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Every day feels
Like a beach day when you have
A convertible.

I should write poetry for Miata brochures.
Or not.

I never bought the Miata in order to seek attention. I like pretty cars. And I always wanted a convertible. I remember telling my grandma this when I was a wee lass. I was going to be a famous country singer and have a convertible.
Well, at least one of those dreams was realistic.

But when you buy a sports car, you apparently buy the right to unsolicited comments from passers-by.
Some aren't so bad, such as, "I love your car!" or "Nice upgrade!" or little business cards on your windshield inviting you to join an exclusive Miata club that meets every first Tuesday of the month.

Then there are the obvious but neutral comments, which also aren't bad: "You're gonna make my wife want one of those." or "How you likin' that top down?" (local color unabridged)

But then there are the unappreciated ones such as: "Now you're just showing off." and "Hope you brought your sunblock." Both comments, not surprisingly, both came from cops.
As if I need to be apologetic that they chose a career in which they have to drive a Ford Crown Victoria the majority of the week.

What am I supposed to say to that?
"Yes. I am showing off. Please pull me over."
"No. I didn't wear sunblock. Please arrest me."

But I can't think of anything nice to say, so I just nod and drive. Away. Fast.

And I've noticed that when the older-ish generation find out what I drive, they enter into a story that starts with "I used to have a 19XX {insert name of hot rod}..." and ends with "That was before I started a family."
Note to self: never bear children.

That's like the moral to all my true stories these days.

Now onto something completely different:

I always never get asked questions such as "How can I be a better client, Allie?" or "What can I do to make your job easier?"
I will now take the time to answer the questions you would probably never ask.

How to Be A Good Client:

1. Send your information in between January and March 31st.
Not April 14th. Not even April 12th. Did you know that accountants actually have a process for tax returns? After preparation, it goes into review, which takes additional time to make sure it's all correct.
WHO KNEW!?!??
 People think "Well, my taxes are easy, so they should get them done in time."
Nope. There's a process; no shortcuts. Send your stuff in on time or on extension you go.

2. Send PDF attachments of documents we ask for.
And I guess this goes without saying, but PLEASE have an E-MAIL ADDRESS.
Every time I see in the prior year file that there is an e-mail address, I'm like yesssssssss because that means I don't have to call you. But when all you have is a phone number, and I need a document, either you have to bring it by (inconvenient for you) or fax it (which for me is like trying to read poop smear hieroglyphics).
It's a no-win situation. I'm still trying to figure out why telephones even exist anymore.

3. For the love of Pete, MAKE THE ADJUSTING JOURNAL ENTRIES I GIVE TO YOU.
Sure, they're optional in the same way a triple bypass surgery is optional.
It's for your best interest. Just do it.

4. Ask questions about things you don't understand. We would love to explain things to you so that your records are correct going forward. This is actually one of the best parts of our job. That and bank reconciliations (my personal faves).

 5. Keep personal and business expenses separate at all times. Just because you work from home part time does not mean you get to deduct your ridiculously high homeowner's association fees.

I have more, but I can already tell you're getting bored.

Since we're packing up the house, there are boxes everywhere and clothes, wires, and kitty spilling out of them. Last night, I was drying my hair next to a box, and in that box were my bright blue Cynthia Rowley tights and a pair of hot pink, lacey panties.
I asked Mike, "What would it look like if I wore those tights under those panties?"
Mike: "Stupid."
Oh, so like Superman?

If your definition of red is hot pink, like Mike's and Mark's is, then yes. Like superman.

Closing clothes,

TWS

Blood, Sweat and Cheers

Another deadline come and gone.

I guess the word 'deadline' is very fitting for what it connotates.
Because you are dead by the time you get to that line.

If I'm being honest (which I always am because I tell true stories), I really wasn't too excited about my birthday.
For a number of reasons:

1. I'm starting to get all self-conscious about my health. My lower back hurts. My gums feel funny. And my eyesight is so bad I might as well just use echolocation.

2. I can't sing Taylor Swift's 22 with an honest, soulful heart anymore.

3. I've gained weight. And this is how bad:
It was nice for this one day in April before winter came for the 18th time this spring, so I went to the pool to lay out, but it took me like 15 minutes just to find a swim suit that didn't make me look Wal-Mart.
And here's how bad it got.
You ready for this?
I actually contemplated getting a one piece.

WHAT?!?!?!
I KNOW!!!!

23 year old beach-babes DO NOT wear one pieces.

 I'm going to have to exercise. But GUESS WHAT. Even if you exercise, if you don't eat "right" "better" "organic" the results won't show and it won't matter so you'll stop doing it anyway.

Input doesn't equal output when input leads to a tasty, satisfying, glycemic comatose.
The 'Itis, as it were.

So not only do I have to exercise, but I have to diet, too? Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I just want to wear a bikini and not be a hypocrite.

4. Isn't 23 the age when everybody backpacks in Europe or goes sky diving in Malaysia? Before now "taking a year off to find myself" sounded completely stupid and irresponsible, but now I sometimes long for the freedom that college dropouts have.

So yeah... not too excited about being another year older...

I had approximately nine people tell me how ironic and fitting it was that my birthday was tax day and that I'm an accountant.
It was a brand new piece of news every time another person said it.
There were two SARs far away from each other and a chasm in the middle.

My BFF took me out to a nice dinner despite my worries about number 3, and then I wanted to watch the old-school 101 Dalmations, so we partied like it was 1995.

Me: Sam, you're so chunky that if you were a soup, you'd be chunky.
Mike: Sampbell's Chunky Soup

I really need to go on a roller coaster again.
It's like a reset button for life.

I'm a birthday candle in a circle of black girls,
TWS

All the Wine; The National

Hark, how all the welkin rings

This one time at college...

...that's how all good stories start, right?....

This one time at college, I had a friend in RUF that was a community leader in the dorms. As a community leader, she would be required to hold events in the dorm to try to make the dorm not such a miserable place.
She invited me to one of her events one time even though it wasn't in my dorm, and I went because she was my friend (and there was a promise of herbal tea at said event).

So I went, and there was like one other person there. I had my tea and walked around the common room. On the tables, there were strips of paper with all these random questions on them. I was like, "What're all these for?" And she was like, "Conversation starters."

Definitely not a bad idea for a social event.

Because it turns out that at 22, almost 23, I still don't know exactly how to introduce myself, meet people, and do all the right things right so that I don't come off looking like some social spazoid nincompoop.
Because that's really what I am on the inside: a social spazoid nincompoop.
But can I let people know that?
Noooooooooooooo

I just don't know what to say to people.
You know, when you first meet a person, here are the topics of conversation:
1. Your name
2. What you do
3. Do you live around here
4. Where are you from?

But then where do you go from there?

WHERE!?!?!?!!

I have an easier time relating to high school kids because at least I can talk about things that I've done in all my days and I can sort of relate. But they're at an even awkwarder stage than I am, so they don't really ask questions back. So it's kind of like interviewing rather than having a conversation...

But then with the older folks, I really don't know what to say because there are so many things in life I haven't done.
Like kids. I have not done and will never do kids.
(Audience: Never say never.... babies...accidents...you'll change your mind and also diapers one day...)

So while everyone's talking about doctors and time measured in weeks like that's totally normal, I'm just sitting there, blinking along while my mind is making my list of reasons not to have kids even longer.
Needless to say, I'm not really part of that conversation...

And so I guess I'll quote a Britney Spears' song on my blog now.

"I'm not a girl. Not yet a woman."

In college, there were things to talk about. Like, class and teachers and whether you were Pro-Southern-going-to-the-sunbelt-conference-or-not (which was a big thing my last semester).

But now that I'm all grown up except not really, I have a hard time relating to people!
Like bad.
Really really bad.
I feel like I need strips of paper floating around me at all times so that when things get awkward and I'm just making malicious eye contact with someone I just met, I can pull one from mid-air and ask "What's the weirdest dream you've ever had?" and it would be perfectly acceptable to have a conversation such as that because I had a conversation starter.

I had a pretty weird dream last night. I was in outer space like in the movie Gravity even though I've never seen that movie, and I was pointing out all the things that were impossible. Like, "there shouldn't be sound out here" and "it's not cold enough for it to be space". And then I had a dream that Palm Beach in Florida had clear water, and I'm just looking at Google pictures now, and it looks like my dream is correct and it does have clear water, so my dream was not so much wacky as it was accurate.

But if I used that as dinner conversation, I'd get a lot of nods, tight grins, and eyebrows.
So many eyebrows.

I guess I'll forever and always be that-shy-girl-that-you'll-have-to-get-to-know-because-she's-really-funny-when-you-get-to-know-her-but-until-then-she's-awkward-and-meh.

First impressions are not my thing,
TWS