Pet Peeve

A friend’s recent post on Facebook dredged up a pet peeve of mine.  It’s still rankling around in my brain, so I thought I’d put it down here.  Not my usual subject matter, but when I started this blog six years ago, this was its original purpose.  (If you’d rather read about another amazing dinner event, click here to read the latest post on my food blog.)

Here’s the video that triggered my disbelief.  You can watch it or not; it’s a bland little instruction manual about folding fitted sheets.  It’s the very first line that caught my attention: “One of the biggest challenges you're going to face in your life is folding fitted sheets.”

Really?  I mean, yes, many people do spend their lives mystified by this modern convenience, but if it qualifies as a major event in your life history, you’re pretty darn sheltered!

This strikes a nerve with me because it resembles the kind of statements you hear on tv commercials all the dang time.  I think I’m particularly sensitive to them because, at an earlier stage in my life, I spent a surprising amount of time watching tv with no sound. 

It was mostly at the gym, where I preferred to listen to music while tracking miles on an elliptical machine stationed in front of a battery of suspended screens.  I might switch to a program that interested me, but was too preoccupied to bother channel-surfing, so got to watch plenty of commercials without their accompanying dramatic music or cheery narration.  Often, I had to imagine what intriguing product might follow shots of dimly-lit rippling sheets, or the fascinating conversation two people could be having to lead one of them to suddenly flourish a tube of medicated cream.

Once this separation of narration and image occurred to me, it was permanent.  So now, even with sound and picture running together, I still pay more attention than most to the smoothly delivered lines drilling into our nation’s subconscious day after day. Do any of these sound familiar?

“Now your pores can be practically invisible.”  Since when has it become shameful for women to display the fact that their skin is a living, breathing organ?  Are visible pores a sign of bad breeding or hygiene?  Do women who replace their skin with plastic become better sex partners?  Are wide pores on the TSA’s list of suspicious signs of terrorist involvement?  I must have missed a memo somewhere.

“Keep tiny hands germ-free and healthy.”  No.  Just, no.  Study after study has shown that children exposed to the horrifying messes of pets and—*gasp!*—the outdoors develop stronger immune systems and fewer allergies.  Yet the makers of disinfecting products continue to meet success with the message that keeping a white-tiled, sterile home is the only way a loving mother would raise her children.  (In spite of all the progress we’ve made, how many Lysol commercials feature Dad wiping down an otherwise spotless counter with a self-satisfied smile?)

“…the luxury and dependability you deserve.”  Really?  Do you know me?  Have you seen the dirty dishes on my counter, the projects on my desk I’ve been putting off, or the unanswered emails required difficult decisions?  It’s not like I’ve led the federal government to a new cost-cutting way of saving lives or feeding the homeless.  I’m not Ghandi, Warren Buffet or even Mary Poppins.  If my personal achievements aren’t relevant, it must be true that you believe anyone able to sit up and pay attention to a tv commercial is worthy of wearing a Rolex or driving a Bentley. So then, why don’t you just give me the damn thing, if I deserve it so much?

Go ahead, next time a commercial pops onto your tv, listen carefully to the assumptions it’s asking you to make.  With practice, you too might separate from the party line, and suddenly find that your list of “needs” gets cut dramatically.  As a bonus, you might even find some entertainment in these ridiculous sirens to our consumerist culture. 

Although I have to admit, my amusement is tempered with frustration when I realize how thoroughly brainwashed most of my fellow citizens continue to be.

Southern Snow

Last year around this time, Miss Chef and I were with her family in Michigan, struggling through and playing in deep inches of soft, thick snow.

This year, we are at home, where we got considerably less.

This snow“storm” was scheduled to arrive Tuesday afternoon, and the city began salting the roads on Monday.  Our sister office in Columbia, SC started getting sleet around 11:00 am Tuesday and were dismissed at 1:30; my office let us out at 2:00, to make sure everyone could make it home before the snow started falling.  We do have several people who live in rural parts of neighboring South Carolina, where an inch of snow/ice makes narrow gravel driveways nearly impassible.

In Charlotte, however, there was nothing yet falling, and I had a speedy drive home.  I changed, brought in some firewood and waited for the fun to begin.  By 4:30, I posted this picture to Facebook, with the caption, “That’s it; we’re officially snowed in.”

 

Rosie loves cold and snow, and she was very excited about the weather.  This was McKenna’s first snowfall, and while she found the falling flakes and Rosie’s antics rather interesting…

…she later determined that being outside in the stuff was not much fun.  (I brought her out on the leash, and once she was on the snow-covered ground, she eventually sat down with her tail wrapped around herself, waiting to go back inside.) 

Miss Chef and I got to spend our evening together on the couch, watching tv, enjoying the benefits of a wood fireplace, and eating snickerdoodles (like I said earlier, freeze some rolled cookie dough for a no-effort treat at any time).  We kept checking on the snow, as it changed from hard, dry dust to soft white flakes and back again.  Most of it accumulated after dusk, so I waited until this morning to go outside with my little ruler and see how we did.

 

That’s about 3/4 of an inch, less than the one to two inches that were predicted.

Now, we had been hearing for days about this dangerous snowfall, and there were lots of jokes on the internet about ridiculous southerners who can’t handle a fraction of the weather that other parts of the country take as standard winter conditions.  I, too, used to laugh at my coworkers’ freaking out about an inch of snow—Charlotte does have snow-removal equipment, and is smart enough to get teams out before snow falls (unlike some other, more northerly places I’ve lived in…but that’s another story).

However, the fact that southern snow generally falls when the temperature teeters back and forth across the freezing point can make it more dangerous than what I grew up with in northeastern Ohio.  It wasn’t until the first early-morning drive into work several years ago that I learned that snowfall around the freezing point makes a heck of a lot more ice than snow at ten degrees.

That’s our street this morning, covered in a thin layer of the dreaded “black ice.”  Frankly, I don’t think it matters what color you name it…but even our driveway and sidewalk, which had no traffic, developed a thin sheet of the stuff, from snow thawing on warmish concrete before re-freezing.  And everywhere we stepped last night, the pressure of our weight made more of it.  Some of us made more than others, going in and out to eat snow instead of peeing like they were supposed to.

 

That’s our front sidewalk, after I’d swept off the light covering of snow so I could expose the ice underneath to the sun and a pinch or two of salt.  The snow itself was no problem, a beautiful dry powder that swept easily off our ice-free cars, but you can see it wanted to stick to the ice on the ground, so it could make more.

Naturally, area schools were let out early yesterday, and are closed today.  My office won’t open until noon (thus my chance to blog).  However, Miss Chef’s school continued with its 5:30 am classes this morning!  Luckily, she didn’t have any early classes today, though she did have to go in for a meeting at 9:00.  It sounded like the main roads were very clear, but Miss Chef found most of the back roads were solid ice, and even saw a car slide off the side.  Once she got to work, she found out her meeting was cancelled, but decided the drive back was too treacherous to be worth it.

But even as I write this, our street is half-melted down to wet asphalt, and by the time I leave in another hour, I expect to have no real problems getting to work.  Still, I challenge any northerner to come down and try an early-morning drive here before snorting in derision at southerners in snow.  There are some ice-driving skills you just don’t get, even in the Land of Big Snow.  Trust me.

Edit: Just as I got to the word “derision” in that last paragraph, my supervisor called to say “Don’t bother coming in today.”  So now, I don’t know…maybe there is a call for derision.  Oh, well, we can always laugh at people emptying the store shelves of bread and milk, right?

Get It Together

Fair warning: this is a soapbox post!

When it comes to our own estate, Miss Chef and I are pretty well prepared. We have a few reasons—I nearly lost my father a few times, and so the phrase “end of life” has real meaning to me.  In addition, not having the built-in protection of marriage, I wanted to make sure nobody could remove Miss Chef from our home, or keep from her the assistance of the savings I’ve built thanks in large part to her presence in my life.  And we both travel a fair amount alone by car, visiting our families.  I have a good enough imagination to get a little paranoid about terrible accidents.

Over a year ago, when North Carolina put in place a constitutional amendment banning all kinds of domestic partner benefits, I got serious about protecting Miss Chef in the case of my untimely death.  I found a “friendly” lawyer who has experience with gay and lesbian couples, and set up a meeting.  It took us months to get the dang things signed (the lawyer recommended an extra witness to the signing, and that was a scheduling nightmare), but in truth it was very, very simple.  The lawyer told us exactly what documents we needed, gave us guidance when we weren’t sure about our choices, and gave us advice about keeping and sharing our documents.  Yes, it cost us money—about $600 each—but I doubt I could find a better investment these days.

After her mother passed away, Miss Chef discovered that nobody in her family had a will prepared!  This included her brother and sister-in-law, who have three little girls.  When she told them she had a will, so they were going to get them, I looked at her smugly, thinking of the weeks and months I had nagged her to arrange that final signing.  Truth is, I felt really good the day I signed mine, knowing that I had done everything I could to take care of her, and I felt relieved when I knew hers was done.

As Miss Chef started to go through all the nitpicky details of figuring out her mother’s financial status, we both realized there remained a few details we needed to write down to help each other if we ever needed to figure out each other’s accounts.  Among other things, she had to search for how many accounts there were at which banks, how to log into them online, how many credit card and other credit accounts were out there, how many life insurance policies existed, and how to access them.

And these days, there are so many other accounts—Facebook, Amazon, cell phones, emails, this Blogger account, and on and on.  Sure, she already has access to some of those, and could easily find others, but she has no idea what my Facebook login is. And what if the worst should happen, and we were both killed in some horrible accident? Then my parents or brother would be left digging through my papers, trying to figure out where my mortgage statements and Amazon password are. 

So “write down accounts and passwords” has been on my to-do list for several weeks.  But there are so many accounts; how do I organize them?  What if I forget some?  What exactly do I need to write down?  Then this morning on the way to work, I heard a story on NPR about a woman who went through the worst—she lost her young, healthy husband before they had bothered to sign their wills.  In addition to mourning her husband and supporting her young girls, she had to slog through all those details that make up a modern life.

This woman has created a website which provides a great, great service.  It’s called Get Your Shit Together, and it takes the Scary out of end-of-life planning.  She gives templates for the few documents you really need—you don’t necessarily need a lawyer to write a will or medical power of attorney.  She also has checklists to help you make sure all the information your loved ones need will be easily available, saving them the heartache of worrying about your credit card bill while they try to adjust to life without you in it.

Yes, Miss Chef and I are pretty well prepared.  But in going through the Details list, I learned that I had never named beneficiaries for my employer-provided life insurance and retirement funds!  Here I was, assuming Miss Chef would have more than enough money to take care of my funeral, and she would have had to fight to get it.

So, learn from my mistakes.  If you care about your spouse, your children, your living family, take 15 minutes to visit the site.  It will give you a great idea of where to start, and show you how simple it really is.  You don’t have to write your will today.  You can do it tomorrow after work.  Or set aside a couple of hours to do it this weekend.  Just do it.  It’s the best gift you can give to those you love.

Dépaysement*

I went to the mall the other day, and it was like visiting another country. Looking around, I wasn’t sure I spoke the language, and felt that I wasn’t quite in step with the common culture. Everywhere were unfamiliar objects of unknown use, odd-looking clothing, and shops offering bewildering services. A mother and her pre-teen daughters clustered around a small kiosk filled with glittery plastic Christmas ornaments, obsessively fondling everything they could see. Further down, in a circular, high-ceilinged intersection of two-story passageways, a lone man paced impatiently among several massage chairs that looked like they’d fallen from a passing alien ship through the frosted glass overhead.

I walked by tables covered with sausages and crackers, a man calling out to me and holding a small piece of cardboard, large panes of glass containing headless bodies and enormous photos of half-dressed women looking like they were about to pass out if they didn’t get a sandwich and soon. Eventually I entered the food court, trolling like everyone else from one collection of high-fat, high-sodium treats to the next. I settled in with my greasy plate of Asian noodles and bourbon chicken, and watched around me as men in dress clothes and parents with children sated themselves with hamburgers and chicken patties. I was one with them, all of us drawn to this bizarre bazaar seeking what we could not find elsewhere.

So this is America, I thought to myself. These are my countrymen. And this is what our American lives are about. Strong perfumes, tight clothes, shiny plastic possessions. Earlier I had stopped in the cosmetics area of a department store to buy my facial soap, and the bright light bouncing off the brilliant floors and glass countertops nearly blinded me. The saleswoman helping me reminded me a bit of the older version of a friend from graduate school—if she had not followed her calling, gotten divorced, and tried to fill her days with superficial chatter while covering her aging skin with bright colors. There is not a bright enough lipstick shade to cover a tightly downturned mouth.

It took me longer than I wanted to not find what I was looking for—comfortable, attractive black shoes without a heel. So I ended up wandering from one end to the other of this glitzy, glittering cage. At one time in my life, the opportunity to spend an entire day here would have been sheer bliss. I could have stopped in store after store, sniffing lotions and trying on new fashions in an attempt to keep up with my peers. New, sexy bras. Flashy, expensive sunglasses. Chic designer objets to display on wall or shelf.

Today I look at this stuff and realize not only do I not need it—something I always knew, at heart—but I no longer even have the desire for it. I like my quiet, simple life. As I strolled the reflective tile floors, what was on my mind was not a perfect knickknack to highlight the niche in the kitchen, but whether I had enough garlic from last year’s planting to set out a new crop. Everything I looked at seemed like it was simply fodder for overstuffed closets and shelves. Enough, I thought. I already have enough. In fact, I have too much as it is, and adding any of this would possibly make my house vomit from overindulgence.

So now Christmas is coming. The holidays loom in front of me like a mall-sized monster, composed of plastic toys and unneeded scarves, gobbling up shoppers in its path. Its venomous breath causes otherwise sane consumers to camp out on sidewalks in freezing cold, trample each other in their eagerness to worship at the monster’s feet, and toss themselves into the abyss of senseless debt. I have to try hard to see past the monster, to quiet winter nights, phone calls with loved ones and the small joys of sharing home-baked cookies with my coworkers. I don’t know what to do with the thousandth Christmas-themed coffee mug I’ll receive, the generically cheerful ornaments, the charming but useless holiday figurines. I truly appreciate the sentiments they all express, I do…I just wish our sentiments didn’t have to be demonstrated with molded resin compounds manufactured in China.

All this pondering has been focused by my recently spending a three-day weekend in my yard. I spent hours digging up the garden, raking and mulching leaves, scrubbing rain barrels and winterizing outdoor spigots. The quiet truth of earth, air, growth and death overshadows anything inside the smooth-sliding doors of the mall. That building and all that is within it will one day disappear, whether through changes in taste and lifestyle, economic depression, or end-of-the-world catastrophe.

 A thousand years from now, regardless of what we throw at it, the dirt will still be here, plants will continue to seed and sprout, and leaves will decompose into new dirt. My bones will be long disintegrated, as will yours, as will the computer I’m typing this on and the screen you’re reading it on. Our crumbling bones can feed the earth, returning to the system that produced and sustained them. But what of the computer? What of those glitter-covered Christmas ornaments? A thousand years from now, their bits will still be bits—separate from the giant biochemical factory that is this life-giving planet. Are those bits what we want to leave behind when we’re gone?

No, not me. I don’t want to leave anything behind that this earth cannot use again. As it turns out, the Christmas gifts being sent out from my home will be mostly biodegradable—homemade jam, local peanut butter, maybe a bottle of wine. Without intending it, I’ve stepped away from plastic gadgetry as gift. Maybe it’s a gift to the world I live on, but mostly it’s a gift to me.

Anything to stay out of the mall.

*Dépaysement centers on the French word "pays," country.  It indicates a sense of being outside of one's home place, of not belonging, of feeling alien.

The Right Thing

When I first started working for Corporate Banking USA, I was delighted that I could add Miss Chef to my health insurance benefits.  Only the large, corporate restaurants offer benefits to all their employees, and paying for one's own insurance is well beyond the reach of most hourly-wage workers.  So you can imagine how relieved I was to find a corporate culture that could extend protection to my sweetie in her job working with fire and knives!

It wasn't until after we'd gone through all the selection and registration processes that I started noticing some odd deductions on my paycheck.  Lo and behold, it was one of those hidden costs of our inability to be legally married.  The cost of her benefits--both the amount the company contributes and my contributions--are considered taxable income.  So the company has to re-gross my income by that amount and take taxes out.

It has been nearly 7 years (between two different companies) that I have been carrying this little burden in my paycheck.  After my initial resentment and irritation, I eventually just had to accept the situation, and finally pretty much forgot about it.  I still appreciated knowing that I had some protection within the company from being treated unfairly because I fell in love with the wrong kind of person.

Last week at home I received in the mail a rather plain envelope from my employer.  Inside was a simple, one-page letter regarding the health benefits I was able to extend to my domestic partner.  (I love the fact that they don't distinguish between same-sex and opposite-sex partners.)  The letter re-iterated the Company's commitment to diversity and inclusion, blah blah blah, and re-stated the situation with the tax penalties I am subjected to.

Then there was this part:  "The payment described below will help offset the additional federal and state taxes you incur as a result of these regulations."

Yes--the big, faceless Corporation is paying extra money to ensure I am treated with equality.  Not only are they granting me extra payments to offset the taxes I already pay, but they are bumping them up by enough to cover the taxes on the extra money itself!  In addition, my July month-end paycheck would include a lump-sum payment to cover those extra costs through the first half of 2012.

I have to tell you, I grew emotional when I read that letter.  Even in explaining it here, I'm getting a little choked up.  They didn't have to do this.  There was no general outcry within the company or among its customers, clients or shareholders.  One short paragraph indicates this was a result of feedback on an annual PRIDE Global survey and various diversity and HR organizations within the company.  I know the Company's not going to do anything that impinges on their bottom line; I know there's got to be something in it for the Company...but the fact that they were open to the idea, and went through all the calculations and paperwork to make it happen, is a little flabbergasting.

Still, when I went online at work today to check my month-end paycheck, I was not prepared for what was in there.  The monthly addition to my pay is not chump change.  But the retroactive amount for the past six months was over $1400.

Yeah, that's a nice little stocking stuffer, isn't it?  But I'm not sharing the amount with you because I'm excited about it.  I want you to think about what it represents.  That's $2800 a year of financial penalty because my co-citizens refuse to recognize my and Miss Chef's relationship as legally valid (not morally or religiously, just legally).  Over the past 7 years, I have lost over $19,000 by extending to Miss Chef the same benefits that my coworkers extend to their spouses without that price tag.  The same that you might use to cover your own husband or wife.  The loss would be even greater if we had children.  Imagine if I'd been able to divert that much into my 401(k)?  How much more secure would my retirement be with those extra funds?

And that's just one hidden cost that we bear.  One hidden cost that we weren't really aware of.  How many more are we carrying?  I am fortunate that my employer is extending protections to me that my government is not willing to.  My government, that I'm supporting.

You know what's even more shocking?  My employer is one of the big-name, international Wall Street banks that we all love to hate.  Yeah, even Big Banking recognizes the right thing.  When will the rest of our population?

Reaction

Osama bin Laden has been killed, and Americans are jubilant in the streets.  Not me.  I cannot celebrate a death.

Don't get me wrong.  I am relieved, and proud of the amazing skills and courage of the small team that succeeded in this mission.  It was long past time for this man to be brought to justice.  But I feel like celebrating anyone's death brings us all lower.  It had to be done, but it's not something we should enjoy.

Martin Luther King Jr.: "I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that."

(On the other hand...there's one guy out there who can say "I shot bin Laden."  Can you imagine being him today?  I wonder if we'll ever know his name?)

So, what about you?  What's your reaction?

Wednesday Wanderings

Pet peeve time: warning, rant ahead! 

The other women in my department have all recently converted to a new belief system.  It is based on the writings found in a recently-discovered book, and as far as I can tell, it has something to do with the sin of belly fat, and the evil that is known as Carbs.

I haven't stopped to remember the title or learn the author's name, because I hate the whole concept of people turning to a Book to learn how to feed themselves.  Granted, this is some specific program for reducing belly fat in women (can you say marketing genius?), but as the saying goes, there is nothing new here under the sun!

For example, did you know that belly fat has been connected to higher rates of many forms of cancer?  Yes, I read that at least 15 years ago.

Did you know that carbs (evil, bad, horrible carbs!), not just sugar, are a factor in developing diabetes?  Yes, I believe I learned that about 20 years ago.

I try to hold my tongue when I hear all these women talking about grams of this and servings of that, what they're "allowed" to eat and what's "not allowed."  Every morning they quiz each other about what they had for dinner, what they've brought for lunch.  But when one stopped by my cubicle during my lunch break, while I was clearly deep into my novel, to lecture me about carbs, not sugar, causing diabetes, I nearly lost it.

Say it after me, folks: sugar IS a carbohydrate!

Ok, never mind, you don't have to repeat that.  I just had to get it out.  I think there are two major reasons this really pushes my buttons.  First, I was raised by two biochemists, who met while working at Rockefeller University, where they rubbed elbows with multiple Nobel Prize winners.  Not that that makes ME a Nobel-winning scientist, but I have science in my blood, as well as my brain.  I took advanced chemistry in high school and spent my first year in college as a zoology major.  So being lectured by someone with a degree in computer science who's only just now learning from a fad diet book about the link between carbs and health, and doesn't seem to know the terms "simple carb" and "complex carb," is particularly irritating.

Second, it just astounds me that, in the interest of eating healthier, these women are going out to buy the specifically-mentioned brands of artificial "all-natural" sweeteners mentioned permitted by The Book.  Really?  Filling your body with chemically re-mixed sugars is better than pure sucrose?  And spraying neon-yellow 0% trans-fat butter substitute on your whole-grain, chemically preserved English muffin is good for you?

Me, I sat there this morning spreading my locally made, preservative-free multigrain bread with my homemade jam, and ate it with my locally-grown hard-boiled egg.  'Cause, you know, carbs plus protein is the best way to fuel up for the day.  I probably looked a little piggy, 'cause I was stuffing my mouth to try to keep it too busy to talk while my coworkers spread the word about the evils of carbs.

Now I have to admit, I am being a bit hypocritical.  First, these women are not following this diet to the letter.  They recognize that there are extremes to which they will never hold themselves, so they are not being completely brainless.  And as for me, I am definitely overweight, nor do all of my meals boast all that great local, whole food I was just bragging about.  I did have a package of ramen noodles with my lunch. (Shhh, don't tell Miss Chef!)  But, in general, I'd rather be overweight and know what I'm putting into my body and why, rather than be thin following someone else's formula that encourages you to buy chemically-engineered "food."

My diet formula was developed by Michael Pollan: Eat  food.  Not too much.  Mostly plants.

As I texted to another, non-dieting coworker, how did our ancestors ever manage to feed themselves without a bookful of directions?

~~~ φ~~~

Still...I sure could go for a nice cold Coke right now.   : )

~~~ φ~~~

Speaking of healthy and unhealthy food, did you hear about the giant egg recall?  (Not recalling giant eggs, just recalling a lot of regular-sized ones--sorry for any confusion).  Once again, a factory farm has sent contaminated food across the entire country, resulting in hundreds of thousands of packages being pulled off the shelf and no doubt tossed.

And once again, I rest secure in the knowledge that my eggs are safe, without even having to check brand names or lot numbers.  Because my eggs were hand-gathered by Elie and Levi Mullis, children of Dean and Jennifer, owners of Laughing Owl Farm.  I'm sure Jennifer would let us know if they had any problems, but chances of their free-range flock being contaminated are slim.

What do you picture when you think of where you eggs came from?  Me, I think of the market two weeks ago, when Jennifer just had to join in with the squash decorating kids.  She was pretty intense about it, but she can make a damn good squash girl, complete with flower-petal skirt.

Yeah, I'd trust her kids' eggs any day.

~~~ φ~~~

To balance my Food Superiority Rant above, I now have to confess that I've fallen off the exercise wagon.  It's not entirely my fault (it never is, is it?)  You see, the ankle I twisted in the rafting celebration of Miss Chef's birthday is still bothering me.  I was going to give it a few days off before I did yoga again, but that turned into a full week.

And then I was tired.  Work has been ridiculously slow!  Can you believe it??  After all those months of back-to-back jobs, I now spend half my work day trying to look busy.  And I'm learning that doing nothing creates its own kind of fatigue.  So, by the end of last week, my total lack of activity had landed me back in a not-so-great place.  It left me feeling tired, which makes me want to not do anything at all.

And then my Very Special Aunt came for a visit.  Ugh.

It's crazy how much an effect this lack of exercise has on me.  Now that I'm back to Lazyville, all kinds of stupid little chores are piling up, stressing me out and not getting done.  Phone calls I just don't want to make, chores I'll "do later," organizational stuff I just am not motivated to do.  If I were working two jobs still, it all would have been done last week.  But now it just lingers, from one day to the next.

But I'm fighting back.  I did pull out my yoga dvd today and do part of the workout.  Only about 20 mins, until my ankle started complaining, but it's a start.  And just knowing I started is a really good thing.

Oh, and another good thing I did for my health...finally visited my special Lady Doctor earlier this month, after 3 years.  And have made an appointment for my very first mammogram.  No, please, don't tell me what it's like, I'd like to remain blissfully ignorant for now!

"Free" Friday

Please excuse any weirdness with the layout; I'm trying one of Blogger's new templates.

I took a vacation day Friday.  Unwillingly, because this was not a day devoted to vacationing.  It was, instead, a day required to Get Things Done.

The most important of which was this:

Ugh.  Double ugh.  And please understand that by "ugh," I mean something much less pleasant, much stronger, more offensive.  No, not that, something stronger!

Note the time on this ticket?  I arrived at the office before 9:30.  That's right, it took me TWO HOURS just to get in the door.  And the only reason it was even that fast was because I was simply renewing my license.  The poor people moving in-state, taking driving tests, or doing anything slightly out-of-normal were still standing outside when I left--an hour after this ticket was printed.

I would guess-conservatively-that there were 100 people both in line and inside the office, waiting to be served.  Assuming a three-hour average (which, again, I would consider a conservative estimate), as well as travel time, each person there lost at least a half-day's productivity.  That's 50 days.  Almost two months of work days.  And that's one day, at one of four offices in the city.

So, every day, Charlotte loses eight months of manpower to NOTHING.  Standing in line.  Grousing, reading, texting, pushing down the bile of being talked to like a recalcitrant six-year old.  No wonder our libraries are closing, our schools are bursting at the seams and half our streetlights are out.

The one bright spot in all this bureaucratic waste was that everyone in line that I spoke with was very friendly.  Very little of the "me first" selfishness we all demonstrate once we actually get into our cars!  (And yes, I'm as guilty as anyone, I'm ashamed to admit.)  It really made the wait so much better; we all supported each other by sharing the little bits of information we had gleaned about the whole process.

And ya know the most important thing I learned?  It's possible to make a frickin' appointment!!

So, yeah:  UGH!

Back at home, waiting for Miss Chef to get back from her half-day at the goat farm, I stepped outside to take a good look at the garden.  We pulled the remaining radishes last week, and now it's about time to pull out the peas.  And, after I cut the last little headlets of broccoli, I finally gave Miss Chef permission to pull those giant plants out, too.

Of course, I had to show her it was worth leaving them in a couple weeks' extra!

See?  $3.99, right in our own backyard!

After Miss Chef got home, we headed on over to Restaurant Depot.  If any of you saw Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution, you may remember an episode where he went to a US Foodservice warehouse.  (That episode was stupid, because Jamie acted like he didn't know what kind of supplies he could get from them.  Pu-leese, he knew damn well what was in there.)

Anyway, they showed an enormous refrigerated warehouse filled with meats, cheeses, produce etc.  That's the kind of place Restaurant Depot is.  It's like a Sam's Club for professionals, and I get entrance only because I'm with Miss Chef.  Imagine if a third of your local warehouse store was walled off and chilled to 40 degrees, then stacked floor to 50-foot ceiling with huge portions of food.  Entire wheels of cheese, sides of meat, cases of parsley, crates of dried figs.  Oh, and at one end of that chilled area, put in another wall and chill that part down to well below freezing.

Now walk through there in shorts and a t-shirt. *grin*

Ok, they do have puffy coats available for patrons, though we didn't need them this time, as we stayed out of the giant freezer, and we were both enjoying the extra-strength air-conditioning (well, at first, anyway). 

I love going to the Depot, because they have a truly unimaginable variety of restaurant supplies: glassware, dishracks, beans of all colors, chef jackets, cleaning solutions, knives, slurpee syrup...all the way down to napkins, stirrers, and those red-and-white checked paper hot dog holders you might get at a ballgame.

So much awesome under one roof!

Here's a taste (ha!) of what we brought home:

That's 15 pounds of honey (for honey-walnut goat cheese), 35 pounds of canola oil (to mix with olive oil for  feta marinated with sun-dried tomatoes) and 36 pounds of kosher salt (for everything).  This is all for Miss Chef's employers, but we also got an industrial-sized roll of plastic wrap for us.  We figure the old one lasted us six or eight years, so we're good on saran for a while.

Never fear, though, our day was not entirely lost to chores and errands--and I did save the best for last!  Miss Chef also took a personal day from the restaurant, and on these rare nights off, our minds always turn to sampling what other places have to offer.  One of my students had mentioned a newish restaurant called Georges Brasserie.  Notwithstanding their clumsiness in reversing what would otherwise be a perfectly French name, their French-bistro style menu had piqued my interest.

As had this photo from their website:

Oh la la, how charmingly Franshe!

This part of the interior also looked taken straight from the background of a Renoir or Toulouse-Lautrec painting:

So I made reservations for three, having invited a friend along.

How was the meal?  Good, but not as good as it should have been.  Miss Chef pointed out, as we analyzed the meal on the way home, that it's incredibly difficult to do the kind of menu they have with the enormous dining area there.  I'd guess it's three or four times the size of Chef Adam's 50+ seater.

I know you're dying to hear what we ate, right?  Ok, so here we go:

Appetizers:

panko-encrusted soft-shelled crab (very good)

red and yellow beet salad with goat cheese (good, if a bit skimpy)

tarte flambée with caramelized onions, bacon and crème fraîche (good, but not very interesting)

Main courses: 

boudin blanc with red cabbage and pureed potatoes (very good, though the boudin was a bit dry--Miss Chef found it bland but we other two liked the flavor)

salmon filet with fava beans and morels (cooked well beyond the mid-rare requested, but still good; veggie side was skimpy again)

escargot with puff pastry and pesto (good, though the pesto was bland and had suffered under the broiler)

lamb sausage with figs, couscous and feta (Miss Chef and our friend thought the sausage was dry, though the figs and couscous were excellent)

Desserts:

profiteroles (excellent; as Miss Chef said, "they nailed that pastry")

lemon tart ("correcte" as the French would say, but no better--and Miss Chef was made livid by the skimpiness of the $6 portion and insultingly bland presentation--four drops of raspberry coulis on a fingerprint-smeared white plate.  Still, it was house-made, and I thought the crust was particulary good.)

dark chocolate mousse (again, good but not very interesting.  And, compared to the weeny lemon tart, far too much for me to finish.)

In the end, we did have a generally good meal, enjoying a nice Sancerre with it.  Aside from Miss Chef's extreme unhappiness with her dessert, the other major shortcoming was the service.  It wasn't terrible, but it was slow, and the server didn't seem to listen very well.  Just small things, like not asking about splitting the check.  Plus, he had stupid, greased up spiky hair, which didn't seem to fit with the ambiance they were going for, and made his general smarminess that much smarmier.

On the other hand, a slight miscommunication about our wine selection, combined with Miss Chef's complaint about the lemon tart, got us 50% off our bottle of Sancerre!  At least the manager seemed ready to take charge and listen to his guests--he truly went beyond what was necessary to make us happy.  If only he'd take Mr. Smarm in hand for a little re-education.

Still, I haven't had boudin blanc in a long, long time, and there's a half portion of chocolate mousse in my fridge right now, so I'm satisfied with our experience.  And that's another restaurant checked off the list--with many more to follow, no doubt!

Dear So-and-So

Something new...I've been reading Alix's Dear So and So posts for awhile now over at Casa Hice, but for some reason today I suddenly felt the urge to jump in and join the party! Maybe it's 'cause I've been feeling stressed again this week, but I've just got to get some things off my chest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear London,

I know we barely know each other, but I'd like to give you a heads-up about some potential new residents arriving soon who are very dear to me. They're not 100% sure yet they'll be making the move, but they're (mostly) pretty excited about it. I'm not sure how I feel yet; I'll miss them greatly, but on the other hand, it will be a great opportunity for you and I to get to know each other better. And of course, we'll have to stop in to see your half-sister Paris, once we're in the neighborhood. At any rate, I would appreciate it if you could extend your most gracious welcome to my loved ones, especially considering the difficulties of a trans-Atlantic move. I'm sure you understand.

Hope to see you soon,
Flartus

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Sub-Prime Customers,

I know that spending 4 minutes on the phone with me, making sure we have your correct address, and that the dealer didn't pocket half of your down payment or lie to you about being required to purchase a service warranty, is a huge sacrifice to you. But I'd think that the $18,000 we're putting up, so you can style around in that SUV that you just had to have, instead of the reliable compact car across the lot, just might make it worth your time. So can the attitude, and don't blame us that your previous repossessions and consistently late mortgage payments jacked your interest rate up on a luxury car you only put $500 down on. Oh, and by the way--I can hear you peeing. And no, it doesn't improve my impression of you.

Good luck with those payments,
Your Friendly Loan Processor

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Car Dealer,

I'm not an idiot. I can tell that paycheck is falsified, and I know that a "service address" on a utility bill is not where she makes her payments. Get your documentation straight before you send in the contract, and maybe it won't take 10 days to get your money.

Efficiently yours,
Your Frustrated Loan Processor

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Rosie,

Thank you so much for your patience with us. I know it must be frustrating and tiresome to spend so many hours alone each day. And then I come home, too tired to give you a good, long walk, but not too tired to spend my few free hours in front of the computer, ignoring you. And, other than ripping open Jennifer's giveaway prize I'd so carefully wrapped, and leaving the bare bar of soap in the middle of the living room as if to say, "I could eat a third one, if I really wanted to"--other than that, you've been so good! I really do appreciate what a great dog and companion you are. I'll try to keep you from temptation next week.

Hugs and squeezes,
Your Human
PS Oh, and I'm gonna start back to teaching in a couple of weeks, so, um...sorry, it's not gonna get better anytime soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Jennifer,

There may be a slight delay in the arrival of your giveaway prize. Never fear, it will be toothmark-free. I hope.

Thanks,
Flartus

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Spring,

Is that you? I thought I saw you slinking in, behind those curtains of rain. The damp and dark disguised your slowly rising temperatures, but that red-winged blackbird I heard last week told me to be on the lookout. Then the daffodils started trumpeting your arrival earlier this week. I'm sure the fruit trees and other flowers will be re-decorating for you very soon. Please make yourself comfortable; we'd love for you to make it a nice long visit this year. Don't let bossy ol' Summer push you out too fast. Oh, and please, feel free to spread out, I know several distant bloggers who would love to see you, too.

Lots and lots of love,
Flartus

What's going on? It's a fun Friday meme hosted by Kat at 3-Bedroom Bungalow. Wanna join in? Stop by her site, grab the button and add yourself to Mr. Linky. I'm doing it for the first time, won't you join me?

Perspective

I had a shitty day at work today.

In fact, I've been having a string of shitty days. I worked 50 hours last week, and I'm still 5 days behind. I'm limited in how much overtime I can work: I've got to skedaddle Monday through Wednesday for teaching, and the whole office shuts down at 5:00 sharp on Friday. We've also been told not to work more than 4 hours on Saturday.

Today the site manager fussed at our supervisor because our department is so far behind. All this while the manager's department, which is supposed to be a team with our department, spends the first hour of the day in the breakroom, and the rest of the day wandering in and out of each others' offices, talking about sports.

Top this off with being exhausted, fuzzy-headed, and having pains in my stomach for the past day and a half--probably acid from the stress of keeping up with work, work, and the holidays. All our family is out-of-town, so not only do we have to find time for presents, but we have to pack them and lug them to the post office in time to ship them out. Since Miss Chef is working 8 am to 10 pm six days a week, I guess that's gonna be on my shoulders.

And, as I finally left the office today, after dark--again--I walked into a cold rain that dripped straight down my neck. Once in my frigid car, I paused a moment. The relative silence was soothing--no phones ringing, no faxes beeping, no raucous conversations going on around me. Just the metallic patter of rain on the car roof. I briefly considered not going home, just spending the night in the parking lot listening to the rain.

Of course, I knew I had to face the rush hour drive home, in the rain and dark, only to spend another two hours trying to focus my tired, fuzzy eyes on a computer screen. But as I inched closer to the entrance to I-465, something made me stop and think, honestly, girl, aren't you feeling just a bit sorry for yourself?

Yeah, I know, I'm damn lucky to have a job at all, much less two. But even without a job, I'd still be lucky.

I don't have to spend half my day gathering wood to cook the meager portions available at a refugee camp.

I don't have to worry about being killed by a bomb at WalMart every time there's an election.

I don't have to worry about my nephews being kidnapped, tortured, and forced to fight a war before their voices change; or about my young niece ever being sold into prostitution. (Or myself, for that matter.)

I don't have to worry whether the water I'm drinking carries bacteria or parasites that will lead to an excruciating death.

I don't fear that my partner is risking her life by going to work every day.

I don't have to worry about whether I'll find a safe place to sleep tonight.

There are horrible, unthinkable things happening to human beings every minute of the day. It's impossible to hold them all in your heart, or wrap your mind around the suffering. And here I sit, in my own safe, dry and warm house, growing an ulcer because the phone wouldn't stop ringing, and somebody grumbled at my department.

I'm not gonna stop stressing all of the sudden. But maybe putting my troubles into perspective will help.

Friday Fragments

Hmm...I'm beginning to think my lovely, thoughtful, fascinating blog is going to be reduced to Flartus' Friday Fragments.

Why?

Well, I know I've mentioned it a few times before, but let me be explicit about my sudden new work schedule. As my handful of regular--and very much valued--readers know, I recently accepted a part-time teaching position. Yay! Very exciting; an adjustment to the schedule, but after a few weeks, I knew it would be fine.

So my Monday through Wednesday evenings are taken. No prob; I still have the rest of the week, right?

WRONG! Ever hear of a little government program called Cash for Clunkers? Well, my day job is in auto loans, and our volume has suddenly tripled. Besides working 10- to 12-hour days during the week, my department has worked every Saturday since...well, sometime in July. And it's going to continue for at least another two weeks. The worst thing is, 50 hours a week still leaves us 3 days behind!

Now, I don't want to complain (not that I haven't been complaining on my tired, panicky days!). I'm paid hourly, so the overtime isn't hurting the bank balance. And Miss Chef has been working these kinds of hours for at least 4 years, so I know it's not the end of the world. But that's why I haven't been to the farmers' market in a month. And why I dropped the ball on the garden, the canning, the teaching stories and the food pics. There has been very little cooking in the Flartus household! Hopefully by the end of September, I'll have some more time to share with you all.

So, anyway, off to the Fragments!

Brussels sprouts THIS is how they grow:

They start out like any little cabbage plant. As they grow taller, you cut off the lower leaves, promoting larger buds. You can see some of the leaves on the ground around this plant. I didn't realize they would need cutting every week or two. But Miss Chef was the one who wanted to try these out, so I figured everything I did was extra, anyway. :)

Here's a close-up of the growing stalk.

Miss Chef's Birthday Well, falling on a Saturday, this was going to be another working birthday for Miss Chef. In fact, she and I both went to school Saturday morning: she to do a demo for the open house, me to work on my lesson plans (our computer was still down, so I needed to go onto campus anyway.) We had lunch together at O'Charley's, where our food runner turned out to be one of my students. That happened fast; I'd only been teaching for a month before I ran into a student. Anyway, we each went off to our separate workplaces after that.

But it wasn't all lame-o work stuff. As he did last year, Chef Adam made Miss Chef a cake, and they called me from the restaurant to come for post-service cake & drinks. Which meant driving half an hour and arriving at 10 pm. But you know I love the post-service family-meal time there, and Chef once again ended up telling stories and acting out weird previous employees, so it was worth the drive. Plus, the cake was really good!

Sunday we went to see a free Shakespeare Festival rendition of Julius Caesar. It was not as good as the Twelfth Night show we had seen the month before, but we met up with Michele's (of Bosky Acres) two oldest kids, and stumbled upon an excellent little soul-food restaurant for dinner afterwards. So it was still a fun change of pace.

Teaching I love realizing that my students and I have established a group relationship. They know my sense of humor, I know more about their interests, strengths and weaknesses, and I've encouraged a number of them through some frustrations and bad grades. I may have finally figured out how to use the book: have the students read the bare-bones content before class, then flesh it out next session with more examples, explanations and practice. I'll see Monday how that works.

I came up with a really good partner practice activity for last Wednesday's class. They had to describe their situation ("I'm thirsty") using some new expressions, and their partner had to suggest where they should go to solve their problem ("Tu vas au café"), using new vocabulary and a new grammar structure. Unlike some classwork, this felt very natural; they found it amusing, too, but best of all: they were communicating in French.

Sure, it was very basic, the pronunciation was mediocre, and they could cheat by falling into English. But walking around, watching and listening to them do exactly what this course is designed to do, is one of those rewarding moments that inspire me. It's one of the few times I can see the tangible results of my work.

Ted Kennedy It's been all over the news the last two days: how much he did for the disadvantaged, and how good he was at reaching "across the aisle." I don't know a whole hell of a lot about his history in either area (nor about Chappaquadick, which seems obviously absent from what I've heard; let us speak not ill of the dead, I suppose). Sounds like Ted did a lot for his country and probably was sincere about trying to help the citizenry.

But I keep hearing about how he would compromise, reach out to conservatives and back off some aspects of his bills to make sure something got done. How he had actual, true friends of the opposite political persuasion. And it makes me wonder if that's all done. Is there any hope of sewing up this conservative ~ liberal, Democrat ~ Republican, red-state ~ blue-state, us vs. them, name-calling divide? As a true blue liberal, I could easily blame the past administration, but as Mom always said "It takes two to tango."

Cut it out, Americans! Would you start looking past political opinions and maybe consider where that other person is coming from? There's got to be a reason they feel, believe and vote that way, and no, it's not because they're crazy or stupid. Just different. Every sane person generally acts from a basis of rational thought.

And yes, I need to heed these words myself. I'm no saint, either. But sheesh; where is all this hatred coming from? Is this going to be our new reality, or are we still capable of returning to a more mature mode of communication? I'm scared, people, very scared for our little 200-year old political experiment here. As George Washington said (I believe), "Democracy breeds mediocrity." Are we becoming just another isolationist, ignorant populace, led by the nose by our demagogues?

I hate to end on a down note, but that's all I've got for this week. Maybe something miraculous will happen at Ted's internment tomorrow, and we'll all find ourselves joining hands and singing "Kumbaya" together.

Hey, a girl can dream, can't she?

Clothes Hoarse

No, I'm not back online yet, but finally realized I can save my rant...er, posts to my jump-drive and download them on campus. Not an ideal solution, but better than keeping my mouth shut, eh?

My new schedule is, as they say, kicking my ass. I’ve been working 50-hour weeks at my “real” job, and still remaining steadily two days behind. Then of course, there’s the new teaching job, which I’m trying to wrestle down into a manageable number of hours. I’m such a perfectionist I can lesson plan entire days away.

The craziness does, however, have a few benefits.

Mostly money. It’s nice not having to count every dollar. Last time Miss Chef and I stopped in the grocery store to pick up a few things, I found myself dithering in front of the fresh fruit juices.

“I’m gonna get the expensive juice, ‘cause I can afford it!” I stated both defensively and with a sense of liberation. Thirty cents be damned; in fact, I’ll buy TWO!

Later, I dreamed about all the things I’d put off buying that I can fit into my budget now: a ladder to clean gutters & trim the bushes; a new pair of tennis shoes to replace my lone pair from last year that’s partially green from mowing the lawn; the fence around the backyard that we’ve been talking about for three years... The only problem is finding the time to spend the money!

So, as I drove home Friday night from work (yay! My first night all week to finish at 5:00!), I decided, what the heck, I’ll stop off at Kohl’s and see if I can’t supplement my tired and outdated work wardrobe with something new.

Miss Chef and I love Kohl’s because they have a wide selection, reasonable prices, and it seems like everything there is at least 30% off when we visit. We have to pick through many racks to find clothes that suit our rather plain taste, but when we do find something it’s usually quite cheap.

Friday, for example, I found a lovely, comfy blue pullover shirt for only $8. And WonderBras were on sale for $20. But it wasn’t ‘til I wandered past the bras, looking for dress socks, that I got really excited.

Petites!! Not since the Sears in Mobile (where we lived before Charlotte) had I found an affordable petites section that was more than a handful of racks. Granted, this section is somewhat crammed into a corner in the back of the second floor, but they had work clothes, and jeans and all kinds of stuff!

I was so thrilled, I came close to getting teary-eyed. Seriously. I’m only 5’2”, on a low-gravity day, and being overweight makes it doubly difficult to find pants that will button, without having to hem six inches off the bottom. And I hate sewing. Especially hems. Which might help explain why I only have 3 pairs of dress pants I feel really comfortable in.

So as I trolled through the racks, I grabbed about eight different pairs of Lees, Gloria Vanderbilts, Sag Harbors and whatever the heck else looked good. Almost every rack had my size with that lovely “P” next to it. Truly, I was like a kid in the candy store, and it was only when I thought my arms were going to break off that I headed for the dressing room.

Which turned out to be one of the smallest ones in the store. Small people, small dressing room? What, we’re supposed to cram two to a stall? Whatever. I spotted another room across the aisle in the Women’s section, and lugged my finds over there, wondering how many pairs of pants I could truly afford.

I’ll bet you can guess the result of my try-on…I didn’t like a single pair. Oh, they fit ok; some of them were quite comfortable. But by the time I was done, I had chosen only a pair of denim shorts off the clearance rack, and composed a list of grievances for the women’s off-the-rack fashion industry, which I now share with you:

1. What is with the freakin’ clown pants, people? C’mon ladies, is it just me, or is every single pair of ladies’ dress pants finished off with ultra-wide, flappy ankles? Who has ankles the width of their thighs? Oh, yeah, I know, wide pant legs make your legs look thinner. That may very well be, but I happen to have decent enough legs, and I don’t appreciate the breezes floating up past my knees as I walk. Nor do I enjoy the fwip-fwip of my trouser legs fighting past each other with every step I take. I could use that extra material on a lovely school uniform for an underprivileged six-year old. (If I liked sewing, that is.)

2. Pick a *&%$# fastener system and stick with it. Single buttons, double buttons, side-by-side, over-under, hook clasps, ties, and any combination in between. What’s the point? Men don’t have all this engineering to figure out in the dressing room, do they? Button, zip, they’re done. Granted, sometimes a double-button front helps, er, smooth things out, but often I feel the extra buttons are just to make me feel like I’m buying something luxurious. C’mon, I know I’m not at Sak’s or Bergdorf’s. And when I gotta pee, I don’t always have time to unlock Fort Knox down there. Let’s get real.

3. Stop the circus-freak treatment of “differently-sized” women. Do you have the men’s “husky” section on an entirely different floor from the rest of the men’s clothing? I felt like a member of a traveling carnival show, where the manager said “Stick the dwarves and the giants next to each other back there; they’ll make each one look even more freakish! Plus, you know, it’ll make them easier to avoid, for the squeamish.” I’ve been shopping at that store for over two years, and only now have come across the petites section--after walking through bedding, boys, seasonal, infants and intimates. Because nothing says “Petites!” like bibs and Elmo pajamas.

4. Treat us fairly. While the dressing room shared by the intimates & petites sections seemed reasonably-well maintained, the one dedicated to Women’s sizes was oddly empty. As I approached the dressing room, the motion-sensor lights clicked on. There were only three stalls in this one, and all three were crammed with tried-and-rejected clothing. The rack inside for re-hanging clothes was half-full (and, by the time I was done cleaning out a stall for myself, mostly full). Obviously, maintaining this section is not a priority for the staff. No wonder there were no shoppers there. Or maybe, they just couldn’t find it.

So how about it ladies, did I hit any nerves or ring any bells for you? Or did I miss anything? What makes you mutter under your breath when you try on clothes? (And if there are any men reading this, what hidden fashion abuses—other than ties, which I also think are pointless—are being foisted upon the, uh, unfair sex?)

Finally!

It happens every year--I have every intention of sitting down and getting through my taxes in February. And every year, I find myself at the beginning of April with some reason for not having started them. This year? Some confusion about whether or not I had to buy Turbo Tax. I won't go into details; it involves Miss Chef's mom, a trip to Alabama and more information than anyone needs to know.

Suffice it to say, I didn't get my copy of Turbo Tax until this past Sunday. Afternoon. Late afternoon. And while I did sit down as soon as some of my other chores were taken care of, and get to work, I didn't finish them. It's like the project Miss Chef undertook earlier that day, of replacing a waterlogged outdoor outlet: you always have to go get something else before you can finish the job.

For her, it was silicone sealer. For me, a SC state tax form (I switched jobs exactly a year ago, and my former employer was just across the border). It wasn't 'til we were lying in bed that I pondered aloud, "I wonder where I can go to get a form?" and Miss Chef once again flashed that brilliance I've always admired: "Uh...how about...the internet?"

Oh. Yeah. Good idea, Miss Chef!

So, to keep a long story from going epic, I actually managed to finish up my last state forms Wednesday night, and post them this morning! A full week early! YESSS! *pats self on back*

I know I'm being silly, but it really made my day to know those envelopes were in the mail; that my job was done. (Yes, I e-filed federal; I'm not a complete and total dinosaur.) As stunningly brilliant as I may be with words (wink), I'm equally dull when it comes to numbers. Their patterns just don't fall into place for me.

As a result, since the advent of the dreaded Multiplication Tables, I've avoided math whenever possible. Balance my checking account? Quicken, or a calculator. Figure out a tip? Pass the check across the table to Miss Chef (plus, I prefer to let her decide how good or bad the service was; she is in the industry, after all). Taxes? Oh Lordy...

In our early years together, Miss Chef very graciously, and somewhat patiently, sat down with me to guide me through the process. You see, in my early adult years, I'd been lucky enough to "inherit" my parents' accountant--a family friend and church member who not only did their taxes, but also those for my dad's business, and for my brother and I as we moved, lived and worked abroad, and moved again. But around the time I left graduate school, inherited some money from Grandma, and started investing and saving for retirement, our trusty accountant retired. (Hmm...could there be a link? Nah!)

So there I was, set adrift without someone to hold my hand through the vicious, federally-backed army of number-hungry forms. I was utterly convinced that I would forget to carry a 1, and end up in a federal prison.

No, seriously.

I could just imagine the agents going through my returns with me, one sitting too close, with nasty coffee breath, the other standing behind, just out of my line of vision. They both are wearing sunglasses, even though we're in a somber interrogation room. The seated one leans in and asks, "Did you really think $902 and $1236 equalled $1338? Did you think we wouldn't notice!?"

Man, I must have been traumatized by a math teacher somewhere along the line...

Anyway, while Miss Chef tried initially to gently lead me through my returns, she quickly became frustrated with my unexpected regression to infantilism; my literally whining and crying when I couldn't figure out the answer to a question. I read every one of Turbo Tax's prompts thoroughly, pondering if there were any chance I had forgotten some kind of retirement income I might have made during the year. ("Does interest earned in my 401(k) count, honey?")

Every year, she probably dreaded the advent of tax season nearly as much as I did. She would also often wait until close to the final days, but would drive me mad by sitting down one day while I was at work, and having hers done by the time she was gone for the evening. What?? So quickly? And no signs of trauma? No wrinkled, tear-stained worksheets? No spilled drinks or scattered office supplies? It's NOT FAIR!!

And you know, I still think a lot about filing taxes is just not fair. Every year, Miss Chef has to listen to me rail against the intolerable complexity of our tax code, which results in tens of pages of forms, schedules and worksheets for a typical taxpayer's return. It's been a long, long time since I've been able to file an EZ form, but is that any easier? I wonder. And I always think about the uneducated, or those just above the poverty level; of the millions with less time and fewer resources than I, who have to go through the same process.

I have the money to buy Turbo Tax--sure, you can get the free federal form, but what if you work several non-benefit 1099 positions--making you essentially self-employed? What if a relative died, or you lost your house to foreclosure, or you're sending a child to college? Is the free version complete enough to cover these cases? Or, even more basically, what if you don't have a computer at home that can support that memory-hogging software?

Sure, you can go to WalMart or H&R Block and get your taxes done for $30 or so. But, why should anyone have to pay anything? This is a responsibility put onto us by the federal government. If the federal government wants to ensure equal access for all, why is this annual ritual, which is required of the vast majority of citizens, almost impossible to do without spending a fair amount of money? (Sorry, folks, but for me, $20 is a lot of money! Don't come to my door selling magazines for your baseball team; it simply doesn't budget.)

Well, this year, Miss Chef didn't have to listen to my rant. First, she wasn't home most of the time I was working on my taxes. Second, I actually made it through by myself, with very little difficulty--not nearly the usual motivation to rage against The System. I even had to do my SC form by hand, literally--pen, white-out and a calculator. And not a single tear, wrinkled form or tuft of hair torn out.

I credit this phenomenon to two facts: first, I have been doing my own taxes long enough to finally realize that very few of those weird income and credit situations apply to me, and that I won't be jailed for a a math error. Second, I have now been working in finance for over two years, and am learning that numbers can be shepherded into some kind of order. It actually is starting to make some kind of sense!

Finally, I have reached an end. I have my taxes done early (barely), without trauma. Finally, Miss Chef didn't have to step in even once to get me through it. Finally, I have attained another level of adult competency.

Finally, my returns are in the mail, and I will be confidently prepared to face the juggernaut again next year.

And FINALLY, this happened today, too:

Japanese magnolia, specifically Alexander magnolia