Art shot of my accountant riffling through my return.
One week into the year and already I feel like I’m a month behind. I think I’ve said that for the last ten years or so. Good. Business as usual. Steady on, hold the course and damn the torpedoes, whatever that even means.
The new year began with a flu that seemed to attack the enthusiasm centre in my brain and everywhere else for that matter. That and a little further south, if you catch my drift. Finally I feel free from my chains and am able to go for a walk again. Small blessings! Tiny little victories! Happy new year!
In further breaking news, my rogue accountant finally overcame his arithmetic block or whatever the hell he was afflicted with and after 8 months completed my income tax return. 8 months! I kid you not, I gave him my stuff in May! It was warm and sunny out that day! It was spring!! How is that even possible?!
The only reason I stuck with him is that he’s from Regina. Which is a stupid reason to do anything, I have found out. Anyway. Deep breath, deep breath. He’s finally finished and the return has been sent to Winnipeg and I am in danger of being caught up with Canada Revenue or Revenue Canada or whatever they call themselves now for the first time in decades. Decades! Think of that!
8 months! As a writer who understands the agony of deadlines and the joy of procrastination, I can relate, but my accountant has obviously taken things to the next level and I will be hard-pressed to achieve such a lofty level of slackassedness in the future – although you be sure I’ll give it a good try.
And so now I am looking forward to a year of fear and terror brought on by the very number of the year which contains the dreaded number that I dare not say or even type – you know, the number that is one more than 12 and one less than 14. That number.
It’s true, I suffer from one of the lamest phobias going, triskaidekaphobia. (It’s so bad, I have even learned to spell it correctly!) Normally, I find I can keep this fear under control by stealthily avoiding the number whenever I can. For example, I won’t start or finish an activity or leave the house or many other things at that exact number of minutes before or after the hour.
Why? Because if I did, I’d just be asking for it. Asking for what? I have no idea. But it wouldn’t be pretty. That much I know.
They can’t fool me with that 14th floor business, either. I’m on to them. Anyone who would get off the elevator on the 14th floor is inviting whatever calamity would befall them up there. Just asking for it. No sir. You won’t catch me wandering around on the 14th floor.
One time, I was asked to teach a class in a room that was numbered 339. I refused to enter the room, let alone try to teach in there. The woman who was hosting me and paying for me to be there and slowly being given a nervous breakdown by me asked “Why the hell won’t you go in there? What the hell’s wrong with you??”
“Can’t you see?” I hissed: “It’s embedded! It’s right in there, lurking! Just do the damned math! Find me another room!”
39 is almost worse than the other number we’re talking about. Although one doesn’t expect to encounter it each and every day for a whole year.
Clearly, this promises to be an interesting year, with danger and major mayhem lurking around every corner but as usual I will bravely and stoically soldier on through.
As you can see, it’s not easy being me, on many levels.
Oh well. If nothing else, my taxes are done!
Thanks for reading!
Here’s a very funky song to brighten up even the darkest day . . . .
eugene stickland 
Should I apologize for laughing?
No way. Laughing is encouraged around here. Laugh or go crazy, they say. Or is it too late?
Thanks Coral. You’re too kind!
Happy New Year Eugene! I NEVER know what to expect from your blog/posts… you are a perfectly delightful writer with a wonderful sense of humour. Thanks so much – you are a treat to read!