Wherein I Tell The IRS Story My Way

April 22, 2014 / Ally Bean / 18 Comments

Here’s a glimpse into what my life is like.

Three lawyers [husband, friend and acquaintance] all listened to me tell this story and all three of them told me I had it wrong.

Yet I maintain that this is what happened to us, so I’m going to tell this story my way because this is my blog and I’m a pragmatist who says that:

if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it’s a duck.

• • •

Curious about what happened to us? Well, here’s how I see it:

We received a letter from the IRS telling us they needed information re: one piece of one tax return.
We [and by “we” I mean Z-D, obviously] found this piece of information and sent it to the IRS.
We received another letter from the IRS saying that they had received the information and that they’d be in touch to tell us what was going to happen next.

Now people, I am not new to the IRS and their ways. This is how it all started years ago when we were audited by the IRS.

So I think that you’ll agree with me, A NON-LAWYER, when I say that: we’re being audited by the IRS. I say this because the definition for the word “audit” is: “an official inspection of accounts.” [Look it up, boys.]

And what exactly is the IRS asking of us? Why my goodness gracious, they want to inspect our account. Ergo, I say that if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then. it’s. a. duck.

* quack, quack *

We’re being audited.

4 Grouchy Reasons Why April Is My Least Favorite Month

April 15, 2014April 15, 2014 / Ally Bean / 28 Comments

• I’m allergic to April. The pollen from the trees makes me itch & sneeze. The mold spores, that magically appear after the snow melts, make me itch & sneeze. And the dust mites? Don’t even get me started. They’re everywhere I want to be outside, like on the porch furniture and terra-cotta pots and the mailbox. Everywhere I tell you.

• I’m not a fan of Easter because the stupid holiday moves around the calendar and as much as I try to be a good sport about it, this behavior seems rude to me. Easter, just pick a Sunday and stick with it. That way I’d have a clue about when to buy a ham and some asparagus– maybe a pineapple, too. But as it now stands Easter’s laissez-faire attitude thwarts me, and I rarely manage to make a special holiday dinner.

• I’m not thrilled with the whole “pay your taxes” part of April. While I’m happy to be an American citizen and understand why I’m paying taxes, doing so does tend to make me a bit grouchy. I think that it does for everyone, but maybe not. Perhaps there’s some whack-a-doodle who enjoys giving money to the government. Probably has her own reality TV show, too.

• And my final reason for not liking April is that I have to acknowledge that my pasty white legs, which are getting chubbier every year, look more and more like uncooked bratwursts. During the fall and winter I can hide my legs, but every April when I put on my first pair of shorts for the year I discover that my legs look awful– and it comes as a shock to me every single time. *humph*

• • •

Grouches of the world unite!
Stand up for your grouchly rights!
Don’t let the sunshine spoil your rain
Just stand up and complain.

Let this be the grouches’ cause:
Point out everybody’s flaws!
Something is wrong with everything
Except the way I sing!

• • •

Fuzzy The Squirrel Finds A New Home In Tree #3479

March 11, 2014February 24, 2015 / Ally Bean / 13 Comments

{Subtitled: What the heck is that little bugger doing now?}

ONCE UPON A TIME…

The Lady of the Suburban House looked out her kitchen window while she was drinking her morning coffee. In a strange moment of self-awareness, she realized that she was not alone. What she saw was her frenemy, a squirrel, who last year she had named Fuzzy. [More about this squirrel here.]

Say “hello” to Fuzzy.

Watching Fuzzy frolic outside in the trees that form the forest that is The Lady of the Suburban House’s backyard, The Lady of the Suburban House realized that Fuzzy, who never seems to leave her property lines regardless of the weather, had found a home of his own in a large tree back there.

Look! It’s the front door to Fuzzy’s home.

Staring closely at this large tree, The Lady of the Suburban House noticed something that she had not noticed before. Perhaps she had not been caffeinated enough when she looked out the kitchen window previously. And this is what she saw: the large tree had a number on it.

Here is tree #3479.

The Lady of the Suburban House could not explain why this tree was numbered. It seemed peculiar to her, but then many things of late had seemed odd to The Lady of the Suburban House, so she shrugged.

This is Fuzzy’s tree.

And then she came to the only logical conclusion that one could come to: Fuzzy had put the number there on the large tree so that his friends and relatives would know where he lived in the forest, that is The Lady of the Suburban House’s backyard.

~ THE END ~

Late Winter Weather Keeps Me Guessing

March 3, 2014March 3, 2014 / Ally Bean / 18 Comments

Delightful.

Saturday afternoon was sunny and about 55ºF outside. I wandered around our property and found this green patch of pachysandra juxtaposed against the blah browns of the forest primeval. Isn’t it a pretty reminder that Spring is on its way?

• • •

Invigorating.

Yes, a mere 40 hours ago I was walking down these limestone steps to get to the lower terraced level of our property. In fact, once down there I paused to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine.

• • •

Inspiring.

And then I spent a few minutes taking photos of what I saw: the blue sky above an evergreen tree surrounded by tall golden grasses, for instance.

• • •

Dangerous.

However, that was then and this is now. Today, Monday morning, there’s white stuff everywhere, even outside the front door. Can you find the step to the stoop, covered in 3″ of snow, that leads to our front door? Look closely now.

• • •

Annoying.

Oddly enough, it’s as if this last Saturday never happened. Sunshine and warmth? There was none that around here, you silly girl. You must have dreamed it all, says the Winter that’ll never end.

• • •