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?

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6

7

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

8

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