Tax Time

Saturday morning, I'm running around, doing chores with Max. I knew it would take a while, so before I left the house, I put a 1.5 liter bottle of diet coke in the CD holder of the van. At a frenetic pace, I managed to take Max to karate, and while he's there, wrap two packages and take a huge bundle of clothes to the dry cleaners, including one pair of pants that got the M7 treatment. M7's are trains on the LIRR that are perfectly configured with a seat armrest made of firm rubber, with nice rounded edges. Unfortunately, the trains are built by a Japanese company, and the seats are designed for smaller, Japanese people. Even an average sized man of European descent will sit in the chair, and the erect armrest will gently slip right into the guy's pocket, and either rip the pant seam, or the top corner of the pocket, whichever is weaker. Proof yet again that they're still beating the crap out of us by building shit from the wreckage of the bombs we blew them up with. We won the war, but they continue to win all the battles.
Anyways, then I picked Max up, mailed the packages, did the grocery shopping, returned home, put all the groceries away, and then headed out again to get my hair cut.

Radio announcer: ... but the Pope's kidneys are failing and his blood pressure is dropping from the septic shock of his past infection. Usually people who are lucid at this point feel a sense of relief and bounce back briefly.
Max: Daddy, what do the kidneys do?
G-man, quizzically: well, they filter the blood and make pee-pee. And your bladder holds the pee, like that plastic bag you're holding that stash of coupons you got from the market.
Max: Daddy, I'm thirsty. Can I have some of your soda?
G-man: No, four-year-olds shouldn't drink soda.
Max: Then get me a slurpee at the 7-eleven. Can you get the Pope one too? It sounds like he needs it. When we get home, can we wrestle?

After my haircut, I think I'm done. It's now 11:30, not bad for 2-1/2 hours of work. As I'm motoring back to the house, my cell rings. Naturally, as I'm fumbling with it, the guy in front of me stops short for a pair of male L.I. geese who are fighting for world domination in the middle of the street. Fortunately, I noticed, roughly applying the breaks, avoiding the accident and catching the call.

G-man: Hello?
Jawbitch: Hey, you gotta go to the accountant.
G-man: But, I've been running around all morning -- I thought the appointment was at 2 p.m.?
Jawbitch: No, it's at twelve. Just bring Max up to Gram's house and drop him off on the way. After GG's done with gymnastics, I'll drop her off at Gram's too. Then I'll meet you at the accountant, and after, we can pick the kids up and get ready for the party tonight.
G-man: What party? Hello? You're cell phone's cutting out! Hello? I'll call you at the house, I almost hit a duck.

Back at the house, I changed Max out of his karate gui, grabbed the manila folder labeled "Tax documents 2004," called Jawbitch back to rehash these crazy plans, and then left. Then I dropped the boy off and made it to the tax accountant by 12:10. Someone else had usurped our appointment, so I met with his associate for about a half-an-hour, who reviewed all my documents and noted that we would be receiving a huge refund this year. But there were some questions about Jawbitch's business that I couldn't answer. Just then, Jawbitch calls their office & wants to talk to me.

Jawbitch: I'm on Straight Path with GG. How's it going?
G-man: Fine, I'm just meeting with the associate right now.
Jawbitch: How come you sound so happy? We don't have to pay this year, right? Why do I have to come?
G-man: You know me all too well, but there are questions which only you can answer.
Jawbitch: Ok, I'll see you in a few minutes.