I swallowed a bug.

I am 26 years old and this is the first year I have ever done my own taxes.

Go ahead and judge.  It's probably fair.

I had every intention of doing them last year so my poor dad, who ends up doing all that stupid, necessary crap for me, would not have to mess with it.

And as you may assume, my road to Hell is pretty well paved with all manner of my good intentions.

So, this year, I decided to put on my big-girl pants, take some responsibility and do it myself.  I figured, if everyone else in the country manages to do this and survive, then I certainly can, too.

Mistake.

I have always been a person who gets, shall we say, easily frustrated.  These frustrations pop up generally when I don't understand something no matter how hard I try, or when something that should work correctly does not.

Typical scenarios that frustrate me

• Getting lost while driving
• Attempting any math above a 2nd grade level
• Spending $50+  to ship a box to a friend overseas and then having someone else ask, "Why didn't you just use a flat-rate box?"
• Buying an album off of iTunes, and only half of the songs actually downloaded
• Parallel parking
• When my printer spazzes out, prints the wrong pages of a paper that is due in 20 minutes, and uses up all the computer paper I had left

As you can see, many of these frustrations have to do with math and/or spatial skills (I am such a stereotype), and many have to do with technology.

For me, doing my taxes was a combination of both. 

The Federal taxes, though tedious, were easy enough.  In fact, I got pretty cocky for a few minutes because I just seemed to have all the answers.

Then came the state taxes.

Giant, fermented goat funk.

I recently acquired residency to the fine state of North Carolina in order to secure in-state tuition rates.  However, I have only been a resident for about 6 months.  So, to my home state of Indiana, I am still considered a "partial resident."  Basically, it boils down to the fact that I have taxes in both Indiana and North Carolina.

Suddenly, I was transported back to 5th grade and I was taking a giant math test, complete with word problems, critical thinking and basic algebra (yes, we did algebra in my 5th grade class).

I didn't understand the questions, I couldn't figure out which numbers went where and I couldn't remember a thing from my homework.  My heart was racing, my palms were sweaty and the room was getting increasingly stuffy.  I looked around at my classmates, their pencils racing across the page and realized that I was the only one who didn't get it.

Fortunately, I was able to snap myself back to reality.  I straightened myself in my chair, took a deep breath and thought to myself, "You are an adult.  You are mature, you are independent and you can do this, damn it!"

So, I did what any self-respecting, independent woman in my situation would do.

I called my dad.

In fact, I called him six times within a 2-hour period. 

Eventually, after crying, swearing and throwing things (and I am not exaggerating), I finished them. 

Did I do it correctly?  I have absolutely no freaking clue.  And at the moment, I could not give a happy rat's ass.

Did I learn something?  Why yes, yes I did.

H&R Block exists for a reason.

Also, part of being an adult is knowing when to admit you cannot or, more importantly, should not do something.  I should not be allowed to do my own taxes.  Hell, or anyone else's, for that matter.

I am reminded of something my mom has on the wall in her office at work that really accurately sums up the whole thing for me:

I am that pig.

Hey, It's Okay Tuesdays

Tuesdays are for winners.

Just ask Amber at Airing My Dirty Laundry, One Sock at a Time.


Hey, it's okay...


...if you really hate those damn Lipton Iced Tea commercials with the talking fish.

...if you have a giant hissy over a bug on the floor, and yet you've named the daddy long legs in the bathroom.

...to mouth the words to "Colors of the Wind" from Disney's Pocahontas in an overly-dramatic, tormented, teen angsty sort of way.

...to tell the brand new scanner at work to "shut up and take it."

...if your drive through Kentucky felt incomplete because at no point did you have to tell Lexington to "suck it."

...to eat shark at the end of Shark Week.  (Okay, that might not really be okay, but I did it.)

...if you tried to sell your clothing to a consignment shop and they DIDN'T WANT ANY OF IT.

...if the three things you missed about your current living space are 1) your shower, 2) your bed and 3) your friends.  In that order.

...to eat hash browns off the kitchen floor.

Haters to the left

Dear Lexington, Kentucky,

I hate you.

I'm pretty sure I made that clear last Sunday when I spent an hour within your toxic city limits and cursed you within an inch of your existence.

Now, it's no secret that the state laying claim to you is not one of my favorites.  In fact, I blame Kentucky for many of the things I find to be wrong with this world (fat-free cheese, stryrofoam, Tom Cruise, etc.).

It all started when I first learned you were known as the Bluegrass state.  Having lived in a few different countries and never actually having seen blue grass, I was intrigued.

I remember when our family took a road trip that involved passing through your borders.  At one point, we had to stop and fill  up the ol' family truckster. 

I got out of the car, saw a small patch of grass and ran to it.  Oh, to see the magic and mystery of grass that is actually-

Now, wait a damn minute.

That's right.  Your grass is green, you big phony!

It was all downhill from there.

But Lexington, you earned a special place on my Shit List, right next to Kathy Griffin and the Dutch.

Last Sunday, as I made my way from Indiana back to North Carolina, I noticed my gas gauge getting low.  It wasn't extreme, but I thought it sensible to stop, fill up the tank and then fill up my own tank at the same time.

I turned on to Man O War Blvd (couldn't make that up if I tried) and started in the general direction of the BP station.  Unfortunately, I came to an immediate halt as there was heavy construction on this main drag of yours that narrowed two lanes down to one.

It took me HALF AN HOUR to drive 3 miles.

Afterward, as I attempted to get to your Chipotle, I was instead forced to take a series of roads that led me nowhere near a delicious, overstuffed burrito.  As a matter of fact, I ended up in a Harley shop's parking lot where a cranky gentleman on a cell phone honked at me.  And not in the nice way.

In the end, I got so angry that I ended up at McDonald's, where I inhaled my nuggets whilst talking to my dad on the phone and using phrases like "Godforsaken city" and "hateful state."

I'm pretty sure the woman in the booth behind me did not want to be my Facebook friend.

If not for some of the super cool bloggers I've met who hail from Kentucky (and whom I pray have not stopped following me because of this tirade that YOU caused), I would completely write off your entire state.

In the end, Lexington, I just wanted to tell you that from now on, I will be stopping in Berea or Corbin to wet my whistle and pee like there's no tomorrow.

And you, my friend, may suck it.

Kindly blow it out your ass,

Sara Spelled Without an H

Crow does not taste like chicken

Dear Boone,

As much as it pains me to do this, I owe you an apology.

This tastes like a giant ass cracker.

For the last seven months or so, I have been pretty rude to you. 

Now, you need to own part of that because you definitely earned a lot my swears, what with your narrow ass roads, your turn signal resistant residents and, of course, your Target deficiency.

However, when my four letter words are undeserved, I will take responsibility.

This morning as I was leaving for class, I put a few cards and a Netflix movie in the mailbox and flipped up that cute, red flag to alert Il Postino of the pick-up.

When I returned to the house later this evening, I was confused to see that same cute, red flag in the same position.

I checked the box, hoping Il Postino (most overrated movie ever, by the way) had merely forgotten to drop the flag.

My reaction at seeing the mail went a little something like this (and Boone, you may want to skip this part):

Of course not!  Why on EARTH should the @!#$%&? mail get picked up today?  No reason!  No no, thank YOU, Boone.  Thank you so much for your unwavering determination to separate yourself from other cities through little, &%$#@! unimportant things like this.  I mean, God forbid you pick up the @$&?!# mail EVERY. SINGLE. #$@?%&. DAY.

I went inside my house, absolutely seething.  After bitching to my roommate about how ridiculous you are, I went to my room to check my e-mail.  I saw that I had a message from Borders with a free President's Day coupon.

Admittedly, I cursed your name again because you don't have a Borders.  But then, I caught on.

President's Day.

Today.

Oh.

Um, my bad?

Okay, I know that's not good enough.  I dragged your name through the mud pretty hard, using all sorts of verbally abusive, yet creative, literary devices (I may or may not have compared you to an overweight ferret's sphincter).

The point is, I was wrong and I apologize. 

You were right not to pick up my mail today and I should not have told you to kiss, lick or eat anything.  I especially should not have said it so loudly because I'm pretty sure my neighbors, and their children, hear most of my colorful diatribes.

 Sorry, neighbor child!

I hope we can use this as a jumping off point to turn our relationship into something tolerable!

Your (temporary) citizen,

Sara

P.S.  If you somehow got Chick-Fil-A to stay open on Sundays, all would be forgiven forever.

P.P.S.  Seriously.

What? Sexy? You are, shut up.

Welcome, my little chinchillas!

If you are here from SITS, thank you for visiting on this momentous occasion.

For those of you non-SITS affiliated, I have the honor of being today's featured blogger.  In simpler terms, I'm important today and I invite you all to bask in my radiance.

Allow myself to introduce... myself.

I am a grad student in North Carolina but primarily hail from Indiana.  I like Thai food, pajamas, books, black coffee, Ella Fitzgerald and pie.

I'm generally good-natured and low-key, but I do fancy a good rant, accompanied by some less than exemplary behavior.  However, I have created rules for just such an event:

Throwing things always seems like a good idea at the time...

I also find it terribly cathartic to make confessions to the world wide interweb:


Time to come out of the non-gay closet!

And what would be the point of all this without a night at the theater?:


Oh, Mr. Bones, that's terrible!


In conclusion, I prefer to see the humor, irony or straight up stupidity in life.  If you're looking for inspirational messages or heartfelt anecdotes, I don't really get up into that cookie.

I do, however, have a tendency to swear.  In the spirit of SITS, however, I'm being good today.

You don't believe me?  See below.

Seriously.  Maybe you really should check your donkey door.

Video killed the radio star

Call me a raging nutbag, but I listen to the radio for the music.

Granted, I don't mind a little NPR now and again, but 9 times out of 10, I want some tunes!

This gets particularly obnoxious when I'm driving home from class at night.

I start surfing my station presets (because you only get so many options up here in the mountains that aren't country). I will find a song I deem worthy of 3 min. of my attention.

When the song ends and I'm preparing myself for the next, I am suddenly bombarded with Tina from Squaw Lake, Minnesota whining about how her ex-hairdresser's step-son's "roommate"'s second cousin twice removed just had serious bunion surgery and she would like to request Salt N Pepa's "Let's Talk About Sex" to show her support.

There's only one show on the radio that provides this kind of aural assault.

F**king Delilah.

Not only does she provide an open forum for every loon to come out of the woodwork to talk about his or her iguana's chronic heartburn, but she's sneaky about it.

Every now and again, someone requests a song I happen to enjoy. So, I'm sitting there, pouring my heart and soul into "In the Air Tonight" by Phil Collins (shut up, you know you love it) when I'm ripped from my appreciation of a strategically placed drum machine and personally violated with that syrupy, patronizing voice that makes me want to chuck on my parka.

The only way it could be worse is if at the same time, someone force-fed me Miracle Whip while holding my eyes open with toothpicks so I could read cartoon after cartoon of Family Circus.

Thank you, Tina. I hope your moment was worth the blood pooling in my ears.

Throwing things always seems like a good idea at the time...

I adore a good hissy fit.

Though I try not to indulge in them too often, sometimes a good temper tantrum feels really, really good.

I think there are (or should be) rules, however, for getting your undies in a bunch.

1. A hissy fit that occurs more than once a month is no longer a hissy fit. It's a lifestyle, and an unattractive one at that.

2. The best tantrum is about something small and petty. For example, "Crunchy peanut butter?! I hate crunchy! Who hates me so much that they had to buy freaking crunchy??"

3. I find it's best to conduct such unladylike or ungentlemanly behavior in solitude or in front of complete strangers in a public area. Your loved ones will most likely hold this outburst over your head for quite some time, bringing it up at large social gatherings or re-enacting it and putting it on youtube.

Strangers, however, will give you PLENTY of room to lash out, as they will most likely be afraid of you, especially if you're on some form of public transportation. You are also doing them a favor as they will have an excellent story to share when they get home.

4. Throwing things feels great. Should you decide to throw something, be discerning. Remember that breakables, though very satisfying, will need to be cleaned up. Also, if you have pets or small children, this can be very dangerous for them. While it's lovely seeing a stack of papers fly through the air, just know that those papers will have to be collected and reorganized later.

I find the best things to throw are stuffed animals, tennis shoes, keys or various items of clothing. Also, it's always best to throw your own stuff, unless this anger is directed toward someone else. In that case, throw their stuff... and the more breakables, the better.

**Please restrain yourself from throwing the following: cell phones, stilettos, food, gerbils, toddlers, etc.

So, I implore you to keep these rules in mind during your next spaz-out.

Hey, and remember, let's have fun out there!