Five Other Things That Happened Around the AssVac This Past Weekend

You know already what's been going on with Chuck (TFT). Mostly you know, that is. I'll finish telling that story in a day or so, but I thought you might like to know what we've been up to in the meantime...

1. Not ours.

Just visiting. For the week. This is the "please can I have some of that, whatever it is, can I have some?" face. We get that face all the time. Even when we're not eating anything. I think I might get a similar face from Johnny when Good Dog goes home. I think Himself might be one Irish boy what needs a dog. (Oh, and if you're wondering exactly who this Good Dog is, please read this Christmas post.)

2. Ours.

And we are so very proud.

I'm serious: this is a monster accomplishment for that Jamoke. For years, the Idiot has been a big fat roly-poly pig, and a month ago I finally put him on a diet. Turns out the vet was right: you can diet one cat but not the other. I wonder if he learned that fact in college. Anyway, as of Friday morning, the Doof had lost one pound. Which must be a heck of a lot for a cat, because it's a long time since he's been able to clean hisself properly down there. In fact, just a few days ago Johnny did it for him with a washcloth. God bless Johnny, it didn't even occur to me that was a thing a person might attempt to do. But I think it's what inspired the Dope to give it the old college try.

Don't want the old man swabbing at your bunghole anymore, eh, NumbNuts?

3. Drywall!

Not wall. Not yet. But dry!

4. Economic Recovery:

The faux kind. It's going straight into our savings account, to plug the hole created when we paid the guvmint in the first place back in April. Sorry, Porgy.

You want to know what's funny, though? Since we live in Massachusetts, our IRS center's in a town called Andover. Therefore, look what they printed in the upper right hand corner of the check, just after my name:

And overstimulus is right, too. Because look at #5:

5. Not Shrek:

Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, I have sprained my other ankle. Pretty, ain't she? And I know it goes without saying, but I was not drunk. I swear to god. I wasn't even drinking, not a solitary sip. I was just walking down the street, minding my own business (well, technically, minding Johnny's business, but that's neither here nor there) and somehow my toes wound up where my heel's supposed to be. Heard a little something pop there, too. Didn't even hurt, which I thought was odd, but I knew it was bad right away because of my so-recent similar experience.

I don't know what that popping sound was (no, I haven't been to a doctor, don't be ridiculous) but I know it's not as bad as last time. It may be ugly as all hideous get-out, but I can at least still walk. I don't need crutches, or prescription drugs. I'm not even taking any time off work. Call me a working class hero if you must.

In fact, I think I've just decided that you must. Yes, you definitely must.

I'm waiting...

Render Unto Caesar

I did it! I filed my taxes! And I have to say: this homeownership thing, combined with the whole matrimony thing (which is also fairly new to us)? Not such a terrible idea after all. Especially when you toss in a ridiculously low income to boot.

See, although Johnny and I bought the house – and pay the bills on it and everything – together, the mortgage and the deed and all are only in my name. And, as it turns out, I actually earn less than we pay in interest every year (yeah, I sorta lied a little on the mortgage application – so? Maybe you’ve heard lately: I’m not the only one.). Anyway, so for the past few years I’ve been claiming zero net income, leaving extra mortgage interest just dangling around there un-deducted, and hoping the IRS won’t get around to wondering how I’ve been managing to feed myself. La la…

But then last year we up and married, which means we get to file jointly, which means we get to claim the full amount of interest that we pay, plus property taxes! Woohoo, property taxes!

The thing that has me really giddy, though, is that while I was totting up the numbers to see whether we ought to file jointly after all, and whether we should itemize or take standard deductions – while I was looking at what all these options meant to the what-we-owed-the-government bottom line – I did it wrong.

I’d already made my decisions on all of the above, already done the math and resigned myself, already said goodbye to our not-halfway-there-yet furnace fund, even got the dollars from their secret place and filled out a deposit slip to put them in the bank to cover the checks I’d have to write, when I got to line 42: “Multiply $3,300,” it said, “by the total number of exemptions claimed on line 6D” – which is two, because I have a husband.

And then, the kicker: “subtract this number from your total income.”

I forgot about exemptions! You know, those couple thousand dollars you get to shave off the top just because you’re you? (At least, I think that’s what it’s for. Makes as much sense as rest of it, I figure.) Ooh, I could hug myself just thinking about it. It was like getting an instant rebate on the spot – and I haven’t had anything resembling one of those in donkey’s years. I felt so virtuous for having finally done the taxes in the first place, and now I was rich on top of it – and fortunate to boot!

I was at such sixes and sevens trying to get it all finalized and in the envelope that I didn’t even answer the door when some crazy person came a-pounding. And a-pounding, and a-pounding. I knew who it was going to be, anyway: the oil guy. I’d just heard him making a delivery and I know the company has messed up my account. They claim I haven’t paid them in a month but I know they’ve cashed my checks. It’s a whole big pain in the hoo – which is yet another reason why I WANT TO SWITCH TO KEYSPAN if they would just RETURN MY CALLS – but this morning I was feeling too virtuous and rich and fortunate to spoil my happy mood on them. So I just let them knock until their arms fell off, and they picked them up and tucked them under their – well, chins, I guess – and got back in their truck and drove away.

Except for, when I’d dotted my last dot and crossed my last cross and went out the door to mail my envelopes, I discovered it hadn't been the oil man at all. It was Jehovah’s Witnesses – a whole posse of them, judging from the noise they made. They’d left a pamphlet for me, so I could read about THE GREATEST MAN WHO EVER LIVED.

I know who they’re talking about, and I don’t want to bring the wrath of the Believers raining down upon my house (or, actually, let me think about that for a minute… no. No, I don’t), so let me just say I’ve got a nomination for greatest-man first-runner-up. And I’d like to ask him a question:

How did you come up with the idea of exemptions, anyway?

The Fix Is Out

It's getting to the point that I can hear that toilet running even through the closed-tight door. Crap!

I've gotta do my taxes today - today! - so I can fix that thing tomorrow. Tomorrow! Or, well, okay maybe Saturday. Which I suppose means I could put the taxes off until Friday or so...

When I get them both done, though, I'm going to buy myself a digital camera so I can finally start showing y'all the disgusting hole I live in.

Course, that'll probably break on me as well. So what's the one thing I should post a picture of before the camera breaks? The outside of the house or the grossest thing inside it? The nicest thing we've done so far or the worst thing left to do? Just don't say me: I'm not posting a picture of myself - or of Johnny, either.

This is still Townville, after all, and I haven't said the nicest things about it. Just in case anyone in this place actually reads, we don't need to risk being recognized when we walk down the street. Two sidewalk incidents are plenty, thank you.

Then again, I suppose there is a chance they'll recognize the house.

Well, if I stop posting after I put the pictures up, I guess you'll know what happened.