I’m writing in an attempt to avoid organizing my underwear drawer.
So what’s on the docket for this week? Taxes. Just hoping (like everyone) that I don’t owe.
Had I known how little retirement I would receive, I would have pushed to have that child tax credit every year. Part of negotiations for divorce included the option to alternate years. So out of goodwill, I did that. But frankly, I could use the help. I’m attempting to add a part-time gig to the full-time one. Why don’t you just write for cash, you ask? Well, content mills pay peanuts. And I need a steady income. Just crossing my fingers and hoping I get paid is not exactly a solid financial plan.
And there is that whole retirement issue, where I got overpaid because (like dumbasses) we weren’t officially garnishing the retirement benefit until December. I have paid back the difference by paying various medical bills (including the bill for the tonsillectomy). But I have a feeling that the IRS will want me to pay on the entire amount of installments received.
In other news, I attended an “afterlife party” yesterday that was mostly a bunch of gals getting together and talking. We did watch 21 Grams and planned to watch more movies and have some lively discussion about the afterlife. But we mostly talked about happy stuff, like puppies and unicorns. No joke. These discussions are always good for the soul, no matter how much it weighs.
And why would death be on our minds? My father would have been 70 on February 8th.
His death is still incredibly difficult to write about and it’s been almost 17 years. That’s more years than many people get in a lifetime. Instead of making myself cry, I want to share some important facts about my dad.
Practically the only time he would get aggravated was when we were late for a movie. My dad loved him some previews. You could tell how much he liked an upcoming movie because his legs would wiggle back and forth. He also did this when he was nervous. Too cute.
He hid vegetable beef soup around the house from me because he was too nice a guy to tell me not to eat it. I revealed this recently on social media and I discovered that he also hid spinach from my sister.
My father loved his country, the New York Yankees, softball, and the US Postal Service. I remember how upset he was when we attended a U2 concert– Rage Against the Machine opened and on the stage, the American flag was displayed upside down. This was a no-no for my father.
He loved the Yankees since he was a boy. I remember being fascinated by all the stories he and his brothers told about the players during the last Yankee game I went to. He played on three softball teams the year before he passed. He has a Yankee symbol on his tombstone and was buried with a softball glove.
Never was there a happier mailman. My father loved his postal customers and even managed to sidestep the more politicized aspects of a government job. Though he wasn’t above sustaining injury from neighborhood dogs, When my father passed away, the post offices in Boise set their flags to half-mast.
I’m totally not crying.
Ok enough of that.
So. Ahem. Yes. Might get a brand spanking new second job, which means moolah, because momma has to pay the rent. The interesting twist? Because I need to make the money, I will spend more time away from my cozy little apartment. Paying for something I will not be able to fully enjoy. But hey, gotta keep a roof over my kid’s head. So there is always that.
And el kiddo loves it here. She has spread out her games and things into the spare room so basically she has more space to chill. Which, I am told, is a necessity for teenagers.
Great. Now she has TWO rooms to shut herself in when she feels antisocial.
As for the roommate thing, we have decided that 900 sq ft of space is just the right amount of apartment for the two of us and all of our stuff. Especially since you need a microscope to find the bathroom. I really need to Marie Kondo this place. I think less clutter would indeed bring less stress. But with a kid who is constantly cosplaying…you need room for costume elements and building materials. So there is that.
And with that, begins the purge. Starting with the underwear drawer, then progressing to all the clothes that no longer fit my alarmingly tall child.
And now that I’ve stopped crying, here is my parents’song. Have a wonderful Sunday…