Our taxes have been e-filed.
Because it’s April 15th and all.
And because Hubs pretended that he was in college again, as he pulled an all-nighter last night, to finish them up. Hubs’ motto is, “Go huge, or go home. And why do taxes in February or March? That’s what the night of April 14th is for.”
I do not do taxes. At all. I wouldn’t even understand the first step in performing a taxy kind of break dance. Before I got married, my dad did my taxes for me, because he’s a great dad and all. After I got married, my dad happily resigned from being my personal accountant, and Hubs took over the job of doing my annual taxes. A couple of years ago, Hubs looked at me and said, “Listen. You need to learn to do your taxes. What if something happens to me? How will you get your taxes done then?” Without missing a single beat, I replied, “Honey, what do you think H & R Block is for? I can always pay someone to do my taxes.”
I, myself, try to distance myself from the chaos that is the evening of April 14th, so when my friend, Amy, texted me to see if I’d like to see a flick at the cinema, I didn’t even hesitate. I think I dropped my cell phone in all the flurry and hurry of trying to fire off a positive responding text.
We saw The Last Song, on account of the simple fact that I actually finished the book on Monday night.
The book? Very good. I sobbed like the woman who was an hour late for the shoe sale at the mall. The movie? Oh my lands, people! Do you want me to be your own personal movie critic? Because it seems like all I ever do on this blog is review movies and discuss explosives. Obviously, I lead a highly sophisticated life.
Save. Your. Dollars.
The movie is cheesier than Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. The kind with three different cheeses, and that’s pretty cheesy. I think that Amy and I were supposed to be moved to tears, but alas, neither of us could work up anything. Oh, I tried. Don’t get me wrong. I brought a stack of napkins into the theater with me, which I swiped from the concession stand, and I told Amy just before the movie started, “Listen. After reading the book, I feel like I should probably have brought a bath towel to catch all the tears we’re going to be shedding, but I plum forgot, so this stack of napkins will have to suffice.”
Nothing, people. We used a few of the napkins to sop the butter from our popcorn off of our fingers, and that’s it. I actually think I wanted to cry in this movie. I wanted to purge all the sadness that I felt over reading the book out of me for good, so I had grand hopes of a good cry, and I let myself down! Amy and I emerged from the cinema two hours later with dry eyeballs.
And Amy and I had to wonder about the fellow who sat behind us at the movie theater last night. The forty-something-year-old guy who strolled into The Last Song, alone. Because Hubs would have to be playing to win one million dollars in some game, where the final task was, “Go see a chick flick by yourself,” in order for him to be caught in a movie aimed at the female population, alone. And even then, I’m not sure Hubs would do it. He’d simply say, “You know, we’ve lived without a million smackers in our bank account for this long, and I’m not sure seeing The Last Song alone is worth it. I think I’ll just take a pass on the last task in this million-dollar game.”
The popcorn was good, though. In fact, it was fantastic. Of course, Amy put the poor teenager at the concession stand through the third degree before she ordered any.
I had ordered a small bag of butter with some popcorn floating on the top, and then the little teenage boy turned to Amy and said, “And what can I get for you?” He was so polite. Trying to be a good employee and all. Looking to earn a few dollars by working at the theater, to pay for college, I’m sure.
Amy replied, “I’d like some popcorn, but I really want to know when you cooked it. Because listen! Today is Wednesday, which isn’t exactly prime time for fresh popcorn to be made, and I’m guessing that your popper is full of Tuesday’s popcorn, and, if that’s the case, I’m going to be sadly disappointed.”
A whole lot of staring ensued, as the poor kid’s jaw dropped open, and he wasn’t quite sure what to say. Amy, of course, pulled this all off with a beautiful smile. Finally, he croaked out, “Do you want to taste a piece before you commit to buying a bag, ma’am?”
“Well, I just don’t want to be fooled into buying day-old popcorn on a Wednesday, because I’m sure you’re trying to unload yesterday’s snacks here.”
I couldn’t quit grinning. It was the funniest, bravest thing anyone has ever done in front of me at the concession stand before!
A little teenage girl overhead our conversation, and she piped in with, “I just made that popcorn fresh about ten minutes ago. I promise! You can really taste some, if you want, before you buy any.”
And then Amy, bless her heart, burst out laughing and said, “That’s alright. I’m going to believe you guys, and I’m buying some made-fresh-on-Wednesday-night popcorn.”
When I got home, I told Hubs all about Amy’s conversation with the kids at the concession stand, and he replied, “You know the teenage boy? I’ll give Amy five bucks if he didn’t spit right on top of her popcorn, because I know how seventeen year old boys operate.”
OH, GROSS!!! I’m not sure Amy considered this, and, people, she ate her popcorn right up. Hubs is just plum full of very useful information about boys.
So yes, while Amy was arguing the freshness of the popcorn, and while we were trying to cry at the cheesy movie and failing miserably, Hubs was at home, diligently doing our taxes on the computer.
And he was still diligently doing them at midnight.
And I think he finally hit the “all done” button around 1:30 this morning.
What with it being Thursday, April 15th and all.
And I’m sure that the kids at the theater are serving Wednesday’s popcorn down there right now. Clearly, you can never be too careful when you place your order.
“I’d like a bag of butter, with some fresh popcorn pieces floating on top, and I don’t want any spit in the bag.”