Slow Times at S House

Yawn. Ho hum. Nothing going on for a while, hence the lack of posts. I am nursing a grudge against my dear husband, brought on last week, and going on off-and-on since then. The cause: TAX DAY!!! Ohh, it sends shivers down my spine. Like another blogger I know, who shall remain nameless to protect the innocent (and guilty), my husband has a tax problem. He started them aeons ahead of time. Or at least it seemed that way. A month or so ago, I asked him if he needed me to compile any of Hutton's medical information for tax stuff, since DH had asked about the mileage to the chiropractor, speech therapist, etc. DH said, "No. I've already done it." Super! Laura is free and clear of any tax involvement. Or so I thought.

So, last Saturday morning, I awoke bright and early, showered, fed the boys and myself breakfast, and got ready to go to one of those things that most men (and even few women) can understand -- Scraptacular Scrapfest, or something along those lines. It was a scrapbooking workshop, when you go the the scrapbooking saleswoman's house for several hours and accomplish all that scrapbooking you haven't been able to do in the past year. I didn't really tell DH exactly what I was doing. Just that I was going to a "thing" and that I had a soccer game afterwards. I scurried off on my merry way, feeling just a tad guilty that DH was working on taxes and had the boys to tend to, but hey, I took care of the boys every day, and DH only had a few things to do for taxes, right?

Wrong. I was happily cutting my chosen pictures into perfect ovals, picking out the right color backgrounds, and getting ready to paste when I received the first of three calls on my cell phone. DH: "Who is Elizabeth X?" Me: "That's Hutton's ABA consultant." Next call: "What's this stuff for Comprehensive Medical Center? And who is Dr. L?" Blah blah blah. Laura's anger slowly rising. Didn't I offer to do all of this for DH weeks ago? Why is he bothering me with this now? The third and final call boiled down to DH yelling that he couldn't do the taxes over the phone, why was I at a SCRAPBOOKING PARTY when he was watching the kids and trying to do taxes, YELL YELL YELL. I yelled back, "FINE. I'm coming home." The angry tears of frustration were pooling in my eyes and I was attempting to hold them back so the rest of the women happily scrapping wouldn't notice, but they did. Luckily my friend Liz was there to ensure there was not any talking about me when I left. (THANKS, Liz!)

I drove home seriously pissed at my Dickwad, er, Dear Husband. When I got home, I went upstairs where the boys were happily playing and watching Madagascar. DH had apparently figured out most of the medical stuff he couldn't possibly do without me here. He was sure to point out that our insurance hadn't covered the last three months of 2005 for Hutton's ABA therapy because we were over our allotment. And what could I do about that now? I told him this year we had dropped hours by 30% so that wasn't going to happen again. He then got all pissy about some check I'd written in January for $700. I had not written down what it was for, and DH was sure I'd written it for some solid good scrapbooks, I'm sure. When DH said there was a $300 check the year before to the same woman, I remembered that the check was for boarding the dogs at Christmas. See, no spendthrift wife involved. (Which reminds me - I never understood how the word "thrift" added to "spend" means someone who is NOT thrifty with her spending.)

And that was the end of my involvement in tax season. I made the boys lunch, went off to play soccer (we won! Woohoo!) and continued in the normal way of a boring weekend with no help from DH because he was doing taxes. Taxes were done Sunday night, I signed my places, and we're supposed to get $8,000 back. So, why the hell does DH get in such a pissy mood about these things? And why does he insist on doing taxes himself? Because we can't afford to have someone else do them. Oh, I see. I'm just the little housewife who has to deal with the super pissy husband every year at tax time.