I’ve been going to the same Certified Public Account to get
my income taxes done since Ring was a pup and he’s been died and buried under a
rock in the back yard for over twenty years. I’ve never had a dog named Ring
but that phrase was a favorite of my husband’s to denote that something
happened a long time ago. Don didn’t have a dog named Ring either. He picked the
phrase up from his dad who got it from Don’s grandfather who---family folklore claimed---actually
did have a dog named Ring that resided in the back pasture with a rock rolled
over the grave to keep wild animals from digging up his childhood dog. I love family
verbiage like this and wish I had another generation to pass it down to. Today,
out of curiosity I googled “since Ring was a pup.” (Or maybe it was suspicion
that made me want to fact-check three generations of males who were all gifted
storytellers.) I found ten listings for the phrase, three of which were links
to my own blog entries, four to other people’s blogs and three appeared in
newspapers dated 1911, 1914 and 1922. Oh how I would have loved to break that little
tidbit to my husband! He would have laughed and loved to have one of his grandfather’s
tales get exposed after so many years of blind faith in its
accuracy.
My taxes are much too simple to require the services of a CPA
but he’s been doing my taxes since---well, Ring was a pup and Don and I both
owned businesses and rental property. It was complicated back in those days of employees,
depreciations and income and expenses coming in from all directions. Simple now or not, as long as I can still drive the dreaded S-curve to get to the CPA's office, I’ll keep going
to him. He’s a straight-up, honest guy who plays by the rules and I like that.
We’ve never worried about the IRS hauling us off to tax evader's prison.
The next day I had to go to the dealership for my Chevy
Trax’s 10,000 miles free maintenance---tires rotated, oil changed and the fluids
topped off. “Have you seen the new arrivals in the show room?” asked a salesman
who stopped in the waiting room to refill his coffee cup. “Nope. The last time
I did that I went home with my Trax." Can’t fool me twice. The day before my
appointment I cleaned out the inside of the car of its winter clutter and when
I was done I felt ten years younger. Why? Because I found a pair of
prescription sunglasses that I’ve been looking for for weeks. I’m not a person
who misplaces or loses things and every time I’d think about those glasses it
would make me feel old, like it was a sign that I’m losing brain power. I tore
up my reminder note about the missing glasses, quit obsessing about them and
went back to believing that my brain might live to see another year before it
descends into a pile of mush.
Friday was my 15th time
on the treadmill at the YMCA and I’m doing one and a quarter miles in a half
hour. I decided not to follow my trainer Julie’s instructions to add five
minutes every third time until after I see my doctor in April. He’s the boss of
me not that tall, skinny-as-a-flagpole girl with her bouncy black hair and Marilyn
Monroe red lips. If she ate an olive she'd look pregnant.
My Treadmill Playlist: From the top of the stairs to the treadmill is about a half
a city block and I start my iPod playlist at that point so I can strut down the
aisle with the Bee Gees singing, “Here I am, prayin' for this moment to last, livin'
on the music so fine…” By the time it’s finished I’m on the treadmill and ready
for what comes next, the Saturday Night Fever version of The Fifth of Beethoven. I love that piece! Years ago I used to plow
snow to it---windows rolled down and the volume jacked up in an effort to keep
myself awake near the end of my shift. My third treadmill walking song is by
The Killers, All These things That I’ve
Done. Until today when I googled the lyrics, I thought they were singing, “I
got sold, but I'm not a soldier” They’re actually singing “I got soul, but I’m
not a soldier.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve imagined a backstory for
that line and now I have to start all over again. What the heck does that mean?
The forth song is my favorite: Stayin’
Alive by the Bee Gees. “Life is goin’ nowhere, somebody help me! Yeah, I’m
stayin’ alive.” By then the treadmill is getting harder and I’m wishing someone
could help me!
Then comes the biggie, the 9.52 minutes long Finale from The Lone Ranger movie otherwise known as The William Tell Overture. I really love it but I alternate between
wanting to let go of the treadmill to become a made-believe orchestra conductor (which
would have me flying off the end of the machine) and trying to figure out which
of the false endings is actually the end of the piece so I can slow down and
cool down with Helen Reddy’s I am Woman. All
I know for sure is when the bass oboes play I think I’m going to die if Finale doesn’t end soon. It doesn’t. I’m
going to be three-quarters of a century old soon. I can practically count on my fingers and toes the number of days until it's cake and candle time and I can’t believe I'm doing this gym thing---that I'm actually ABLE to do this gym thing! ©
