. If dinner's not ready when I'm done with the first phone call, I call the next relative. And so on until dinner is ready or I'm lured into the kitchen with a glass of wine.

Is that selfish?

Oh, hell yes.

I've been warned that I will not be able to get away with this next year.

Would it be okay if I spend the holidays with you? I offer that I'm good at washing dishes. I am fully vaccinated and my passport is in order.

I didn't see it coming

 Of course I saw it coming! It happens every year: Christmas. And, every year about this time I think Crap! How will I get it all done?

I'm not sure what all needs to get done but I feel like there's a ton of it and only two and a half weeks to do it. 18 days, exactly.

Breathe.

I hear lists are good. 

1. Make list.

2. Shit. What's supposed to go on the list??

    a. names

    b. gifts

3. Order gifts. 

See? That wasn't so bad. It's getting started that's hard for me and the thing is my list isn't so big. I don't buy a lot of gifts but somehow I get tangled up in the enormity of it, the weight. Seriously, I could have purchased the few gifts I need in less time than it took me to write this post.

Ah, but remember the thing about getting started? I am easily distracted by - literally everything. Reading, writing, a jigsaw puzzle, getting regular exercise and nutrition, drinking my latte - oops, I need to brew more cold brew coffee for tomorrow - oh, and work. Wait, what's for dinner? Do I need to pull something out of the freezer. Or, maybe I should cook. . . . 

Work isn't all that busy right now. No hard deadlines. Just a large project that continues to nag, You don't want to put it off, much like Christmas. There's also travel and hosting travelers. And, cookies. Today is cool and threatening to rain (in a place where it rarely rains). It's a perfect day for baking. But, work! When am I going to do that? And what about all those other things?

I just need to focus on the next indicated thing: What's the most important thing in this moment? Just that. Also, I need to realize that none of this is really important. None of the hoopla, none of the worrying, none of the cookies, not even the gifts - none of it is important. What is important is saying "I love you" and meaning it. And that should be said all year round.

What I really did today:

• Worked (go figure, would rather work than shop)
• Did a crossword puzzle
• Worked the jigsaw puzzle (but only a little)
• Started (but didn't finish) a Sudoku puzzle (think I like puzzles much?)
• Walked (about 8,000 steps today)
• Started the cookies (and vowed I would shop while they're in the oven but I'm writing this and have a date in 45 minutes so it's looking highly doubtful)
• Worried that I also need to send cards and made a mental note that the above list is supposed to be checked twice
• Toyed with the idea of canceling Christmas altogether

*Sigh*

The show was Hairspray.

Intermission was almost over so there was no line for the restroom. I thought I was alone until I heard a flush from another stall. I came out of mine and saw a woman behind a walker (the kind that has a seat and hand brakes), holding one of her shoes.

I recognized her. She was the woman that had been sitting in the seat in front me in the theater. She wore a beautiful black coat that was fringed in fur as her nearly bald head was fringed in wirey wisps of red hair.

Her eyes implored, “I need help.” I wasn’t sure if she actually said those words or if I only saw her lips moving. She stood with one foot bare and pointed at a plastic cap. She asked if I would get it for her. Meanwhile, she was able to retrieve the canister from the floor of her vacated stall. I guided her to a chair that was in the restroom. I’d always wondered why there were chairs in the ladies room. Perhaps for a moment such as this.

The woman was in pain. She sprayed her bare foot with whatever was in the canister. I don’t know what comfort it brought her. She had no toes, only a knob where her big toe should have been. I knelt on the floor and helped her put her shoe back on, loosening the Velcro straps as much as they would allow.

She grimaced as I tried to get her foot back in her shoe but she didn’t cry out. Her pain was inescapable, her endless reality, and she was handling it as best as she knew how. As she got back to her feet a theater usher appeared, ready to help her back to the theater and I wondered why this usher didn’t appear two minutes ago.

I wished the woman a merry Christmas as the pair left. Alone now, I washed my hands. Twice. Back in the theater, the second act had already started but I found an empty seat near the back and that was good enough. Easier than climbing over a row of people to get to my own seat, the one that had been behind that woman.

That moment of kindness for a stranger was both sad and beautiful. It was, no doubt, humbling for both of us. If I had only one gift to give this Christmas, that was it.

Have a heart.

It's only December 5 and the Grinch has already been sighted. Shortly after this image was taken, it's reported that the photographer was escorted off an undisclosed Palm Springs area resort. 

A witness to the event, who was not authorized to speak about it, said that "Grinchy" (as the woman identified him) often vacationed in the desert area prior to the holidays. "He just wants to be left alone," she said while a small dog cowered in the background.

It's reported that once identified, the Grinch lunged at the photographer vowing his Christmas would be the first to be ruined if the Grinch had anything to say about it. An altercation ensued which included the dog, the Grinch, the photographer, and one unfortunate waiter. Amid the chaos, the photographer's camera and nose were broken while the dog lapped up mojitos spilled during the melee.

Resort staff requested the resort not be identified stating it was for "obvious reasons." A statement was later issued by the resort management:

While it is unfortunate that paparazzi found access onto resort property, we continue to assure guests - both beloved and despised -  that guest privacy and safety is of paramount concern. We strive to provide a relaxing atmosphere for all our guests especially as preparations are made for the holidays. We understand that not everyone feels all warm and cozy at this time of year. However, we hope that this incident will not have a negative effect on the presents currently stacked under the tree in our grand lobby. (It is with great hesitation that we remind our guests that pets are not allowed.)

It is unclear whether the photographer will press charges against the Grinch. Meanwhile, the Grinch remains a guest of the resort.

While the the Grinch receives overwhelmingly negative press (in this and other publications), it should be noted that he has his supporters. As soon as news of his presence was leaked, a small protest of sorts was launched in downtown Palm Springs. The group, made up of children and adults with large ears, buck teeth, and strange hairstyles sang nonsensical lyrics while holding hands. The apparent leader, who was identified only as Cindy Lou, stood in the middle and held a sign that read, "Even the Grinch has a heart. You should too."

Is it over?

 Thanksgiving was a quiet affair. It was just the two of us with none of the obligations that usually come with a major holiday. We did all of whatever we wanted and none of whatever we should be doing. We hiked, ate cinnamon rolls, had breakfast for lunch, and made the traditional feast of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, and pie.

All the food came from Costco and was fool proof: 1) Put it in the oven. 2) Eat. Mostly, it was a day of doing dishes. Feasting and cleaning up.

We watched football, started a jigsaw, and read books. There was no family around to invite over so we invited a neighbor who would have otherwise been alone so we weren’t entirely selfish. As it turned out, though, she couldn’t make it so our selfishness felt guilt free. (We tried - a little.)

It was easy to appreciate all our bounty when we didn’t have to share it with anyone. But we also thought about our families who were elsewhere for one reason or another. Friends, too. We reached out by text which felt more genuine, in a way, than sharing a crowded room with them. It was a brief moment to share honest appreciation for one another without the chaos of a family gathering. Not that family gatherings aren’t joyful but they’re a lot of work.

The holiday started early in the week, as soon as the pies were either purchased or made. There were more cinnamon rolls than we could possibly eat so it made sense to get started on those early as well. Afterwards, of course, there were leftovers. We made tetrazzini with the turkey and we tried diligently to get through all the pie for more than a week.

Finally, it was garbage day and, sadly, whatever was left got tossed. The refrigerator and all of my food storage containers were reclaimed. (More dishes.)

As if I knew the void was coming, I'd already purchased baking ingredients. Cookies are not far off in my future. As one holiday swells into another, it's hard to think about work. No time for that when there's cyber shopping to be done.

Knock, knock! says work.

*visions of sugar plums dissolve*

This is not over! I shout.

And, indeed, it is not.

Because Tradition

This recipe is adapted from Real Simple | Bourbon and Orange Pecan Pie

This is Hubby's favorite pie and he requests it every year. Thankfully, this recipe is pretty easy:

1. Eyeball your pantry and refrigerator to make sure you have all the ingredients:

1 piecrust (store-bought or homemade)

1 cup light corn syrup

3/4 cup light brown sugar

4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, melted

3 large eggs

2 tablespoons bourbon (or 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract)

1/2 teaspoon grated orange zest

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

2 cups pecan halves

2. Go to the store for whatever you don't already have. 

3. Set an oven rack in the lowest position and heat oven to 350° F. Place the pie plate on a foil-lined baking sheet. (Oops. I forgot the foil. No worries as long as the filling doesn't travel beyond the boundaries of the pie crust. In that case, you will just want to throw your baking sheet away because the filling will caramelize into indestructible stickiness on the pan.)

I realize the original recipe only has three steps. I'm just trying to give you the most complete information.

4. In a large bowl, whisk together the corn syrup . . .

5. It looked like a full cup of corn syrup in the bottle but it turns out it was only 3/4 cup. Top it off with honey to make a full cup. If you don't have honey, there are other substitutes for corn syrup. Okay, . . .

6. In a large bowl, whisk together the corn syrup, butter . . . 

7. Turn off the oven and melt the butter. Right, melt the butter first.

8. While the butter is melting, grate the orange zest. If you only have a Valencia orange, that will do although it won't be as good. Use a zester (rather than a grater), then mince.

9. Turn the oven back on to 350° F.

Really, this recipe is very simple.

10. In a large bowl, whisk together the corn syrup, butter, sugar . . .

11. Turn off the oven. Turns out the brown sugar in the pantry was from two years ago (because you didn't make pie last year) and is rock hard.

12. Go back to the store. Get light brown sugar. While you're there, pick up a navel orange. It'll be better that way. Might as well pick up something easy for dinner because now you're running late.

Everything should go smoothly from here on out.

13. Turn the oven back on to 350° F.

14. In a large bowl, whisk together the corn syrup, sugar, butter . . . 

15. The butter has hardened slightly so ditch the whisk for now and use a spatula to stir the first three ingredients rather vigorously. If your grocery store was nearby then the butter shouldn't be too hard. (Otherwise, you might have to go back to the store because that was the last of the corn syrup!)

16. In a large bowl, whisk together the corn syrup, sugar, butter, eggs, bourbon, orange zest. . . .

17. CRAP! ZEST THE NAVEL ORANGE! UGH!

18. If you turned the oven off again, turn it back on for crissakes!

If you haven't already taken a swig of the bourbon, go right ahead. You won't be alone.

19. In a large bowl, whisk together the corn syrup, sugar, butter, eggs, bourbon, orange zest, and salt.

20. CRAP! ADD THE FREAKIN' PECANS. RIGHT? I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO TELL YOU THIS!

Breathe. We're almost there.

21. Pour the pecan mixture into the crust. 

Here, I want to warn you that there's always excess mixture. You don't want to overfill the pie crust (refer back to Step 3). If you want to fish out the remaining pecans in the bowl, use a fork rather than the spoon to avoid adding too much of the goo.

22. Bake until the center is set, 50 to 55 minutes.

23. What the heck, pour yourself another bourbon.

24. Let pie cool to room temperature before serving.

25. Order something from DoorDash or Uber Eats because you don't feel like cooking anymore. And, the kitchen is a goddam mess.

26. Curse Hubby under your breath for requesting pecan pie which you don't even like and consider not making pie again next year. (Maybe that's why I didn't make it last year.)

Follow my blog for this and other easy recipes!

Hashtag Travel Stories

Once upon a time, not all that long ago, we traveled to a place most notable for rain - not in terms of inches but number of days. But having once lived in this place, I can tell you it is also a place well known for its beautiful sunny days (when that happens), it's relatively temperate climate, beautiful water, and amazing seafood. 

This trip was over several weeks and we visited several locations. At one time, we stayed on an island, accessible by ferry. Tourists flock to the main town while the rest of the island is quiet, residential, and heavily wooded. We had been to this place before and knew its best haunts. This time we had a car so we decided we didn't need to stay in town and opted for a lower cost option instead. I won't mention the name so I'll just call it the Un-Quality Inn.

There was nothing really wrong with it, exactly, but there were several things that could have been more right, shall we say. It was a motel where the rooms all had one window with a heavy curtain facing the parking lot. Beneath the window was a through-wall A/C unit that, we soon learned, rattled. The motel advertised that it had been remodeled which translated to a fresh coat of interior paint (which didn't cover the smell of the pets who had accompanied travelers before) and a truckload of new air conditioning units that had been delivered but not installed (due to a significant labor shortage). 

We were not deterred and our spirits not dampened because, in this place, we could get fresh Dungeness crab - in my opinion, the best crab to be had. We secured our crab and a bottle of wine and proceeded to eat it at a bistro table and chairs arrangement which had been placed on the sidewalk between our hotel window the trunk of our car. The meal was romantic, not because of ambiance I assure you, but because we were in a special locale, generally speaking, eating exquisite local crab.

Before too long another guest pulled into the lot, backing his exhaust into our picnic dinner. Larry dropped the tailgate on the back of his pickup truck, opened a beer, and joined us by the fact that it was rather unavoidable. We learned he had been living in the room next to ours for the last two months while he was on a construction job building a multi-million dollar mansion on the island. 

Soon, another pickup truck parked across the way. This was one of Larry's co-workers, also living at the hotel but across the parking lot from us. He complained about the air conditioner unit in his room and said he had had enough. He was going to march right into the motel office and offer to install one of the new air conditioners in his room himself. He and Larry then argued about whether they should charge the motel for this service and, furthermore, offer their services to replace all of the units since they were staying there anyway.

All three of the men - Hubby included - trudged off to the office bolstered by their collective resolve to get this job done. Hubby did an excellent job of supervising while the young men carted a new unit to Larry's co-worker's room. 

Here arose a problem. Neither construction worker had any tools in their work trucks. Imagine.

Hubby came to the rescue in the form of a never before used screwdriver which was factory installed into a secret compartment in the truck of his German import vehicle. Larry and his co-worker found this fortuitous as well as amusing - not so much that he should have a secret compartment with tools in it but that it had never been used. (Hubby showed must restraint by not telling them that no self-respecting German import vehicle owner would be caught dead using the tools himself. Especially not on his German import vehicle.)

The next night, they repeated the story they told at work: Some dude in a fancy car was staying at the same cheap motel that they were. One worker responded, "At least he knows where to count his pennies so he can afford that expensive car." Hubby took pleasure in telling our hotel neighbors that his car cost less then their work trucks. They were astounded.

And, it came with its own screwdriver.

Pristine

 

At a NASCAR event, this is the only car I bothered to take a picture of.

 

A weekend in America

NASCAR at PIR. My weather app says it’s 86 degrees, 16% humidity. Nevertheless, I’m overheated. My heart is pumping even in the shade. A man loaned me a hat for a while but I knew I couldn’t stay in the sun much longer. Hubby came with me as we climbed higher in the grandstands to find available seats in the shade. I feel better but my heart is still pounding. Soon I will have to get my cool cloth wet so my brain will snap back to full attention. 

I ate a hotdog and now I feel like I need to shit. What fun! The track is oval and I can see all of it, cars so load I have to wear ear protection in the 42nd row. Cars roaring around in circles. (Ovals!)

It’s hard to describe a NASCAR event without offending the people who love it. In an attempt to avoid stereotypes, I would describe the spectators as proud, hard working people who come to see heroes. The drivers they look up to represent American values (whatever that might mean). Most of the drivers are white. The crowd appears to be at least 99% white. There are a few beautiful people here. Most are ordinary. Like all of America. 

On the way in, people were seeking signatures from registered voters. For what, I don’t know. One man yelled, “Are you tired of people laughing at our voting system?” 

“Let’s go Brandon” shirts were popular. 

We stood in line for hot dogs - the one that still makes me want to empty my bowels. We were behind a man who told us that COVID was a made up thing. He went on to say that his father died of COVID. He also had COVID. He’d lost his sense of taste and smell and “maybe had some brain damage.” Even still he concluded the whole thing (COVID) was manufactured. 

He didn’t have all of his teeth and, at one point, spittle flew from his mouth as he was telling his story. I saw it fly towards Hubby. Would it hit his face or his beer? I didn’t see where it landed and Hubby either didn’t see it or pretended not to notice. This man had been attending NASCAR at PIR every year for 30 years. It was the increase in prices that got him spitting but he was a nice enough fellow and, really, who hasn't spit accidentally while talking?

One of the things I noticed this weekend, which also included attending an NHL game, was that while people seemed weary of talking about COVID, they nevertheless did. And people who championed choice had strong opinions about other people’s choices whether it was an individual, local government, Federal government, or foreign nation. 

After we got the hot dogs, I tried to refill my water bottle but the three water fountains I tried were dry. I thought it was illegal not to make free water available at a stadium. Not sure about that and don’t know how long it would have taken to find a water station if there was one. (With 40,000 people in attendance with no mask requirement, they couldn’t have been worried about transmitted diseases.) I bought another water instead.

Before the end of the race, I saw woman with beautiful gray hair and professional cut gumming a cigarette. Her face was caved from missing teeth. She was thin and hunched over as if too tired to manage sitting up straight, weary-like. She was sitting alone and it was easy to imagine she'd had a rough life but for her well coiffed hair. I imagined instead that she was had been beautiful in a former life. 

My need to rid myself of the hot dog I ate previously has not waned. I let out a noxious fart in the ladies room and pretended it wasn’t me. 

If this reads like I didn’t have a good time, you’d be mistaken. People watching is great. (Cars driving in circles, meh.) People wore shirts with messages - some in support of their favorite driver, some political, some funny, and others celebrating the consumption of alcohol. 

I wore a plain white t-shirt and just enjoyed the show.

I cannot recommend the toast. Nevertheless, I love the toaster.

 The toast comes as is - however the toaster spits it out. Dark on one side, light and uneven on the other. Sometimes one side is barely warm while the other side is charred. While it hasn't happened (yet) in my current dwelling space, it occasionally sets off the smoke detector. (Also, occasionally, it makes good toast.)

It has no buttons or sliding plungers. Only a single ineffectual knob that once upon a time might have allowed a user to select how toast was produced on the light/dark spectrum.

Other than that, it's in perfect condition - until recently, that is. Sadly, part of a plastic leg has broken off. It's in an obscure location so I should try to glue it back to preserve its mid-century aesthetic. 

Seeing as the toaster is older than I am, I think the toaster is rather remarkable. But as I set this plate of toast before Hubby, he suggested it might be time to ... ahem, retire it.

Never! I replied.

Perhaps I should remind him the toaster is closer to his age than mine.

Cool

I have a beautiful back yard where I can hear a rooster crow (Rohelio, he's been named, after Rohelio De La Vega.) There's a fountain and it's serene. But the view is from the front of the house and so that's where I am this morning. Sitting in a camping chair with my coffee and my laptop in the driveway.

Perhaps I should push my desk out here for work. Alas, the temperature will climb to north of 100 today and the brick pavers would bake me. As of this moment, however, the temperature is just 79, a blessing.

All this week, the morning temps will be in the seventies until Monday when the low temperature will drop to 68. I may need to find a sweater!

[Edit: I just heard a train whistle. I love that.]

Find a dollar, better hollar*?

Checking in at a hotel recently, there was a man in front of me who appeared to be homeless. He wore loose and dirty clothes. He had a knit cap and large jacket even though it was warm outside. Over his face, he wore a mask and glasses. All you could see of his features was his nose, the color of ash. His hair and beard were colorless with only hints of gray and both hung down to his jacket collar. 

He was treated with respect and professional courtesy by the staff behind the counter. They smiled and maintained eye contact. The man held a thick wallet from which he pulled a credit card to secure his room.

I wondered what his story was. Was he homeless or more of a hippy type? Either way, his appearance was incongruous within the context of the lobby of a downtown Hyatt.

The town was one of apparent and abundant wealth. People went about their business in very fast and expensive cars even though there was so much traffic there was nowhere to get out of second gear. All show, no flow.

My coffee was over $7. (I had splurged for a triple latte instead of a double but, still, a pint of beer was $8. Might was well have beer for breakfast.)

In that same town, I saw a folded dollar bill on the sidewalk. It wasn't crumpled, as from someone's pocket, and it wasn't folded in half like it came from a wallet. It was folded rather neatly in a square and it lay on the corner.

I laughed because I might have picked up a penny but I didn't pick up the dollar. Neither did anyone else that crossed that intersection in this town of milk and Tesla. I even pointed it out to a man who regarded me as someone crazy. Of course there are dollars bills in the street, his look seemed to be saying.

I thought of the man from the hotel lobby? Could have dropped it? Would he have picked it up?

Find a penny, pick it up ... 

* Hollar is now a defunct online dollar store. Maybe because all their dollars are on the sidewalk.

What is it you do, again?

We were seated first. It was a table at the back but perfectly comfortable. It was a Main Street kind of place (literally, it was on Main Street) that served the most amazing Italian food. 

Another couple was seated next to us. Attractive, younger, obviously successful.

We eventually struck up a conversation which led to the inevitable question of "What do you do?" I dislike this question because my job is boring to everyone but me.

The question passed from one to the next and seeing I'd be asked last, I wondered "What would be a more interesting answer than 'Tax Preparer'?"  Finally, the woman asked me while the men were engaged in their own conversation.  I told her, "I was going to tell you that I'm an Accountant but was trying to come up with something more interesting, like . . . "

Hubby suddenly chimed in, "It's great! She can work from anywhere. In fact, she worked this morning. From bed. In bed, drinking her coffee. I mean, how great is that?" 

Hubby hadn't heard my answer. I'd finished my answer with, I'm a Sex Worker. 

The timing of Hubby's comments was perfect. The woman and I practically spit out our wine with laughter. My glasses fogged up as I covered my mouth with my napkins. Tears threatened to squeeze out of my eyes.

He was bewildered by our response. "What did I say?" he asked.

"Nothing, honey, but next time I'll go with 'Ear Model'."

If you have an HOA...

According to the Covenants, Conditions & Restrictions (CC&Rs) of our Homeowners Association, we must seek approval from our immediate neighbors whenever we plan to make changes to the outside of our homes. Even, it seems, if the change is to a fully enclosed, private backyard. I learned this when a neighbor requested my signature on a form for such a purpose. The neighbors, it seems, wish to install a pool.

In response to their cover letter, I responded:

Dear Neighbors!

Nice to "meet" you! We are also full-time residents and, like you, find our street lovely. Ah, the warm breezes, construction dust, roosters, and traffic noise. Soon, we shall also have street lamps to light our night skies. And to think, all of that at no extra charge!

If you would kindly schedule your construction while we are out of town, we would appreciate it. Otherwise, we may need to turn up the volume on our karaoke and, surely, you wouldn’t want that. 

We are feeling left out, however, as we may be the only ones on the street with no pool. You wouldn’t mind putting in a gate in our common wall, would you? We’ll bring the chips! (Also, you don’t mind if we swim naked, do you?)

We appreciate you letting us know about your backyard improvements as we were not aware that modifications to the backyard were subject to our HOA's robust CC&Rs. With that in mind, we must let you know that we are building a rocket. We will be very conscientious of the noise moving forward and will let you know when we start taking delivery of rocket fuel. While the rocket itself is only temporary (we hope to launch sometime in 2022), the launch pad itself could be considered permanent. Perhaps we can re-purpose it as a stage for live music. It’s certainly something to think about.

We are most happy to sign your form. If you have any concerns about the rocket, feel free to notify the architectural committee. (There’s no need to notify our other neighbor since they have moved, prompting us to wonder if they knew about the rocket.)

Your form is enclosed. Please feel free to disregard everything else. 

:-)

We have not heard from our neighbors since and have left town in case they have notified the authorities about the rocket.

Pinch me

I remember reading a year ago how adults were telling their senior parents to stay home, to stop getting together with other people, to be safe. But, no. They wanted to party.

Not me. I stayed home. I neither warned my parents to put away their party shoes, nor was I warned by my own kids. It seemed simple enough at the time. Stay home. 

And, so I did.

Then it was masks and social distancing for so long it verged on what I began to think of as normal. No big deal, right?

And then the masks came off which made me nervous. Can we hug people now? Do we shake hands or are we still twisting our arms around to bump elbows? It still felt natural to keep six feet of distance from the next guy in line for coffee or a register but I felt a little naked, at first, without the mask. The instinct to double check that I had one in my purse was real.

And, then, my first party in over a year. I am not talking about a genteel gathering. This was a full-blown party with a live band. People crowded together, leaning in with their drinks, faces mere inches apart so we could hear each other. We breathed the same air, each other's breaths. It was bizarre after so many months of near isolation.

That was a week of starved zombies coming out to feed: pool party, live-band party, karaoke party. We couldn't get enough.

Yes, karaoke. Yes, I sang. 

And, yes, we all shared the same microphone without wiping it off in between.

Have we all lost our minds or have we forgotten what normal looks like? Just yesterday, I sat at a bar and sat next to a dude. Did I mention:

A) at a bar?

B) next to some dude? Next. to. some. dude!

Maybe I'm not ready for all this.

Maybe it was all a bad dream.

True Story

We meet a guy who appears to be traveling with his girlfriend. His name is Champagne. He gives us his card. His name really is Champagne. He is a traveling salesman and he sells seeds.

His traveling companion, Lily, is a Hooter’s bartender. She is also a real estate agent. It turns out she is not Champagne's girlfriend. The traveling seed salesman has kidnapped her. We decide to buy them a drink (why not?) and they tell us their stories.

Champagne speaks to Hubby while Lily bends my ear. When I tell her where we’re from, she tells me she has a golf tournament in our city soon. I ask her what her handicap is and she says it’s 7 or maybe 5. I think she must be a pretty good golfer until she says her handicap depends on how long the hole is, that she prefers her shorter irons to the the longer clubs. I wonder if she's as talented at real estate.

Champagne says Lily is a terrible bartender. Lily shoots back that’s because she’s just being professional and she doesn’t want him to get drunk yet it’s clearly apparent that they both are currently. 

They tell us they were drunk last night as well when they spent the night together (not sleeping together, she assures us, saying she is one-third virgin). The night involved being stalked by her ex-boyfriend of three months, six months ago, who kicked in her door and took her phone. Then there is something about how she couldn’t drive her new car, not because she was drunk, but because she bought a car with a manual transmission and she doesn’t know how to drive a stick shift. In any case, Champagne rescued the bad bartender by taking her to his house, possibly driving her car, where they drank until they fell asleep. 

He woke up early because he had to hit the road. He had to sell seeds but she was sound asleep on his couch. So he loaded her into his truck and took her with him with nothing but what she had on. It seems she was agreeable enough to the arrangement when she came to because she was still with him after a shopping trip to Target to get a bathing suit and a change of underwear.

As we take our leave, I remind myself to see if there's a Hooter’s golf tournament coming to our town in the next month. We say our goodnights. They are arguing about how there’s no chance they’d ever sleep together considering she’s such a bad bartender and he’s the doofus who kidnapped her which is okay as long as he gets her home before her next shift and she can borrow his phone so she can check social media to see what her ex is up to.

We wish them luck.

We bet they sleep together.

Hubby Is My Coffee Dealer

Hotel room coffee is sketchy, at best. You make it in a well worn seasoned coffee maker that pumps artesian, unfiltered water through a plastic pod containing wood pulp coffee grounds into a sterilized, plastic-wrapped paper cup.

Imagine, then, that we were presented with a choice whilst on the road. No, not like a choice between caffeinated and non-caffeinated wood pulp coffee but a between regular and dark roast wood pulp coffee. But here’s the catch. We had one regular wood pulp coffee pod, one dark roast wood pulp coffee pod, and one tea pod. (Which, upon reflection, was probably all the same wood pulp thing.)

We both wanted the dark roast (which, again, upon reflection, probably made no difference.) So Hubby, in a self-preservation, if he knows what’s good for him when it comes to coffee white knight sort of moment, went to find someone who could help him out. Don’t come back without the real deal! I shouted.

Housekeeping was done for the day so he went to the Front Desk.

The Front Desk only had the regular coffee-like stuff. Nervously, he accepted two pods. He headed back to the room with coffee but not the right coffee so he had to think fast. 

He tailed spotted a woman who was just dragging her luggage into her room. He approached her carefully saying, “I don’t want to scare you but do you drink coffee?” What ensued was a trade: his two regular coffees or her two (how is it that she had two?) dark coffees.

The deal completed, he returned. 

The monster within me was sated and the world turned.

Honestly? The coffee wasn’t that bad.

(This is just a draft - needs to percolate but I think it’ll get stronger.)

A thought that counts might not pay

In an effort to be less lazy at work, I got up early - before six. It was already too hot to think about working out (we're headed for 120 degrees today), so I found the coolest spot in the yard to drink a cold coffee and read the paper.

Then, as is my morning routine, I checked the emails on my phone. There were several interesting items that seemed to warrant further investigation. a Facebook post from a niece which lead to investigating a post from the Vancouver Beer & Wine Fest which prompted me to see what was happening at other northwest venues (Esther Short Park, Sunlight Supply Amphitheater, Edgefield). Of course, this necessitated looking at AirBNB to see where we might stay if we were going to get out of the hot desert in August.

Then, there was an article about Ajijic, Mexico, which, again, necessitated another investigation into AirBNB. There were e-mails from LaQuinta Brewing, and San Diego Beer News which both seemed important considering it's Friday and there's a whole weekend ahead of us. 

At 8, it was still early - an impressive time to log into work this time of year. I powered up my desktop and found more required reading at 76003.1414. There might have been some more AirBNB inquiries. A personal email. A chair at Ikea I was interested in buying. By 8:30, I was seriously thinking about logging into work, though, but I recalled that I hadn't brushed my teeth yet. Working from home, I attended to that easily when Hubby let me know the installers for the ceiling fans were on their way. Since one was to be installed in my office space, it didn't make sense for me to log in until they were through.

It was nine now. Still plenty of time to get to work at a decent hour (considering I haven't had much luck logging in before 10 since the tax deadline passed). I made toast for breakfast. Then a latte. Then, I considered the irony of waking up early and logging in late (the inspiration for this post). Writing this seemed to be a good use of my time while the installers finished their work.

And, like magic, it was 10 am and I was late for work again.

I should have just slept in.

Outsmarted, in the end.

There are some things I don’t want to do on a public wifi such as any kind of banking transaction. Or any kind of download of any kind regardless of the source. On a recent trip (and on many such trips), I find that WiFi is available but the security is - well, is there any? At least if I have to give up my name and room number, that’s something. (Isn’t it?) Sometimes there’s a password but it’s the same password for everyone. Do they change it on a regular basis? I guess if it’s a hotel you go to on a regular basis, you would know that but what if you’re just passing through?

Anyway, I had an idea for a post and I wanted to draft it so I opened my laptop and searched for a connection. No one is going to steal this post but, still, I didn’t want to open an open line to my what-feels-like-my-entire-life. So I tried to connect to my phone as a hotspot which I can do on Bluetooth but for some reason (which probably has to do with getting both a new phone and changing cellular networks), it wouldn’t connect via WiFi and since I didn’t want to connect on a public WiFi, I couldn’t look up how to resolve this on the interwebs. (I tried looking on my phone but didn’t type in the correct phrase to elicit an immediate solution.)

All I wanted to do was draft a post. I was about to give up and thumb tap it out on my phone when I realized *forehead slap* that you don’t need the internet to write.

Waaaaay back in the day, we called it “word processing.” It was made-up PR jargon that meant “typing on a computer.” And you know what? You can still type on a computer. Without the internet. It’s like writing with a pen on paper.

It’s so archaic.

But here’s the thing. It still works.

(And it’s secure.)

This word processor disagrees.

Life after tax season

Life after tax season is all about getting your life back: sleep, personal hygiene, exercise, proper nutrition, and conversations that do not include the words "bond premium amortization." I would include detoxing from caffeine and chocolate here but that's generally a permanent condition.

In this comic strip, Pearls Before Swine by Stephan Pastis for May 26, 2021, Rat begins the practice of daily meditation which makes him late for work. It reminds me of my own attempt to regain the mental and physical aspects of my life. Immediately after tax season, I thrust myself headlong into my old workout routine but without any sense of time or priority. There was coffee to attend to first and probably a load of laundry. There was a period of wandering about the house not understanding the lack of pressure to do anything by any specific time.

Everything seemed to be going fine. It was 7 o'clock in the morning. Still, plenty of time to work out and get to work. Somehow, it became 8 o'clock which was fine. I don't know how it got to 11 o'clock before I signed into work or where those hours were lost like blank pages in my journal. Perhaps there was a disruption in the space-time continuum. The lost time was baffling.

The only good news, with respect to my boss's approval or disapproval, is that everyone else in the office is going through the same thing, each of us reintegrating with her life the best way she can. It's like re-entry from outer space. It can be a little bumpy, abrupt, and disorienting.

As a collective, we should be back to normal in about a week. In the meantime, I'll be floundering in that general direction and maybe I'll get to work by 10.

There's ping pong where I work.

 

It just happens to be on my dining room table.

1

One more day until the magic happens. Not that there hasn't been plenty of bandwidth magic. The magic is always there but the real magic - the "I don't know how they do it" magic - happens in the last few days. We become one tax preparing organism. It's like sharing the same thoughts, helping each other out, knowing what needs to get done and stepping in where there's a gap. It can't be explained but it's always there.

Today is the last real dig into the reserves. Most of those reserves were used up yesterday in an all-day, late night session - people going above and beyond. One more bleary-eyed, coffee-fueled day. One more day of forsaking family, chores, and (in mild cases) personal hygiene. One last day of delaying self care - the stuff that won't hurt if put off but will catch up with you if you put it off too long. Like sleep, exercise, and a diet that consists of anything but coffee and chocolate. 

That's today.

Because tomorrow is tax day. Tomorrow is the day for double-checking lists and waiting until we can lock the door. There's always that one guy that comes in at the last minute but there's got to be a limit. The tax filing deadline might be midnight but we're locking the door at five. We're going to go get a drink. We're going to get reunited with our families and our better selves. We're going to get some sleep. Heck, we might even take some time off! Maybe some self-pampering. What do you think about that?

But we still have to get through today.

One.

more.

day.

2

Do you ever dream about tax returns? 

No?

I don't recommend it.

3

 The rule used to be "don't speak to me before I've had my coffee." 

Now it's "don't speak to me until Tuesday."

4

 There is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Right?

5

6

7

 ... or 8, depending on how you look at it.

8

9

10

 For real this time...

May the fours be with Hugh.

 https://www.gocomics.com/pearlsbeforeswine/2021/05/02

Work is unavoidable.

... for the next two weeks.