Adventures in freakdom.
March 6, 2004
I’m going to be 37 in less than three months.
And yet, I still ride my cart like a scooter when I find myself alone in an aisle in the grocery store. That, or I lean over the handle and take big loping steps, using the cart to run in slow motion like I do in my dreams.
Tell me I’m not alone in this.
I just found that the allergy pills for the Stumpmeister that cost $1.00 each at the vet’s can be bought online — without a prescription — for six cents each.
<joe pesci>
They FUCK YOU at the vet’s.
</joe pesci>
"You had a profit," Susan said, "because you can’t write off the books you hadn’t sold by the end of the year, even though you still owed money on the loan."
I sat in my accountant Susan’s office Thursday afternoon, listening to her explain how I made money selling my book in 2003 even though on December 31 I had no money and still owed a small chunk of change on the $10,000 loan I took out to produce it. We were on the second floor of a turn of the century home that had been converted into offices she shared with another accountant and a lawyer.
"If you say so," I said, begrudgingly, then grinned. "So you’re telling me with all your accounting voodoo magic you can’t manage to create a loss?"
Nothing cheeses me more than having to pay taxes on money that only shows up on paper. Because of the aggressive loan paying schedule we kept last year, funneling almost every penny from sales into paying it off, we had no cash at the end of the year but still made a sizeable profit (on paper, that is) because of the cost-to-produce versus cost-sold-at ratio.
Or something like that. Like I said, voodoo.
Susan closed the folder with the tax return in it and slid it toward me. Conversation turned to our personal taxes. I pressured her to look at all the papers I’d brought in and ballpark an estimate of our refund. She hemmed and hawed, played with the numbers, and finally pronounced that this year’s refund would probably be small, or even nonexistent.
"Just as long as we don’t have to pay," I said, and that’s when it happened. On the hard p sound, a glob of spit sailed out of my mouth and floated in a long and lazy arc away from me.
Away from me, and toward my accountant.
It landed without a sound in a puddle of sunlight on the folder holding our corporate tax return. Mortified, I glanced up at Susan and found her staring at the blob of spit while she talked about taxes, watching the growing dark spot as it slowly sunk into the porous blue folder.
"Sorry about that," I said in a wee voice, and wiped up what was left of the spit with my left hand.
She continued to talk. About the taxes, I’m sure, but I’ve no idea what she said because all I could think about was the ball of spit I’d just fired from the cannon of my mouth. I felt it on my hand still, mocking me with its wetness. Casually, I clasped my hands together in front of me, nodding and mumbling agreement to Susan’s words while I rubbed the spitball between my palms like lotion.
Her eyes stayed on my hands the whole time.
She’s thinking about having to shake hands with you when it’s over, I thought, and how she’s going to get your spit on her hand when she does. It’s like living out a commercial for soap, where the germs are tracked from person to person to person, and here you are contributing to it by slobbering all over her office like a hound dog, leaving a spit trail wherever you go. It’s a wonder you’re allowed out in public.
I crossed my arms, and spent the rest of our meeting making sure I didn’t touch anything in her office with my spit-soaked hands. When it was time to leave, I used both hands to hold the corporate tax folder close to me, making sure I had no free hand available for shaking should she try.
She didn’t try.
Fortunately, I tripped on the way down the stairs and did the funky chicken down the last few steps, my oversized clown feet beating a nifty tattoo on the mahogany risers as I flailed my arms to keep my balance.
I’m sure she forgot all about the spit after that.
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Well, I’ll be 45 in 3 months and I still like to ride the shopping cart. But I have no shame. If my wife isn’t with me I’ll ride the cart down the gentle slop of the parking lot all the way to my car.
I am 46 years, 2 months and my DH is 45 years and 2 months and we race shopping carts down the ramp to the parking garage at the local Costco. I hadn’t even met my DH when I was 37, you are just a babe, after all you are still spitting.
I don’t think it’s so much spitting, Liza…more like slobbering with velocity
Make ‘em laugh, Fred. Always a good plan!
My friend Jim is nearly 62 and I enjoy watching him ride the cart down the hill at our store. I usually just content myself with letting go of it and chasing after, catching it just in time!
You are not alone Fred
My DH still does all that and more when we shop (he’s 41)
Best trick he likes to play is he’ll wait until I am reading a label, he will then fart and scoot around the corner. Of course he waits until he sees someone else coming. Funny guy I tells ya!
It’s that time of the year. All of us accounting type people are used to getting spit on, don’t feel bad.
I am 25 (yeah, such a baby, I know, I hear it all the time) and not only ride the cart in the grocery store–even when people ARE present and can see me–but I also will get a running start and jump up to touch the tops of doorways (it’s fun since I’m about 6 ft tall) while out in a public place. My friends are always a little leery about going places with me.
Thanks for the laugh today before I head off to work; I was sorta dreading it, but my mood picked up after reading this entry.
Your book rocks. Thanks so much for it and for this site!
My gawd,one has to be careful not to read your entries whilst eating,drinking or burdened with a full bladder. I laughed so hard-the high-pitched,horsewhinny kind of laughing,that I just about lost it !
)
Thanks Fred,I love that you are willing to share that “rare” bumbling side of you !
oh Fred you do make me laugh. You spit throwing, funky chicken dancing, clown footed thing you.
yeah, this was funny. =)
OK, I’ll be 45 in 8 months and I also still ride the shopping cart. Used to do it when my kids were the “middle school” age a lot. Boy, was that embarassing for them, but fun for me!
my ten year(s) old(er than you husband) does that too.
so bad he half scared our three year old grand-daughter!
He’s a speed demon, I tell ya!
I’m 51, and while I don’t ride the shopping cart, I do all sorts of other stuff, like bounce up and down while in line, run, skip, whatever. I do it because I CAN. And because 4 years ago I could barely perambulate.
BTW, your accountant is right. Cash flow and income are two different things. (I’m also a CPA.) I know, it sucks, I’m sorry.
That was totally disgusting and funny all at the same time. I am still laughing as I type this.
Ok, I do not do the shopping cart thing, but I was one of those weird kids that was even afraid of skidding across the linoleum in my sock feet. HEH.
To make you feel better, we have all had our spit ball-funky chicken moments. She will forget about it and so will you. But thanks for the visual and the laughs.
As always!
My husband is 27 and he loves to ride the shopping cart scooter like a little boy. It makes me happy to think of him still doing that when he is 37 and 51 and 62
Fred,
It’s stories like this one (adventures with spit) that I will remember when you become rich and famous with your national book tour! And I’m sure someone (begins with an R) will remind you if you ever become too big for your britches!
Thanks for the chuckle.
ROFLMAO! UMMMM>>>Sorry to let in you on this info…but…Your accountant will NOT forget the spitting incident..EVER. LOLOLOL She will think of it every time she sees you and will probably think to herself “I wonder if he will spit again, and this time, will he spit on ME?” That’s a woman for ya, we don’t forget anything!
While I feel bad for your accountant, that is nothing compared to what I went through. I was sitting in a plane next to an old man who kept clearing his throat while he worked on his crossword puzzle. That was bad enough but that was one junky sounding noise so I looked over to make sure he was alright and noticed that he had coughed up some green slime onto his crossword puzzle and then just left it there. All through the flight, even though he fell asleep. I had to fight to keep from throwing up at the thought of it. HE JUST LEFT IT THERE. Mucous, I hate it.
Thanks Fred,
That was the first time I laughed outloud today…twice.
If it would help you ,tax-wise ..I’d take a free copy of your book.
P.S.
The guy with the green mucous…he was probably dead.
P.S.2
I’m only 40 ….and would never ride a shopping cart without a helmet……..call me old fashioned/paranoid.
Two days ago I asked my accountant “But where is that money?”, when he showed me the profit figure I was going to pay taxes on. He explained it the best he could, but I have just kind of been wandering around the last few days mumbling the same question to myself, “But where is it?”.
My sister, at a funeral luncheon, had someone accidently spit out a small missile of food which through incredibly bad timing ended up landing in her mouth. I wouldn’t have believed it unless I saw it. Fortunately it was my cousin with a significant mental handicap who was the sender of the projectile. He was unaware of the faux pas making it extremely gross, but not socially awkward.
Thank you for the funnies!
Once, while I was in college, I attended a Madrigal Dinner. My friend and I sat at the table that was right in front of the Merrie Madrigals, next to my beloved drama professor and his wife. For some reason, one of my Madrigal friends decided it would be funny to point me out and laugh so that the rest of the diners would wonder what was so amusing and begin to look my direction. Not to be flustered, I calmly smiled, took a big long drink of my water, only to have the situation strike me - AT THAT MOMENT - as hilarious. I spit that water out all over my best friend and beloved drama professor. Now, remember, everyone was already looking at me because of the pointing and laughing. Now, the whole room was laughing uproariously. I turned beet red and apologized for weeks afterwards. That became my most embarassing moment for many years.
{laughs} OMG! Joe Pesci html tags! You are a gas Fred! I’m still giggling.
*snort*
That was damn funny!
Heee!