Taxes prepared for the SWMBO and me, the octogenarians, C the undecided and his middle daughter (his eldest refuses to bow to the dictates of a totalitarian state and the youngest has [joyfully] not earned a W-2).
Seventy-one pages of numbers and excuses, hand written, the octogenarian’s request for a Short Sale (trust me on this; if you don’t know about Short Sales, its really OK).
Worked until the early morning hours. Too numb to bring the computer screen into just two images, not sure which letter follow C or if 3 really did come before 7; I was fairly certain that sleep just might be called for.
I washed the Ambien down with the remains of a double espresso and set off to battle the cats for space on the bed.
Five times torn from my slumber to answer a phone that wasn’t ringing.
It is now 0630, the octogenarians (Marion, the wicked witch of the north and John the confused) and rousing and once more in battle, the SWMBO attempting to speak above the din and four cats, in concert (if not in harmony) demanding to be fed and I am, regrettably, awake.
Ahh, but there is an end in sight: early February filings for all, being shut of the octogenarian house and electrifying tones of Coltrane filling the house…either that or a brief nap when the SWMBO takes her family shopping.