A writer, reloaded

Every tenant in the building received a note from the landlord this week about “The Situation”. But this situation was even more embarrassing than the “actor” from Seaside by way of somewhere-else-not-sure-but-it-isn’t-New-Jersey.

Anyway here’s an excerpt of the missive about the plumbing disaster of the past week:

The following items will clog the plumbing:
1) Grease
2) Large food waste items
3) Baby wipes
4) Female hygiene products
5) Kitty Litter
6) Drano
7) Long hair
Paper towels.

Now I must admit I have been tempted to pour grease down the kitchen drain on occasion, the occasion being laziness. It cannot be alleged that on the rare days of the big bastard greasy breakfast, a bit of grease has never found its way down the pipes. Not a point alleged by me, anyway.

Certainly the landlord has a right to request that none of these items enter the plumbing system. No one wants a clogged pipe, much less water leaking into, around or down into their apartment. Going forward, any grease from the big bastard breakfast will go in a pickle jar kept for storage purposes.

So the hardship of this sacrifice does not really inconvenience me. No, I worry about the other occupants. My fellow tenants with four legs.

If my cats can’t flush their long hair encrusted in kitty litter bombs sealed in paper towels and follow it down with some grease blobs and a bottle of Drano, gosh what fun does the Cat Army have left to them?

Guess it’s back to the street gang for them again.

Note to self: car starters do wear out. Fortunately, it’s only a problem when starting the car. Unfortunately a bad starter means car will not move.

Second note to self: Renew Triple A plus membership.

Third note to self: Should I have bought the Versa instead of nursing the Sentra along for another year? Nah.

Since all my friends have either had children or bought houses ( or both ) recently, I decided to join the fun. Having dodged this responsibility long enough, it is time to take the plunge, and do things very differently. Who knows, I might even like the process and love the results. Yep, I’m itching for a big change, aching for the excitement of the unexplored road–whatever the challenges may be. Yep. As long as the costs fit my budget.

And thus begins my search for a new car.

This could be me behind the wheel of 2010 Nissan Versa. It’s not of course me yet, but it could be.

Weekend went well until the second half of Sunday when business required leaving the apartment, which itself impelled a more frightening action: getting dressed for the first time in three days. It was such a pleasant run until then.

Periodically I test my mettle as a hermit. I wonder if I have what it takes to spend days wandering the same rooms, breathing the same air, and avoiding direct sunlight.

The short answer to this and previous isolation experiments is that I can deal with holing up in the apartment a lot longer than friends and family will sanction. Gimme a stack of a books, a working computer and some frozen food and let me rip. That’s all I need. And maybe a Thermos of ice decaf coffee. OK, and some cheesy poofs. But that’s all I need. Really.

Oh, and my Blackberry. Speaking of which, check out the new office pet. A Scooby Doo Pinata. Ah, my very own Wilson.

Yep, everything is fine here. Just fine.

I just can’t quit my accountant.

He reported exceedingly good news last week; I overpaid my taxes in 2009, and thus a modest refund of the overpayment is due. Sometime a treasury check will appear by mail, maybe in the summer; no one is quite sure exactly when.

Regardless of when this payment actually arrives, the development is far better than last year, when I owed a colossal–to me, anyway–amount, because of a designation error on my part. This brings me to me to why I love my accountant, and hate the fact I need him.

Generally, I spend more time filling out the certified mail request at the post office than reviewing and signing tax filings. All year, I stuff everything in a folder and drop it off for my accountant. He mails a nice report with all the filing instructions, completed forms, pre-addressed envelopes and notes on what needs to be done for compliance.

I outsource all the hassle. Because the entire process is a major pain in the butt, and I have better things to do than master the intricacies of the ever changing tax code. For that knowledge and proficiency, his fee is justified.

True, some years go better than others, but in the end, delegating the stress to an accountant preserves what remains of my hair. Perhaps this is why the accountant is almost bald now. He’s worrying for all his clients. And a little bit of that worry is for me. For this I love him.

Yet I hate needing him. And hate more so how I do actually need him.

In 2009, I learned one inextricable lesson about the United States tax code. Don’t quote me on this, because it might have changed by now, but in 2008–and many years previous, according to my accountant–whatever your filing status was on December 31, 2008 was your filing status for the year. Wife gave birth to triplets on December 31, 2008? Yep you got three dependent deductions for the entire tax year.

Well, the divorce finalized in June 2008, and guess who forgot to change the exemptions with his employer? Who forgot to have more money withheld the remainder of the year to compensate for this change of situation? And who neglected to say something to his accountant about this development, when said accountant would have told him what to do?

Yep, the oversight was totally my fault and exactly why I need my accountant. Even if I hate it.

I just can’t quit him.

Blockbuster lost what was left of its carcass once a Redbox sprouted at my local 7-11. Sure, the giant red DVD rental kiosk had been tempting me for over a year at the end of the self checkout lane at Stop and Shop, but it seemed kind of hokey. Besides, it was from the same people who make Coinstar, the great rip off change redemption machine.

Coinstar. Lets see, I feed a dollar worth of KFC encrusted coins and the machine keeps seven cents for processing? A Bunk Of America executive says what? Hell, TD bank lets customers dump the same pile of nasty change into the Penny Arcade for no fee, plus offers a prize when customers guess the total coin value. Step back, Cracker Jack.

So let’s just say I was apprehensive about the parent company providing a fair exchange of money for services. But after renting nearly every previously viewed DVD at the local Blockbuster ( which is not so local anymore since they shuttered more than half of them in New Jersey ), I was willing to give Redbox a try.

And there within the big red box of DVD goodness, a simple interface, a decent supply of recently released titles and a fair price beckoned. One dollar and nearly nine cents. The software just works. Select movies, checkout, swipe credit card, the titles get “vended”. Huzzah.

Unlike Blockbuster, titles can be returned at any Redbox. That flexibility is a real win, because kiosks offer slightly different titles.

Yes, Netflix is an amazing service. They are far more responsible for gutting Blockbuster than Redbox was. But to me, there’s two caveats with Netflix: recurring service charge and a huge delay between requesting a title, and it actually appearing in the mail. True there is video streaming/download option now which solves the instant gratification problem, but the recurring charge remains. Netflix wouldn’t be swimming in so much money without it.

In the end of they day, I want my movies now, immediately after paying for them. I pick; I swipe; I get. Done.

So long, Blockbuster, you killer of mom and pop video stores the nation over. Promise I will shut the lights off in the store on the way out.