Tuesday, January 31, 2006

How bizarre, how bizarre...

Part of my job entails delivering legal affidavits that I prepare to the court house once a week. Now my dear friend Jen has educated me on the horrors of working in a court house, but visiting once a week is always a fun little outing for me. I get to stretch my legs for a short walk, and partake in a special kind of people watching that exists no where else downtown. There is often raw emotion painted across these faces that are not nearly so well coiffed as the ones I see on a regular basis. From the tired grandmother toting her young grandchild from the adoption courtroom, to the "another day at the office" prostitute lounging on the benches near the entrance, to the blue streak swearing downtown girl who didn't charm her way out of that ticket (and it's funny because every time I see her I think of an American Idol contestant trash talking about Simon.)

So yesterday as I headed in, I couldn't help but cringe. Oh the young man walking in front of me was rich with possibility in the people watching department...longish hair that would make the Beatles proud-were it not so greasy, a black t-shirt with some kind of skull on it, and a kind of painters pants, black (of course) with chains all over them. Chains hanging from the pockets, chains hanging from the chains. Now see this is why I was worried...not because I was afraid of him, but see we're walking into a government building. And you know you don't walk into government buildings without passing through a metal detector these days...and remember he was IN FRONT of me. I suddenly had visions of this poor boy having to walk through that machine in his UnderRoos. And I giggled...a little bit...I imagined him up some Tazmanian Devil Underroos, with the matching undershirt. So I'm weird.

So anyway this kid, just as I do weekly; empties his pockets into the plastic tubs and the contents are exactly the same as mine (I know better than to take the purse with me)...keys, cell phone, smokes and a stray Quick Trip receipt...and he steps back and walks through the machine. And it doesn't go off. Not a squeak or a squelch. And I'm the only one who looked surprised, I'm sure, as he ambled off toward traffic court.

It occurred to me as I wandered through, collecting my own tub of stuff, that the chains are probably painted plastic. And I think about how intimidated many people I know would have been by this kid working so hard to look intimidating, and how they'd never consider that he's as painted up as those chains are and probably half as lethal.
I hope he got out of his ticket...but I kinda doubt it.

Friday, January 13, 2006

Two months before his fourth birthday...

my son has his his terrible twos. And he's also emulating a 60 year old man...and a hormone driven sixteen year old...somebody give me strength.

Ly Bear has discovered the temper tantrum. I don't know how we've managed to go so long with out him really latching on to the idea, but I've liked it...a LOT. Having a brother who keeps tantrums in his favorite bag of tricks for all kinds of situations, I kind of thought it was the universe giving me balance. Yeah, screw what science says, the universe doesn't like balance. The universe likes chaos. Putting a coat on this child has become an Olympic Event. Prying trains (that can't be taken to preschool) out of his fingers...an act of the gods. It could be worse. He forgets relatively quickly and he cries big crocodile tears rather than hitting or throwing. Of course sometimes those big tears sometimes hurt as bad as a sippy cup to the noggin...but you know, you don't have to worry as much about your dental work.

We're doing one of these battles about leaving a much prized drawing in the car yesterday when we went to pick up Deveronio. I knew he'd get inside, get distracted and leave it behind. He knew I was the most horrible person on the planet. Anyway. We're struggling to get into the center with him going into a limp weeping puddle every time I tried to take his hand when two little girls ran by him, just a bit older than he. The tears dried up instantly as he sprung to his feet and raced them to the door. He made sure his dimples were showing as he awkwardly wrangled the door open and held it for them. I've seen the girl crazy behavior before, so I was not surprised at that. I was a little surprised by what came out of his mouth.

"On with you now, move along, move along..."
Sir Toppham Hat has trained him well. I just don't think he knows that STH isn't exactly a babe magnet.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

One thosand ninety-nine headaches

Well now I've been sufficiently reminded of why I hate doing accounts payable. For damn near five years I've floated along mainly on the Accounts Receivable side of the accounting world...billing and collecting. It's a happy little life. Last spring when my company sold one of it's major publications to a competitor and downsized my department once again (in the last three years it's gone from a department of eight to a department of two, and I'm the only little fish left in the pond) I was forced to take on the life of A/P once more and until the last three days, it's been pretty much no sweat. Yeah. I'd forgotten the dreaded IRS curse of form 1099 MISC preparation. I'm ready to be a waitress again. After wading through forty-five pages of instructions, you know in that lively technicolor IRS prose, I still wasn't confident I knew who all was supposed to get one, but I took my best shot. Thank goodness we're not in the business of selling fish, that's all I can say about that. YIKES. So then I entered all of this information into the computer, and began printing...I did a test page and it looked lovely...so I was off to the rodeo. But alas the next FIFTEEN pages printed all funky-dory. Apparently I'd done the wrong kind of test page. So I sifted through another twenty or so pages of "help" on the 1099 "HELPER" program and found my error, printed five or six new test pages just to be sure and started again only to find out that my mistake had left me short ONE form. So I hiked over to the IRS office (good thing its within walking distance and I had my MP3 player...I'm almost out of gas) to get more forms. I got FIVE extra to be on the safe side. Of course when I got back the printer fritzed out on me, and the "techie" (and don't even get me started on the miserable condition of technical support in our office) was at lunch so I finally got them all printed at about 1:30 today, organized them and put them in a beautifully labeled file and took them to my boss to sign.

"Put them on that chair over there, I'll deal with those next week."

What do you suppose the Scottish word for YAPIMA is?
So if you are an independent contractor, a lawyer, or some other Yahoo waiting for your pretty little 1099 from some small company so you can file your taxes this year...if it comes in time...you owe an Accounts Payable clerk somewhere a massage. And if you get a refund you also owe her (or him...I know they're out there) a drink...maybe two.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Vinegar and Baking Soda

My husband and I have a fun habit of discussing how different our little men are, personality wise. Last night he made an oh so minor slip and called them "Oil and Water" which sent me off on a crazy ever so long tangent about my husband's error. I told him they were really more like Vinegar and Baking Soda. After the initial giggle, my brain, as it is apt to do, started over processing on how entirely accurate this metaphor is.

My Vinegar Boy...he's a little sour but ads tang to almost every situation to which you add him...particularly those that involve meat or veggies. He's a little hard to take in large quantities, but once you get used to cooking with him, he's addictive.

Baking Soda...he makes everything around him light and fluffy. So fluffy that you can't help but smile when you see him on the list...and you know you'll probably take a little too much and end up with a stomach ache. He goes best with all things sweet...terribly appropriate.

You put them together and they start out with a sweet little fizz that ends up in a bubbling cauldron of emotion, resulting in a huge mess all over the damn kitchen.

Too much time on my hands or too much time cleaning up after my children? Take your pick.

Yes, I did.

QuitMeter Counter courtesy of www.quitmeter.com.