Taxes are dumb anyways. I have a lovely rant in store about the justice of taxes, the percentage we already pay, why I suddenly have to pay more taxes (never a problem in the past - I always got money back), and how the government is growing more and more irresponsible with money. But, I'll spare you the rant. Just know it's there.
Anyway, there was good news. Apparently, even though I didn't take any classes in 2012, the year I graduated, I did finish an independent study class, so - for tax purposes - the tuition for that counted for 2012.
The bad news is that I just assumed that since I hadn't gone to school in 2012, I wouldn't have any tuition to deduct, and didn't even look at my 1098-T when I was filing. In short, I paid taxes I didn't have to pay.
The better news is that there's a form to fix that.
Hopefully I'll get back the money I paid.
We'll have to see. It's not much, but the IRS is notoriously stingy.
Update: The fee for changing my tax return would be twice as much as I would have gotten back.
The IRS sucks.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Spiritual Thought for Easter
As I dug the knife into the whole pie, cutting out a slice for myself and my husband, I had an interesting thought.
Here I was, preparing to eat a slice of pie. I had absolutely no room in my stomach for this pie. In fact, this was going to be taking me from "uncomfortably full" to "why do I do this to myself?" agony. This was after pineapple-glazed ham, Hawaiian sweet rolls with butter, herb red potatoes, Caesar salad, and apple-passion-mango juice.
But... I couldn't not eat the pie. I mean... it's Easter! How can you pass up dessert? You're not celebrating right.
So, I ate the pie.
I now regret it.
As I was eating, it occurred to me I did the same thing at Christmas. This is what most people do. Eat a feast to celebrate the holiday. It's tradition!
The two holidays we have devoted to Christ - Christmas and Easter - have a long standing tradition of being celebrated with gluttony... one of the seven deadly sins.
We Christians are a funny lot.
Here I was, preparing to eat a slice of pie. I had absolutely no room in my stomach for this pie. In fact, this was going to be taking me from "uncomfortably full" to "why do I do this to myself?" agony. This was after pineapple-glazed ham, Hawaiian sweet rolls with butter, herb red potatoes, Caesar salad, and apple-passion-mango juice.
But... I couldn't not eat the pie. I mean... it's Easter! How can you pass up dessert? You're not celebrating right.
So, I ate the pie.
I now regret it.
As I was eating, it occurred to me I did the same thing at Christmas. This is what most people do. Eat a feast to celebrate the holiday. It's tradition!
The two holidays we have devoted to Christ - Christmas and Easter - have a long standing tradition of being celebrated with gluttony... one of the seven deadly sins.
We Christians are a funny lot.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Buying Flowers for a Man
Alberto's dad died.
I was really impressed by how upbeat he's been all day. He talked to the distributors with enthusiasm, and still laughed with the office jokes. I don't know if he was close to his dad, but either way, death of immediate family warrants flowers.
And, of course, as the assistant, getting flowers was my job.
Have you ever bought flowers for a guy before? It's a little... weird. I chose Target's miniscule floral department because I also needed to get a card for everyone to sign, and it was a nice one-stop. I was presented with a vast variety of choices. I could get him pink tulips, pink daisies, pink orchids, a varied bouquet of pink roses, pink daisies and pink hydrangeas, or the loudest yellow/orange gerber daisy bouquet I had ever seen.
I looked over my options, chewed my lip for a second, then shrugged and muttered, "He's from Mexico. He'll like yellow and orange."
After that bout of politically correct stereotyping, I skipped off to the greeting card session to find a sympathy card that wasn't nauseatingly cheesy, running sandpaper over open wounds of the heart, or pink. I settled on a green card that said something to the effect of, "We're with you during this time," and went to get a vase.
The vase I ended up selecting was a plain, clear glass cylinder. Really... it was between the $3 cylinder or the $15 blown glass with the ocean waving across it. And... well... flowers for a guy, remember? I couldn't really picture Alberto cherishing the ocean vase enough to justify 5x the cost.
The card made it quietly around the office as everyone gave him their sympathy and well wishes. Then it came to the part that wasn't my job as assistant: presenting the gesture.
We couldn't find his manager to give it to him. Well... technically his manager, Dan, just got back from a 4 day conference in Atlanta, Orlando and Jacksonville, and was home sleeping. We don't begrudge him the afternoon off.
So, we got the other Dan (who is not his manager, but is named Dan and therefore the best we could do) to present the card and flowers.
I sat across the cubicle wall from Alberto and listened to the interaction.
"Hey," Other Dan said, in a tender, sympathy laden voice.
I smiled. Yep. Other Dan was definitely a good choice to give him the flowers.
I heard the vase clink as Other Dan presented the flowers, and then his voice spoke again. "These are not for a social advancement."
**facepalm**
And that is how sympathy works here.
I was really impressed by how upbeat he's been all day. He talked to the distributors with enthusiasm, and still laughed with the office jokes. I don't know if he was close to his dad, but either way, death of immediate family warrants flowers.
And, of course, as the assistant, getting flowers was my job.
Have you ever bought flowers for a guy before? It's a little... weird. I chose Target's miniscule floral department because I also needed to get a card for everyone to sign, and it was a nice one-stop. I was presented with a vast variety of choices. I could get him pink tulips, pink daisies, pink orchids, a varied bouquet of pink roses, pink daisies and pink hydrangeas, or the loudest yellow/orange gerber daisy bouquet I had ever seen.
I looked over my options, chewed my lip for a second, then shrugged and muttered, "He's from Mexico. He'll like yellow and orange."
After that bout of politically correct stereotyping, I skipped off to the greeting card session to find a sympathy card that wasn't nauseatingly cheesy, running sandpaper over open wounds of the heart, or pink. I settled on a green card that said something to the effect of, "We're with you during this time," and went to get a vase.
The vase I ended up selecting was a plain, clear glass cylinder. Really... it was between the $3 cylinder or the $15 blown glass with the ocean waving across it. And... well... flowers for a guy, remember? I couldn't really picture Alberto cherishing the ocean vase enough to justify 5x the cost.
The card made it quietly around the office as everyone gave him their sympathy and well wishes. Then it came to the part that wasn't my job as assistant: presenting the gesture.
We couldn't find his manager to give it to him. Well... technically his manager, Dan, just got back from a 4 day conference in Atlanta, Orlando and Jacksonville, and was home sleeping. We don't begrudge him the afternoon off.
So, we got the other Dan (who is not his manager, but is named Dan and therefore the best we could do) to present the card and flowers.
I sat across the cubicle wall from Alberto and listened to the interaction.
"Hey," Other Dan said, in a tender, sympathy laden voice.
I smiled. Yep. Other Dan was definitely a good choice to give him the flowers.
I heard the vase clink as Other Dan presented the flowers, and then his voice spoke again. "These are not for a social advancement."
**facepalm**
And that is how sympathy works here.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Proof I Work With Guys
I'm the assistant.
That means I occasionally get a break from filing expense reports, editing convention presentations, and setting up conference calls to take a trip to the store. I keep the candy jar stocked and make sure there's always water for the team I work with.
Once upon a time, my boss decided he'd had too much candy.
He called me in his office.
"Hey, Savannah, do you think you could go to Costco and get something with less sugar in it? You know, granola bars, nuts, that kind of thing. Ooh, and Jelly Bellies. I want some Jelly Bellies for my desk."
I agreed, and happily skipped off to the store, glad for the break from paperwork. Once in Costco, I browsed the snack aisles. There were pallets upon pallets of everything from sugar free breath mints to Skittles to trail mix. I settled on a huge bag of trail mix, some dried fruit, a jar of nuts, a box of mountain something or other granola bars, and some peanut Fiber Plus bars.
Oh, and a tub of Jelly Bellies, of course.
I brought them back to the office, turned them in, and that was that.
Until this week.
Apparently there was a little issue with the Fiber Plus bars.
Here is the customer review the guys at work are all citing as a description of their experience with these bars:
"Fiber Plus bars are yummy and chocolaty. Fiber Plus bars are also snacks that are forged in the depths of hell by Satan himself."
Apparently these bars have earned the nickname "Fart Bars."
Now, my boss discovered this when he ate multiple bars right before going to play basketball with the guys here. According to the tales they told upon their return, he actually had fire shooting out of his back end, giving his layups jet propulsion.
Now, my boss didn't tell anyone quite what had caused his extra boost. Instead, he locked his office door and huddled behind his desk long enough to let out a maniacal chuckle as his tapped his fingers together. Then he stood up straight, picked up the box of Fiber Plus bars, and walked out to the guys on his team.
"Hey guys, try out these bars. They taste AMAZING! Here, have two. You'll love them."
Yesterday in Team Meeting, with an unsuspecting guy from the web team? "Hey Blake, try out these bars. You'll love them. Here, take two."
Even Jill got suckered into trying the Fart Bars, but lucky for her, she has what my boss dubbed a "colon of steel."
It's been a few days.
And I have now learned FAR more about my team's digestive tracts than I EVER wanted to know.
Note to self: In the future... stick to fruit snacks.
That means I occasionally get a break from filing expense reports, editing convention presentations, and setting up conference calls to take a trip to the store. I keep the candy jar stocked and make sure there's always water for the team I work with.
Once upon a time, my boss decided he'd had too much candy.
He called me in his office.
"Hey, Savannah, do you think you could go to Costco and get something with less sugar in it? You know, granola bars, nuts, that kind of thing. Ooh, and Jelly Bellies. I want some Jelly Bellies for my desk."
I agreed, and happily skipped off to the store, glad for the break from paperwork. Once in Costco, I browsed the snack aisles. There were pallets upon pallets of everything from sugar free breath mints to Skittles to trail mix. I settled on a huge bag of trail mix, some dried fruit, a jar of nuts, a box of mountain something or other granola bars, and some peanut Fiber Plus bars.
Oh, and a tub of Jelly Bellies, of course.
I brought them back to the office, turned them in, and that was that.
Until this week.
Apparently there was a little issue with the Fiber Plus bars.
Here is the customer review the guys at work are all citing as a description of their experience with these bars:
"Fiber Plus bars are yummy and chocolaty. Fiber Plus bars are also snacks that are forged in the depths of hell by Satan himself."
Apparently these bars have earned the nickname "Fart Bars."
Now, my boss discovered this when he ate multiple bars right before going to play basketball with the guys here. According to the tales they told upon their return, he actually had fire shooting out of his back end, giving his layups jet propulsion.
Now, my boss didn't tell anyone quite what had caused his extra boost. Instead, he locked his office door and huddled behind his desk long enough to let out a maniacal chuckle as his tapped his fingers together. Then he stood up straight, picked up the box of Fiber Plus bars, and walked out to the guys on his team.
"Hey guys, try out these bars. They taste AMAZING! Here, have two. You'll love them."
Yesterday in Team Meeting, with an unsuspecting guy from the web team? "Hey Blake, try out these bars. You'll love them. Here, take two."
Even Jill got suckered into trying the Fart Bars, but lucky for her, she has what my boss dubbed a "colon of steel."
It's been a few days.
And I have now learned FAR more about my team's digestive tracts than I EVER wanted to know.
Note to self: In the future... stick to fruit snacks.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
You know you're a writer when...
You spend 25 minutes writing a single paragraph, 5 of which were spent actually writing, and 20 of which are spent googling different types of hammers because there's this one kind of hammer in your head that you don't know the name of, but want to use in a metaphor... while writing a piece of world building info that will never make it into even the rough draft of the actual manuscript.
But really. It was a great metaphor.
Maybe I can still find a way to use it, even though I'm pretty sure rhinoceroses don't exist in this universe.
But really. It was a great metaphor.
Maybe I can still find a way to use it, even though I'm pretty sure rhinoceroses don't exist in this universe.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Apparently I'm wiser now.
What went out?
Word that I was losing my wisdom teeth.
What came in?
The horror stories.
Some people still can't feel their jaw. Some people vomited through their stitches from the anesthesia. Some people had small chips implanted in the holes left by the wisdom teeth that now shock them whenever they use the word "state," which is, incidentally, one of the 100 most common words in the English language, and the only one of those 100 that is of Latin origin.
In short, people's wisdom teeth experiences made me nervous.
Did this stop me?
No! Of course not!
I wanted nothing more than to have four teeth ripped out of my head! I wanted it so much, I forked out half a thousand dollars for it!
And... well... it was nice to get rid of the sideways, rotting molar in the back of my mouth that probably should have come out 5+ years ago.
So, this past Friday, I went to meet my fate. Nausea, numbness, agonizing pain, pieces of jaw shattered off, dry sockets, drugs that render you useless for a week, inability to open the mouth, inability to eat more than a teaspoon of pudding at a time... all of these loomed over me as I stepped into the oral surgeon's room.
I'll admit, I was surprised to see a regular dentist's chair. It makes sense... they were operating on the same thing dentists clean. I'm not sure what I expected. Maybe a white room, surgical equipment, a doctor who stretches a latex glove over his fingers and snaps it dramatically. (Actually... that latex glove thing happened at my first gynecologist appointment. I laughed out loud... which became real awkward real fast, considering what that latex glove did next. Apparently gynecologists are no laughing matter.)
**Ahem.**
Back to the dentist story.
Anyway, I settled myself into the chair, and listened attentively to the post-surgery instructions, hoping I would be able to remember them. They laid me back and placed a mask over my face. This was it. This was the mask. The infamous laughing gas.
Nothing happened.
"Is something supposed to happen?" I asked, trying to take deeper breaths.
"Not until we get the I.V. in," the doctor answered, holding up a pointy something that glistened in the florescent lights like a tooth that didn't need extraction.
Gulp.
Nobody mentioned an I.V.
I whimpered. "Aw, man! I hate getting stabbed in the arm."
The doctor tried to assure me that it was not stabbing - stabbing is straight down, and this was more of a sideways poking motion. I'm sorry, but this is the definition of "stab:"
stab (st
b)
And that was definitely a thrusting motion into my skin... through quite a few nerves too.
The assistant was like, "Do you need me to hold your hand?"
Okay, I don't hate it that much. Nothing to make me toughen up quite like treating me like I'm five. Seriously, I don't have a deathly fear of needles or anything; I just don't like having them shoved through the flesh of my inner elbow.
So, I had the mask on, and the I.V. in, and the procedure was about to begin.
This was it. Time for the torture to... hey... is the ceiling compressing in on itself? That's funny...
"I think it's starting to work," I told the...
"I'm going to go get your husband."
Carl magically appeared next to me.
Time had compressed, and I had traveled forward 2 whole hours! I was a time traveler!
And I felt GREAT!!!
Oh man... I was so happy! I can't remember when I last felt that free and incredible and HAPPY!!! I could totally do oral surgery every single day to feel that good!
"Let's do that again!" I announced to Carl.
A couple pieces of gauze appeared in my mouth. "You need to bite down on them," the girl nurse thingy told me.
I bit. And bit and bit and bit! Because you know what bites? Tyrannosaurus rexes bite! They bite hard.
"I'm a T-Rex!" I told Carl, munching on my gauze. "Rawr! Rawr, rawr, rawr, RAAAAAAAWR!"
And then I doubled over laughing. I held my elbows against my ribs and batted my little T-Rex arms, kicking my legs, rawring, and laughing hysterically.
Somewhere, in the back of my mind, it registered that I was acting like a lunatic. Or possibly just being a total moron. But I didn't care! Being a tyrannosaurus rex was WAY too much fun!!!
Then I realized my lips were dry. I had my mouth part way open from the gauze, and I couldn't reach my lips to lick them, plus my tongue was dry from breathing with my mouth open for so long.
I tried to communicate with my husband. "Curl! Moo needm toom lrrk mmrm lrmps."
He looked at me. Same expression on his face as when I was rawring at him.
I tried again, moving the gauze enough to get words out. "Carl, lick my lips! You need to lick my lips."
And the mean person just wouldn't do it! They were so dry! They had to be licked, and Carl was the only one there with spit in his mouth. He should lick them for me.
I reached my fingers, caked in blood, up to my face and touched my parched lips, which were also caked in blood. My pleading had no effect. He still shook his head and said, "I'm not going to lick your lips."
He wouldn't slap my butt either.
I really don't understand what was wrong.
When I had regained control of my ability to breathe without hytserical giggling, I was escorted to a wheel chair, and from there to the car. By the time we made it home, the high had worn off.
And my face hurt.
It's a few days later, and things still hurt, but it's really not bad. I had no nausea, permanent numbness, agonizing pain that lasted more than a flash, shattered jaw pieces, dry sockets, drugs that rendered me useless, inability to open my mouth, and the day after surgery I ate a BBQ cheese burger with onion rings on it. My top sockets filled in within a day, and my bottom sockets are almost closed now. I have one lump on the side of my jaw - the side that had the sideways tooth - that is still swollen and aches like crazy whenever my iburpofen wears off, but otherwise I'm pain free.
All in all, I think it was worth it.
I mean, not everybody gets a chance to be a tyrannosaurus rex before they die.
Word that I was losing my wisdom teeth.
What came in?
The horror stories.
Some people still can't feel their jaw. Some people vomited through their stitches from the anesthesia. Some people had small chips implanted in the holes left by the wisdom teeth that now shock them whenever they use the word "state," which is, incidentally, one of the 100 most common words in the English language, and the only one of those 100 that is of Latin origin.
In short, people's wisdom teeth experiences made me nervous.
Did this stop me?
No! Of course not!
I wanted nothing more than to have four teeth ripped out of my head! I wanted it so much, I forked out half a thousand dollars for it!
And... well... it was nice to get rid of the sideways, rotting molar in the back of my mouth that probably should have come out 5+ years ago.
So, this past Friday, I went to meet my fate. Nausea, numbness, agonizing pain, pieces of jaw shattered off, dry sockets, drugs that render you useless for a week, inability to open the mouth, inability to eat more than a teaspoon of pudding at a time... all of these loomed over me as I stepped into the oral surgeon's room.
I'll admit, I was surprised to see a regular dentist's chair. It makes sense... they were operating on the same thing dentists clean. I'm not sure what I expected. Maybe a white room, surgical equipment, a doctor who stretches a latex glove over his fingers and snaps it dramatically. (Actually... that latex glove thing happened at my first gynecologist appointment. I laughed out loud... which became real awkward real fast, considering what that latex glove did next. Apparently gynecologists are no laughing matter.)
**Ahem.**
Back to the dentist story.
Anyway, I settled myself into the chair, and listened attentively to the post-surgery instructions, hoping I would be able to remember them. They laid me back and placed a mask over my face. This was it. This was the mask. The infamous laughing gas.
Nothing happened.
"Is something supposed to happen?" I asked, trying to take deeper breaths.
"Not until we get the I.V. in," the doctor answered, holding up a pointy something that glistened in the florescent lights like a tooth that didn't need extraction.
Gulp.
Nobody mentioned an I.V.
I whimpered. "Aw, man! I hate getting stabbed in the arm."
The doctor tried to assure me that it was not stabbing - stabbing is straight down, and this was more of a sideways poking motion. I'm sorry, but this is the definition of "stab:"
stab (st
b)
v. stabbed, stab·bing, stabs
v.tr.3. To make a thrusting or poking motion at or into.And that was definitely a thrusting motion into my skin... through quite a few nerves too.
The assistant was like, "Do you need me to hold your hand?"
Okay, I don't hate it that much. Nothing to make me toughen up quite like treating me like I'm five. Seriously, I don't have a deathly fear of needles or anything; I just don't like having them shoved through the flesh of my inner elbow.
So, I had the mask on, and the I.V. in, and the procedure was about to begin.
This was it. Time for the torture to... hey... is the ceiling compressing in on itself? That's funny...
"I think it's starting to work," I told the...
"I'm going to go get your husband."
Carl magically appeared next to me.
Time had compressed, and I had traveled forward 2 whole hours! I was a time traveler!
And I felt GREAT!!!
Oh man... I was so happy! I can't remember when I last felt that free and incredible and HAPPY!!! I could totally do oral surgery every single day to feel that good!
"Let's do that again!" I announced to Carl.
A couple pieces of gauze appeared in my mouth. "You need to bite down on them," the girl nurse thingy told me.
I bit. And bit and bit and bit! Because you know what bites? Tyrannosaurus rexes bite! They bite hard.
"I'm a T-Rex!" I told Carl, munching on my gauze. "Rawr! Rawr, rawr, rawr, RAAAAAAAWR!"
And then I doubled over laughing. I held my elbows against my ribs and batted my little T-Rex arms, kicking my legs, rawring, and laughing hysterically.
Somewhere, in the back of my mind, it registered that I was acting like a lunatic. Or possibly just being a total moron. But I didn't care! Being a tyrannosaurus rex was WAY too much fun!!!
Then I realized my lips were dry. I had my mouth part way open from the gauze, and I couldn't reach my lips to lick them, plus my tongue was dry from breathing with my mouth open for so long.
I tried to communicate with my husband. "Curl! Moo needm toom lrrk mmrm lrmps."
He looked at me. Same expression on his face as when I was rawring at him.
I tried again, moving the gauze enough to get words out. "Carl, lick my lips! You need to lick my lips."
And the mean person just wouldn't do it! They were so dry! They had to be licked, and Carl was the only one there with spit in his mouth. He should lick them for me.
I reached my fingers, caked in blood, up to my face and touched my parched lips, which were also caked in blood. My pleading had no effect. He still shook his head and said, "I'm not going to lick your lips."
He wouldn't slap my butt either.
I really don't understand what was wrong.
When I had regained control of my ability to breathe without hytserical giggling, I was escorted to a wheel chair, and from there to the car. By the time we made it home, the high had worn off.
And my face hurt.
It's a few days later, and things still hurt, but it's really not bad. I had no nausea, permanent numbness, agonizing pain that lasted more than a flash, shattered jaw pieces, dry sockets, drugs that rendered me useless, inability to open my mouth, and the day after surgery I ate a BBQ cheese burger with onion rings on it. My top sockets filled in within a day, and my bottom sockets are almost closed now. I have one lump on the side of my jaw - the side that had the sideways tooth - that is still swollen and aches like crazy whenever my iburpofen wears off, but otherwise I'm pain free.
All in all, I think it was worth it.
I mean, not everybody gets a chance to be a tyrannosaurus rex before they die.
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