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.

Getting Krunk at the Harris Teeter

(WARNING: The following post is teeming with stereotypes, generalizations and grocery-related intolerance.)


I love food shopping.

It can be a fun and relaxing errand, but only when done correctly... and sadly, I fail at this a lot.

The best time to go to the grocery store is before 10:30am on a weekday.

At this point, the majority of grocery patrons are stay at home moms and a handful of feisty senior citizens, who have been up since 5am and have already done 6 loads of laundry, weeded the garden and rotated their tires.  These are the best people with whom you could share your grocery time.

First of all, SAHMs already know where everything is.  They have lists and they know exactly where each item on that list is located.  They move briskly and efficiently through the aisles and maneuver a shopping cart with graceful ease, all while making funny faces at one child and firmly telling another one to stop putting horseradish in the cart.  When they get up to the cash register, they've got coupons at the ready, the debit/credit card is swiped and the second the food is bagged, they're out the door.

I LOVE STAY-AT-HOME-MOMS.

The absolute worst time to go is anywhere from 4:00pm - 8pm, and due to my own inability to budget my time, I get caught in this time trap more than I care to admit.

This block hosts a combination of people like those who just got off work, college students who couldn't find it in themselves to get dressed before now and very slow moving, indecisive senior citizens.

I hate this group because no one is in a hurry.

You've got your just-off-work crowd who, generally speaking, are dazed, exhausted and look like they're moving through a fog.  I tend to feel badly for these people.

The male college students are, by this time, well rested and chipper and are most likely there to buy beer, mac and cheese and/or toilet paper.

The female college students brought their boyfriend/roommate and are arguing as to whether they should get sugar free or fat free jam.

Finally, you have your old folks.

Now, don't get me wrong.  Few things brighten my day like a giant smile from a sweet elderly woman.  These are not the old folks of which I speak.

These are the ones who will stand in the middle of an aisle, blocking traffic from both sides with their basket while staring at coffee filters as though it were the first time.

It doesn't matter how many times you say, "Excuse me!" or "If I could just get by..."  They are oblivious.  These are the ones that don't make eye contact, will stop right in front of you to examine their elbow or run into the back of your ankles with their cart and never have any clue you're now crippled and bleeding.

At the check-out, they will wait until all items have been scanned and bagged to retrieve their coupons.  Once the final total is announced, only then will they start digging around in their black hole of a purse to find the dreaded checkbook.

My impatience probably has something to do with my Northern sensibilities, and it's all the more apparent now that I'm in the South.  While I'm standing in line, tapping my toe and heaving giant sighs, I imagine everyone else is looking at me, thinking, "Would someone tell this bitch to calm down?"

Okay, fine.  I guess it goes both ways.

Does this mean I'm a yuppie?

Well, I must be a grown up.

I know this for two reasons.

The first reason is that I am going to a  conference this weekend.  I am excited about this conference for the following reasons:

• It makes me feel like a professional.  Or like I have hope of becoming a professional something.
• It's all about sex, which is a lot more interesting than a lot of conferences.
• I GET TO WEAR HEELS!

Given that I live all up in the mountains, I go back and forth between my snow boots, my rain boots and my tennis shoes.  I wouldn't dare wear any shoe with more than a 1/2 inch heel because I would face plant and I would die with no teeth.

This conference is in the Piedmont (for non-NCers, this means in the flatter, warmer part), so I get to put on my fancy shoes that haven't seen any action for months.  Poor things.

The other reason I am a grown up is that I am the featured blogger at SFTC!

 

Kelly is a rare gem.  You don't just go to the store and git her.  You gotta look for her.  And once you find her, you throw elbows and bite people to keep her. 

Too graphic?

I think she'd like it.

Anyway, if you're not already following Kelly, I question your judgment because not only is she far more consistent than I am, she's pretty damn funny.  And not a little twisted.

I wish everyone a pleasant Friday and I hope you will think of me as you put on your shoes.  Even the dudes.

P.S. I just learned there is a Target near my hotel.  BEST CONFERENCE EVER.

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.

Biscuits and chivalry

There are days when school sucks giant tuna fish.

I often have to remind myself that I was the one who decided going back to school was such a brilliant idea, because I will walk around muttering, "Whose idea was this?!"

For those of you who are new to this mess, I am the laziest excuse for a student currently enrolled in a graduate program.

Occasionally when I meet someone new and explain that I'm studying to be a therapist, I get a very impressed reaction.

This makes me feel like a phony, so I do my best to assure them that it's really not a big deal.  It's kind of like when a stranger compliments me on my scarf or purse.  I have to make sure they know that I got it at Target.  On sale.  With a coupon.  Last season.

Not sure what that's about.

My favorite part of school, as many of you know, is dreaming about where I will go when I'm free from the beautiful but claustrophobic mountains of North Carolina.

While I talk a lot of smack about NC, there are some things that I have realized the South does better than anyone else:

Biscuits and chivalry.

These are two things I know I will miss something fierce when I leave this place.

Now, you may be from New England and are protesting, "I make wicked good biscuits from scratch!"  Look, I have no doubt that you do, but I would bet your recipe was smuggled out of Georgia or Alabama centuries ago.  Just make peace with it.

I mean, you don't see the South going around laying claim to polenta or deep dish pizza, now do you?

Regarding the latter, chivalry is something I appreciate so much down here.  I get ma'amed all the time, and I LOVE IT.


The other thing that just gets me all sorts of giddy is their ability to open doors.

Nothing puts a smile on my face like a 70 year old man opening and holding the door and then winking at me as I walk by.  I'm not saying Northern men aren't capable of opening doors, but in my experience, they're a lot less consistent about it.  And it is definitely not their pleasure.

(I've gone on a tangent about this before, so you know I feel strongly about it.)

So, while I know I'll go into a bit of withdrawal when I lose both of those things, I already have something ready to jump in and fill the void...

Someday in the near future, I will look up into the tired eyes of my surly waitress and say, "I'd like an iced tea, please," and she will reply, "Okay."

I will not specify that it is to be unsweetened and she will not ask, because there will be an understanding.  That iced tea is to be good and bitter.

Just the way the North intended.

I feel a traipse coming on

I have commitment issues.

With geography.

As a therapist in training, I could probably dig into my patterns of behavior, emotional responses and life choices regarding my inability to stay in one place longer than 3 or 4 months at a time, and perhaps really uncover the source of my aversion to putting down roots and settling in to my surroundings.

I could...

...but that seems like a lot of work.

Instead, I will be a red-blooded American and blame it on my childhood.

My dad was in the Air Force until I was about 9 years old.  During those formative years, we moved 4 times.  Each time we had to pick up and leave for a new place, we gathered only what we could carry, stuffed it in our knapsacks and set off through the foothills of the snowy, majestic Alpine mountains.

Shut up, Julie Andrews, I'm telling it!  (Man... how do you solve a problem like Maria?)

Also, we traveled quite a bit while in these new places.  When we lived in England, my parents took full advantage.  For example, our vacations were often in Scotland, Wales and Ireland.  (*Note: My brother and I have both thrown up in every country in the United Kingdom.  And Ireland.)

When we lived in Germany, we visited France, Belgium, Austria, the Netherlands and a few other countries, all of which insist on putting mayonnaise on everything (blerg).

The point is, we moved and traveled a fair amount and I loved it.  Sure, it was hard to leave friends behind, but it was the life.  Nothing and no one was permanent and I always looked forward to wherever we might get to go next.

I think this is why I got me some real itchy feet right now.

Within the last two years, I have moved at least 7 times.

I have been in North Carolina for almost 5 months now, and I know I'm going to be here for another year and a half.

And, to be perfectly honest, I don't see it working out for us in the long run.  NC hates how anal retentive I am and I can't stand how NC can't seem to learn to put the cap back on the freakin' toothpaste!  I mean, how hard is it??  Son of a bitch!



Aren't you glad we didn't dig into any of those deeper, underlying issues?

That could've been graphic.

Ain't too proud to beg

I'm coming back, I promise!

My dad and I are driving back to NC this weekend, so I will most likely be M.I.A.

However, school starts Monday, so I'll be back to blogging as a means of procrastination in no time!

To keep you interested, in the future I will tell you about:

1. Lisa and my wacky trip to Chicago
2. My new(ish) car
3. Itchy feet
4. Half-assed New Year's resolutions (that I have every intention of breaking)

I will visit blogs as soon as I get back into my regular schedule, so...






...PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!!!

It's too early for morning

I woke up to a delightful banging noise directly below my head.

Was it a robber?  A hangover?  A family of tiny raccoons living in my pillowcase?

Sadly, none of these.

(A robber probably would've been quieter, I drink more hot chocolate than anything these days and the raccoons would've been cute, at least.)

The electrician our landlord hired to to work on our basement came over at 8am on a Saturday.  ON A SATURDAY.

I'm actually not a super late sleeper.  Usually, I'm happy to arise at a respectable 9:30am (I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that I am a student and we reserve the right to keep weird hours, eat Chinese food at 4am and maintain questionable hygiene during finals weeks).

So, while 8am isn't that far off from when I normally get up, it's too early to have hammer noises assault my dreams and stop my heart.  ON A SATURDAY.

Naturally, I was very crabby.  I stomped around the kitchen T-Rex style (I learned this from Christina), making coffee and muttering profanities under my breath, when there was a knock at the door.

Lo' and behold, it was our electrician, Rick.

Rick wanted to show me what he'd done in the basement.  Because he was so damn pleasant, I attempted to match his tone and leave my snarkiness in the kitchen.

As he showed me all the new lighting, outlets and switches he'd installed, I found my irritation weakening.  I attempted to make conversation as he showed me the fuses he'd replaced.  After one sentence came out of my mouth, he looked at me oddly.  This was part of our exchange:

Rick:  Are you from Oregon, too?
Sara: Oh, haha.  No, I'm from Indiana.
Rick: Ahh, I talked to your roommate from Oregon.  You sound similar.
Sara:  Yeah, I know I don't sound like a local.
Rick: You can't be more than 20 (not sure where this came from).
Sara: Actually, I'm 24 but I get that a lot.
Rick: Oh my goodness.


Between my accent and my age, I was pretty damn amused.  By the time I had thanked him and gotten back in the house, I was in a far better mood.

I swear, there are some days when this town makes me so angry that I want to stab it in the eye with a salad fork.  Then, there are other days when I find it to be lovely and charming and just overflowing with Americana.

It's snowing outside and I just washed all the forks, so I might be leaning toward the latter today...

...but the day is still young, and I might have to go to Walmart later.

Son of a Nutcracker!

I don't know if I've made this clear, but I am a Fanilow.

Not familiar with the term?

Well, first of all, shame on you.

Second, isn't it obvious?  I am a fan of the Manilow.  FANILOW.

For my money, he really does write the songs that make the whole world sing.

However, I caught a glimpse of him on the Today show this week, and boy howdy, does he look like he's been saran wrapped.

Even better, I found this fantastic video of him singing Rick Astley's hit, "Never Gonna Give You Up".

He can still sing, bless him, but it looks like he can't really move his face.

(The Man won't let me post it on here, so if you're so inclined, please observe.)

What really disturbs me is that the older he gets, the more he looks like Anne Murray.  Lookit:

 

Which one is which?

You tell me.











On another note, I have given in to the holiday spirit.

My roommates and I got our tree yesterday.  The whole experience was far less romantic than I imagined.

In this part of North Carolina, we grow us some pretty bitchin' trees as it turns out.

Look!  Nature!

We tromped around the grounds of one such place, assessing height and shape.  Having never been in such a place, I was overwhelmed with the fantastic smell and was all but taking hits off the branches.

He was a fatty and we liked him, but alas, too tall.

When we had chosen our tree, someone came and cut it down.  With a chainsaw.  Then he dragged it away, tossed it on his little cart and drove it to our car.

No pomp.  No ceremony.  All business.

I was sort of hoping he'd cut it down with an axe, while whistling "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas", then pull his corn-cob pipe out of his jacket and smoke it while telling us a story from his childhood.

He did not.

Either way, the tree is up! 

Um... it's a little too tall.  What to do?

So, what happens when your tree scratches the ceiling?  One retrieves one's hatchet, of course!

  Yeah, this really happened.

After James killed it and we got it all set up, we decorated.

  I named him Hugh.

After that, I made James put his hatchet back in his car.  He seemed confused as to why I was so uncomfortable with a MINI AXE IN THE HOUSE.

Idon'tlikeitIdon'tlikeitIdon'tlikeitIdon'tlikeit.

 

The soundtrack to Elf is currently in the CD player of my car.  It's the next best thing when your mom steals your copy  you can't find your copy of the DVD.

Road trip edition

On Thursday, I drove from North Carolina to northern Ohio to visit my lovely friends, Cara and Mike.

I drove through 5 states in 7 hours.

Here's what I learned:

The mountains in NC are gorgeous in the Fall, but all that fog makes my ass twitch.



Tennessee looks a lot like NC and people seem to think headlights are superfluous when it is overcast and raining.

Radar detectors are illegal in Virginia. Bummer.




West Virginia is a lot bigger than it looks, and most was unnecessary.

Ohio doesn't look as much like Indiana as I'd hoped.

I actually made pretty excellent time getting to Ohio. It would've been outstanding, but Louise and I got into a fight around Canton and I had to pull over so we could throw down.

Tomorrow, I head back to the High Country of North Carolina. Even though I love my friends and the Midwest in general, I'm happy to get back to Boone and the 29 degree weather that surely awaits me.

29 degrees.



Ass.

Adventures in NC Residency

This morning, I journeyed to the Drivers License Office. Not the DMV. The Driver's License Office.

Now, for starters, doesn't that sound like such a non-threatening, simple kind of place? DMV inspires anxiety and hatred. DLO sounds like it serves biscuits and gravy if you promise to become an organ donor.

I digress.

I have been to the DMV in three different cities in Indiana, all with a population under 100,000. Yet, in all three of these places, it was a requirement to either make an appointment well in advance or to get there right when they opened to get a good place in line.

With all this in mind, I left for the DLO around 7:45am this morning.

(The DLO is about 2 miles from my house, but in my true fashion, I got lost, passed it twice and angered Louise* in the process, so I got there right at 8am.)

There was one other person there.

We both went inside and took a number, but as soon as I sat down, a gentleman came out and said, "Y'all can come on back!"

Sure. Why not.

I was directed toward a heavy set fellow with the face of a giant carp. I didn't catch his name, so I named him Buford.

Buford and I sized each other up quite quickly. He seemed to find my Midwestern accent and excellent dental hygiene off-putting while I found his tone to be patronizing and his uniform to be ill-fitting.

At one point, I couldn't find my damn insurance card. I prepared myself to be chastised and turned away until I had the appropriate documents, but Buford just said, "Well, we kin give 'em a call later on."

Um, okay.

A few minutes later, a man came in looking for directions and I swear the following conversation took place:

Man: 'Z is uh tide office?
DLO employee: What're you lookin' fer?
Man: Tide office. 'Z it still here 'er git move?
DLO employee: Tide or tag?
Man: Tide. It git move?
DLO employee: 'S downtown, 'cross from the courthouse.
Man: Thankyamuchobligedtoyaferthenn;nnirrzy'allflhrhhreckon;iuh.

You betcha.

At the end of my test, I read off all the traffic signs and missed one, to which Buford replied, "Good enough."

Long story short, I got my NC driver's license.

Also, some Southerners seem to see good posture as a sign of aggression. So, the next time you're at a WaHo or a Zaxby's, try to slouch.

*Louise, my Garmin, will also be referred to as "Weezy" and/or "Giant Slut".

This mess is gonna get raw like sushi

This week, my parents, two cars and a U-Haul moved me to North Carolina.

If someone were to ask me to compare it to Indiana, I would say, "Well, it's pretty much the same. You know, except when it's not."

There are a lot of similarities. For example, they drive just as poorly here, the grammar is colorful and the local commercials make your insides cringe.

On the flip side, most people are wildly polite, they're missing even more of their teeth and everywhere you go, you're either going up a hill or coming down one.

This last one is the hardest for me to get over.

I lived in Northwest Indiana for almost 15 years and let me tell you, that crap is flat.

I don't know why, of all things, this is the one that makes me so unsettled, but it's like straight up culture shock. Mountains. Who knew?

Oh! And there is nature everywhere! Don't get me wrong- it's beautiful. I just don't know what to do with it. I feel as though I should be outside all the time, hugging trees, frolicking with raccoons and licking the moss for nutrients.

Well, whatever. I live here now.

My house is, of course, on a hill.

The neighbors.
That small child makes enough noise to rival a troop of howler monkeys.

My room as it currently appears

This is my adjustment period and I have no doubt that I will be "y'all"ing and "reckon"ing in no time.

Now, I reckon it's getting late, so y'all piss off now, ya hear?

Your Bingle is showing.

I took a wee vacation last week to visit my dear redhead, Lisa Diane, as well as her very large extended family.

Her nieces and nephews are about the only children I really like... and thank God for that.

Dance party to G. Love and Special Sauce.

Cuter than a bug's ear.

These monkeys can can climb.

I felt like I really invaded Leah's privacy with this photo.

Grown-ups like the playground, too.

I think Emma was more interested in her shoes than the fire truck.

No, your eyes do not deceive you. That, my friends, is a big ass peach.

I think this speaks for itself.

We found those red velvet, Twinkie-like treats in Boone, my future hometown.

I mean, does it get any better??

This is my gift to you.

In my 100th post (yes, that's this one right here), I would like to assuage anyone's fears of visiting me in NC and not having anything to do.

Allow me, please:

Shell gas station... in a shell.

Largest Ten Commandments

Oldest coffee pot

Largest chest of drawers

You're welcome.