The Internal Revenue Service (Photo credit: Martin Haesemeyer)
Holy Monday was traditionally regarded as the day Jesus chased the moneylenders out of the temple, so I decided to observe it by doing my taxes. Actually, at the moment I’m doing this instead of my taxes. I have all my paperwork spread out as a sign of my good intentions, in case the IRS should conduct a raid on my office (studio? den? lair? whatever you call the room where you write) in the next few minutes. This is similar to leaving the vacuum cleaner out in the middle of the floor, to show that you really intend to vacuum any minute now. This is the last year we’ll be able to do our beloved 1040EZ, since Rom will be getting Social Security now (which will legally empower/require him to sit in the elderly/handicapped seats on the bus). So I guess I’ll then have to go whining to Lisa like everyone else.
And why, you might be asking (well, you might be–work with me, OK?), would I expect there to be an IRS raid on my house? Because Nick works in mysterious ways. In other words, guess who I ran into at Thornton’s today.
Luckily, I had no items from Walgreen’s in my bag which he could demand I show a receipt for. And we pretended his offer of a ride home was just professional courtesy, instead of a ruse to find out where I live at last. (Clue: it would be the house with the name “McBride” carved in stone out front. Literally. On a big tombstone-like rock. It looks like we have one of my in-laws buried in our front yard.)
Him: “I’m not calling this off, so don’t give me any trouble.”
Me (nervously): “Hope you don’t get a run.”
Him (cheerfully): “Well, if you can’t open a normal car door, you sure won’t be able to open mine.”
Ha. Ha. Ha.
So naturally I’m imagining any number of runs that could turn into an involuntary ride-along experience. (Actually, for me, any ride-along would be involuntary. If I wanted the excitement of putting myself in physical danger, I’d have become a police officer. Well, I would have if I wasn’t legally blind, but you get the idea.) I like to think that if it was a low-priority run, he’d have deposited me safely at home first, but you never know. But no run was forthcoming, so this didn’t turn into a Not At All Amusing Adventure. I was delivered to my driveway, where Rom was waiting, who would of course have kicked Nick’s ass if he’d tried anything. “Brought home by the police?” he asked. Yeah, it’s a way of life.
Can I turn an uneventful day into a long-drawn-out story, or what? It’s a gift. At least, I think that’s what they call it. Thank you all for helping me postpone doing the taxes.