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.

Compromising my values for grad school

It's official.

It's old-fish-hill.

It's Danielle Fishel!

North Carolina officially owns my ass.

Just this very morning, I received a fancy looking letter from the president of the Tarheels.  He told me that I had better start learning to love grits, hate turn signals and to knock "pop" right out of my vocabulary when referring to a frosty, carbonated beverage.

I have to say, I feel a little guilty for turning my back on Indiana for tuition purposes.  I mean, most people are not knocking down the door to the Hoosier doublewide, begging for residency.  And I think that's unfortunate as many Midwesterners are terribly pleasant and are willing to stare at you intently for several uncomfortable minutes just to figure out whether or not they know you.

Not every state will do that for you.

But now I belong to North Carolina.

And as a taxpaying resident of North Carolina, I would like to voice my first complaint.

If Krispy Kreme was started in this state, why the hell is the closest one an hour away?

Billy Graham is going to pissed when I tell him.

Going to the place to get the stuff for the thing

There are three reasons I know it's time for a new blog post:

1. It's been a rather long time since I warned you all of Monkey Doom
2. I am almost over my raging jetlag
3. I have a take-home test that is due tomorrow at 9am... and I have yet to begin

First of all, I'd like to thank those of you who took my warnings of Monkey-Death Encounter to heart.  They will eat your face off and you will not be amused.

Second, I would like to give one last declaration of undying love and affection to singer of my heartsong, Sonya Rae.  Thanks to her, I had one of my best vacations and I continue to be sad that neither of us is into the ladies, because I think we'd be a power couple that would rival Ellen and Portia.

Just saying.

Anyway, here are a few thoughts I've had over the past week:

• Eating Chinese food after 10pm doesn't count

• I wish people here would quit trying to convince me to be outdoorsy.

• I have tried discussing the NCAA bracket with a handful of guys I know here in NC and none of them care.  WHERE HAVE ALL THE MEN GONE???

• Most of my celebrity crushes are age-inappropriate.  For example, Matt Lauer, John Cusack, Jon Stewart, Daniel Craig and Anthony Edwards.

• Boondock Saints 2 sucked giant squid wontons.

• My brother is much cooler than I am.  Actually, I've always known this, but he just left to go on tour and I feel there are few things cooler than that.

• I hate the Toaster Streudel commercial where that snotty girl talks down to her friend with the Pop-Tart.  Don't get me wrong.  I love Toaster Streudels, but have you ever heard any child complain because she got a Pop-Tart?  Hell no!

• I lived in Indiana for 15 years, attended Indiana University and love Gene Hackman, but have yet to see the movie Hoosiers.  And I'm okay with that.

• Eating half a bag of marshmallows and a butt-load of tater tots in one sitting does little for one's digestive system.

• I hope all of Canada recognizes my profession by the time I graduate so I can move to Vancouver, eat maple syrup and be really polite.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to watch TV for an hour, get some takeout and then consider the possibility of starting to think about completing my take-home test.

Maybe.

The Ghost of Thanksgivings Past

Yesterday's Thanksgiving was pretty standard by our family's "Bat Shit Loony Scale", so there's not much to tell.

However, I was recently reminded of a Thanksgiving that took place long ago.

Back in the magical year of 1998, my dad was working the night shift for a railroad company.  The Wednesday night/early Thursday morning of Thanksgiving was no exception.

My family that resides primarily in southeast Indiana invited us down for the holiday.

After explaining my dad's schedule and giving our best ETA to them, we agreed to be there by, let's say... 3pm.

So, after getting a highly inadequate amount of sleep, my dad drove us down to Liberty, Indiana.

For those of you poorly acquainted with Indiana trivia, Liberty hosts a whopping 2,000 people, is very agricultural (heavy on the corn and pigs) and one could actually walk to the Indiana/Ohio border in  less than 20 min., should one become that bored (I've done it twice).

We made the 3-hour drive to this magical haven, comforted only by the promise of turkey, butter-soaked mashed potatoes and slightly burned pumpkin pie.

As we entered my grandmother's house, we saw our entire extended family on my dad's side seated at the dining room table.

Given that I was 13 or 14 years old at the time, and therefore starving, I remember thinking, "Weird.  They're just sitting here waiting on us?"

Upon further inspection, I saw that the plates had been used, silverware was dirty and the turkey was good and carved.

They. Had. Already. Eaten.
 .
At the time, I couldn't see past my own hunger and frustration at being made to eat a light lunch and sit in the car for three hours so we could drive to BFE to eat their leftovers.

Looking back, my poor dad did all this on a crappy 4 hours of sleep and complained a lot less than I did.

Getting back to my righteous indignation, we were warmly welcomed and invited to the table.  I remember being told, "There is plenty for you guys!  We made sure to leave you some!"

It turns out that "some" meant a little dry turkey (ugh), green bean casserole (cack) and sugar cream pie (vom).

Mashed potatoes?  Gone.
Corn?  Eaten.
Rolls?  Depleted.
Deviled eggs? Hoovered.
Stuffing?  Ruminated.
Pumpkin pie?  Wolfed.

That night, we stopped at a Burger King off I-65, and let me tell you, that double cheeseburger more than adequately filled the void of Thanksgiving.

Plus, I was too young to drink.

**This post was inspired by Kelly's story at Speaking From The Crib.

“But I, when I undress me each night, upon my knees will ask the Lord to bless me with apple pie and cheese” - Eugene Fields

Holy frick, do I love pie.

Saturday afternoon, my family and I traveled to the magical land of Terre Haute! (I'm sure most of you are awe-struck, so I'll give you a minute to take it all in.)

For those of you not well acquainted with Hoosier geography, I'll attempt to give you a visual. If Indiana were the human body, Terre Haute (pronounced "terra hoat") would be the knee pit. Not the armpit or the butt crack (those honors are reserved for Fort Wayne and Veedersburg respectively) but the knee pit.

If you've ever been there, you know that Terre Haute boasts both Indiana State University and a powerful stench. To this day, I don't know why, but Terre Haute smells like ass.

So, why on earth would I go there voluntarily? Well, it just so happens that Terre Haute has one of the finest establishments in this country. Saturday afternoon, we patronized the Grand Traverse Pie Company in all its breath-taking glory.

This phenomenal business began in Michigan and thankfully made its way down to Indiana. It's somewhat unfortunate that the only franchises are in Terre Haute (2 hour drive) and Evansville (4 hour drive), but it was totally worth the trip.

At some point during last week, my mother and I decided we needed good pie, so we bullied my dad into a little excursion. It depends from where you hail (I love that phrase), but from Lafayette, the drive to Terre Haute is not an eventful one, nor a scenic one at that. It's a lot of windy, nauseating country roads through little, weenie towns hosting one stoplight and a Walgreens, maybe.

We made it to Terre Haute at about 4:30pm and decided that was a good enough time to eat dinner. Actually, I love eating before 5pm because I'm always hungry at about 3pm anyway. Waiting until 6 or even 7pm just seems cruel. Now I know why the elderly set do it. When I'm retired and living my golden years, I will be eating breakfast at 11am, lunch at 4pm, dinner around 9 or 10pm and bedtime by 2am, the way God intended.

Anyway, we had the obligatory meal before dessert, which was quite delicious. Then came the reason we had made this trip. Oh sweet mother of pearl, the pie.

My mother has a personal affinity for peach, my dad prefers the more traditional apple, and I have had a torrid love affair with something called strawberry-rhubarb ever since college. My freshman-year roommate at IU made me a strawberry-rhubarb pie from scratch. I was completely nauseated the next day, but I think it had something to do with the fact that I ate 4 pieces. Tough call.

As we headed out the door, we took with us two cherry crumble pies (one was for a friend, I swear) and I selected an apple dumpling the size of my face, that will, no doubt, make me vomit within the hour (I won't be sorry. I'm never sorry.).

I took some pictures with my cell phone. While the quality isn't fantastic, I think they still manage to capture the raw emotions of the day.












Shiny thing! Just at this very moment, I remembered an article I read in the Journal and Courier sometime within the last two weeks, regarding the possibility of a state pie. While I would be all for this, I'm completely disgusted with the pie that is in the running. Most refer to it as sugar cream, but crap on toast seems far more accurate to me (or simply "phlegm", which is how my mom refers to it).

Now, I know we're somewhat limited in our choices. We can't have cherry because that tends to belong to Michigan. Georgia would throw down if we chose peach, and rightfully so. Key lime obviously belongs to Florida (that would be my favorite cream pie, by the way).

So, what does that leave us?

TONS!

Blueberry, sweet potato, chocolate mousse, raspberry or how about apple pie, for crying out loud? Last I checked, this was America's Heartland and what is more flipping American than apple pie (other than the Cubs leading their division into the playoffs and then choking when they're a stone's throw from the pennant)? Nothing! I will not be represented by a gelatinous funk someone had the audacity to call pie.

As this hissy fit comes to a close, I implore each and every one of you to take a look into your heart and ask yourself, when was the last time you had a really bitchin' piece of pie? If the answer is not, "Oh, well I'm eating some at this very moment!", you had best fix that. If your answer is, "I don't like pie", you had best move.

"When you die, if you get a choice between going to regular heaven or pie heaven, choose pie heaven. It might be a trick, but if it's not, mmmmmmm, boy."
-Jack Handy

Indiana? Isn't that somewhere in the middle?

While I've lived in Indiana longer than any other place (going on 14 years), I don't know that I qualify as a real Hoosier. This is mostly due to my lack of appreciation of a few select things.

#1. Basketball - High school, college, NBA, WNBA... makes no difference to me. I don't like it and you can't make me!

#2. Watermelon - I actually can't figure this one out. I love fruit but melon, especially watermelon, gets my gag reflex up faster than a cat who licked the Velveeta off the shells and cheese, left out from the night before. Don't ask me how I know that.

#3. Lawn ornaments - You may claim that this is not limited to Indiana, but I think it's an honorable mention and still carries weight in my case.

#4. Country music - I don't even like talking about this because it makes me itchy.

#5. Nascar or Brickyard - This is beyond my understanding. The car goes around. The crowd gets drunk and sunburned. Repeat.

#6. Vera Bradley - Call me crazy but quilted purses just don't rev my engine.

#7. Pure unadulterated hatred of Tom Brady - Now, this is one of the few where I'm borderline. While football is only slightly better than basketball, I do enjoy putting all of my energy into loathing someone I've never met. Especially a celebrity. And I don't like Tom Brady, but only because of how he treated that poor Moynahan girl from Sex and the City. What? He plays football, too? Weird.

#8. IU v. Purdue rivalry - As far as I can tell, this is a one-sided rivalry anyway. This has mostly to do with the fact that IU hasn't beaten Purdue at anything in years and have pretty much stopped caring.

#9. Hoosiers, the movie - Never seen it. Not planning on it.

#10. "Gary, Indiana" from The Music Man - While this isn't a requirement to be a true Hoosier, I just want to go on record as saying that I hate that song and the entire musical that surrounds it.

Those are the unfortunate things that came out of Indiana, but I think there are a few good ones.

#1. David Letterman
#2. Euchre
#3. World's Largest Ball of Paint
#4. The benefit of rolling your eyes when someone mispronounces "Terre Haute"
#5. Breaded tenderloin sandwiches

You know, maybe the Crossroads of America really does have something for everyone!