My buddy Gabe recently posted about having an accountant do his taxes this year. Before the massive hordes who monitor this on-line platform of all things sacrosanct, obsequious and sesquipedalian rush to judge him for his betrayal of manhood, let it be known that he currently entertains the most maddeningly insane schedule of anyone I know, so hiring somebody else to do the taxes was actually an exercise in prudence. But it prompted a gigantic spike in my Pride Factor in knowing that I had crunched the numbers, flogged the calculator, and beat the deadline, filing our taxes all by my lonesome and without the aide of a Criminally Provocative Antagonist (CPA).*
HEAR YE, HEAR YE, I did it myself.
Yup.
By my lonesome.
Oh, and y'know what I also did? I also failed to re-file my W-4 at the beginning of the 2006 calendar year with sufficient withholdings, thus causing us to pay roughly $3,000 extra in taxes. Sigh. My Pride Factor has returned to its appropriate 'Pondscum' setting.
Oh, and he also scored one point higher than I did on the MPRE, so he's more ethical than I am to boot. Yikes, the PF has slipped below 'Pondscum' to an all-time low... 'French.'
* Let it be known I happen to like CPA's, my dad and brother-in-law are both accountants and many people equate the literacy rates of J.D. recipients and CPA's as roughly equivalent.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Friday, April 06, 2007
[Easter] in Connecticut
There is a reason why Barbara Stanwyck spent "Christmas in Connecticut" rather than Easter. Easter in Connecticut looks like Christmas... except without the snow... or the lights... or the trees... strike that: Easter in Connecticut looks rather dull and grey. Fortunately, time spent visiting family and friends can help remove the dull, grey outlook and make it feel as if we're in Majorca. Seriously.
Ok, no so seriously.
Somewhat like Majorca with a little less sun.
And beach.
And friendly natives. (BTW, Connecticut's Department of Tourism Affairs [the renamed DMV] will be announcing any day now that the state motto is changing to "Connecticut: Not QUITE like Majorca but kinda sorta if you squint in the general direction of Rhode Island...")
At any rate, native Nutmeggers, praying off snow flurries that might impede the Easter Bunny, are accepting the cold and wind with the alacrity of a French boarder guard repelling a German invasion.
Ok, no so seriously.
Somewhat like Majorca with a little less sun.
And beach.
And friendly natives. (BTW, Connecticut's Department of Tourism Affairs [the renamed DMV] will be announcing any day now that the state motto is changing to "Connecticut: Not QUITE like Majorca but kinda sorta if you squint in the general direction of Rhode Island...")
At any rate, native Nutmeggers, praying off snow flurries that might impede the Easter Bunny, are accepting the cold and wind with the alacrity of a French boarder guard repelling a German invasion.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Too Long Gone
Not only have we been too long from this blog, we have spent much too much time apart this weekend. Nebraska holds no charm for either of us at this point, after Pete's four days missing from my side here in VA--all for a homeschooling group in Nebraska.
I hope they appreciated his presence. I would have appreciated it too.
How odd that we have been married for 1 1/2 years already and it is harder for us to be apart now than it was before we were married. I am hoping this is a good sign.
I am hoping my attitude will be somewhat improved over his next trip.
I hope they appreciated his presence. I would have appreciated it too.
How odd that we have been married for 1 1/2 years already and it is harder for us to be apart now than it was before we were married. I am hoping this is a good sign.
I am hoping my attitude will be somewhat improved over his next trip.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Comparative Analysis
On consecutive evenings I have watched, in no particular order
The Hunt for Red October
Intolerable Cruelty
McLintock
A Life Less Ordinary
Fievel Goes West
Fearlessly cutting through the reams of research necessary to compose a 4L paper with the daring-do of Alec Baldwin, the charm of George Clooney, the belly-up to danger attitude of John Wayne, the European suavity of Ewan MacGregor, and the overpowering physique of a two-dimensional rodent, Pete charges through the evening sans caffeine.
On threat of percolation, the adorable female of the species cutely, but sternly, questions “To stay up late tonight or get up early tomorrow morning?”
The male, sensing insubordination and logic within the ranks, quickly returns fire:
‘Don’t look at me in that tone of voice!’
The male, sensing self-stupidity, buttresses his position by quickly putting on his headphones and looking down at his computer.
Darn you George Clooney. The standard is too high.
The Hunt for Red October
Intolerable Cruelty
McLintock
A Life Less Ordinary
Fievel Goes West
Fearlessly cutting through the reams of research necessary to compose a 4L paper with the daring-do of Alec Baldwin, the charm of George Clooney, the belly-up to danger attitude of John Wayne, the European suavity of Ewan MacGregor, and the overpowering physique of a two-dimensional rodent, Pete charges through the evening sans caffeine.
On threat of percolation, the adorable female of the species cutely, but sternly, questions “To stay up late tonight or get up early tomorrow morning?”
The male, sensing insubordination and logic within the ranks, quickly returns fire:
‘Don’t look at me in that tone of voice!’
The male, sensing self-stupidity, buttresses his position by quickly putting on his headphones and looking down at his computer.
Darn you George Clooney. The standard is too high.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
The Benefit of the Pout
(Or my way of dealing with stupid policies)
Not being certain of what rouses you from deep and holy recesses of slumber is annoying. Realizing that (a) one’s alarm clock failed to peal forth glorious salutations of a new day and (b) had one known how awful one would have felt one would have entrenched oneself further into the safe recesses of one’s bed does not extend the already short list of reasons to rouse oneself to “urgent” or even “half-way convincing” status, and does nothing to light a fire under one’s tuckus.
6:45 a.m. and dark skies greeted me earlier this morning. One considered releasing one’s alarm clock from one’s employ ‘til one, ‘pon checking said device, was made to understand one had set said device (pink slip withdrawn) for 4 post meridian rather than 4 ante meridian. The refreshing wave known as knowledge and enlightenment was only slightly interfered with by the vague sensation of falling. Backwards, that is, into the washing machine to be precise. What brought on my sudden vertigo, I quickly discovered was that a night of hard partying (birthday chili spiced up by The Secret of Life of Walter Mitty and bed at 8:30) in honor of my birthday had left its mark on my nervous system. To put it quite more to the point, I was sick.
I truly do try not to complain about my health. My beloved’s medical history causes my thoroughly good health to quiver in shame at the prospect of admitting sickness. That being said, this morning I do believe I have topped my sick sensations. Kelly and I agreed to give ourselves the morning to get things in order. Having some urgent things to attend to at work (as a newly christened quarter-centenarian, that sounds so promisingly important), I opted to go into work for a few hours and, well, attend to them. After three hours in the office, I packed up shop and headed for home by way of one of the major commercial centers in the bustling metropolis of Purcellville (read Giant grocery store). The object of my pursuit was a bag of chips to accompany dinner.
As I parked and entered the store, I was struck with a sharp pain in my skull that usually accompanies thinking. A brilliant plan had erupted in my brain-thingie! Having many sundry items to transport home from work, and, in light of the fact that that skies released a chilly rain in porous fashion, I elected to purchase two bags of chips and procure two bags from the store. One bag would be utilized for the transportation of the chips, and one for the half dozen now-soaking other items in my car.
After concluding my transaction at the register I collected my pre-bagged now bagged chips and deftly snagged another plastic bag to accomplish my mission. As I prepared to exite the premises, my attention was arrested by a sharp, “Sir!” Trusting my solitude would only be interrupted in a grocery store by, say, having won a life time supply of cupcakes, I was surprised to discover that the origin of my interruption was a bag-lady. Now this bag lady was not importunate, at least not in any way I could, with my Wimsian powers, ascertain. She was however, fitted with that supreme mark of authoritarian sternness that marks all great grocery store bag ladies… she was short.
She continued. “Sir, you can’t take that.” I said nothing. In fact, during the entire exchange following, I said nothing.
Her eyes fell to the extra bag in my hand.
“You… have two bags.”
Her eyes remained steadfastly fixed on the bag, like a dog whose visual orbs lock onto a tennis ball. I briefly contemplated pitching the bag over my shoulder with the command to “Retrieve, Bruiser, KILL!” but let it lapse.
“If you have under six items you can only have one bag.”
‘Brilliant!’ I thought, ‘I’m going to go find the six largest items I can in the store and try to cram them into the bloody bag, SUING YOU NINCOMPOOPS when I injure myself. But again, I said nothing, reaching the stage of actual disbelief.
“It’s…it’s store policy.”
I looked over my shoulder outdoors, smiling internally that the gods had blessed me with a torrential downpour to provide natural embellishment to any story I could concoct for the necessity of two plastic bags. Need a canoe? Sure, I just have to grab my bags- oh, whoops, store policy forbids it!
My glance returned to the diminutive bag lady as I shifted my substantial bulk, squaring up… or as it were, pearing up <-- PLAY ON WORDS] to her.
Side note: My lovely and non-pear-shaped wife indicates that my above mentioned “Play on words” doesn’t make sense. I would like to remind readers of this post that Peter is writing, and therefore no sense is to be found anywhere. This should not be taken as a slight against dear Kelly, for I now she means well… I just wish that sometimes I had a point and could shoot back with something wittier than… well, this. Sighhh…
I again looked outside. The rain was falling so heavily, I could have sworn I saw a Cadillac float by the window. She tugged the bag from my hand and muttered something about how the “conversation is at an end” and “Don’t ask me why, etc.”
‘Don’t worry, fair maid!’ I nearly called after her, ‘Have no fear, I shall not ask from whose brilliant mental bowels this policy was expunged!’ But alas, I said nothing.
Not being certain of what rouses you from deep and holy recesses of slumber is annoying. Realizing that (a) one’s alarm clock failed to peal forth glorious salutations of a new day and (b) had one known how awful one would have felt one would have entrenched oneself further into the safe recesses of one’s bed does not extend the already short list of reasons to rouse oneself to “urgent” or even “half-way convincing” status, and does nothing to light a fire under one’s tuckus.
6:45 a.m. and dark skies greeted me earlier this morning. One considered releasing one’s alarm clock from one’s employ ‘til one, ‘pon checking said device, was made to understand one had set said device (pink slip withdrawn) for 4 post meridian rather than 4 ante meridian. The refreshing wave known as knowledge and enlightenment was only slightly interfered with by the vague sensation of falling. Backwards, that is, into the washing machine to be precise. What brought on my sudden vertigo, I quickly discovered was that a night of hard partying (birthday chili spiced up by The Secret of Life of Walter Mitty and bed at 8:30) in honor of my birthday had left its mark on my nervous system. To put it quite more to the point, I was sick.
I truly do try not to complain about my health. My beloved’s medical history causes my thoroughly good health to quiver in shame at the prospect of admitting sickness. That being said, this morning I do believe I have topped my sick sensations. Kelly and I agreed to give ourselves the morning to get things in order. Having some urgent things to attend to at work (as a newly christened quarter-centenarian, that sounds so promisingly important), I opted to go into work for a few hours and, well, attend to them. After three hours in the office, I packed up shop and headed for home by way of one of the major commercial centers in the bustling metropolis of Purcellville (read Giant grocery store). The object of my pursuit was a bag of chips to accompany dinner.
As I parked and entered the store, I was struck with a sharp pain in my skull that usually accompanies thinking. A brilliant plan had erupted in my brain-thingie! Having many sundry items to transport home from work, and, in light of the fact that that skies released a chilly rain in porous fashion, I elected to purchase two bags of chips and procure two bags from the store. One bag would be utilized for the transportation of the chips, and one for the half dozen now-soaking other items in my car.
After concluding my transaction at the register I collected my pre-bagged now bagged chips and deftly snagged another plastic bag to accomplish my mission. As I prepared to exite the premises, my attention was arrested by a sharp, “Sir!” Trusting my solitude would only be interrupted in a grocery store by, say, having won a life time supply of cupcakes, I was surprised to discover that the origin of my interruption was a bag-lady. Now this bag lady was not importunate, at least not in any way I could, with my Wimsian powers, ascertain. She was however, fitted with that supreme mark of authoritarian sternness that marks all great grocery store bag ladies… she was short.
She continued. “Sir, you can’t take that.” I said nothing. In fact, during the entire exchange following, I said nothing.
Her eyes fell to the extra bag in my hand.
“You… have two bags.”
Her eyes remained steadfastly fixed on the bag, like a dog whose visual orbs lock onto a tennis ball. I briefly contemplated pitching the bag over my shoulder with the command to “Retrieve, Bruiser, KILL!” but let it lapse.
“If you have under six items you can only have one bag.”
‘Brilliant!’ I thought, ‘I’m going to go find the six largest items I can in the store and try to cram them into the bloody bag, SUING YOU NINCOMPOOPS when I injure myself. But again, I said nothing, reaching the stage of actual disbelief.
“It’s…it’s store policy.”
I looked over my shoulder outdoors, smiling internally that the gods had blessed me with a torrential downpour to provide natural embellishment to any story I could concoct for the necessity of two plastic bags. Need a canoe? Sure, I just have to grab my bags- oh, whoops, store policy forbids it!
My glance returned to the diminutive bag lady as I shifted my substantial bulk, squaring up… or as it were, pearing up <-- PLAY ON WORDS] to her.
Side note: My lovely and non-pear-shaped wife indicates that my above mentioned “Play on words” doesn’t make sense. I would like to remind readers of this post that Peter is writing, and therefore no sense is to be found anywhere. This should not be taken as a slight against dear Kelly, for I now she means well… I just wish that sometimes I had a point and could shoot back with something wittier than… well, this. Sighhh…
I again looked outside. The rain was falling so heavily, I could have sworn I saw a Cadillac float by the window. She tugged the bag from my hand and muttered something about how the “conversation is at an end” and “Don’t ask me why, etc.”
‘Don’t worry, fair maid!’ I nearly called after her, ‘Have no fear, I shall not ask from whose brilliant mental bowels this policy was expunged!’ But alas, I said nothing.
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