Vera, Chuck, and What's-His-Name

I've neglected the blog due to a mountain of paperwork that's had me wringing my hands because a) it's important vis a vis my financial future, and b) I don't really understand it.

I've pushed aside the fabric on my cutting table and replaced it with labeled stacks of paper that I paw through occasionally (sometimes frantically).  All of it has to do with the UC retirement system and forms they need.  It's wretched.

On Tuesday, I took a time-out from those forms and switched to wringing my hands about income taxes.  We were coming down to the wire, right there on April 15: no tax return received from our accountant, the minutes ticking away. For the first time in history, we nearly missed the deadline. Multiple phone calls and finally a "partial return" e-mailed to us.  We paid the tax due online with a credit card (miles!). Sigh of relief.

But we haven't checked our tax return against our documents, so who knows if what we paid is correct.  Don't care.  It's done.

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Tomorrow's my birthday--the one the Beatles wrote the song about--and Jerry's been asking me all week where I'd like to go for dinner.  Berkeley has plenty of good  restaurants, and of course there's always San Francisco if we're feeling ambitious.

But I'm not in the mood for ambrosial food served on a tablecloth by an over-confident waiter (overconfident according to me, anyway).  Instead, we're going to a pub several blocks away that has Sticky Toffee Pudding and English beer. 

Coincidentally, this morning I noticed for the first time that I have this weird, crepe-y skin on my left cheek that looks like it used to be pleated and a good ironing only managed to stretch out so that it now sags. When did this happen?

On the other hand, at the Food Pantry on Monday, a client brought in a harmonica and played "Happy Birthday" for me.  He said he was no Bob Dylan, but I thought he was pretty good.  We all clapped, and he looked very bucked-up (his birthday was on Wednesday, which is how this came up.)

And my dear friend Anne gave me this tiny bouquet and some chocolate Easter eggs on when she picked me up to go to the pool this morning:

 

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Does this cartoon strike a chord?

From the latest New Yorker

Tonight Jerry set a spatula coated with salmon fat on a  clean potholder.  This was the day the housecleaners came.  Also, the potholder was brand-new.  I screeched and apologized (but I was still aghast).