Tax Time Tale

This is a four-day week for us, as next week will be. It's
our Spring Break. WooHoo! We get a Friday and a
Monday. A four-day weekend! Yeah. I'm not really
that excited. I was typing sarcastically.

I will be mailing the taxes tomorrow. Really. I plan to put
them in an envelope later tonight. Really. I don't have much
time left. This one time...at our old house...(thought I was
going to say 'Band Camp', didn't you?)...I mailed the taxes
on Friday, April 13. Which should have been a warning
sign right there. But nooo...I was stickin' it to Uncle Sam.
Actually, to Cousin Mo, because it was the first year we
owed money to the state. So I held onto those taxes as
long as I could, almost. Good thing I didn't wait until the
very last moment and mail them Saturday the 14th.
Because on Saturday the 14th, I went to the front porch,
took the mail out of the box, and saw our state and
federal tax returns. They had been returned to sender,
with postage due. Yeah. The freakin' envelopes were so
fat with forms that I should have put TWO stamps on
each. I rushed the two blocks to the Post Office and
mailed them again. That'll learn me to procrastinate.

Yesterday, #2 son and I made an excursion to the local
grocery store. Not the Save-A-Lot. We hit it, too, but I
needed some sweet banana pepper rings, and some
sandwich roll bread thingies. I did not want to go all the
way to The Devil's Playground because a big storm was
coming. But not really, because the weather guys were
about as accurate with that as with the snowstorms this
winter. Anyhoo...we went into the store which I detest,
because you HAVE to read the expiration dates on
everything, or you might just end up with some four-
year-old ranch dressing.

Our change from two packs of sandwich rolls and the
peppers was $13.13. Which kind of freaked me out,
because even though I'm Even Steven, I don't like to
tempt fate. It's not like I would live at 1313 Mockingbird
Lane or anything. So I didn't want to leave the store with
that (no doubt due to my undiagnosed case of OCD).
I bought the weekly Powerball tickets for myself and
my mom. The young 'un cried for scratch-off tickets.

I tried to reason with the kid. I haven't been buying them
for about the last month or 6 weeks because we were in
a slump. I only buy them when we're on a roll. He looked
so pitiful that I agreed to $2. He could have one $2 ticket,
or two $1 tickets. This store has a big ol' scratchers
vending machine. The boy made his choices. I put in the
two dollars, and hit the first choice. Nothing came out.
The boy squatted down and looked up the slot thingy.
"It's stuck. I can see it." But he couldn't reach it. I pushed
the button for his second choice, thinking it may knock
the other one loose. Nope. But it did come out. We had
to get a store worker to crack open the machine for our
$1 ticket. Which of course was a loser, along with the
other one. I tried to tell him. When Hillbilly Mom does
not want to buy a scratcher, you know she's had a bad
feeling about it. I haven't checked the Powerball tickets
yet. I am not optimistic. But it was only $2, so it ain't
like I bet the farm.

Now, it's only a matter of waiting to be Stevened out.