Yesterday, Esteban finally did our taxes. I used to do them, but a few years ago, we started using a tax software program which was alluring for Esteban because it involved computers and software and opportunities for advancing further up the Silverback Geek ladder and therefore I gladly handed the fiscal reins to him. He spent several hours doing it Sunday and then several more yesterday. Unfortunately, one or both of our withholdings for our paychecks must be screwed up because we actually have to pay in. Pay IN! Last year, we had to pay in $500, but we got $900 back from our state taxes, so it was all good. After Esteban finished the taxes, he declared that we would be writing a check to the government for roughly a European vacation for two. And not a backpacking trip, staying in hostels, either. Last night I spent several hours doing the double check, put in my school expenses, home improvements, and some charitable deductions, it dropped to the range of a vacation in Key West. But still’ ouch. And the total amount of federal taxes we paid is equivalent to a 2003 Saturn Ion. Fully loaded. With a nice set of Lady Cobras in the trunk. Not that I WANT a Saturn Ion, mind you. I’m just saying. Ouch.
Completely off the subject, but I was so busy today that I didn’t get to eat anything for breakfast, stopping for a Luna bar at 10 am. Then I didn’t get a chance to get lunch until 2:30 and wasn’t able to go anywhere, so I did some scavenging at the vending machines and got presumably the only safe non-grey item in the entire cafeteria: a fish fillet sandwich. Which promptly blopped a big glob of tartar sauce on my white shirt. Because I simply cannot stay clean, people. It’s a rule of nature. The first wet food I eat all day and I’m wearing it. Go me.
Last night I slept with the window next to my bed wide open. It was lovely, with the moon streaming through the slats in the blind and that warm spring air sort of whispering over my skin and I was lying on fresh clean white sheets, wearing a fresh white t-shirt and my summer boxer short bottoms and my pillow was full of goose down mixed with happy thoughts and for a moment, it wasn’t a Monday night at 11 pm, instead it was the first night of the beginning of summer vacation and I had nothing in the world to do and all summer to do it. And life was good. And then this morning, when I walked outside, it was 66 degrees. All plans of Sbux’gone. I was all about the Diet Coke, baby. Because it was summer. I even said ‘Hello Summer!’ when I walked outside. Giddy. I was giddy. Yay summer! I could almost feel my hedonistic flower child summer Bix peeking her head around the corner, wondering if it was safe to come out.
I really wanted to go golfing today, as it is an incredible 70 degrees, but Carissa and Penny were all responsible and mature, opting to stay and do actual work instead. Damn them and their ridiculous sensibilities. Seriously, I just gave my government a car, I deserve to have some leisure! Oh why won’t someone important take pity on me and make me a Princess? Or at very least the head of a television network?
Which reminds me of something else: I was sitting here working and my bra straps kept sliding down my shoulders, mostly because this particular bra has Generation X straps that resent having to work for a living, and I thought to myself ‘Man, if I could have one magical ability, I would make my bra straps automatically readjust themselves.’ And then I was really struck by that. One magical ability and I’m concerning myself with something as stupid as my bra straps? Not levitation or X-ray vision or the ability to give my enemies hot dog fingers? Hell, why wouldn’t I pick breasts that defy gravity?
So, anyway, I’m sort of glad that my fairy godmother was out getting her nails done right then. Because, man, would I have been so ticked if I had blown a wish on magic bra straps.
It was 86 degrees at lunch and now, three hours later, it is 53. Tonight: Ice Storm.
This is not my beautiful life.
