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Barbara Ehrenreich, Ever My Heroine
Feb. 15th, 2023 06:47 amReally busy day at TaxBwana yesterday.
Preposterously busy.
I did five people’s taxes and QA’d another three.
There was one young woman with a fabulous name (which, of course, I cannot divulge here but which I may use in a novel some time) who kept pulling out fresh pieces of information every time I finished her taxes so that I had to keep starting again. She was frustrating. But I managed to get her more $$$ back in refundable credits than she had earned all year, so that was good.
There was a woman who suffered from social anxiety that was so profound she could barely speak.
There was a woman with a husband so sunken into dementia that he could hardly speak. When it came to making his signature on the permission forms, his wife had to guide his hand—which I’m not sure is strictly legal, but whatevs.
###
It was a gorgeous day when I finally got out, so I attempted to go tromping.
I lasted two miles.
And then I gave up.
Part of it was the shoes—the zipper on my other boot has now kaput-ed, which meant I was wearing my oh-so-stylish red Converses. They look great but they have weird kinesiology; they make my hips feel somehow as if they are impeding my feet. The glide is far from effortless.
Also, I was very tired.
Tired from what? nagged the small inner voice. You’ve been sitting on your ass all day!
And then when I got home, I found that I could not think, let alone finish the current Remunerative Project. (Some kind of hangover from all that My Brilliant Friend binging, I suspect. Like I say, it was very emotionally intense.)
So, I was very mad at myself.
###
Punished myself by generating a long, detailed fantasy in which my inability to tromp means I am dying from cancer!!!!
Since I absolutely avoid the medical establishment at all costs unless I need an immunization or antibiotics, naturally, the cancer is Stage III (Stage IV would seem a little melodramatic.)
They—the ubiquitous but always sinister “they” who populate my more paranoid fantasies—propose various hugely uncomfortable chemotherapy and radiation regimens.
And I—in true Barbara Ehrenreich fashion—tell them to go fuck themselves.
That will mean I’m gonna die soon, though.
And I haven’t finished sorting through those 28,000 photos on my hard drive.
My kids are gonna be really pissed off.
Preposterously busy.
I did five people’s taxes and QA’d another three.
There was one young woman with a fabulous name (which, of course, I cannot divulge here but which I may use in a novel some time) who kept pulling out fresh pieces of information every time I finished her taxes so that I had to keep starting again. She was frustrating. But I managed to get her more $$$ back in refundable credits than she had earned all year, so that was good.
There was a woman who suffered from social anxiety that was so profound she could barely speak.
There was a woman with a husband so sunken into dementia that he could hardly speak. When it came to making his signature on the permission forms, his wife had to guide his hand—which I’m not sure is strictly legal, but whatevs.
###
It was a gorgeous day when I finally got out, so I attempted to go tromping.
I lasted two miles.
And then I gave up.
Part of it was the shoes—the zipper on my other boot has now kaput-ed, which meant I was wearing my oh-so-stylish red Converses. They look great but they have weird kinesiology; they make my hips feel somehow as if they are impeding my feet. The glide is far from effortless.
Also, I was very tired.
Tired from what? nagged the small inner voice. You’ve been sitting on your ass all day!
And then when I got home, I found that I could not think, let alone finish the current Remunerative Project. (Some kind of hangover from all that My Brilliant Friend binging, I suspect. Like I say, it was very emotionally intense.)
So, I was very mad at myself.
###
Punished myself by generating a long, detailed fantasy in which my inability to tromp means I am dying from cancer!!!!
Since I absolutely avoid the medical establishment at all costs unless I need an immunization or antibiotics, naturally, the cancer is Stage III (Stage IV would seem a little melodramatic.)
They—the ubiquitous but always sinister “they” who populate my more paranoid fantasies—propose various hugely uncomfortable chemotherapy and radiation regimens.
And I—in true Barbara Ehrenreich fashion—tell them to go fuck themselves.
That will mean I’m gonna die soon, though.
And I haven’t finished sorting through those 28,000 photos on my hard drive.
My kids are gonna be really pissed off.
