Taxing, Tithing, and Officialness

Last Minute Mildred, that's me, why do I imagine that it will be worse than any other time I  have done this, which is always.  I could really get into the ins and outs of tax rules and regs, but generally my interest is elsewhere.  Friday the thirteenth, due the fifteenth, better get going.

Now, there was a Great Purge two months ago, and I put things where spaces were assigned, of which there were none, since there is No Storage in here.  But I made room by disposing of Things, and stuffed stuff in drawers, folders, files, and bags for AmVets; tabletops were once again horizontal, the cats could run down the hall to sideways slide on the throw rug and then take off, claws and paws scrabbling furiously in circles like in a Warner Brothers cartoon.  The water bowl at the end has been knocked about several times in sloshy celebration, but I don't want to move it since my oldest remembers where it is, there.  I can identify with her, for everything I  put away has disappeared from the mishmosh organization of my neurons, and I Don't Know Where Anything Is Anymore.

Did I give/throw/recycle it away?  If it isn't in front of me, it is a mystery as to where it is, unless it is an everyday item, but tax forms, well, ha ha ha.  Once a year botherness, so they sat on the dining table for three months until moved to the living area table near the laptop for one month and then were neatly paper clipped together, labeled, and put into the den on top of the large wooden desk.  You would think that being on top of a desk would be safe.  I did.

After thirty minutes of looking for the forms, beginning at the first table to the second table to the desk, then other, out of the way, bizarro places were checked.  I wouldn't have put it in a drawer...maybe?  Or put it in a folder and slid into the bookshelves...nah, I know I wouldn't remember that.  Where the hell are they?  As soon as the swears start, it's time to drag up St. Anthony, my mother, my grandmother, and anyone else who has passed on who likes me to send inspiration to my sabotaging brain.  I looked everywhere, this place isn't that big, not that many drawers: but deadlines, the IRS will get me and yell, NYS will do worse by unscrewing my license plates off my car in the night.  C'mon. c'mon, c'mon!

The cats are helping by taking grand interest in my bouncing around, it looks like I'm doing something potentially fun.   They saunter, leading the way until THEY STOP RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME and sit down so that I have to do a brake, stop and hop over them so I don't step on one.  God forbid.  I shuffle the mail I haven't opened, they help by jumping up to read the return addresses.  I dig through writing papers, dig in the couch, look everywhere three times over and finally begin the Process of Elimination, the only sane way of getting through the Wormhole of Lost Things.

Kitchen: definitely not here.  Entryway: nope, checked table thoroughly twice, looked on floor (Ooh.  Hairball), looked in school bag.  Living area: this took some time for there were three main places that could have held the forms....but nope, nope, and nope.  Eliminated.  Working backwards into the hallway, I could cross off the bathroom, and after checking the pile of books and articles by the bed, the bedroom also.  Only one place left, and that was the den/library, where all necessary papers find solace and eternal sanctuary.  I have paycheck stubs from the seventies.  I will, really.

The place I would have put the tax forms would have been right in front of where I sit, on top of the desk.  Not there, not there, dug through art research, illustrations, and what?  Here was a piece, a form telling of the interest I paid on the student loan.  Elation, curiosity, and conviction that the rest was here somewhere, and hadn't gotten tossed out with the Sunday paper arose.  But it was literally not to be found.  Until the deduction from observing the slanty angle that the research papers were arranged meant that things had gotten knocked over, used as a landing pad for juvenile delinquents in cat fur.  On the floor?  No.  In the wastebasket next to the desk? Yes.  I was conflabbergasted.  My neat little package of forms, still paper clipped, had been the traction under the Flying Wallendas during a hiss I hate you run, a look what I can do performance, a this is my desk get the hell off of my desk swatfest.  Can you imagine the relief?  The on switch for adrenaline returned to normal gauge, and I got down to business.  I wish they could talk sometimes; I would have had those forms in seconds, even if the conversation cost a can of real tuna.

It went well, the Federal is so much easier than the State form, but I owe them nothing and they owe me enough for a downpayment on a car. Or maybe a tv, with enough leftover for a small stash in the account.  Ah life.  I can't blame the cats, because: they are cats.

The light just went out of the sky at 8 p.m., it is lovely that the sun stays later each day, the houseplants at the window stretch in photosynthic glory.  The package of lemon bars was successfully mailed to Washington, DC; three lovely dresses were found for $16 at AmVets, there was time to practice juggling clubs, and the sense of relief that the taxes are done and sent off capped the busy, run-around day.  Son is doing medically well, so far good news and good news.  A quiet night, Kai cat is next to me, a creamy brown ball of ragdoll fur, Siamese coloring.  The others have their niches, and will sleep till about eleven, when some celestial trigger clicks their little cat brains to play King of the Hill till they sack out again around one a.m.

The sky is overcast, there are no stars to be seen, but it doesn't mean they aren't there, as sure as the tides are flowing hundreds of miles away, and Mt. Etna is spewing fire and brimstone.  Our worlds seem enclosed sometimes, but imagine when news only traveled by messenger.  How marvelous discovery must have seemed back then, with magic accorded responsibility for many scientific facts.  Whirl on, world, and bring us to know each other, to understand that time is a human construct, and that eternity exists, as hard as that is for humans to imagine.  Sleep well under the darkness, and bring your memory beyond forms and duty, to a place where animals run and fuss, jump like spring lambs and roar like lions.  Dream and plan, dream and love.  Goodnight.