“What Child is this….”

 

It’s Christmas Eve and even though I’m in Florida my thoughts turn back to Lynn, Massachusetts in the 1950s.  For several years in grammar school when I was a kid, I served as an altar boy for Midnight Mass at the Little Sisters of the Assumption chapel two streets over from my house. 

 

Christmas Eve night was a night of great anticipation for a 10-year-old. The first treat was to actually stay up until midnight and quite a while after.  But it was Christmas and at that age staying up was no problem wondering what special surprises were yet to come. 

 

I remember several Christmas Eve nights, during my altar boy tenure, walking alone for the two blocks it took to arrive early for mass preparation at the convent. The sky seemed to always be cloudless that night and the air was so cold it almost hurt to breathe. But the most striking thing of that particular day and that particular hour was the stars. There seemed to be an endless supply twinkling overhead to beat the band. I’m surprised I didn’t trip over the curb stones because my eyes were looking straight up the whole way to the chapel. And that cold, cold air, it was just as crisp as if you could break it off as you breathed it in.

 

The next remembrance was Fr. Walsh. He was a priest that always seemed to be in a hurry, but he was also a gentle and friendly man to one as lowly in my church position as I was. The first of the three masses that night was a High Mass. For those that remember, that was a mass that included all the religious bells and whistles and usually took over 45 minutes to complete, which seemed like an eternity for someone my age on Christmas eve. But Fr. Walsh was able, for the next two masses, to do something I had never seen before or since. He said both masses, in Latin, in 12 minutes each. For a 10-year-old in major anticipation of being united with much desired and hopefully deserved Christmas presents, this was a feat of major league proportions.

 

The next remembrance was the singing of the nuns prior to and during the three midnight Masses. It was a seminal moment in my life. The singing was so pure and virtuous that angels could do no better. Even today, my recall of their rendition of “What Child is This” brings tears to my eyes. After all the years that have passed since I heard this singing, I know all those nuns are in heaven now, but I hope they know, each of them, how much they affected one altar boy with the joy of their angelic voices. 

 

And now the masses are complete and the first present of Christmas was to be bestowed. The nuns would set up a table of candy and goodies for Fr. Walsh, my co-server, George, and myself. The highlight of the gathering was hot chocolate and an envelope. The envelope contained a present for our services as altar boys for the previous year. In it was a $1 bill. Trust me, for the memories of that night that are still with me after all these years, I was handsomely overpaid. 

 

Merry Christmas to all. 

Why I don’t need any presents for Christmas

 

I have a beautiful, loving wife, the best present of all.

I have 3 wonderfully talented and intelligent friends that I used to call my children,

the second best present of all.

I have 7 extraordinary grandchildren that make me smile whenever I think of them.

I have fun and thoughtful sisters, cousins, nieces, nephews, sons-in-law and a future daughter-in-law that mean the world to me.

I have my health.

I have truly good friends that I love to spend time with.

I have a beautiful house in Florida on a fantastic golf course that I enjoy every single day.

I can wake up to the Florida sunshine everyday and have it fill me with joy and warmth.

I can empty my mind when I want and think about nothing at all.

I can do or not do anything I want in the course of a day.

I can eat all the pizza I want any day that I want to.

I know that I have made the effort in my life and accepted the outcome win or lose.

I think it’s better to give my opponent a 3 foot putt than to think about giving him the putt, not give it to him and then watch him miss it.

I can sleep until I can’t sleep anymore and I can go to bed when I feel like it.

I can skip dinner and instead go out for a hot fudge sundae whenever the mood strikes me.

I can play or practice golf everyday.

I can try and continue to live my life by Coach John Wooden’s philosophy that “things work out best for those who make the best of how things work out.”

I can fix enough things around the house that I feel like I’m almost handy.

I don’t have to cut the grass or trim the shrubs anymore.

I can go in the pool less than one hour after eating lunch and not get cramps and drown.

I can sit on my lanai and watch the clouds go by for hours.

I can read good books.

I can make and get phone calls to and from good friends and family and talk and laugh for hours.

I can tell God each day how grateful I am for all these things.

My Thoughts After Two Weeks of a Winter Vacation in Florida

-Bring sunscreen. It's known as the Sunshine State, not the Partly Cloudy State. 

-Never go to a flea market, then Costco, on a Sunday. There will be gazillions of people at both places. The flea market will be mobbed. It'll have an incredible assortment of junk and everyone at Costco will walk around at 1 mph and leave their cart in the exact middle of the aisle. In spite of bringing a shopping list, you WILL forget to buy something. When you go to checkout at Costco, either have the patience of a bomb defuser or bring a lunch. 

                                           (Thank god we left our reptile home.)

-No matter where you are outside and no matter what direction the wind is blowing, you will smell cigarette smoke. 

-If you're coming to Florida to open up a pawn shop, don't bother. They've got millions of them down here. Try Georgia instead. 

-No matter where you are outside and no matter what direction the wind is blowing, you will see someone with a tattoo. 

-You will probably bring the average age, within a radius of 100 miles, down to 75 when you arrive. 

-The entire province of Ontario is here. I mean everybody. Seemingly every other car has an Ontario license plate. I hope the last person to leave Ontario, shut off the lights and turned down the heat before they departed south. 

-You can't swing a dead cat by the tail without hitting a Dollar Tree store, a Dollar General store or a Dollar something store. They are everywhere and all I have is 20's. 

-I see no need to try biscuits and gravy, gator bites and/or grits.

-From the beaches that I've seen, if you want to walk out in the water, you should be halfway to the Yucatán Penninsula before you are up to your neck. 

-Hella's Greek restaurant in Tarpon Springs has the best Greek salad (and the best waitstaff) anywhere.

-Resist the urge to write the Unusual Suspects back home about how nice the weather is. They don't care and someday when they go away, they will get you back, repeatedly. 

-If you rent a place off of Craigslist, check things out as much as you can before you send a check. You don't want to show up in Florida expecting to find Ranch Relaxo and instead find the Weeki Wachee water treatment plant. 

-Never get out of bed before 10 am. What's the point?

-Make sure you are extremely proficient with your GPS app or device. Otherwise, you may end up where old elephants go to die. 

-If you drive down to Florida, have your brake pads and rotors replaced before you come down. There's a traffic light every 72 feet. 

-There are no bugs....I mean none. The legislature must have enacted a law that they cannot live in Florida and must depart forthwith to Massachusetts. 

-If you are planning to check out the gorgeous girls in those skimpy thongs, please refer to the previous comment about the average age being 75. 

-Use the app, Yelp, a lot for restaurants. Don't go to any 4.5/5 star rated places unless they have more than 50 reviews. Also, don't judge a book by its cover. Some of the dumpier looking restaurants have the best food. (Alas, some do not) You're on your own. 

-Don't be disappointed when the first person you see in a thong bathing suit is a guy. 

-If you're coming from New England, bring your own lobsters, chowda and fried clams with you. They don't exist here. 

-If you wonder why Trump won, drive to Florida via western New York State, Pennsylvania, western Virginia, North and South Carolina and Georgia. The many, many Trump signs were still visible. There wasn't a single Hillary sign all the way down. But she lost because the Russians hacked the election. Right. 

-If you misplace or, god forbid, LOSE your sunglasses, just drive directly back home to Ontario. 

-If you like to play golf, it's so cheap here that after 72 holes per day, they pay YOU to play. 

-If you don't drive a pickup truck, why are you here?

Go Pats!

Until next time...........

Like Saving the World Like One Word Like at a Time

(You might want to go the bathroom and/or fetch yourself an adult beverage before you proceed further. It's up to you, but I'll have to ask you to sign a waiver, if you don't.)

Did you ever sit at Starbucks and listen to other people's conversations? Nah, me neither. I hate Starbucks. Their coffee tastes like battery acid, only stronger and more corrosive. And if I'm going to order something “grande” or “vente”, it better have tomato sauce on it and maybe a meatball or two snuggled up next to it. Garlic bread? Don't mind if I do. But anyway, back to listening to other people's conversations. I'm not the NSA or anything but I now have a profession whereby I get paid to listen in, so to speak. You may or may not know this but your beloved blogger has been an Uber driver for the past 6 months. Yeah, that means I get to drive the flotsam and jetsam of society from their humble abodes to their jobs at Chipotle or Fuddrucker's for a fee. Now, no doubt, these are hard working, salt of the earth, illegal aliens that I'm driving, but my opinion of their personal status seems to dramatically elevate if they slip me a $2-4 tip for providing them safe and secure transportation while providing them the light banter that is my trademark. Heck, I'll invite them over for Thanksgiving dinner if they'll duke me $10 for a $40 ride to the airport.


As it is with driving and solving the world's problems in my spare time, I take my Uber responsibilities very seriously. Serious as a heart attack. Getting people from point A to point B is not for the faint of heart. Driving safely through Boston and it's suburbs in traffic of biblical proportions, while being guided by the GPS, is akin to landing a 747 in a blizzard on The Golden Gate Bridge at midnight without the lights on. (For clarification: both the lights on the 747 and the lights on the Golden Gate Bridge are not on.) And I'm just the person to do it. Why did I decide to do drive for Uber, you may ask? Heck, I don't know. I certainly wasn't bored in my retirement. (See previous note about solving all the world's problems.) I have enough in the retirement/on-line poker account to live lavishly into my early 70's. (I turned 67 years young some time ago and thanks again for the birthday present). I thought, “What the heck,” it doesn't cost anything, you can work the hours that you want and I might meet some people that would help create a kickass blog like the one you're reading right now. My lovely bride, the former Miss Massachusetts, says that I started driving for Uber because I get a new audience to listen to my BS several times a day. I think she may be onto something there. I know she's told me on multiple occasions, at ever escalating decibels, that she was tired of listening to my BS. So, I decided to take my act on the road, for profit no less. 

I've driven some interesting people in my travels. 

My first two “riders” on Day 1 were nice people. Rider #1's car was being serviced and Rider #2 was leaving his work as a chef and needed a ride home. (Cha ching!) Very late that same afternoon, I picked a young lady for ride #3, I really didn't see her face as she entered my car but I did notice she was wearing sweat pants and a loose fitting tee shirt. As I fired up the GPS to take her to her destination, I noticed that it said “151 Newbury Street in Peabody.” Now to the uninitiated and/or inexperienced Uber driver one might not recognize that Newbury Street in Peabody is Route 1. Rt. 1 has a million businesses that don't exactly have a sign hanging out front saying that they are “151.” So, I politely asked the young lady which business was located at 151 Newbury Street, her destination. She answered, equally politely, that 151 Newbury Street in Peabody was the site of THE GOLDEN BANANA, a somewhat well known, to people other than myself, STRIP CLUB. She was a stripper. Do you know how hard it is to not laugh your spleen out at a moment like this? I remained my usual controlled and cool as a cucumber self. So I drove her to The Golden Banana and as I approached the building, I wasn't sure whether I should deposit her at the back or front door to disembark. My cat-like mind said “Unload her at the front door you dope” and so I did. Next thing, from the back seat, is a hand with a tip in it. I told her that a tip was unnecessary but she insisted. I was half waiting for her to say, “Here's $5 bucks. Now you can have that operation you always needed.” But she didn't, and, in the words of the songwriter Harry Chapin in his song “Taxi”,”I stuffed the bills in my shirt.” I did turn around to thank the young lady and that's when I noticed the heavy duty eye liner and eye shadow. Tools of the trade, I guess. So she departed and I made sure I didn't explode with laughter for at least 500 feet after I left the parking lot. Just my luck that I was the only person for the next 6-7 hours that was going to see this young lady with her clothes on. Life is definitely not fair.

Some days later on a Friday afternoon, I picked up three people in a nearby town. Thank goodness I drive a Honda Pilot because they had so much luggage I asked the guy if he was going into the witness protection program. There was him, his wife and her mother in the backseat. Now the wheels on the bus hadn't turned round and round more that two or three times when each of them got on their respective cell phones. Three separate people, on three separate conversations, each loud enough that you'd think they learned how to whisper in a saw mill. It was very challenging for me to try and listen to each of their conversations, in order to hear something juicy, like one of them mentioning where Jimmy Hoffa was buried or how the hell Obama not only got elected but re-elected, but I gave it my all. There was no juice or Jimmy Hoffa expose unfortunately, and nobody I know, in or out of the Uber world, can figure out how Obama got elected.

Then there was the two black dudes that I picked up in Lowell. They had black hats, black tee shirts, black pants, socks and sneakers. I would suspect that they wore black underwear also, but that would be profiling. Of course, they had black sunglasses on to complete the thug ensemble. Mind you, it was raining that day but why let the weather interfere with the bad ass couture. In addition, they lugged into "Lucille", my car, a boom box about the size of a 2 bedroom condo. Alleged perpetrator #1 then said to me, "Can you drive us to the Bronx?" My cat like mind quickly discerned that driving Tupac and Denzel 250 miles into the war zone they call the Bronx was not an excellent career move on my part, even if the commission for me would be in the neighborhood of $300-$400. So I said to them in my best Clint Eastwood voice, "I don't think I can do that." Having gotten those words out I summoned my previous Delta Force, Airborne Ranger, Black Ops, Klingon, Seal Team 6 training and said, "But thanks anyway." And they said, "No problem," and promptly exited the vehicle in a timely manner before I had to get "Jack Bauer" physical on them.

But the nails on the blackboard winnah, winnah, chicken dinnah experience is any ride, anywhere, for any distance with two teenage girls in the back. The conversation typically goes something like this: "So I says like to her, like.......... And she like says to me like …...... and I says like to her like, well like......   Every other freakin' word is like "like." For some reason teenage girls must have all the money in the world or mommy or daddy's credit card to take (like) Uber rides, because I seem to get a disproportionate share of them in my travels. The teenage boys that I drive just sit there, say nothing to each other and grow pimples. 

Until like next time.

GOING THROUGH THE CAR WASH WITH THE REAR WINDOW OPEN AND OTHER UNPLANNED ADVENTURES

He said, “Sir, you realize that you are under oath?' I answered, “I am.” Then he said, “Can you explain to the court how you drove through a car wash with your rear window open?” “I swear, I swear to all that is holy that I lifted up all the automatic window buttons to make sure the windows were closed before I went into the car wash,” I said somewhat less than confidently. “Then can you explain to us how the back seat of your car was drenched if you closed all the windows?” I was at a loss, I know I hit those buttons but the window was open when I exited the car wash. The only thing I could think of to say was, “It must be the vast right wing conspiracy.” To my dying day, I'd swear that I closed that window but Lake Ontario in my backseat testified otherwise.

It might be part of the aging process. At least I hope it is. Otherwise I'm looking at a significant bout of CRS (Can't Remember Shit) forthwith. After a brief mental lapse, it was bad enough to get picked off second base as a teenager in a close Babe Ruth league game, but now I'm in the early stages of blaming the bride for moving my car keys when I can't find them.

Which brings me to Exhibit B of the “I think I'm losing what's left of my mind” saga.

The former Miss Massachusetts and I are happily heading to Logan Airport for a trip to Washington, DC and Chapel Hill, North Carolina. The Washington part is so that we can be introduced to the newest Dahlin' in our ever expanding line of grandchildren. Sara with a capital H (that's what I call her) is now on the scene and we are so looking forward to meeting her for the first time. The second part of our trip is to Chapel Hill for the wedding of the daughter of a close friend.  My friend Joe and his wife, were kind enough to drive us to the airport. As we were about to depart his car he said, “What time are you returning so we can be there to pick you up?” I had already sent Joe the itinerary but it was a fair question nonetheless. I said, “Around noon on the 3^rd.” Since Joe's wife had the itinerary on her smart phone, she brought it up on her screen and handed the phone to me. I was a little unsure as to why she was doing this until I happened to notice something regarding our flight times. We weren't arriving on the 3^rd at noon, we were arriving on the 4^th at midnight. Qu'est que c'est? And now light dawns on Marblehead. In my enthusiasm to complete the reservation online, I hadn't noticed that instead of making the reservation with a departing time of 8:40AM I made it at 8:40PM. Since I am too much of a gentlemen to rip off the string of obscenities out loud in front of the ladies that I was thinking, I endured a mental Mt. Vesuvius internally and start our wonderful trip in a foul, black mood all of which left me with no one to blame but myself.

Well, we have an expression in our family that goes, “Things turn out best for those who make the best of how things turn out.” I'd love to tell you that USAir, would allow us to change our reservations to an earlier flight so we wouldn't have to spend 12 hours mesmerized by the human flotsam and jetsam of the Raleigh-Durham airport. They were kind enough to allow us to change for a change fee of $200 per person and a new returning flight charge of $700 each. Since my mother didn't drop me on my head as a kid more than 10 or 12 times, I told the pert and perky young lady on the other end of the phone line that the conversation was over as soon as the last zero of $700 came out of her mouth. So much for the friendly skies. They might be friendly but they definitely aren't cheap.

So is there a caboose on this runaway train of thought, you ask?

There is dear reader.

I found two people at the wedding and subsequently two others in my friendship and relative circle that also booked a flight at one time or another while misremembering that pesky AM or PM thing. Heck, I thought I was the only one and it turns out there's a plethora of AM/PM dunderheads out there. Boy, does that take the pressure off of me. One friend even admitted, although probably not for publication, (so just keep this between us girls), that they booked a flight to the WRONG CITY! They wanted Savannah and booked to Charleston, South Carolina instead. Whoa, I'm feeling better all the time hearing these stories.

Once when hurrying to the airport in San Diego, after a company kick off meeting, the young lady at the counter asked if I had enjoyed my stay in San Diego. I told her I did and she said great because the tickets were dated FOR THE NEXT DAY. I didn’t have to take that one chest high because the company's travel department made those mistaken reservations and I was able to get out that night because space was available for my ample butt, thank God.

Stay tuned for more hilarious hijinks related to misplacing cars in parking lots, locking the keys in the car while the car is still running saga and, the ever popular, trying to remember whether I took that life saving medication.

Like I said, “Things turn out best............”

Until next time...........

I am NOT someone to be trifled with (part 2)

Wow, do I owe my faithful blog readers an apology. To leave you in the lurch after my previous blog was not right. Not right at all. I have blogging principles you know. If you've lost any sleep wondering how your beloved blogger did as the result of his visit to the local IRS office, I apologize. I know by the fan mail that many of you plan your business and personal calendars around the musings of me, your aforementioned blogger. That would make you the bloggee.

Well, here goes.

As it turns out the local IRS office is a mere 17 miles, as the crow flies, from my home, “Ranch Relaxo.” But the crow was grounded, so I had to drive. (Rim shot. I'll be here all week folks.) In order to get to the IRS office from my house, I have to traverse an intersection of two major Boston highways that is only free from mind numbing traffic jams between 11:59 pm and 12:01 am. Unfortunately the IRS is closed during that two minute window, so I had to trek the traffic to complete my mission. Now I am at my most snarkiest in the morning, so I planned to actually go to the IRS office at least 30 minutes before they lowered the drawbridge over the moat. I headed out about 7:30 am, a good hour and a half before the office opened, in order to allow for the traffic mayhem. 17 miles in 90 minutes. You with me? Of course, there wasn't a soul on the road enabling me to cover the 17 miles in a solid 15 minutes, and I got off at the exit way, way early for my “Clash of the Titans” experience. Well, you can't swing a dead cat by the tail in Massachusetts without hitting a Dunkin Donuts and what to my surprise was there in front of me just off the exit ramp, (you guessed it) a Dunkin Donuts. I cleverly pulled into the parking space next to an idling Brinks truck. I made sure the driver could see my hands at all times as I exited my motor vehicle. I could see the headlines now, “Totally Innocent Really, Really Nice Guy vaporized by Brink's employees gunfire for making sudden move with his iPad.” I entered Dunkin Donuts and proceeded to stand in line and cheerily greeted the illegal alien who was about to take my order. Now the lady in front of me had already placed her order for a medium decaf and as I noticed the DD employee reaching for the REGULAR coffee, I mentioned to the woman that they were about to give her regular coffee instead of decaf. It's just the kind of guy I am. No need to thank me. I like to think you would do the same thing if you were in my position. Actually you would probably envision the lady drinking her unsuspecting REGULAR coffee, getting the caffeine heebee jeebies and think it was funny and keep your mouth shut. But then that's the kind of person you are. Now it was my turn to order. I ordered my everything bagel with cream cheese with chive and a medium DECAF coffee with EXTRA cream, being oh so careful to make sure the former communist who was about pour the coffee got it from the right pot. This is exactly the kind of place where people think they can trifle with me. But then I noticed that the person who took my order said they don't carry cream cheese with chive anymore at Dunkin Donuts. EXCUSE ME but the entire Jewish race in New York City lives predominantly on “chive cheese” as they call it, so how could Dunkin Donuts discriminate against a poor, Irish kid from Lynn and stiff me sans chive cheese. Oy Vay! Of course this is what I was thinking and not what I said to Consuelo. And so taking on the persona of the pacifist nation of Switzerland as my support system, I ordered REGULAR cream cheese AND I wanted it ON the toasted bagel. (Are you still with me? Capitalizing this stuff is important so pay attention.) We haven't even got within a mile of the IRS office and I'm already on the verge of an international incident over chive cheese. I dutifully waited in the PICK UP ORDER area humming Beethoven's 9^th symphony in E Flat Major and lickity split here comes my bagel sans cream cheese, chive cheese, cheddar cheese or Chuck E. Cheese. I respectfully pointed out to the andromorph across the counter that I requested that the cheese, chive or not, be placed ON the bagel. You don't think I'm going to “schmeer” my own bagel with cream cheese do you? I have rights you know. The humanoid moved back to his cream cheese work station at about the same rate of speed that Jabba the Hut would have moved and proceeded the accede to my wishes and delicately swipe the PLAIN cream cheese on my now cooling bagel. I kept a keen eye on him to make sure he didn't expectorate on it prior to completion of his appointed rounds. So I'm all set, except for one thing, no coffee. Now one would think with a society that is reasonably health conscious (except for those of us who prefer pepperoni to breathing) that Dunkin Donuts would prepare more than one pot of decaf coffee for the unwashed masses of people that come through the swinging doors, especially at 8:00 am in the morning. But no, you get one pot o' decaf and you'll like it. If Dunkin Donuts made two pots of decaf and re-brewed a new pot after one of those pots was emptied, that would change the axis of the earth and melt the polar ice cap faster than Al Gore made $100 million dollars by selling out to Al Jazeera. So let me recap: I've got a decreasingly tepid bagel covered with not my first choice cream cheese and no coffee. Seemingly hours later, a pert and perky Hell's Angels wannabe cheerfully apologizes for my 30 second wait and handed me my SUPPOSED decaf coffee with ALLEGED extra cream. I was starting to think they were trifling with me. Well, I sat down at a table and since I didn't miss my mouth with either the bagel or the coffee, I guess we could call Round 1 a win for me. Next after killing 30 minutes checking out the blind, cripple and crazy people who occupied the seating area of Dunkin Donuts at 8:00 am, I was off to take on THE MAN, barehanded I might add.

INTERMISSION

(If you need to take a break, it's OK with me. The blog will still be here when you get back. Just remember to wash your hands.)

Since I have a GPS, I was reasonably certain that I would get to the IRS office without further ado or any other type of ado. That's sort of true, but the office is located in a building that although fairly big, by the office building standards of Stoneham, MA, there was no sign that the IRS was housed there. I mean I wasn't expecting searchlights in the sky or Las Vegas type neon lights or anything, but I thought they could help me out here and maybe just ease my anxieties by having a sign out front that let me know I was on the right track. Since I was reasonably certain that I was at the right address, I tried to find a parking space. The only problem was all the signs in the parking garage said that the spaces were ALL assigned and that anyone caught parking in an unassigned space would have to listen to Barry Manilow songs for a period of time equal to but not exceeding the amount of time Obama was a United States Senator. Actually I thought it might be worth the risk since Obama performed his duties as a Senator for less time than it took me to get my bagel. But I digress. Nice, big office building (again we're talking Stoneham, MA here) and NO PLACE TO PARK. I drove around the block 3 times trying to look for a sign that said “Parking for IRS Visitors,” but nope no sign. I parked on a side street some ways away from the building and, while marching down the street with John Philip Souza fervor, I headed to the IRS office.

Now I want you to know I'm half an hour early for the 9 am opening and there are already three people ahead of me. Clearly they were tax dodgers and malcontents who would take hours to declare to the anticipated myriad of IRS agents that they didn't know that had to pay taxes on their income and how were they going to support all of Nicaragua if they had to send the money to Harry Reid instead of Che Guevera or one of his appointed henchmen. I cooled my heels. I must say the IRS people are prompt. At EXACTLY 9:00 am, and I mean EXACTLY, the door opened. I mean nothing pisses me off more, and I mean nothing, than to be waiting for the bank or Costco to open the doors or Mass to start at the appointed hour and 2, 3 or horrifically 5 agonizing minutes late they open the doors or start the Mass. Hey God, I'm busy here. Well not the IRS. With Swiss accuracy the door opened and out stepped an ARMED security guard. Now I was expecting to see a lot of things, but a uniformed security guard with a Glock 9 on his belt at the IRS wasn't one of them. I mean if they have an armed security guard for an IRS office, shouldn't they have at least one B52 circling over our Post Offices? I figured I could disarm the security guard anyway if need be with my National Guard hand to hand combat training from the late 60's, if events deteriorated to the point that this was the only alternative. But heck, I'm just here about Form 5695. What are the chances of indiscriminate gun fire? Now I wish I'd dressed in cammo. I waited for the other three people to enter the office before me, since one of the other people was a woman and I figured she would kick my ass if I cut in front of her. Turns out she was accompanying one of the other men so actually there were only TWO people in front of me. This day, so far, is turning out just like an Annette Funicello movie for me. Dutifully, I went over to the machine that doles out the tickets that tell your place in line (think the deli counter at Stop & Shop) and pushed the button. Guess what number I got???????...................................200!!!!! As in 2 freakin' 0 freakin' 0. I looked at my number, I looked at the other three people standing in the waiting room with me and I thought to myself, “Are there several bus loads of undocumented aborigines walking up the stairs to the office just waiting to push me to number 200 in line? There weren't any aborigines, or aliens documented or otherwise, I just got number 200 and I would have to wait. Now the snarkey atom within my brain started to quiver. Are they going to start at number 1 and call off each and every number until they get to number 200, and then say, "I'm sorry sir, it's time for our four hour coffee break, followed by our three hour lunch. We should return by 5 o'clock just in time to shut down the office for the day." Well, mirabile dictu, it didn't happen that way. The two parties in front of me conducted their business without the necessity for gunfire and it was now my turn.

These are the kind of moments I was put on this earth for.

It was now MY TIME. (Cue the Whitney Houston music.)

NUMBER 200!

Since I was the only person now occupying the waiting room, my cat-like mind told me I was up to bat. That and the ticket that said “200” that I was holding. It was only about 10 to 12 feet from my seat to the counter but I crossed this no man's land without any concern for my personal well being or bodily harm. As I glanced to my right the security guard ever so lazily put his hand on his sidearm so slowly that I think he thought I wouldn't notice. But notice I did. He had the look of “trifle” in his cool, gray eyes.

I completely turned off the snarky gene and with my best Cheshire cat smile cheerfully greeted the civil servant who probably hated her job more than I hated the thought of Hillary taking over in 2016. “Good morning. I have a question and I wanted to know if you could help me, because I'm so helpable.” (The last part I didn't actually say, in case this blog ever ends up being read into the Congressional Record at my trial.)

“I have a question about Form 5695” I said.

And that’s when things started to go downhill.

She looked at me with a “We don't have no stinkin' Form 5695 here” look. She said, “Form 5695, Form 5695, let me check. Let me see which of those nasty forms is that 5695?” Her (I assume supervisor/associate/mentor/life partner) was right next to her on her computer, probably playing solitaire in a busy manner that would allay any fears that she was screwing off at 9:02 am on a workday. The screwing off and solitaire playing would have to wait until later in the day because we had to solve the mystery of Form 5695.

Ah, Form 5695.....Form 5695. (I was waiting for her to say it like Sydney Greenstreet in the Maltese Falcon.) Yes Form 5695, that's the Residential Energy Tax Credit Form. Now I knew we were getting somewhere and resolution, sweet resolution was just a question away. I related my question in my terse, tight manner (notwithstanding this never ending blog) and upon completion of my question, I reinforced it with, “Did I make myself clear with my question?” That always gets them because if they say yes, then fumble the answer, Mr. Snarky can release the hounds. “No, I understand your question completely........(I was so afraid that her next word would be the word “BUT” and here she comes, comin' round the mountain, the letter “B” forming at the edges of her mouth…...."BUT..........we don't handle those types of questions at offices like this." I tried not to make any sudden movements now or I knew the guard was to going to take the Glock off of safety if I did. There was no doubt in my mind that the government would re-open Alcatraz just for me. I really wanted to say, “At what level of IRS office do you answer questions about Form 5695, the MARS level? I wanted to say that I wasn't really asking where the (bleep) they buried Jimmy Hoffa. I just wanted a simple answer to a simple question about a simple tax credit on the simple ____ing Form 5695. I wanted to deliver this in a measured tone devoid of any unnecessary histrionics, since I was waiting for the security guard to bellow at any second, “SIR, STEP AWAY FROM THE COUNTER AND PLACE YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD.” It didn't get to that fortunately. I just visibly slumped in front of her completely devastated and destroyed, just like the time I found out, when I was 62, that Marshmallow Fluff wasn't good for you.

They don't answer questions about Form 5695 at that level IRS office.

They don't have chive cream cheese anymore at Dunkin Donuts.

And Annette Funicello isn't coming down for breakfast.

I said to myself, “Screw it. (actually it wasn't the word “screw” it was another word but we have to watch our language on this blog.) I'll fill out my taxes and I'm taking the $150 energy credit whether they like it or not.”

No, I will NOT be trifled with.

Not now.

Not ever.

Until next time.................................

I am NOT someone to be trifled with.......

So I called the IRS today.....

Now that I'm retired I have copious amounts of free time on my hands. When a thing like filling out income tax forms comes up, I'm on it like a duck on a June bug, especially if I'm getting a refund. Since I have the personal finances program Quicken and the HR Block tax filing program on my home computer, I can compile my filing info very quickly.

Last year, the bride and I did some renovations here at “Rancho Relaxo” so that we might sell the palatial estate, including the South 40, in the foreseeable future. Someone mentioned that there might be a tax credit from the IRS available for the heating improvements we made. That would be listed on IRS Form 5695 and the credit could be as high as $500. You may find this hard to believe but trying to translate the Rosetta Stone was easier than trying to decode IRS Form 5695. Well, I said to myself, I'll just call the IRS Help Line and get help-ed. Using my Providence College education I googled “IRS” and swiftly was informed of the IRS URL ASAP. Now comes the fun part. As a participatory project, why don't you go online sometime in the next 12 years, bring up your browser and type in IRS.gov. Now I'll start the stop watch and we'll see how long it takes you to find the 800 number to call the IRS. Ready.....go. Hmmmmm. Hmmmmm. La de de la de la. Found it yet? Keep looking, we've got plenty o' time. Dum de dum la de la de dum. TIME'S UP. Don't lie. You couldn't find it could you? It's well hidden. It would be easier trying to find Obama's college transcripts. What do you think they want you to call them and ask them questions? Are you serious? But after 3 days and with the help of a pack of dogs, I found it. So I called the IRS, 1-800-829-1040, for those of you keeping score at home. (Write it down, unless you have “people” who do your taxes for you, then give them the number.)

One ringy dingy, two ringy dingies. (I'm not actually sure what the plural of dingy is.) After the expected request for me to push 1 on the phone for English, there was a long (and I mean long) message in Siri's voice (whoever the actress is who does Siri's voice is killing it in the income department being hired by both Apple and the IRS) telling me that the tax season was here and I should have a nice day and forms can be gotten on the IRS website (good luck) and if I haven't fallen asleep from this message I should press a button to go the next prompt. As in “Press 1 if  you have a question about filing your IRS forms?” I wanted to say no I called the IRS so I could ask, “What's the deal with Nicky Minaj?” I respectfully pressed 1. Guess what I got? Another prompt asking me to press 1 if I needed help with a particular form, press 2 if I needed to know how the bejesus Obama ever got re-elected, press 3 if I needed to know who put the bomp in the bomp de bomp de bomp, and so on. Of course if I needed to repeat that I could simply, oh so simply, press the pound sign on my phone to repeat all that garbage. (# is called the “pound sign” on the telephone. It's called a “hashtag” on Twitter. There aren't you glad we resolved that problem?) I confidently pressed 1. Another message came on informing me that since I had solved the Rubik’s Cube of the IRS's phone tree to that point, the rest of this conversation would be recorded by the NSA since I was either some type of rabble rouser, trouble maker, ne'er do well or someone who could be trifled with, which EVERYBODY knows I'm not.

Never, not once, to this point was there an option to speak to a “live” attendant/agent/minion/unicorn.

Since I had enough provisions, favorable weather conditions, a keen eye, the wind at my back and I had girded my loins (that was more fun than expected), I needed my question answered so I pressed on against formidable odds. After about three more “pressings” and options and other shenanigans and goings on, I got to speak to someone. What a thrill to speak to Miss “Smith” (The names are changed to protect the innocent and/or incompetent). She not only gave me her name but her badge number too so, I assume, if I had trouble with Miss Smith, I could call the Federales and rat her out for not treating me like the wonderful person I am and someone who was not to be trifled with. Now understand Miss Smith was not the person who was going to answer my question, she was going to RE-ROUTE my call to the appropriate department who could answer my question. Since I thought it was probably best to not be in my incredibly snarky telephone mode, I decided to ask her why I needed to be connected to anyone other than the person involved in answering a simple question about the IRS forms. I told her what form I had a question regarding and she said that she would connect me to the law department. THE LAW DEPARTMENT? I was calling the IRS about a form and I'm going to the law department? I picture the law department probably being one floor below men's suits and one floor up from women's unmentionables. Did they finally figure out that the business mileage that I deducted as a business expense in 1971 (and for the remaining 41 years of my stellar sales career) was just a tad inflated? Was I now going to pay the price for my enhanced mathematical indiscretion, perp walk and all? (I was prepared to invoke a version of a previous response from a former President and say, "I did not commit tax fraud with Miss Lewinsky!") These guys could actually trifle with me and it's my understanding that there is significant trifling going on in Leavenworth.  They were THE LAW!!! The phone rang at the Law Department and guess what, it rang and it rang and it rang. Must have been their day off. No laws today. Sorry. Come back tomorrow and pay twice as much for one law and get the second law absolutely FREE. Then I got disconnected. As in back to square one disconnected. Anyone else would have given up, but not me. My forefathers didn't help clear the west so that I could give up after being hung up on. I'm not to be trifled with.  Not me who believes in truth, justice and the American way. So I recreated the “Myth of Sisyphus” (look it up) and I called again.

More prompts. More Siri voice. More pound signs. This time I got Miss Jones (again not her real name but I got a feeling her first name might have been Tamika or Shamika, if you get my drift) and I still question whether it was her real ID number. She told me that there was no one who could answer my question about Form 5695. “We don't do that anymore” she said. So I asked if anyone could answer a question about the 1040 form in general. “Nope” was her reply but if I would go back to IRS.gov and review, for the rest of my life, (my words, not hers) the info provided there, she was sure that I could find the answer to my question. Now I was hoping the NSA was actually listening because I just then turned on the snarky switch. It wasn't pretty for Miss Jones from that point on. I'm pretty good at “snarky” and trust me I was at my “snarkiest” for a good minute or two. Ultimately I thanked her profusely for not providing me the assistance that I had come to expect from a major branch of the US government that I support with my hard earned tax dollars for lo these many years and I pressed the button on my phone ending the call very violently just to show her I meant business.

The local IRS office is about 17 miles away and I'm planning to drive there to see if their representatives can be as profoundly inept face to face as they seem to be over the phone.

I will not be trifled with in person either.

Stay tuned.

Until next time.........