I'm scrambling to meet the dreaded tax deadline. Open letter to all my friends: Do NOT call me Sunday afternoon and ask me to help you do your tax return. File an extension. It's Form 4868 and you can find it at IRS.gov. I could tell you stories of people I hadn't heard from in years who suddenly were thinking of me and called, just wanting to catch up. And by the way, they had some minor tax question they thought I would know, off the back of my hand. I've seriously been considering going on a telephone fast. My clients email me, and I have no social life, so it probably wouldn't matter at all.
I have to own up, though, to asking for free legal advice all the time. But since I have way too many attorney friends, I try to spread it around. Oh, that reminds me. The latest lawsuit fad is not Mesothelioma (whatever the hell that is). The trendy thing is toner-shoe-injuries. Just Google it. I definitely qualify as a member of the class of plaintiffs. And the best part is that proceeds from personal injury lawsuits are not subject to income tax. As opposed to sexual harrassment, gender/racial/religious discrimination, and anti-trust cases. Have I mentioned that I'm thinking of suing Comcast? Hello...restraint of trade, anyone???
Truth be told, though, the most anyone has ever collected from a class action lawsuit is $12.13. Seriously. Not counting the lawyers. Or expert witnesses. Or forensic accountants. Jury consultants. Aaugh!
Oh, back to ComCrap, I'm like that dummy on their commercial who goes on and on about the joys of talking on the phone. I swear, I have seen it at least a thousand times. Everytime I hang out with The Daddler in the living room and get a healthy dose of fair and balanced reporting, the commercial plays incessantly. I say that, because I've tried to refrain from blogging and I was just going to post a sweet picture of Mother. I miss her so much every time a holiday rolls around. This past weekend was rough. The D was fine - he loves him some Gus's Fried Chicken and his favorite daughter (not me) went to church with him. I called it in and got Kiddo to pick it up for lunch. Yuck. I don't want fried chicken for at least a year. I'm the same way with barbeque. I get a hankerin' for it, and then I feel awful. Same with a big slab of rare filet mignon. I'm thinking of becoming a vegan. Or at least a vegetarian. I don't think vegans can carry Dooney & Bourke (leather) purses and I have a thing for them. I only own two, and one I've had for 25 years, but they make me so happy. Also, I could never give up cheeseburgers for good. I don't care what Dr. Oz says, veggie burgers aren't the same. I CAN tell the difference. And I would miss them. I didn't think I could swear off Taco Bell, though, but after the whole pink slime debacle, I can't go there. Darn it. I'm craving red meat and Mexican all of a sudden. I must be anemic. Mother used to pull on my lower eyelids and say I was "peaked." I feel peaked. And hungry. Restless. Unfocused.
So I'm going to take a multi-vitamin, microwave a nice bowl of Progresso veggie soup (so good), do some push-ups and crunches and maybe take a short walk with Lucy and my removable splint, and force myself to become one with The TurboTax. Not necessarily in that order.
P.S. My mother is the one on the right. Is she sprouting dreadlocks? Hopefully, they're pincurls. Maybe that's why Easter's so hard for me. Memories of trying to sleep in the bobbie pins and pink foam curlers and eating my weight in chocolate and marshmallow for breakfast. And that's not counting the Medusa effect from the hair implements. I'm sure I have a picture somewhere...
That's right, arghhh is pirate-speak (see National Talk Like a Pirate Day) and Charlie Brown was not a pirate by any stretch. Glad you caught that important distinction, matey!
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