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The Tax Diva Strikes Again

No matter how prepared you think you are for tax season, it's always much, much worse than you think.

Every year since Aaron and I have been together, I've filled out forms, via Turbo Tax, for both his taxes and mine. After we got married, I figured it would be a lot easier, since I could keep better control of his art receipts, we'd be married filing jointly, living in the same house, etc.

Ha.

Every year since we've been married, something happens to make the whole affair the most bumfuzzling, complicated conglomeration of confusedness you've ever seen.

First we bought a house. This year, we had a baby. I was sick for the majority of 2007 and wasn't able to keep a good hold on organizing everything. I quit my job at the end of the year, and Aaron made more money than usual through his art business. We took two business trips. Does anyone know how you write off a Canon camera used 98% for business, 1% for personal use, and 1% for just sitting there collecting dust? How about a printer whose black ink cartridge only works when it feels like it? Are there tax breaks for printer orneriness?

But the real problem is where and how we have our computer, printer, and tax paperwork set up. Our computer is, not at our desk, like any normal household would have, but next to our television in the living room. The cable company set it up like this because for some reason, it needed to be next to the tv so they wouldn't have to splice any cables. (At least, that's how we think we remember it.) To access it, you sit in a ladder-back chair. There is no space for spread-out paperwork, so several more ladder-back chairs are required for folders, receipts, and invoices, all of which are located back at the desk in the other room. Because you're not sitting at said desk, your knees jut out to one side. Within three and a half minutes, your back is aching like you've just cut a cord of wood.

"I can't work like this!" I announced to Aaron when he came home for lunch today. "This is just impossible! I don't care what it costs, we're calling the cable company and demanding, DEMANDING, that they splice another hookup in our office so I can put everything on our desk! I'm a very neat, organized person, and this type of working environment is stifling to me, simply stifling! It's got to go!"

He slowly backed out of the room. I think he's mixing the first of many Tax Season Gin and Tonics in the kitchen right now.

Next year, I've resolved, it won't be this hard. Next year, I'll keep better track of receipts, we won't move, won't have any more babies, and the computer will be on the desk. It's going to be a breeze!

And The Britney Spears Parenting Award Goes To...

After months of crying, screaming, squirming, and hollering, I think we've found the answer to Maisy's problem. Reflux. Early last week, she kept us up all night. It was only then, when my own comfort had been way compromised, that I called the doctor and asked for an appointment. (Before that, I'd accepted the nurse's suggestion that she might just have bad gas.) He prescribed some medication, and within six hours we could tell a difference. Now, one week later, she is a markedly different baby.

I felt horrible when I realized that I could have prevented weeks of pain for her by simply giving her some nasty-tasting concoction once every 8 hours. My mother-in-law tells me this is just the beginning of a long road of guilt.

I will say this; Maisy can still fuss with the best of them from time to time. I think she's going to have a strong personality. As long as she doesn't start donning pink wigs...

Have a Coke and a Plane Crash

I've always been interested in the last meals convicts order before they're sent off to be put to death. They request everything from steak to Kentucky Fried Chicken to Cheetos to mint chocolate chip ice cream. I've always wondered what I'd want to eat if I knew I was going to kick the bucket. The other night, I had a dream that cleared things up for me.

The strange thing is, I didn't want anything to eat; instead, the last thing I wanted to put in my mouth was something to drink. And no, it wasn't alcoholic. Here's how it went down (no pun intended):

I was on a plane, traveling with the ninth grade English class I taught in 1997. I had just ordered a Diet Coke from the flight attendant when the plane suddenly went into a tailspin and began plummeting toward the earth. The flight attendant, who was on her way to the galley, came struggling back up the aisle which was now at about an 80 degree slant.

"The plane is about to crash," she said. "Do you still want that Diet Coke?"

"Yes," I replied. "I sure do." The attendant stalked off, peeved that her last task on earth would be to fetch someone a caffeinated beverage. Someone across the aisle from me leaned over and asked, "Are you sure you want a Diet Coke? That's really the last thing you want to drink right before you die?" I thought for a minute, then said, "Yes. Yes, it is!"

So there's one less thing I have to ponder these days. You may be wondering if I felt the least bit of panic while the plane was going down. Indeed, I did not. I was looking forward to it. It meant I would finally be able to get some peaceful, uninterrupted sleep.

Like Mother, Like Daughter

Don't tell Aaron, but I have a secret crush on Justin Timberlake. I'm not sure why. His boyish charm? His penchant for dapper three-piece suits? His Michael Jackson-esque moves? I don't know.

What I do know is that I can sing along with all his songs on the radio. I haven't gone so far as to buy one of his albums. I don't want to be horse-laughed out of our house.

Anyway, Maisy was screaming like crazy again the other day, and I decided to take her for a ride in the car. I revved up the engine and chose a road with lots of curves, which she likes. No deal; the hollering continued. I turned on classical music, which usually calms her. Nope. I switched the station to some cheerful Christmas music. Still didn't work. Finally, I tuned into B 93.7, where What Goes Around was playing. And from the back seat...silence.

Me: 10. Brittney: 0.

Maisy was incredibly fussy on Monday. If she was awake, she was screaming. After a few hours of this, crying seemed like a pretty good idea to me too, so I joined her and we cried together until Aaron came home.

After a day like that, I had to do something to convince myself that I really am a pretty decent mother. And what better way to make yourself feel more confident than to compare yourself with someone who is arguably the worst mother in the world? Here's a list I created of all the ways I make a better mother than Brittney Spears:

1. I am always sure to wear my underwear when I go out in public. I may not have showered, but I do have my drawers on.

2. I would never give a lackluster performance at the VMA's. Any performances I give are always chock-full of luster.

3. I don't drive my '97 Corolla around town running red lights while texting people.

4. Cheetos are not one of the food groups and have no place in the diet of a two year old.

5. I don't serve my mother with papers banning her from seeing her grandchild. I have the good sense to recognize free, quality child care when I see it.

6. I don't take my child to the Four Seasons Hotel for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Thanksgiving. I do like everyone else does: stress about making green bean casserole for three weeks ahead of time, make thirty-five phone calls to my sister to discuss who's on the outs with who this year and how to work that into the seating arrangement, then spend Thanksgiving morning crying and swearing at a turkey that's still partially frozen.

7. If I take my baby out in the car, she's securely strapped into a car seat. I'm "country", too, and my father also let me drive on his lap - from one end of the driveway to the other. Not on a highway going 75 mph.

8. If you see a look of strain on my baby's face, it's because she has gas. Not because she's spending the day with me.

9. Although not a health expert, I do recognize that filling a child's bottle with coke is not good for him in many, many ways.

10. My mothering skills don't make people say, "I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I sure hope K-Fed gets custody of those kids!"

I feel better already.

Here's What Four Hours of Sleep a Night Will Do To You

Aaron and I have sunk to a new low. After countless nights of little to no sleep and few opportunities to leave the house, we found ourselves watching "Cheaters" tonight on tv. And it was a gem. For all you fellow low-lifes out there, here's the jist:

Tanya has been dating Dwight for a few months when she begins to suspect he is cheating on her. With her mother, no less. What ensues is white trash at its whitest trashiest. Tanya, via Cheaters, sets up a hidden camera in the home she shares with her mother and father. Just as she suspected, Mommie Dearest is canoodling with good old Dwight. Many scenes are pixellated out, much to the dismay, I'm sure, of Cheaters viewers everywhere. Tanya must work up the courage to face her mother, and the Cheaters host is there to help her, every step of the way. He gives Tanya lots of back pats, for instance.

When Tanya enters her house, she immediately confronts her mother and Dwight. Dwight, who appears to have the IQ of a mayonnaise sandwich, stands with mouth agape. Behind him on the wall is a painting probably bought in front of a gas station. Chaos abounds, and Tanya's father, who appears to be drunk, comes out of a back bedroom and begins to soundly curse all involved. When he finds out what happened, he goes for Mayo Boy and proceeds to pound the crap out of him.

We had to turn the channel at this point, ashamed of our voyerism. Two minutes later, we just happened to be flipping by again and were astounded to see Tanya's dad being hauled out of the house on a stretcher. I guess he had some kind of heart condition, and finding out his wife was cheating on him with his daughter's boyfriend was just too much.

Parenting is tough. Strangely, I'll go to bed tonight feeling slightly better about my mothering skills.