So, I'm sitting here waiting for a ride to Ikea that may come in 5 minutes, 20 minutes, 3 hours, or not at all. While waiting, I decided to do a few productive things--girlie things--such as pluck my eyebrows, put on makeup, fix my hair, paint my toes, peel off my skin...
See, I got sunburned pretty badly about 10 days ago. My skin has been peeling off in stages since about...6 days ago. It started on my forehead, followed by my chest, then stomach, then thighs, shins, upper arms, and now arms below the elbow including tops of hands. It's really disgusting, and I've been trying to disguise it by mixing up my outfits to turtlenecks to cover chest/neck, pants to cover shins, and lace madonna gloves circa 1985 to cover my scaley arms and hands. But I know it's all just "Borderline."
It's peeling off so bad that this morning I had to use a lint roller on my bed sheets before I made the bed. (I know, SO gross right?) I saw no point in changing the sheets until I'm done shedding like some scary sci-fi snake woman. It's bad enough that all day long I'm scratching all over like a 3-year-old with chicken pox. Ew. I'm gross.
So I also dried my hair and decided to send a picture of it (and me) to my grandparents, just for I'm-not-there-for-Easter laughs. And when I did, and uploaded the photo to my computer, I realized I had this hugely disfiguring hump on my arm just below the shoulder. I mean, seriously, I could give Kwaze Moto a run for his humpy money. I keep telling myself that disfigurement is probably just a strange lighting effect that made me look so disproportionate, but now I'm essentially afraid to go into public. Maybe I AM morphing into some sort of reptile. EW!
Then I started editing the picture and trying to shade that bulging upper arm to make it go away. As I trimmed off my hump, I realized this is probably how plastic surgeons get women to jump on that table to be trimmed and tightened. "See miss, this is the shoulder hump you have NOW. But if you elect to clean this up, your shoulder will look like THIS!" If someone had said that to me just now, I would have given myself the anesthesia and handed the good doctor my finest steak knife. Maybe he could laser off some of my dead snake skin while he's at it.
Ew.
(And, for the record, still no ride to Ikea.)
3.27.2005
3.21.2005
my new souvenir t-shirt.
I'm getting a t-shirt made for myself and the members of my last vacation. They're going to each be personalized variations of: "I went to Key West, got married, robbed, interrogated, sunburned, attacked by stray cats/roosters, endured a monsoon (and a singing transvestite), and all I got was this lousy t-shirt."
I live in Manhattan, land of muggings, pickpockets, and public urination. I manage to survive in fucking Manhattan, and within three hours of arriving in Key West for a mini break, I'm robbed. Some asshole broke into our house, went through our bags, came in my BEDROOM, stole some jewelry and cash, and left.
I was actually in Key West because my mother got married. I didn't actually see the wedding...except on video tape, which was thankfully not stolen. I think they married on a Tuesday. It reminds me of the opening line of The Stranger by Camus: "Maman died today. Maybe it was yesterday. I do not know." Except for me....."Mom married today. Maybe it was yesterday, I do not know."
After the robbery, I had my first official mooch off my new step-daddy-o for $5 for a beach chair, in which I laid facing the sun on the southernmost beach of the United States. I fell asleep for, as I'm told, nearly three hours, which when combined with being in the sun on the southernmost beach of the United States makes for a pretty hefty sunburn...the kind that 5 hours later, as you are on your way to watch a transvestite sing Madonna songs in a monsoon, causes blinding headaches and nausea and forces you to run home in the rain without slipping in your wet flip-flops when you stop suddenly to dodge a stray rooster or hurdle a stray cat, both of which are terrifyingly rampant in Key West. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
After the burn, before the singing transvestite, there was a police interrogation. While my CSI agent wannabe sister phoned in the results of the fingerprint and DNA tests, Agents Mom, Joanie, and Jeff contributed plot-twisting enhancements, such as following around the police and snapping pictures/videotaping/offering advice from the pool while they collected evidence. (When I say "they" I actually mean "she," as in the sole police lady/detective chick sent to our scene. She said she would have called the real CSI team in if we hadn't totally screwed up the crime scene by touching everything in sight.)
Anyhow, after the interrogation, and during the monsoon, I slept off my third-degree burns while my counterparts watched some tranny man (who looks better in spandex and a pointy Madonna cone bra than I ever could) perform in some sort of Diva cabaret and make some derogatory comments about New Zealand and sheep. I, of course, missed it all, because I was back at the scene of the crime watching WWE Smackdown and reheating goldfish crackers on my bright red, radiating chest.
But don't be fooled--I had a blast. I mean really, it's not every day you wind up in the Key West Police Department files as Victim #3 of case CX-487Z. I went to Key West, and all I got was this lousy case number.
I live in Manhattan, land of muggings, pickpockets, and public urination. I manage to survive in fucking Manhattan, and within three hours of arriving in Key West for a mini break, I'm robbed. Some asshole broke into our house, went through our bags, came in my BEDROOM, stole some jewelry and cash, and left.
I was actually in Key West because my mother got married. I didn't actually see the wedding...except on video tape, which was thankfully not stolen. I think they married on a Tuesday. It reminds me of the opening line of The Stranger by Camus: "Maman died today. Maybe it was yesterday. I do not know." Except for me....."Mom married today. Maybe it was yesterday, I do not know."
After the robbery, I had my first official mooch off my new step-daddy-o for $5 for a beach chair, in which I laid facing the sun on the southernmost beach of the United States. I fell asleep for, as I'm told, nearly three hours, which when combined with being in the sun on the southernmost beach of the United States makes for a pretty hefty sunburn...the kind that 5 hours later, as you are on your way to watch a transvestite sing Madonna songs in a monsoon, causes blinding headaches and nausea and forces you to run home in the rain without slipping in your wet flip-flops when you stop suddenly to dodge a stray rooster or hurdle a stray cat, both of which are terrifyingly rampant in Key West. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
After the burn, before the singing transvestite, there was a police interrogation. While my CSI agent wannabe sister phoned in the results of the fingerprint and DNA tests, Agents Mom, Joanie, and Jeff contributed plot-twisting enhancements, such as following around the police and snapping pictures/videotaping/offering advice from the pool while they collected evidence. (When I say "they" I actually mean "she," as in the sole police lady/detective chick sent to our scene. She said she would have called the real CSI team in if we hadn't totally screwed up the crime scene by touching everything in sight.)
Anyhow, after the interrogation, and during the monsoon, I slept off my third-degree burns while my counterparts watched some tranny man (who looks better in spandex and a pointy Madonna cone bra than I ever could) perform in some sort of Diva cabaret and make some derogatory comments about New Zealand and sheep. I, of course, missed it all, because I was back at the scene of the crime watching WWE Smackdown and reheating goldfish crackers on my bright red, radiating chest.
But don't be fooled--I had a blast. I mean really, it's not every day you wind up in the Key West Police Department files as Victim #3 of case CX-487Z. I went to Key West, and all I got was this lousy case number.
3.16.2005
hip hip hooray for the MTA.
Today was one of those days when I should have followed my instincts.
My instinct was to not walk to the subway this morning, because perhaps something was messed up. Perhaps I should just go to the corner of my block and get on the bus that stops practically in front of my door.
But did I do that? No. I walked the two blocks (uphill) to the subway, went down the stairs, grabbed my free daily newspaper, and failed to notice that no one was going through the turnstiles until I myself approached them and saw not green for go, but red for stop. I ripped off my headphones to hear "No trains. NO TRAINS!" Fantastic.
So I banged a yooie (Boston talk for a u-turn), walked back down the hill, and ran for the LIMITED downtown bus. The normal downtown bus stops every 17 feet, but the Limited stops every 20, so it's much much faster. This is especially useful when there are NO trains on the east side whatsoever, and everyone is going for the same Limited bus downtown.
The thing is....the only thing harder than learning to keep your balance on a jerky subway train is learning to keep your balance on a jerkier MTA bus. Trains go forward and back, and may occasionally turn or sway left or right. Buses, however, have many motions: forward, quick stop, kneeling, unkneeling, left, right, sharp left, sharp right, and bump-up, bump-down. Plus, with the fancy caterpillar buses (Kevin, are you LOVING this bus talk? Is it getting you all hot?), there's the tricky pivotal hinge in the middle that a) must be carefully navigated and b) I ALWAYS end up on. So your right foot is stable, your left foot is sliding away on the hingey part, you barely have a grip on the pole for balance, and the busdriver is working the rush-hour traffic the way I used to in a little Honda Civic--inching, gas-brake-gas-brake--which is clearly some sort of busdriver humor used primarily when over 70% of your passengers are standing up and fighting for balance.
Anyhow, I eventually got to my stop. A 20 minute subway ride equates to a 75 minute bus ride--but I DID get there. And then I had to walk three long avenues to work, which initially made me crabby but was okay because I got flowers on the street from John Stamos. He's looking good these days. (Okay, really, it was just these guys who were hired to promote his new show, Jake Sexy City, Jake Single Hot, or something like that, by handing out flowers to women on the street. But I prefer to say the flowers were from John himself. Uncle Jesse's HOT.)
So really, thank you MTA. Thank you for making my morning a mess. Without you, I wouldn't have met John Stamos on the street, he wouldn't have given me flowers, and we wouldn't be eloping at lunchtime at city hall. (If the trains are running again by then.)
My instinct was to not walk to the subway this morning, because perhaps something was messed up. Perhaps I should just go to the corner of my block and get on the bus that stops practically in front of my door.
But did I do that? No. I walked the two blocks (uphill) to the subway, went down the stairs, grabbed my free daily newspaper, and failed to notice that no one was going through the turnstiles until I myself approached them and saw not green for go, but red for stop. I ripped off my headphones to hear "No trains. NO TRAINS!" Fantastic.
So I banged a yooie (Boston talk for a u-turn), walked back down the hill, and ran for the LIMITED downtown bus. The normal downtown bus stops every 17 feet, but the Limited stops every 20, so it's much much faster. This is especially useful when there are NO trains on the east side whatsoever, and everyone is going for the same Limited bus downtown.
The thing is....the only thing harder than learning to keep your balance on a jerky subway train is learning to keep your balance on a jerkier MTA bus. Trains go forward and back, and may occasionally turn or sway left or right. Buses, however, have many motions: forward, quick stop, kneeling, unkneeling, left, right, sharp left, sharp right, and bump-up, bump-down. Plus, with the fancy caterpillar buses (Kevin, are you LOVING this bus talk? Is it getting you all hot?), there's the tricky pivotal hinge in the middle that a) must be carefully navigated and b) I ALWAYS end up on. So your right foot is stable, your left foot is sliding away on the hingey part, you barely have a grip on the pole for balance, and the busdriver is working the rush-hour traffic the way I used to in a little Honda Civic--inching, gas-brake-gas-brake--which is clearly some sort of busdriver humor used primarily when over 70% of your passengers are standing up and fighting for balance.
Anyhow, I eventually got to my stop. A 20 minute subway ride equates to a 75 minute bus ride--but I DID get there. And then I had to walk three long avenues to work, which initially made me crabby but was okay because I got flowers on the street from John Stamos. He's looking good these days. (Okay, really, it was just these guys who were hired to promote his new show, Jake Sexy City, Jake Single Hot, or something like that, by handing out flowers to women on the street. But I prefer to say the flowers were from John himself. Uncle Jesse's HOT.)
So really, thank you MTA. Thank you for making my morning a mess. Without you, I wouldn't have met John Stamos on the street, he wouldn't have given me flowers, and we wouldn't be eloping at lunchtime at city hall. (If the trains are running again by then.)
3.15.2005
another day, another tequila hangover.
On the second day of my 26th year of life, I woke at 4:30am and looked around. The room was only spinning mildly, and I wasn't terribly thirsty. But a well-timed hiccup prooved that I was indeed still intoxicated from the several large, well-made margaritas I'd had a few hours earlier.
My margarita habit amuses me. When I was in college, I didn't drink much. In high school, I didn't drink at all. But at the ripe age of 15, I knew a margarita was tequila, lime juice, and triple-sec AND I knew how to measure, mix, salt the glass, and pour over rocks.
Now before you run off and call DSS, know this: it's too late. Many years have since passed and I think the statute of limitations has expired. (But if you have any luck, remember to bring up the parentally imposed beer-to-cure-hiccups trend of my youth.)
So anyhow, after years of exposure to margaritas, and not ever daring to try one because who could ever drink anything that smelled like that (tequila), I have taken quite a liking to them. I've also decided that my recent Margaritaism is genetic, and there's nothing I can do about the addiction except dedicate my life to finding the best margaritas in town.
Also, I am dedicating myself to finding the perfect offsetting hangover cure for tequila-based beverages, frozen or otherwise. Generally, that tends to be water. Lots and lots and LOTS of water. And some advil. And Bo says also a bagel. And Mom would say a bloody mary. And Anne Marie would say a mudslide. (Actually, Anne Marie wouldn't be near the tequila in the first place.) But I'm thinking I'll stick with the water. Then soon a Coke. And several more of these chocolate-frosted cupcakes I've got. And maybe some eggs, and cheese. You know what they say, starve a cold, feed a hangover. (Is that right?)
My margarita habit amuses me. When I was in college, I didn't drink much. In high school, I didn't drink at all. But at the ripe age of 15, I knew a margarita was tequila, lime juice, and triple-sec AND I knew how to measure, mix, salt the glass, and pour over rocks.
Now before you run off and call DSS, know this: it's too late. Many years have since passed and I think the statute of limitations has expired. (But if you have any luck, remember to bring up the parentally imposed beer-to-cure-hiccups trend of my youth.)
So anyhow, after years of exposure to margaritas, and not ever daring to try one because who could ever drink anything that smelled like that (tequila), I have taken quite a liking to them. I've also decided that my recent Margaritaism is genetic, and there's nothing I can do about the addiction except dedicate my life to finding the best margaritas in town.
Also, I am dedicating myself to finding the perfect offsetting hangover cure for tequila-based beverages, frozen or otherwise. Generally, that tends to be water. Lots and lots and LOTS of water. And some advil. And Bo says also a bagel. And Mom would say a bloody mary. And Anne Marie would say a mudslide. (Actually, Anne Marie wouldn't be near the tequila in the first place.) But I'm thinking I'll stick with the water. Then soon a Coke. And several more of these chocolate-frosted cupcakes I've got. And maybe some eggs, and cheese. You know what they say, starve a cold, feed a hangover. (Is that right?)
3.08.2005
i need to talk to this webster guy.
So, I'm an editor. Many of you know this. However, I pride myself on being "an editor with personality." There are many in my company who are "editors sans personality," and take their job a little too seriously.
As an editor, it is my job to be, as my sister would put it, a "giant geek" when it comes to things like punctuation, verb-subject agreement, and even spelling. (Although, when she has a paper to hand in, who comes looking for the "giant geek"? That's right baby. Come to sister.)
Well, it was just brought to my attention by another editor, the "sans" type that is devoid of personality or sense of humor (and hopefully the type that does not read my blog), that I have misspelled a word in one of my books. I quote:
Second, hey Webster...WHO MADE YOU IN CHARGE? I have been using superCede for many years, and it's always been fine. Why, suddenly, am I WRONG?
Alarmingly, this brings back painful memories of a certain wrinkly bitch at my former place of employment whose clearly visually impaired boyfriend supposedly works as a dictionary editor. She was very proud of this, always. Whereas the rest of us just hoped her inappropriate leather pants would come to life as an angry cow and chomp, thrash, and press her into ironic wrinkly bitch pants.
But back to my point: Who, exactly, are these people who decide when words should be added, removed, or changed in a dictionary? And how do they get this authority? I am concerned that it is being abused. As a professional giant geek, it is my job to stay on top of these things--but this superCede business just really irritates me, much like these did:
As an editor, it is my job to be, as my sister would put it, a "giant geek" when it comes to things like punctuation, verb-subject agreement, and even spelling. (Although, when she has a paper to hand in, who comes looking for the "giant geek"? That's right baby. Come to sister.)
Well, it was just brought to my attention by another editor, the "sans" type that is devoid of personality or sense of humor (and hopefully the type that does not read my blog), that I have misspelled a word in one of my books. I quote:
"In the penultimate paragraph, change 'supercede' to the preferable (according to Webster's) 'supersede.'"Okay, first...who the hell uses words like "penultimate"??? LOSER. I had to look it up, at friggin' Webster's.
Second, hey Webster...WHO MADE YOU IN CHARGE? I have been using superCede for many years, and it's always been fine. Why, suddenly, am I WRONG?
Alarmingly, this brings back painful memories of a certain wrinkly bitch at my former place of employment whose clearly visually impaired boyfriend supposedly works as a dictionary editor. She was very proud of this, always. Whereas the rest of us just hoped her inappropriate leather pants would come to life as an angry cow and chomp, thrash, and press her into ironic wrinkly bitch pants.
But back to my point: Who, exactly, are these people who decide when words should be added, removed, or changed in a dictionary? And how do they get this authority? I am concerned that it is being abused. As a professional giant geek, it is my job to stay on top of these things--but this superCede business just really irritates me, much like these did:
- "irregardless" is now a word in the dictionary, despite the fact that its common usage is derived from people who don't know it WASN'T a word in the first place.
- "aks" is now an acceptable pronunciation of the word "ask," which apparently is part of the Adopt Improper Pronunciations Instead of Teaching the Right One program.
- "reenter" (or re-enter) no longer requires a hyphen. Ya think? Reenter sounds like something that probes someone's butt in an alien abduction.
So, I would really like to talk to this Webster character, except I can't because he's dead. But I'd really like to know exactly who thinks they can just walk around making these changes for the rest of us. Irregardless, all I'm aksing for is a little authority to supersede these stupid words, and have them reentered properly.
Idiots.
3.07.2005
gone fishin'.
Yesterday I decided to get a haircut. I mean, I've wanted one for ages, but didn't know where to go that would be affordable AND do a decent job on the overly dense forest on my head that I call my hair. But I finally bit the bullet, picked a place, and called in for a haircut.
Voice (in vague european accent) : "Amour de Hair."
Me: "Hello, do you take walk-ins?"
Voice: "Yes we do."
Me: "And how much for just a wash and cut?"
Voice: "Twenty-five."
Me: "Okay, great. And, could you tell me...do you have availability this morning?"
Voice: "If I tell you, it's not a walk-in anymore."
Me: "Right you are. I guess I'll take my chances."
Two hours later, I walked into Amour de Hair and was directed to Richard, a middle-aged, presumably gay Japanese man in black leather pants. He spoke with what seemed, against all logic, to be a french accent.
Richard: "Oh, Step'anie, you are so young, so beautiful. Look at those eyes. You MUST have highlights done. You will be more young and more beautiful, and those eyes!"
Me: "Um. Okay."
So Richard did the whole foil-head thing, and the here's-a-magazine thing, and the tell-me-if-the giant-drier-that-is-crisping-your-ear-lobes-is-too-hot thing, and eventually I came out with a wonderful haircut AND highlights! Oooh la la! But I was happiest that the change wasn't drastic. The slightest trim, the subtlest of highlights...I felt great but would still recognize myself in the mirror.
So this morning at work, I waited to see how people reacted. Some didn't notice, others took a while. "Did you...do...something?? Oh your hair, you cut your hair." This one noticed, that one noticed, my boss's boss noticed, but no one saw the color. That is a job well done.
While I was digging through some books in the hallway library, Jose walked by and said "Oh Stephanie, como esta? You are looking so beautiful today, like every day. But today more beautiful. Bonita!" Coming from Jose, I find it sincere. And I realized that people didn't know WHY I looked different, just that I did. (And more tan too, thanks to the illusion of sun-streaked hair.)
However, the one guy in the office who I wanted to show my hair to hadn't surfaced all day. I couldn't wait until tomorrow, because by then I'll have washed it and gotten it to look NOTHING like what gay leather Japafrench Richard did. But I, playing hair-to-get, couldn't go looking for the compliment. I waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, I broke down and sent an instant message.
Me: "it's 3:30. time for you to come over here and tell me my haircut is both noticeable and nice. i'll act surprised."
Him: (little smiley emoticon thing for gasping dude)
When I told my friend Jen what I wrote, she asked "is the compliment still satisfying if you ask for it?"
Before I could answer, he appeared mid-nonsensical-sentence before stopping suddenly and saying "wait a--did you--hey, you cut your hair!" I smiled and act surprised (as promised).
"Oh, and you colored it too! It looks good! Oh and he angled it around your face? Nice! I like it. I do. And he did't cut much either. It looks good."
"Wow!" I said. "I'm impressed! I didn't tell you that all that, you got it on your own!"
He walked away proudly, while I turned back to Jen and said "Apparently, yes." Sometimes even when you have to fish for it, a compliment can still surprise you.
Voice (in vague european accent) : "Amour de Hair."
Me: "Hello, do you take walk-ins?"
Voice: "Yes we do."
Me: "And how much for just a wash and cut?"
Voice: "Twenty-five."
Me: "Okay, great. And, could you tell me...do you have availability this morning?"
Voice: "If I tell you, it's not a walk-in anymore."
Me: "Right you are. I guess I'll take my chances."
Two hours later, I walked into Amour de Hair and was directed to Richard, a middle-aged, presumably gay Japanese man in black leather pants. He spoke with what seemed, against all logic, to be a french accent.
Richard: "Oh, Step'anie, you are so young, so beautiful. Look at those eyes. You MUST have highlights done. You will be more young and more beautiful, and those eyes!"
Me: "Um. Okay."
So Richard did the whole foil-head thing, and the here's-a-magazine thing, and the tell-me-if-the giant-drier-that-is-crisping-your-ear-lobes-is-too-hot thing, and eventually I came out with a wonderful haircut AND highlights! Oooh la la! But I was happiest that the change wasn't drastic. The slightest trim, the subtlest of highlights...I felt great but would still recognize myself in the mirror.
So this morning at work, I waited to see how people reacted. Some didn't notice, others took a while. "Did you...do...something?? Oh your hair, you cut your hair." This one noticed, that one noticed, my boss's boss noticed, but no one saw the color. That is a job well done.
While I was digging through some books in the hallway library, Jose walked by and said "Oh Stephanie, como esta? You are looking so beautiful today, like every day. But today more beautiful. Bonita!" Coming from Jose, I find it sincere. And I realized that people didn't know WHY I looked different, just that I did. (And more tan too, thanks to the illusion of sun-streaked hair.)
However, the one guy in the office who I wanted to show my hair to hadn't surfaced all day. I couldn't wait until tomorrow, because by then I'll have washed it and gotten it to look NOTHING like what gay leather Japafrench Richard did. But I, playing hair-to-get, couldn't go looking for the compliment. I waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, I broke down and sent an instant message.
Me: "it's 3:30. time for you to come over here and tell me my haircut is both noticeable and nice. i'll act surprised."
Him: (little smiley emoticon thing for gasping dude)
When I told my friend Jen what I wrote, she asked "is the compliment still satisfying if you ask for it?"
Before I could answer, he appeared mid-nonsensical-sentence before stopping suddenly and saying "wait a--did you--hey, you cut your hair!" I smiled and act surprised (as promised).
"Oh, and you colored it too! It looks good! Oh and he angled it around your face? Nice! I like it. I do. And he did't cut much either. It looks good."
"Wow!" I said. "I'm impressed! I didn't tell you that all that, you got it on your own!"
He walked away proudly, while I turned back to Jen and said "Apparently, yes." Sometimes even when you have to fish for it, a compliment can still surprise you.
3.01.2005
i bleed red and blue.
We knew we would lose Romeo, and probably Charlie.
Then Big 54 fell ill. Already, our hearts ached.
Then we cut Ty Law, and I gasped in horror.
Then we released Roman Phifer, and I stared in shock.
But today when we let go of Troy Brown, I mourned.
I'm afraid the slaughter isn't yet over. I'm afraid of where we will be cut next. I love my Patriots and the joy they have given me, but I tell you--I LOVE these guys. My team will not be MY team without #24, 95, and 80.
To my boys, all I can say is that in my heart, you'll always be Bingo baby. Bingo. You won for us again.
UPDATE: And now David Patten?!? Oh the humanity!!
Then Big 54 fell ill. Already, our hearts ached.
Then we cut Ty Law, and I gasped in horror.
Then we released Roman Phifer, and I stared in shock.
But today when we let go of Troy Brown, I mourned.
I'm afraid the slaughter isn't yet over. I'm afraid of where we will be cut next. I love my Patriots and the joy they have given me, but I tell you--I LOVE these guys. My team will not be MY team without #24, 95, and 80.
To my boys, all I can say is that in my heart, you'll always be Bingo baby. Bingo. You won for us again.
UPDATE: And now David Patten?!? Oh the humanity!!
i always wanted a big brother.
This morning as I was slothfully trudging out the door of my apartment, I delayed my departure by noticing the unopened pile of mail on the table from yesterday. I didn't open it at the time because the apocalypse had arrived outside, and I could neither open the mail with my mittened hands, nor see it through the hail, sleet, snow, and lightning bolts that were striking all around me. So, instead, I fanned through it this morning on my way out the door.
In the pile, an envelope from the Massachusetts Department of Revenue. My immediate reaction was "Weird. They're supposed to direct-deposit my refund. What did they fuck up this time?" Then I opened it. And my second reaction was "Why the FUCK do they want $197 from me!??!?" Having neither the time nor patience to deal with this, I slipped the letter into my bag and went out the door.
Now, hours later, and in a progressively shittier mood than I was hours ago, I decided to revisit the matter. The form states a few key details:
In the pile, an envelope from the Massachusetts Department of Revenue. My immediate reaction was "Weird. They're supposed to direct-deposit my refund. What did they fuck up this time?" Then I opened it. And my second reaction was "Why the FUCK do they want $197 from me!??!?" Having neither the time nor patience to deal with this, I slipped the letter into my bag and went out the door.
Now, hours later, and in a progressively shittier mood than I was hours ago, I decided to revisit the matter. The form states a few key details:
- Notice of Assessment
- February 18, 2005
- $197.01 ($165.32 + $31.69 in interest. INTEREST!)
However, the form also fails to state a few key details:
- Why.
- Why.
- WHY!!!
So after a little research on the web, I got nowhere. The only indication I could find of the existence of this Notice was that they've already docked my current refund the $197.01. (So much for disputing.) I realized my best and only option was to dial the phone number and spend 11 hours on hold until someone hopefully semi-intelligent picked up the phone. I would even settle for a computerized voice telling me I made a math error, or that the tax rate went up. Something, anything, to clarify this damn Notice.
So I dialed. And some machine picked up, and a female voice said "Welcome to the Massachusetts Depahtment of Revenue." (Ah, the sounds of home.) "Please listen cayefully to the following menu." I followed the sequence and was put on hold for the "next available opahratah." To my surprise, my hold time was a mere 6 seconds. A charming, non-disgruntled, helpful woman picked up the phone.
After I gave her my social security number, address, date of birth, a blood sample, a retinal scan, and DNA analysis, she asked "What can I help you with today?"
"I just want to know....WHY?" I asked.
"Oh, well, it says here you failed to report some income in 2001."
"2001?"
"Yes, for the amount of $1567."
"In 2001?"
"Yes."
"If I failed to report it, how do you have it?"
"The federal government sent it to us."
"Oh. From 2001?"
"Yes ma'am."
I dug through the saved online files on my H&R Block profile, to find a 1099 listing for $1567 on my 2001 federal return. Beside it, the description "prize winnings."
Ah, prize winnings. That would be the two Madonna concert tickets, weekend for two in Martha's Vineyard, and his and hers mountain bikes, a prize package totalling--you guessed it--$1567--all of which I won from a radio station. The thing is, I know, I KNOW, that this was a line on the Mass. Telefile book of 2001. I remember putting it in the wrong spot, then moving it... moving it TO the line that specifically asked for WINNINGS. Why would I screw that up??
But it doesn't matter. They already took my money. Now they're taking more. And really, I guess it's still a small price to pay for fulfilling my lifelong dream of seeing Madonna in concert (and with awesome seats, may I add), and for an "expenses paid" trip to the Vineyard on the most beautiful September weekend in 2001 before life as we know it changed, with a room overlooking the glistening ocean full of sailboats AND a fudge store. Plus, I believe I just sold the his and hers mountain bikes when I left Boston. Sold them for...$200. Go figure. I made a $3 profit.
But in the end, I am a little freaked out that, even 4 years later, Big Brother is talking to Semi-Big Brother and keeping an eye on me, followed by vague and cryptic Notices of Assessment, which in turn is already a joke because they just took the money from me anyway. In a way, all this headache was for nothing...I'm just a pawn in their little game.
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