When you’re self-employed, preparing one’s taxes is a colossal bitch, and I’d rather walk to California barefoot than do one more goddamned spreadsheet. However, in 2005, when I finally convinced my husband to hire a CPA and itemize everything, our federal refund TRIPLED. Thus, the nightmare of cataloging receipts, drafting spreadsheets and such is totally worth it.
As mentioned previously, my husband, Charlie, plays in a band (see http://tenaciousbitch.com/2013/01/30/post-86-tripping-for-the-tribe/ )….and one night, while I was eyeball deep in tax prep, he had a gig that I didn’t attend. I was exhausted, and I didn’t have a sitter for Nana.
About ten o’clock that night, I discovered Charlie had made a truly egregious error, and I left him this note taped to the KEG in question…
First of all, the word SPODA is a family joke. When Max was 5 or 6, and he got really angry, he’d say – that’s not SPODA happen when, you know, some kid took his ball or something. And don’t you love the spelling of HUSBAND? LOL…
To answer the obvious, no, I don’t sit around draining a keg of Natty Light (a.k.a. Natural Light) which I haven’t had since ’97, or Beck’s Light, my current brew of choice – ALL by myself.
Occasionally, when we’re low on cash, we buy a box of red wine. To be honest, Peter Vella’s Merlot is rather tasty. It’s not as luscious as even a cheap Pinot Noir or anything, but it’s good, cheap wine. KEG is our code word, so Nana won’t know what we’re talking about because she’s Pentecostal. They do NOT partake of spirits, and at 95, she doesn’t necessarily equate a KEG with a large barrel of beer. However, she used to drink in the 60s…check out the photo below…
The lovely blonde smoking a cigarette is my Aunt Jackie, my Mom’s sister, and the redhead is Nana, both with a cocktail, of course. And, no, that’s not a weird tattoo on Nana’s knee. It’s a bit of dirt on it from years of shuffling around that wouldn’t come off with a damp cloth. I feared I’d ruin it if I used Windex or something.
Anyway, Nana currently believes imbibing alcohol is akin to shooting heroin at a daycare center. However, I hail from a long line of Irish, Catholic drunks. Despite such, I rarely consume more than 2-3 glasses of wine cuz any more than that, and Nana will find me asleep in strange places (like the coat closet) when she comes toddling along with her walker wondering where her breakfast is. And it’s really embarrassing after the cats steal my clothing, which they’ve done before.
JUST JOKING, of course. I actually have a relatively high tolerance for booze, and I’ve never passed out in a closet (at least not since college 
). But the idea of Nana finding me in a Merlot coma, curled up around my raincoat was too funny not to use.
When Charlie saw the note, he chuckled, especially upon seeing the battered box…
WTF, you ask? Looks like it’s been mauled by a Grizzly bear, doesn’t it?
You see, it used to be that no matter if I used an electric, fancy automatic wine bottle opener or a regular handheld corkscrew, I COULD not open a bottle of wine without either chipping the hell out of the cork, yet managing NOT to dislodge it. OR the cork would end up bobbing around inside the bottle. Though at least then, you could drink it.
THEN, I got stuck living with Nana for a month in Georgia (see Post #http://tenaciousbitch.com/2011/04/12/not-arriving-at-my-destination/ …). Boxes of wine were too difficult to smuggle into the house without her spotting my contraband. So, I went shopping one morning and hid 5 bottles of wine in my beach bag. Then, while Nana was napping, I sat in the kitchen wrestling with the vino and an ordinary corkscrew. Finally, I got the hang of it on the FOURTH try.
However, the GODz frowned upon my new found cork-springing superpower because NOW, I cannot, should my life depend upon it, open a BOX of wine without breaking 3 or 4 fingernails.
And I don’t mean, the DAMMIT, that smarts, and go on with your life kind of scenario. I mean shredding them in half and showering the box, the bar, my t-shirt, my jeans and one of the dogs (or cats) in an OCEAN of blood.
I have to open the box with a screwdriver or something in order to avoid exsanguinating myself and/or traumatizing one of the animals beyond the repair of any feline/canine therapist. In the process, invariably, I decimate the cardboard. My husband, of course, is aware of my ghoulish curse/disability, and we agreed LONG ago, that he’s NOT allowed to leave the house without tapping MY KEG. But, alas…he forgot, and we’re all here to laugh at the consequences.
A couple days later, I completed and submitted ALL the 1040A nonsense to our accountant. WOOHOO! But I guess, you can’t have one without the other. Again, WTF? Feel free to say that as often as you like during my posts. I don’t mind…:)
We Americans say you can’t avoid DEATH and taxes. Well, some countries don’t have the fucked up ritual of completing 27 pages of fiscal rubbish in order to prove to the government that you paid your legal share (in all of its loophole glory) in INCOME TAX…or frequently we OVERPAY and garner that much-coveted refund.
However, the Grim Reaper is no Uncle Sam. You can’t hide from him in Mexico. So…after grinding away until 1AM finishing my last spreadsheet, my cat Samantha (below)…
Woke me up with a panicked YOWL around 7AM, which I mistook as friendly spatting with her mother, but she wouldn’t let up. I went downstairs and found our beloved Bart, A 14-year-old Chow/Shepherd mix, had died in the middle of the dining room. Samantha was dancing awkward circles around him while our other dog, Raven, was in the kitchen, totally unaware. A little later though, she became rather distraught seeing her lifeless Bart being hauled away in an old blanket.
I bawled my eyes out for awhile, but I’m better now. He was a rescue dog. We adopted him when he was 3 months old. Here’s a sweet photo of him when he was about a year old.
We had Bart cremated, and I have to go to the vet to retrieve his urn now. He was a very good dog, an excellent security guard, and he shall be greatly missed. Love you, Bart. Hope your days are full chewing on ham bones and chasing squirrels..:)
And after all THAT, is it any wonder that I occasionally HIT the box for another glass of Vella?
All the best,
TenaciousBitch and her band of sad-eyed hippies…
