As much as I admire your gumption to keep working long past retirement age, I think it’s time for you to consider calling it quits.
Monday was rough, but I thought our tax-prep nightmare was over.
I was wrong.
Yesterday, you sent this:
Eddie drew the short straw and went to get the new forms to mail.
As it turns out, your words were misleading: We still owe lots, but we now owe less thanks to your fix. Great! Thanks!
But why would you tell him that we should now call the IRS to find out exactly how much we owe? Come on, Pat. Isn’t that your job?
So I’m going to subtract the “refund” from the old amount and send a check for the result.
Pat, this experience has, quite frankly, sucked.
And we had to pay for the sucktitude. At least it wasn’t more:
No charge for your mistake? How generous.
You could have at least tried to make it up to us with another free pen.
Pat, I’m afraid it’s time for you to hang up your spurs. Go enjoy fruity drinks by a pool somewhere. Aren’t there great grandkids somewhere who need you?
We truly are long overdue for tax reform — if for no other reason than the fact that I wouldn’t even wish my H&R Block experience on my worst enemy. Not even on Mitch McConnell, and you know how I feel about him.
Usually, TurboTax and I hang out together for a few hours. I emerge grumpy but satisfied. And I always complete the process weeks in advance of the April 15 deadline.
This year I felt there were too many variables — selling a house, moving retirement funds, freelance work — for me to feel comfortable on my own.
Friends have used H&R Block, so I decided to take a chance. Let me just say this: With friends like that, who needs enemies?
This experience was beyond awful.
I’ve mentioned before that I am Tracy Flick. I had all my receipts categorized and added up. All my documents orderly. Everything laid out in sections in a folder.
I made an appointment two weeks ago to drop off my stuff.
I was assigned to Pat, someone’s great grandmother. She went through each piece of paper with me at 1/4 the speed of a regular person.
Then she told me she’d call me if she needed more information. Over the next week, she called and sent cryptic emails every day.
Today — FILING DAY — she told Eddie and me to come in at 7 to sign. That’s right in the middle of Gideon’s baseball game. But we went.
We sat in her cubicle and watched her work for TWO HOURS.
We watched her call in backup. Repeatedly.
Eddie was dismayed.
I was dismayed.
And then I took a catnap.
We asked her if we could leave to get Gideon at his game.
She dismissed us with a wave of her grizzled claw.
We returned at 10. On a school night. Y’all, I go to sleep at 10.
The door was locked. No one appeared to be inside.
But then from the back, a person emerged and let us in.
I regret to report that Pat still wasn’t done. She had to call in managerial backup. Again.
It’s now 10:40. We just left. We were the last people there. We are much poorer and completely exhausted, but compliant with your rules.
And Pat gave us a pen as a parting gift. For real.
Please, for the love of all that is holy, fix the system so it is easier for everyone.
I know you have substantial market share in the dating app world. But y’all don’t have anything on Words With Friends. Apparently.
There’s plenty of middle-aged white dudes trolling WWF for ladies.
It’s a new frontier.
What is up with that?
It’s only been in the past few months that I have noticed this situation. (See here and here for recaps.)
But in the past week or so, it has gotten out of control. Here’s slideshow of my personal rogues gallery. (Names/faces hidden JUST IN CASE they are real people, which I doubt.)
Occasionally, I am fortunate enough to have a post from a guest blogger. Today is my lucky day (and yours too)!
I present to you the story of goat yoga, a strange phenomenon sweeping the nation. Sounds like something I would try. Alas, Bingo Lisa tried it first. Here is her account (edited slightly for blog voice and flow).
I’ll be back with a Words With Friends dating update later this week.
Love, Beth
This kind of yoga really got my goat*
Guest post by Lisa W.
I’ll admit I was a bit excited about being invited to a baby shower where there would be goat yoga. I’m not a big fan of women-only baby showers. Unless I’m sure there will be alcohol, I usually avoid them.
My friend Trina, my 6-year-old daughter Cali and I drove out to the sticks in Ridgeland, South Carolina, to celebrate our friend Jessie and her baby boy’s approaching arrival.
I’d seen pictures of goat yoga online and all of it looked happy. People holding poses and nuzzling baby goats or having them on their backs.
Preggo Jessie (left) and a family member pose with four-legged friends.
Dorothy planned this event. She could not be more thrilled.
The yoga was supposed to be outside, which I now know is ideal. However, the weather was misty so the yoga class was moved inside into our host’s sunroom. We unrolled our mats with anticipation for the nearly ceremonial releasing of the goats. Oh, rabbits too. And chickens.
However. These animals are not potty trained. My expected serene yoga event turned into a literal shitshow.
The releasing of the goats quickly led to the goats releasing their bowels.
So much poop.
I attempted child’s pose and lowered my head per the teacher’s instructions. A baby goat then ran full speed at me and tried to head butt me. I realized I couldn’t let my guard down for a second.
Here’s Lisa on high alert.
The actual yoga lasted maybe five minutes because everyone spent the time either holding the goats, picking up their lovely presents, or trying to keep them from eating our mats.
We passed around tiny shower cocktail napkins to pick up nuggets and sop up pee. I joked that this was great training for the mom to be. If only those goats had worn diapers.
The goats show Jessie how she got pregnant, in case she didn’t know.
It seemed like most attendees had a great time.
Sara (left) and Trina appear to be having a blast.
Cali loved it too. Me, not so much.
Cali pats the bunny. Meanwhile, Lisa reports that her face looked like this the whole time.
I just couldn’t. I was counting the seconds till the end of goat yoga.
Bye Felicia.
When I got home, my husband Rob and I had this convo:
Rob: How was goat yoga?
Me: There are three yoga mats in the bed of your truck that belong in your work dumpster.
Rob: That fun, huh?
Never again. Thankfully, I needed a new yoga mat anyway.
Lisa
*Don’t blame Lisa for that headline. It’s all Beth.
At least I did not think it akin to life or death when my friend Lisa noticed the ad for the event.
I’m at the point in my life where my motto is “absof—inlutely.” I say yes to many adventures.
Lisa says yes too. So that’s how we found ourselves at the American Legion on Tybee Island for Bingo Night. My other friend Amy and her husband Brian said yes too.
From left: Lisa, Amy and Brian prepare for the rollercoaster ride that is Bingo Night at the American Legion.
We allowed ourselves to be upsold to the party pack (whatever that was). A “dabber” of one’s own sold separately.
Meet my very own dabber. I chose red to represent the blood I planned to spill on the gaming floor. (Just kidding. They didn’t have blue, my favorite color.)
When the event began, all thought of a fun night went out the window. Bingo Lady was very clear that there would be NO TALKING. AT ALL.
Bingo Lady does not suffer fools.
Lisa knew that this would be problematic for the two of us. All we do is talk. Especially when the Legion sells plastic cups of Merlot for $4.
Lisa realizes we may be in trouble.
Besides the fact that we were not allowed to speak, the game itself was very stressful. The numbers came fast and furious. Luckily, the woman on my right liked to repeat every combination twice.
Notice the intensity Amy and Brian exhibit. Shhh … they are concentrating.
It almost paid off for both Amy and Lisa: They each were one or two squares away from the loud groans and golf claps that accompanied each shout of “Bingo!”
I was surprised at the amount of people who turned out for the event.
How did I fare? Let’s just say I got more satisfaction from the cheap Merlot.
Not even close to winning a cover-all.
So thanks for an interesting night. I’m glad I went, but I’m not sure I’ll be back. Y’all are too much for me.
I’ve been on the struggle bus with Dominic, who is 14 and all eat up with hormones. You know this from posts like these.
We usually cannot speak without a fight.
But this week things have been different.
We are at the beach for spring break — just the boys and me because Eddie had to work.
He has been helpful when he does emerge from the cocoon of his room. But he has barely left that room.
On Monday, my phone rings. I see it is him. CALLING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE. I do not answer it. Because:
I hate talking on the phone.
He was 10 feet away.
I go to the room. I hear him yelling, “Pick up the phone!” I open the door.
Me: What do you want? Him: Why didn’t you answer? Me: Because you are 10 feet away, and it is insane for you to call me. What do you want? Him: I think my molar is loose. Me: (Rolls eyes. Walks out of the room.)
Then he sends me this text:
The next day, I go in the room to make sure he is alive. I open the door, see that he is and leave. Then I get this text:
(Note: If you don’t recognize the Matt Foley reference, I’m afraid we cannot continue to be friends.)
Then he starts communicating in memes, to which I finally respond with my own.
So I guess what I’m asking is, is this normal? Is this what puberty looks like among Gen Z? Do I need to seek help for him? For myself?
The draw (besides the fact that I had to work a booth for my job for a bit)?
Live music: The Romantics, Spin Doctors and Smash Mouth.
For free!
Side benefit?
People watching. There were plenty of people.
So let’s get this party started.
Festival rules said no chairs (or coolers, which was a literal and figurative buzz kill). So we spread out blankets. As you do. But here’s the thing: The rules of personal space still apply.
Not for some people, apparently. Like this guy who parked himself practically on my lap.
There’s plenty of room. It’s a huge park. So why is he four inches away from me?
And here’s his friend:
My leg. His feet. He actually put his feet under my leg at one point. NO!
The ladies with them were no better. No awareness.
A former graduate student of mine (now friend) sent me a link to this article today, and I immediately thought of you. And missed you, of course.
You would have made a great gang leader. You had a strong personality and did not suffer fools. You were never too chicken (har har) to go anywhere. You also were very loyal to me alone, much to Eddie’s chagrin.
I feel sorry for the little fox in the story, but the idea of a chicken gang is hilarious.
Anyway, I hope you are having a ball tearing up the landscaping and pooping everywhere in the great coop in the sky.
I even changed my profile picture to stop the madness.
It didn’t work.
Here’s one of your brethren with his moves:
I continued to ignore him, so this happened:
People may ask, “So why do you accept the game request from someone you don’t know?” The answer is that sometimes it is a friend of a friend, and that’s totally fine.
But now I’m going to take every opportunity to mess with people like you. Witness:
Anyway, word of warning: I’m here to play, literally and figuratively.
There was a line to get in you. A line! I haven’t waited in a line to get into a club in … OK, a week, but still. This was the longest. Ever.
Once inside, it was clear why the bouncer had the strict “one in, one out” policy. The fire marshal must be on retainer. Sardines in a can have more fin room.
Also, I am intrigued by the demographics. The swath appeared to be 25 to 75. I’ve never seen grannies grinding grandpas on a dance floor before, but there they were in all their glory.
And what’s happening here?
She looks like she came straight from her son’s soccer game or a book club meeting.
Anyway, anyone who goes out with me knows my nurturing instinct kicks in hard at some point during the night.
This occasion was no different. My first stray was Tanya.
Tanya had clearly had too much of a good time. I brought her into our group, where she was able to safely live her best life. She left to go to the ladies room. We continued dancing.
By this time, I had picked up another stray: Mark. We had helped each other bulldoze a path to the bathrooms. He was alone, so he joined us.
We were all dancing and suddenly Tanya popped back into our group. We couldn’t believe it; we actually cheered. And Tanya thought this was a karaoke bar. Here she is with her invisible hot mic.
Finally, we decided it was time to go. Things were getting sloppy around us. And Thankgod our Lyft driver was close. Literally “Thankgod.” Look:
And if that’s not a funny story close, I don’t know what is.
So Johnny’s Hideaway, thank God for an entertaining night. In the words of that great thespian Arnold Schwarzenegger, “I’ll be back.”
Here’s to your drink-free dance floor. (Now get rid of the cigs.)
Beth
Observe and report 