I was about to start off ranting about the IRS (I'm sure many of you have plenty to say about this fantastically professional organization), but this one is actually my fault. However, that doesn't change how much I dislike federal agencies (yeah, I know, I work for a federal agency.... and have plenty to say about that one too). Here's the deal. I'm new to having investments. Having investments is a great thing (until recently), except that it gives the government more money to take from you. Lovely. Well last year when 2007 taxes were due the government was revamping the reporting process for investments. Which in turn caused me to get several tax documents on my investment accounts. So I filed as soon as I thought I had all of them (Mid-February?). Turns out I didn't have all of them. Being new to the whole investment thing, I didn't realize how the government calculates how much you are taxed on investments. So I didn't see the point of amending my 2007 tax return for a second time (didn't realize I was getting the documents the first time).
Big mistake. Always send in your amendments, even if it seems like a very little deal. I've just been informed by the IRS that I owe them $8,000. Yeah, you read that right. It's like $6,500 with $1,500 in interest and penalty fees. After my heart attack (the IRS will be receiving a bill for my required spa treatment as well), I realized where my mistake was. This year I also had to amend my returns due to a form I received after thinking I had received them all. It appeared I made $40,000 more than I really did. That freaked me out, until I inputed it into my tax software and found out it actually increased my refund by $500. So I sent my amendment in and am awaiting the additional check from the IRS (I'm well aware I will never receive the money the state owes me--go wonderful CA).
So here's where the IRS tees me off: when I fix my 2007 tax return, I will no doubt BE OWED a couple bucks (hopefully), but doesn't the IRS also owe me the interest and penalties of $1,500? See what I'm getting at here? We all talk about how great our country is, but do we take into account how much federal and state government agencies like to rip us off? Try collecting interest on your CA state tax refund that you'll never get! Same thing with the federal agency I work for: if I mess up on my paperwork and get overpayed even the slightest amount-boy will they go after it. But when they mess up and owe me money, they don't want to pay up!
We should all stage an uprising and overthrow the government. I think I actually signed a contract when I started working for the federal government that I wouldn't do that, so you guys will have to get the ball rolling for me.
Ok, I do realize that had I amended the return right away this never would have happened...
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Traffic
I leave too early, I know I'll hit traffic
but San Diego beckons like the last piece
of chocolate cake left in the refrigerator.
The freeway is a buzz of cars driving too fast
weaving in and out-
until all brake lights are on,
and we sit.
The open road has become a parking lot
and my bladder aches so bad
I want to puke:
there's no way anyone will let me over.
Maybe I should pull over and pee in the median?
After an hour of crawling,
we all break free once again
and I know my usual stop isn't too far ahead.
Fuel, chocolate milk and an antacid
get me back on the road
as all the radio stations play the same stupid song.
A certain calm comes over me as I hit the 805:
I know every reflective marker,
every sign, every tree on the side of the highway,
and the precise moment when the lady in front of me
will brake hard, thinking she must get over
or miss her exit.
I see IKEA and Qualcomm (Jack Murphy) Stadium,
SDSU (Go Aztecs!) and my exit (finally!).
The gravel crunches as I pull in the driveway,
and the city is quiet and calm.
Home.
but San Diego beckons like the last piece
of chocolate cake left in the refrigerator.
The freeway is a buzz of cars driving too fast
weaving in and out-
until all brake lights are on,
and we sit.
The open road has become a parking lot
and my bladder aches so bad
I want to puke:
there's no way anyone will let me over.
Maybe I should pull over and pee in the median?
After an hour of crawling,
we all break free once again
and I know my usual stop isn't too far ahead.
Fuel, chocolate milk and an antacid
get me back on the road
as all the radio stations play the same stupid song.
A certain calm comes over me as I hit the 805:
I know every reflective marker,
every sign, every tree on the side of the highway,
and the precise moment when the lady in front of me
will brake hard, thinking she must get over
or miss her exit.
I see IKEA and Qualcomm (Jack Murphy) Stadium,
SDSU (Go Aztecs!) and my exit (finally!).
The gravel crunches as I pull in the driveway,
and the city is quiet and calm.
Home.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Winter Storm
Most of you are aware that I'm not a big fan of snow. We've had a couple storm cells pass over us and dump snow on us only for it to melt two days later. There's also been a few more storm cells in the forecast. I should've ran yesterday when I had the chance.
I didn't sleep well last night (no news there) so I kept looking out my window for signs of this so called storm that was predicted. It wasn't until about 4am that is started soming down. It's at least 6 inches in only a few hours. And still coming down like a banshee. Thankfully I have plenty of things to do indoors today.
And now that you mention it, yes, that is my snow shovel leaning up against the shed way the heck out there. All of you southern Californians may wonder why that's an important observation. I'll tell you why: because now when I do decide to dig myself out of my house when the snow finally quits, I'll have to wade through 3 feet of snow to get my shovel.
I can't wait until summer.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Writing Exercise #1: Write about your secret talent.
My secret talent? I’m not sure how many secret talents I have. I do have an uncanny knack for falling down stairs. It started at a very early age and has continued well into adulthood. I probably can’t remember the first few times I fell down the stairs, but I’m sure my family can tell you about it. I do recall a very special flight of stairs that I spent a lot of time falling down. We lived in mid-city San Diego in a two story duplex. Downstairs was the laundry room and storage shed and the apartment was on the second floor. The stairs themselves were made of concrete… and not rounded at the edges. I don’t really remember any specific times falling down those stairs, but I know it happened on several occasions. But hey, I was young. That may be where I was awarded this mystery scar on my chin.
When I was a teenager living in Michigan, the stairs were indoors and thankfully carpeted. The house was a two story A-Frame. The stairs were unique in that the slant of the roof coincided with the top landing of the staircase. Stairs in Michigan are narrow and apparently not held to any sort of uniform building code. If one were to attempt to run down the stairs without first ducking beneath the ceiling, it would knock the poor sap on his or her (her in this case) butt. Fortunately due to the layout of the top landing, one wouldn’t go very far before being mercifully stopped by a wall to prevent rolling to her doom at the bottom of the staircase. Regarding the narrowness of the stairs themselves: if I didn’t step carefully, the weight of my foot would land on the edge of the stair instead of square on the center (as would be the safe option). When that would happen, it would initiate a full on slide down the stairs, hitting my tail bone on the edge of each step until I came to rest at the bottom. This happened countless times. Apparently it never got old.
The same “stair slide” experience happened at Grandma’s house early one morning. This is where I come up with my theory about the lack of building code in Michigan. Also in Michigan, these stairs were smaller than the average foot and carpeted. At the bottom of the stairway is a door, much like the door at the bottom of the stairway in my old house (I’m noticing a pattern here—maybe it’s there to stop the fall?). This particular morning I was wearing pajamas and socks (adds to the slickness of the thinly carpeted stairs I guess) and proceeded to plant my foot on the edge of the stair. Thus the infamous “stair slide” was initiated. After thudding to a stop at the bottom, the door flew open with Grandpa on the other side wondering if I was okay. I was. Except my pride.
This reminds me. Moving staircases (aka escalators): a source of terror throughout my entire lifetime. Did you know those things can catch your heel or pant leg and pull you under? Or if you don’t step squarely on a stair (for example, if you step on the crack in between) you can fall to your death or be otherwise humiliated by the amused onlookers? I still, to this day, have trouble getting on and off escalators.
When I moved into my current house, I knew my days of falling down the stairs were far from over. Apparently this house was built without the California Building Code in mind, as the stairs are as narrow as the ones in Michigan. The difference is, these are not carpeted and there’s a magnificent furnace at the bottom to catch my fall. I may be the only adult I know that has to actually watch my feet as I go up and down stairs, which makes carrying objects up and down stairs a pain in the butt. I knew it was only a matter of time before I fell down these stairs. One morning I was carrying my blanket down the stairs to use in the living room. I had almost made it all the way down when I stepped on the edge of the blanket and lurched headfirst into the wall and furnace at the bottom of the staircase. I ended up with a toenail split down the middle and bruised fingers, but otherwise okay.
My most recent run-in with a staircase almost resulted in my death or me becoming a quadriplegic. You would think with my well known problems with stairs that I would be extra careful when I encountered them. Not so. After leaving the orthodontist the other day, I walked down the hall towards the elevator (much safer) only to find the elevator under construction. Being as I was on the second floor, I didn’t see how going down a flight of stairs could hurt. I also was reading a text message on my phone from a friend of mine… while walking down the stairs. Cement stairs. We’re talking emergency exit quality concrete stairs. I neared the landing at the bottom of the first half of the staircase. I don’t know if it was my lack of peripheral vision or what, but I completely missed the last two stairs and pitched headfirst toward the concrete wall. I twisted my ankle and slammed my shoulder into the wall before tumbling to the ground. Miraculously I did not drop my phone. Reeling in pain, I looked around to make sure no one saw, and then did another scan for a security camera before hobbling out to my car to recover.
Strangely enough, I do believe stairs may be the death of me someday, and you can read this at my funeral. It may not be as humorous as it is now (or maybe it will be?) but it’ll kindly explain my untimely death. What an embarrassing way to go…
I’m making a small half-hearted attempt to brush up on my writing skills. Maybe someday I’ll become a famous writer. Until then you get B class blogs from me, inspired by a few writing books I just picked up at Borders. Stay tuned for more exercises.
When I was a teenager living in Michigan, the stairs were indoors and thankfully carpeted. The house was a two story A-Frame. The stairs were unique in that the slant of the roof coincided with the top landing of the staircase. Stairs in Michigan are narrow and apparently not held to any sort of uniform building code. If one were to attempt to run down the stairs without first ducking beneath the ceiling, it would knock the poor sap on his or her (her in this case) butt. Fortunately due to the layout of the top landing, one wouldn’t go very far before being mercifully stopped by a wall to prevent rolling to her doom at the bottom of the staircase. Regarding the narrowness of the stairs themselves: if I didn’t step carefully, the weight of my foot would land on the edge of the stair instead of square on the center (as would be the safe option). When that would happen, it would initiate a full on slide down the stairs, hitting my tail bone on the edge of each step until I came to rest at the bottom. This happened countless times. Apparently it never got old.
The same “stair slide” experience happened at Grandma’s house early one morning. This is where I come up with my theory about the lack of building code in Michigan. Also in Michigan, these stairs were smaller than the average foot and carpeted. At the bottom of the stairway is a door, much like the door at the bottom of the stairway in my old house (I’m noticing a pattern here—maybe it’s there to stop the fall?). This particular morning I was wearing pajamas and socks (adds to the slickness of the thinly carpeted stairs I guess) and proceeded to plant my foot on the edge of the stair. Thus the infamous “stair slide” was initiated. After thudding to a stop at the bottom, the door flew open with Grandpa on the other side wondering if I was okay. I was. Except my pride.
This reminds me. Moving staircases (aka escalators): a source of terror throughout my entire lifetime. Did you know those things can catch your heel or pant leg and pull you under? Or if you don’t step squarely on a stair (for example, if you step on the crack in between) you can fall to your death or be otherwise humiliated by the amused onlookers? I still, to this day, have trouble getting on and off escalators.
When I moved into my current house, I knew my days of falling down the stairs were far from over. Apparently this house was built without the California Building Code in mind, as the stairs are as narrow as the ones in Michigan. The difference is, these are not carpeted and there’s a magnificent furnace at the bottom to catch my fall. I may be the only adult I know that has to actually watch my feet as I go up and down stairs, which makes carrying objects up and down stairs a pain in the butt. I knew it was only a matter of time before I fell down these stairs. One morning I was carrying my blanket down the stairs to use in the living room. I had almost made it all the way down when I stepped on the edge of the blanket and lurched headfirst into the wall and furnace at the bottom of the staircase. I ended up with a toenail split down the middle and bruised fingers, but otherwise okay.
My most recent run-in with a staircase almost resulted in my death or me becoming a quadriplegic. You would think with my well known problems with stairs that I would be extra careful when I encountered them. Not so. After leaving the orthodontist the other day, I walked down the hall towards the elevator (much safer) only to find the elevator under construction. Being as I was on the second floor, I didn’t see how going down a flight of stairs could hurt. I also was reading a text message on my phone from a friend of mine… while walking down the stairs. Cement stairs. We’re talking emergency exit quality concrete stairs. I neared the landing at the bottom of the first half of the staircase. I don’t know if it was my lack of peripheral vision or what, but I completely missed the last two stairs and pitched headfirst toward the concrete wall. I twisted my ankle and slammed my shoulder into the wall before tumbling to the ground. Miraculously I did not drop my phone. Reeling in pain, I looked around to make sure no one saw, and then did another scan for a security camera before hobbling out to my car to recover.
Strangely enough, I do believe stairs may be the death of me someday, and you can read this at my funeral. It may not be as humorous as it is now (or maybe it will be?) but it’ll kindly explain my untimely death. What an embarrassing way to go…
I’m making a small half-hearted attempt to brush up on my writing skills. Maybe someday I’ll become a famous writer. Until then you get B class blogs from me, inspired by a few writing books I just picked up at Borders. Stay tuned for more exercises.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Last night at the Academy
So it's the last night at the academy. We've got a test in the morning, mostly for the sake of getting us all rounded up and sober for the graduation. It's been a very trying month, and today finally accumulated into an outright disaster. It's high school all over again.
Last night some one came in drunk and decided to play a prank. They've been trying to crack down on bad behavior around here. I mean really, this is an ADULT Firefighter academy. You would think people could behave for one month, but not so.
So some people got into trouble, and decided to lay the blame on me for getting them into trouble. I had absolutely nothing to do with it. They woke the crew boss and academy coordinator at a quarter till one. I stayed in bed listening to the drama in the hallway. At our field day I became the token punching bag. Not literally, but it felt like it. I had absolutely nothing to do with it, and I took hits from all sides from my crew that I've been working with for a month. Not the greatest feeling in the world. They figured since I spoke up a few weeks ago when there was a discussion about noise at 3am, that I turned some one in. Again, not so.
Everyone's going out tonight and will probably not get in until 3am. I'm personally heading out with some people from my district to hit up Joe's Crab Shack and share a crab leg bucket with Corey (my girl), have a banana sundae thingy for dessert, and an extra large margarita. Then I'm coming home and locking myself in my room. I can only imagine the drama that is going to unfold over the next 24 hours. Talk about a responsible group of adults.
After graduation tomorrow, I'll be set free around 4ish in the afternoon. I think after that, myself and some friends from my district are going to take pictures in front of the Firefighter Memorial downtown. Then I start my long (at least 4 hours) drive home, stay the night at home, and continue my long (almost 4 hours) drive to San Diego. What a relief!!
Last night some one came in drunk and decided to play a prank. They've been trying to crack down on bad behavior around here. I mean really, this is an ADULT Firefighter academy. You would think people could behave for one month, but not so.
So some people got into trouble, and decided to lay the blame on me for getting them into trouble. I had absolutely nothing to do with it. They woke the crew boss and academy coordinator at a quarter till one. I stayed in bed listening to the drama in the hallway. At our field day I became the token punching bag. Not literally, but it felt like it. I had absolutely nothing to do with it, and I took hits from all sides from my crew that I've been working with for a month. Not the greatest feeling in the world. They figured since I spoke up a few weeks ago when there was a discussion about noise at 3am, that I turned some one in. Again, not so.
Everyone's going out tonight and will probably not get in until 3am. I'm personally heading out with some people from my district to hit up Joe's Crab Shack and share a crab leg bucket with Corey (my girl), have a banana sundae thingy for dessert, and an extra large margarita. Then I'm coming home and locking myself in my room. I can only imagine the drama that is going to unfold over the next 24 hours. Talk about a responsible group of adults.
After graduation tomorrow, I'll be set free around 4ish in the afternoon. I think after that, myself and some friends from my district are going to take pictures in front of the Firefighter Memorial downtown. Then I start my long (at least 4 hours) drive home, stay the night at home, and continue my long (almost 4 hours) drive to San Diego. What a relief!!
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The Rattlesnake Staff Ride
I'm up at my Advanced Firefighter Academy in Sacramento, CA. Yesterday we had what is called a Staff Ride. Staff Rides are trips to wildland firefighter fatality sites where we learn about what happened, what went wrong, and get to see it for ourselves. This was the Rattlesnake Fire on the Mendocino National Forest. On July 9th, 1953, 15 firefighters died on this fire. Here's a link to more information about the Rattlesnake Staff Ride: http://www.fireleadership.gov/toolbox/staffride/library_staff_ride2.html
So we got up at some crazy hour of the morning, before the sun even came out. We all piled into 4 or 5 soccer mom vans and headed out to the Mendocino.
Also hard to see in this picture to the left, is the last cross (so 15 small crosses total). This man made it surprisingly far. Due to a sudden wind shift, just as the guys were sitting down to eat lunches that were brought to them (after 10pm) the fire activity picked up and they had to run for their lives. The brush was incredibly thick and tall. This picture was taken from Missionary Rock, looking down at the last cross. It's quite a ways. You can see the cross the the end of the little trail (which was not there when the fire occured) right in front of the large bush in the middle of the canyon.
The group that stuck together.
Here's a link to Staff Rides in general:
So we got up at some crazy hour of the morning, before the sun even came out. We all piled into 4 or 5 soccer mom vans and headed out to the Mendocino.They have stops along the area of the fire where we have group discussions led by moderators who have studied the fire extensively. We talk about what we would do in the situation, see where the fire started, learn about tactics used, etc.
This is a memorial to those that died. 15 men in all from a missionary crew and the Forest Service.
It's pretty hard to see in this picture, but there are 14 small crosses and one large cross up on this hill. The large cross marks Missionary Rock and is dedicated to all the men that died there. The 14 crosses were placed where each of the bodies were found. Some were identified, others were not. There are no names on the crosses. Every year, this area is maintained by the Forest Service.
Also hard to see in this picture to the left, is the last cross (so 15 small crosses total). This man made it surprisingly far. Due to a sudden wind shift, just as the guys were sitting down to eat lunches that were brought to them (after 10pm) the fire activity picked up and they had to run for their lives. The brush was incredibly thick and tall. This picture was taken from Missionary Rock, looking down at the last cross. It's quite a ways. You can see the cross the the end of the little trail (which was not there when the fire occured) right in front of the large bush in the middle of the canyon.
One of the first to fall:
The group that stuck together.
This is the cross of the last man to die. Like I said, he made it extremely far. The fire died down just shortly after it overcame him. He almost made it.
Paying respects at Missionary Rock.
After a steep climb back up:
Myself and my friend/crewmate/partner in crime, Corey:
Sunday, January 4, 2009
My hair emergency
To being with, I've had hair emergencies before. Mostly self-imposed. My first hair emergency was when I was in kindergarten and I got ahold of a pair of scissors the day before picture day. Thankfully I do not have that picture to share. My next great hair emergency was when I was 16 and the going thing was to hang your head upside down and cut your hair, so to easily layer it. It would've worked out fine had I not taken such a drastic amount off. The top layer was above by shoulders and the rest down to the bottom of my shoulder blades. I called a friend up, crying, and she came over and exclaimed "Oh my god, what do you want me to do?!" With tears in my eyes, I responded "Just cut it all off". So my long gorgeous hair turned into a short shoulder-length cut within minutes. Recently all my hair emergencies have been much less drastic (still almost all of them caused by me).
Until now. Most of you are aware of the dilemma that I faced, having moved far away from my hair stylist in San Diego. Had I really thought this through, I would've just stuck with her. I mean, I drive down there to get my braces adjusted... I could've just tacked on an extra appointment to one of those days and gotten my hair done. Well, it's "just hair" right? Yeah, so how did Sampson lose all his power when Delilah cut off his hair?
Since I start the academy in a week, but didn't feel like making the drive all the way down to San Diego, I decided it was time to be brave, and not so materialistic about my hair. After all, it's just hair...yeah. My ends were fried and I just needed a trim. I didn't need a new haircut, just a trim. Like 1/2 to 1 inch off the ends. Nothing new. Just a trim. So when the lady asked me how much I wanted off, I said an inch. One inch. Like nothing longer than your index finger sort of inch. Preferrably nothing longer than your thumb. I didn't add what I was thinking: that the shortest layer should not be any shorter than shoulder length, because that would mean cutting off 4 inches of my hair, and who would mistake 4 inches for an inch?
Behold, I have the new-milenium version of the mullet. 
The shortest layer is above my ear. Meaning that at some point, she cut more than 4 inches off. Not even "oops, that may have been 2 inches". No, more like 4.
I should've known something was up when she gave me a funny look after I said "I really don't like the layered look, I just want my hair to hang down right". I nearly cried when she said with glee "Oooh, look, it's all fluffy!". OMG. That's right Debbie, I said it. O. M. G. 
I know you're all wondering if I told her I didn't like it. Well at the hair place, it still looked relatively decent and I didn't take time to really scrutinize it. But by the time I got home, I kept wondering my my hair felt like it kept getting in my face. So I thought maybe it was how she styled it. I attempted to wash the style right out of it this morning, and this is how it turned out. Not good.
I can't tell you how much I want to cut it all off. But I wont. I'm going to man up and handle it. My hair stylist (the real one... in San Diego) told me hair grows on average 1/2 inch per month. So if I let it grow out a few months, then have the bottom layer trimmed (by my real stylist... in San Diego), then eventually my hair will be much more practically layered. Some of you may wonder what the back looks like. I don't. I refuse to look at it. I refuse to know. Thank god for pony-tails, hats, tissue, and friends who tell you it really isn't all that bad (and that after all, it's just hair).
I just want to cry.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)