The clock reads 10:36 PM right now, which is a firm departure from when bloggery usually begins–11:45 PM to 11:47 PM–and proof positive that this website is under new management, at least for an evening. Instead of treating this as a twice weekly and occasionally arduous ritual, I’m calling it what it really is: a couple paragraphs produced at regular intervals to keep the ol’ frontal lobe limber. That’s it. I realize that thinking in these terms may lend the whole process a more factory-like quality, effectively overshadowing the joy of writing or some such, but I’m fine with that. If anything, this page is a living testament to how passion is seldom a prerequisite for prose.
I’m nearing the four-year mark in my townhouse, which is the longest I’ve ever stayed on a given plot of land, and I thought it’d be timely to reassess homeownership. Back in 2007, when the economy was merely teetering on the brink, rather than plummeting straight into it, having a place to call your own was exactly what folk wisdom prescribed, along with dumping most of your retirement portfolio into stocks. I remember inquiring into whether home values in the area would drop any further and being content with the data I gathered.
But then the proverbial fan store relocated right next to Shit Creek, both home value and portfolio declined by 30%, almost as if they were in cahoots, and the search for the new normal was on. Money aside, my foray into homeownership has been largely good. Biggest drawbacks? I count two things to keep in mind, the next time I’m in the market for property. First, never, ever buy near an apartment complex, what with the 3 AM noise, garbage, and early morning motorcycle idling. Second, make sure that neither your sidewalks nor driveway are concave, unless you like wondering how much water can possibly pool, every time there’s heavy rainfall.
Other than that, it’s been smooth sailing. All the homework and legwork was worth it. I’m glad I looked at so many places. Agonizing over building materials, paying attention to the buying process, and, most of all, mapping out the number of left turns needed to enter and exit the development–all of it was time well spent. A lot of credit goes to the Operator, too, for architecting an experience free from the horrors typically reserved for first-time homeowners. My sister closed on a condo recently, and it was a hell of a road getting there. Her agent botched the endgame, then enlisted his mom to help, who then attempted to cram my sister into a home equity loan. Now, I’m no financial advisor, but I’m pretty sure you need a house to take out such a loan, never mind equity in said house. Or, to put this into terms that would’ve been understandable to these carnies, you can’t borrow against a Ferris wheel that doesn’t exist.
There comes a moment, 20 minutes into TurboTax, when all the world turns still and quiet as your cursor hangs above the “Continue” button. You’ve taken your lumps after plugging in your income statements and now, with the deductions section before you, your chance for redemption is at hand. Here is your opportunity to turn it all around, to take that ticker in the upper-right of your screen and transform it, through the alchemy of tax law, from red to green. That’s been the ritual for the last two or three filings, at least, and it’s worked well for me.
But it didn’t work this year, and try as I might that number stayed red. Very, very red. On one hand, there was a perverse sense of gratification here, because this was a milestone. Through hook or by crook, I was in a completely different bracket. This was big people territory now, with RSUs and stock options and– And a sizable chunk owed to state and country, which brought me straight back to earth. I was annoyed. I mean, a third of my paycheck disappears into the ether every two weeks, and once you pile on property and automobile taxes, well, that civic duty checkbox feels sufficiently checked.
It was, like, what am I paying for now? I had just read a piece on state pensions, and the thought of funding those, however misguided, was cause for anger. A pension! In trying to ascertain precisely how the fuck a pension even works, I may as well have been ruminating over other fantastical conceits, such as a unicorn strapped to a jetpack or diet fries. I quickly clamped down on this train of thought, however, because it wasn’t productive at all. There were taxes to be reported. This was the challenge at hand.
And what a challenge it’s proven to be. I’ve yet to file. I’m stumped. I suspect the mathematics needed to unravel this beast really only call for addition and subtraction, but where in fresh hell those pluses and minuses go eludes me. I considered going to H&R Block, until I discovered this thread, where tax professionals were asking questions disconcertingly similar to mine. I saw it instantly, the full experience run-rated across my mind’s eye: stepping into a green and off-white office, pulling up to a desk made of simulated wood, and then watching someone fumble through my paperwork or, even worse, feigning competence while royally screwing the pooch. So what’s the fix? Research, plain and simple, by canvassing financially savvy peers for insight. I’m dowsing for answers, and I think I may have found them.
If you suspected, even for a moment, that I passed on Thursday’s post because of burnout or some such nonsense, take heart! Allow me to explain why this wasn’t the case. First of all, blogging fatigue sounds like a condition for which there exists but a single cure: an exhortation to man up, followed by a punch to the stomach. That’s what I’d prescribe, at any rate. Second, and most importantly, I burnt out on blogging years ago. All the verbiage you’ve seen since then has been randomly generated at regular intervals for reasons unknown by a husk of my former self.
This weekend was spent on helping family move. A dual move, in fact, involving a foray into self-storage, a U-Haul truck, and an expensive Swedish padlock, but these are conversations for another time. What I want to talk about instead is food. Fast food, specifically, as prepared by culinary artisans Taco Bell and Long John Silver’s. I visited the latter about a fortnight ago. And the former? The fortnight before that.
In truth, both vendors occupy the same space, a garishly appointed building just south of the border, about a quarter mile from a Super Walmart. Although its health rating is sufficient, its ambiance rating suffers from the pall of despair perpetually hanging over the establishment. Perhaps it’s because I choose to go during off-hours, but clientele invariably includes old people in sweats and NASCAR fans seemingly plucked from the speedway. Now, I’m not saying you have to dress up for Taco Bell–this ain’t Applebee’s, obviously–but I don’t think humanity really needs more jorts either. Between the customers and the wretched workers, it’s a completely different world, and that’s part of the appeal.
There’s also an element of nostalgia at play here. Family has been on my mind with greater frequency lately, and my old man genuinely loved Long John Silver’s. I remember how the 30, 40-minute drive to the Long Island location, long shuttered now, was an event reserved for rare occasions. And two weeks ago, even though I knew the golden-crusted slurry would be an affront to my vital organs, I ordered anyway. Sure enough, I felt sick within minutes after “lunch.” My visit effectively beat all the nostalgia out of me. Or did it? Just minutes ago, I was on White Castle’s website, using their store locator to search for a Charlotte branch I knew wasn’t there. I’ve been catching snippets of health talk throughout the office recently, discussions about exercise and dieting and how different regimens are working, and I’ve come to believe my compass is broken. I’m pointed toward a completely different vector, where I’m celebrating my own goddamn Mardi Gras early, with Lent nowhere in sight.