Deep in the Heart of Taxes...

Who ever heard of doing your taxes at the end of MAY? I have never been late with my taxes, since I first filed in 1968. Oh, I crank about it, I threaten to file an extension on April 14 (but you have to pretty much have everything done in order to have the numbers to put on the extension, so what's the point of that?), but I get them in.

This year, I was on the West Coast on April 15, and all my W-2s were either sitting on my desk in TN, or in the pile of mail mouldering at the post office. I found a quirkly little regulation though that says if either spouse is working out of the country on April 15, you get an automatic 2-month extension without filing a thing. You just have to attach a note when you file, explaining who, what, when, where, and why. But the problem is that I can't very well do that without Bill's signature, and he won't be home until mid-July.

So, I have to do the taxes to get the numbers to file an extension, attach the note to the extension request and get it in by June 15.

I've got a pretty good handle on everything, as I went through and organized the "To-Be-Filed" bucket last night, looking for the paperwork on my "clunker" trade. I never did find that, but I found charity receipts, a whole year of bank statements (which will help me re-populate Quicken for the 3 months when my computer crashed last summer), and other useful paperwork. Now I have to go to Walmart and pick up a box of file folders so I can truly be done with this annual paper mess.

I know. If I did the books monthly, I wouldn't have to go through this big mess once a year. But let's think about this for a minute. If I did everthing monthly, that just means I'd be tackling this odious chore 12 times a year, instead of just once a year. Sure the pile would be smaller, but the mental frustration of it is 11 times less if I do it annually. So I doubt that I am prepared to change my evil ways.

At least the To-Be-Filed bucket corrals the mess in one easy to ignore place. The Zen of Accounting. Out of sight, out of mind. Finis.

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In the meantime, I have discovered that the continuing pain in my foot is probably due to a stress fracture, compounded by a high-ankle sprain. I am taking the week off from work and spending quality time with my books and ice-pack.

Bounder did me the favor of walking himself this morning, finally returning home by racing full-speed down the hill to the porch (I'm amazed he didn't crash through the railing). Full of ticks, burrs and a foot-long tongue hanging ridiculously out the side of his mouth, he staggered in, drank 2 litres of water and collapsed on his dog bed for a nap.

I think I'll take a lesson from the dog on that nap thing...

Digging in the Dirt...or, "It's as Hot as Singapore Out There!"

Dirt squelching in my Crocs (plastic shoes ARE washable), slapping mosquitoes, lugging 2 cu. ft. bags of soil, sorting through seeds, potting up peppers and tomatoes--that's what life here in my own real-life Farmville is all about.

I am late putting in my "garden" this year due to my absence, but putting it in I am (in between naps and lying down with ice-packs on my forehead and lumbar region). I always forget how much work it is to grow stuff. First, the poison ivy has to be defoliated. Then, the weeds and volunteers have to be cleared out of the beds. Soil has to be turned and rocks thrown out and clods broken up.

Despite hat, sunglasses, insect repellent, gloves (yes, GLOVES, Mert!) I always manage to stagger back into the house bathed in perspiration reminiscent of Singapore flop-sweat, splashed with mud and scratching my various bites and skin rashes. And yet I go out and do it again. I must be out of my mind.

I have 4 zucchinis, 4 yellow crooknecks, and a rhubarb in the ground. I have a dozen each of tomatoes and peppers in pots, along with 2 big pots of bush pickling cukes and 3 eggplant. I am almost done with preparing the beds for carrots, beets, potatoes, onions and beans. I decided this year that peas were too much work for too little produce--and it's too hot already for peas anyway, as well as broccoli and cauliflower.

I suppose I could just shlep down to the Farmer's Market on Tuesdays and Saturdays, but it is so satisfying to step out onto the porch and pick my own salads and herbs during the summer months. Not to mention the joy of picking blackberries in the rain (the only time it's comfortable enough to engage in such an activity), or hoping-against-hope that I will be the one to harvest the plums and apples this year instead of the deer.

Come August, I will be drowning in squash, tired of tomatoes, and giving peppers and beans away. This pleases me.

Losing Weight, Floating Docks & Insane Dog

I haven't been blogging lately (despite emails saying "miss you!"), due to circumstances beyond my control, as they say. It's been raining. Never mind that the temperature outside has been in the high 80s and even 90s some days, the water just keeps pouring from the sky! I spend a lot of time getting wet and drying off, doing laundry and still, the unpacking goes on.

As a result, my floating dock done floated away from shore. Moorless, it bobbles half-submerged around the pond, never coming close enough to shore for me to lasso it and drag it back. I have thought about getting the canoe down and paddling out to it, attaching a rope and then making my way back to shore with the rope, attaching it to a car and hauling it back to it's place, then figure out a way to secure it again. But all that just seems like WAY too much work. It's easier to sit and think about it while I'm knitting and watching TV.

And I've decided that the 28 pounds I have added to my frame in the last 2 1/2 years have to go away. Thanks to a suggestion from MaryAnn, I have been on the South Beach Diet since last Friday, and have lost 10 pounds! I never looked into this particular meal plan, mostly because I hated the name that conjured up rail-thin society babes ("social x-rays," as Tom Wolfe put it, in Bonfire of the Vanities), frolicking about their useless lives while drinking fortified exotic juices. But that isn't it at all. After reading the book, it's basically a refutation of the low-fat, high-carbo diet we've all been told is good for us. In the decades since the Food Pyramid was changed to make us all eat less fat, less protein and bump up our carbs, America has gotten fatter. This plan is all about the meat, cheese, eggs and vegetables, cutting out ALL sugars and starches for the first two weeks. After that, I can start adding in fruit and whole grains. It's the low-glycemic, quasi-diabetic diet that has always worked for me in the past. And it sure is working now, without hunger or crankiness.

And I've been getting plenty of exercise with Mr. Crazy-Dog. Bounder is coming along just fine, though he is clumsy, somewhat dumb and hyper. He got away from me a few days ago, clamored up the back deck steps, then scooted under the railing out onto the roof. Then, of course, he fell off the roof to the second story deck below, crashed through the railing and lattice barrier, and fell another 10 feet to the driveway below. Then he jumped up, ran to the back yard and tried to do it AGAIN! I grabbed him before he could go up the steps again, and was relieved that he was completely unhurt, despite falling off the roof of my house. Wow.

Bill suggested that we put a sign that says "Beware of the Dog," with an arrow pointing skyward. Or, put a parachute on the silly animal.

The garden is slowly taking shape, in raised beds and pots on the porch. I will have my eggplants, cucumbers, tomatoes, and peppers this summer! Although with the heat and rain we've had, I'd say summer is already here.

Life goes on.

Let's Give Thanks for the "Evil" Pharmaceutical Industry!

After two years of Juli's multiple hospital admissions, mystery panic attacks, intractable vomiting and tremendous medical debt, my daughter's disease was finally diagnosed. It can be treated and possibly cured by a drug called Lamictal. The only problem was that the drug would cost almost $600 per month--a total deal-breaker, out of the realm of reality for her.

I went online and found the manufacturer of Lamictal, GlaxoSmithKline, and I called them. I explained the situation. The gentleman asked a few questions and then told me if my daughter and son-in-law's combined income was less than $36,000 a year, GSK could get her her medication today. They would email a voucher for a 60-day supply at any dispensing pharmacy for a $10 co-pay. Then, after they received a one-page form and a copy of last year's 1040 taxes, GSK would begin sending her 90-day supplies free of charge, for as long as she needed it.

I knew that there were programs, but I expected little more than maybe a coupon or a 10% discount. Unfortunately, I had bought into the all-too-familiar argument that Giant Pharma was "evil" (or at least irresponsible). Sure they spent an average of $1 Billion to develop every new drug they bring to market, and spent almost 10 years on paperwork to get it through the clinical trials and government-approval phases, but what good is a new miracle drug if no one can afford it?

Turns out that they give away the drugs to those who need them--but we never hear about THAT when the politicians are pontificating. I encourage everyone in a similar situation to call the drug manufacturer--you might be surprised at what they can do for you.

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Wednesday's oncology appointment when swimmingly well. I am now a 2 1/2 year cancer survivor, with NED (no evidence of disease), and an excellent prognosis. Woo-Hoo!

The Saga of the Dreaded Black Locust Thorn

While I was out two days ago, putting up the dog wire in the backyard, I was accosted by the obnoxious trash tree known as the Black Locust. Upon returning to the house, I realized that the monster had left a stiff black thorn deep in my index finger's first knuckle. No amount of needle-probing, tweezer-pinching, squeezing, scraping or other first aid measures could get to it.

Now throbbing and swelling, I dumped a bunch of hydrogen peroxide and triple antibiotic ointment on it. Then I remembered that Cousin Jean had given me a jar of homemade salve when we were talking about insidious blackberry thorns. She said it was made out of olive oil, garlic, ground up plantain leaves and other bizarre things, but that it had the effect of drawing out thorns. I swabbed it on my finger, put a band-aid on it and went to bed.

The next morning, the swelling had reduced and it wasn't as painful, but I still couldn't get the darn thing out--it was just too deep. I finally was reduced to making an appointment with the doctor for 8:30 this morning to cut my knuckle open if need be, and get it OUT!

Oh, the embarrassment of it all. THIS is what makes health care so expensive, I mused--some fool taking up a highly-trained professional physician to get a stupid thorn taken out, when he could be curing cancer or diabetes or something useful!

Getting ready to go in, I decided to unwrap the finger and try once more to remove it myself (without fainting). Cousin Jean's salve really works, because I pushed on the skin around the hole and it slowly emerged and popped out! It was a vicious looking thing, all hooked and stiff, but it was finally out of my finger.

This is the problem with living alone. You have only yourself to blame and can only count on yourself when there's a problem. You have to eat slowly and take little bites because there's no one around to give you the Heimlich Manuever if you choke. You have to watch what you're doing in the woods, because there's no one to wonder why you didn't come home in an hour and set off to find you with your broken leg sprawled across the trail.

Bill could have grabbed my hand and dug it out even if I had fainted. He wouldn't want to, (but he probably would, just to save the cost of a doctor's visit), but he's not here. It's stupid, embarrassing things like this that make me realize that life is just plain harder when you're on your own.

And Cousin Jean ought to patent that salve right away!

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Speaking of stupid stuff, I saw an ad for signing up for a giant dodgeball tournament in New York City. 1000 people, 600 balls (presumably, you're out if you're hit, right?), until the last man or woman standing. Really. I can't make this stuff up.

Mr. Dog Gets Comfortable

"Bounder" (who alternately answers to "Shadow") and I are settling in after our first week together. He's a playful young thing, with boundless energy, until he collapses in his spot behind the couch. I've tried moving his bed to different areas of the house--he likes the spot he chose!

Lots of biting and chewing, counter-surfing and other uncivil puppy behaviors, such as drinking out of the toilet bowl. He is making me be a better housekeeper--I don't want to risk my leather purse, my hiking boots or my walking shoes to the jaws of death and destruction.

He does like the toys I brought out from the Echo bag. He tosses them in the air, flings them around the room and prances with them dangling out of his mouth. He will run and pounce on a thrown toy and sometimes even brings it back for another toss.

I have even taken him off-leash a few times--yesterday up on the mountain path, when he was being particularly tractable, and today down by the pond. He is fast. Almost as fast as I remember Echo being when she was younger. I let him race downhill and then whistle him back with a treat. This only lasts for about five go-rounds of course; then he starts to get that look as if he's headed for the horizon on the next trip. At that point, I re-leash him and we finish our walk under control. It's great to see him stretch his legs and wear himself out.

Today, I repacked the crate in its box. He is wearing sores in his face trying to push his way out between the wires, and it's just not right. Yesterday, I strung a metal cable about 80 feet up the back yard hill, attaching it by drilling and screwing eye bolts into two oak trees. I then ran a lead on a pulley and spring attachment, so I can clip him to that when I am out and about. I'm not sure he likes it any better than being in the crate, but at least he won't hurt himself on it. Now I have to figure out how to build a doghouse arrangement for when it rains. And then I'll have to teach him to go IN the doghouse when it rains!

Work is work. I'm really tired after my first week back. It's great to be with my library friends again, but physically, it's wearing. I have another round of doctor appointments this week, so it's going to continue to be busy.

And somehow, I've got to get my garden planted if I want any vegetables this summer! I am way behind on everything.

Still another reason to vote the bums out!

Even though I live in fly-over country (aka "back-of-beyond," "hicksville," "that place,"), we here in Rog-Vegas do try to educate ourselves as to what's going on in less civilized venues. Still, the blatant arrogance of our "public servants" (do they really call themselves that with a straight face?) is mind-blowing.

Here's what got my biscuits burning this morning:

May 5, 2010 - The Wall Street Journal reports today a House Bill that would force lawmakers to make greater disclosures on financial transactions and disallow them from trading on non-public information is going nowhere fast.

The bill, which has been languishing in the House for four years, would require elected officials "to make their financial transactions public within 90 days of a purchase or sale," and "prohibit lawmakers from trading in financial markets based on non-public information they learn on the job." [i.e. "insider trading."]

This comes a day after the same publication reported several lawmakers profited by betting against the housing and stock market in 2008. Some did it using the same derivitives they've been railing against.

Seems the folks we send to Washington are above the same transparency and ethics they insist on for the rest of us.

The dog learns new tricks and gets a name...sort of

This foster dog came to us with no canine skills and without even a dog's normal curiosity. He plunked himself down in a spot between the couch and the dining table and cowered for two days. On Saturday, tired of this fearful nonsense, I declared it to be "training time." I got a handful of kibble and started coaxing him up the stairs, one at a time. He would reach up as far as he could without actually moving up the steps, and grab the piece of kibble and run away. After an hour of this, he was making it up six steps to the landing. By the afternoon, I was sitting in the loft, making one whistle through my teeth, and he'd come bounding happily up the stairs for his treat. Then he'd run down again, and we played the game over and over again until the skill was learned and he would come to my whistle wherever I was in the house. I felt very smug and Dog-Whispererish.

We took a walk in the woods, where he encounted a pair of procreating box turtles on the trail. He was beside himself, would not approach, would not go around them, just flattened himself on the ground with his ears back and his tail tucked in. I finally hoisted him up and dragged him past the silly amphibeans, but he'd stop every ten feet and look back nervously--was he afraid they were chasing him?

All weekend long I called him every name I could think of. Sam, Mac, Max, Tonto, Barney, Stanley, Conrad, Zeus, and so on. The only one he pricked his ears up to and came running to was "Bounder," after our stair-stepping success. So that is what I'm calling him for the time being.

He does play with a ball and soft toys in the house--I have the carpet burns on my knees to prove it. He kicks the ball with his forepaws like a soccer player, just like a normal Malinois. He pounces on a thrown toy. We're still working on bringing it back. He hates the crate, whimpering and pawing and yipping in the night. And yesterday when I returned to work at the library for 8 hours, I came home to find that he had destroyed the foam pad bedding in the crate, chewing it to bits, instead of chewing on his toys. So I guess he's starting to get comfortable now.

This morning we took a lovely walk at about 8:30 am down to the pond. He is starting to walk with a confident step, sniff his way through the grass (getting his face all wet with morning dew), and even walked into the pond to investigate a frog. He is starting to hold his ears and tail up instead of cringing at everything.

This is going to be interesting.

Same old life; Brand new dog

My 3 flights on Tuesday (LAX - Houston - St. Louis - Louisville) were interminable and tiring. Cousin Jeannie picked me up and we drove to her home near Lexington, and collapsed. Wednesday was a rest day, topped off by a fabulous 5 course tasting dinner at Holly Hill Inn. Jeannie had gnocchi with fiddlehead ferns and I had crispy frog legs with mussels as a starter. We both had the beet, walnut and feta cheese salad, spoonbread lobster souffle with lobster butter and the beef tenderloin with capers and port wine demi-glace. Dessert was a poppyseed bundt cake with lemon custard sauce and caramel-cashew tart with rhubarb sauce. Oh my goodness!

Thursday was traveling day. I stopped off to see MaryAnn at the pawn shop, picked up my mail at the post office (there was so much, they made me drive around back and they wheeled it out on a dolly), and much household maintenance--turning on the gas, turning on the water, flushing the pipes, firing up the water heater and well pump, getting the stove lit, programming the water softener, plugging in the UV sanitation light, flipping on breakers.

Friday was full-on medical follies day, topped off with picking up a foster dog at Walmart at 4 pm. A quick trip to the vet to get his neutering stitches out and home.

Look at this sad little guy:

He is nameless and afraid of everything. Whenever he gets nervous (all the time), he hunkers down and tries to be as small as possible. He eats his kibble at breakneck speed, as though someone is going to grab it away at any moment. He is just the sweetest, scared thing I've ever seen.

He stank of shelter, kennel and fear, so I gave him a bath this morning. It was a chore getting him in, but once there, he just stood there and shook. Now at least I can stand to be around him when he manages to get enough courage to come close to me.

This morning I tried to take him out for a walk, but he wouldn't go down the driveway. I think because he had to walk past the car, and he thought I was going to take him still somewhere else? He came down one flight of steps, but not the next. So I tied him to the porch rail, and started weeding the horrendously overgrown garden. He sat quietly at the top of the steps and watched, but wouldn't budge. He wanted to go in the basement, but wouldn't climb the steps. I had to drag him past the car so we could get back to the house from the upper back yard.

This is an experiment. I am not sure I'm ready to own another dog yet, but this guy needed a home and I need a project. We'll see how it goes.