running

I started running June 20, 1977.

Anyone who knows me well is probably wondering why I haven’t written about this by now.  It’s been such an integral part of my entire adult life that I suppose I take it for granted, and I know I shouldn’t. Whenever I sustain an injury, I remember how important it is to me. I can honestly say it is the only constant I have ever known. If I must be labeled, let me be labeled “runner.”

Back in the Paleolithic era of my childhood, pre-Title Nine, girls were not encouraged to exercise or play sports. We had “gym,” where we participated in a variety of activities, but none of it was taken seriously. We were required to wear bloomers, for Pete’s sake. Horrid red baggy shorts with Velcro at the legs. Good Lord, I hated those classes.

So of course, I thought I hated exercise in general.

If you couple that with all my childhood allergies, it’s something just short of a miracle that this lifelong habit developed. It was certainly against the odds.

My first ex-husband (yep, you read that correctly; there are multiples) thought he married a sorority girl. Oh, he knew I wasn’t, but I looked like his frat brothers’ sorority girl wives, so that was close enough for him. All the Sorority Girl Wives took up running in the mid-‘70’s, when the sport was just starting to come into the public’s consciousness. I can only assume the reason they ran was to avoid that inevitable weight gain that comes with marriage.

Naturally, Kevin wanted to know why I wasn’t running too. I’m pretty sure he asked that question over his standard dinner of fried chicken, French fries, and M & M’.s. [I’m really serious here. I didn’t see lettuce – or any vegetable - in my refrigerator for three long years.]

So that June day, before getting ready for work (not being required to be there until noon), whim and curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to give it a shot. I remember the flat red Adidas “sneakers” I owned at the time (shoes being only for show back then, not function). It’s probably a miracle I even owned a pair of shorts.

Knowing nothing about pacing, or the fact that if you go full out, you will last about three point two seconds, that is precisely what I did and about how long I lasted before I had to stop. Not a roaring success. And there was the minor complication of my being a smoker at the time.

But the next day I went out again. I can tell you honestly, I have no idea why. I got better, and by end of summer I could run through the apartment complex multiple times.

When winter came, I stopped…..but come spring, I started again. That, too, when I think of it, is kind of odd. I don’t know how I ever found the discipline to start all over again.

We joined a new racquetball club the next year. In the center of the building were weight machines with an indoor track around those. Yep, you guessed it….a nice, state of the art, padded and banked track…that was 26 laps to the mile. When the next winter came around, I went there to run instead of quitting. I wouldn’t find out for several more years that running outdoors in winter weather isn’t fatal.

Marriage number one fell apart and I used running for stress relief.

A new race was in town (the first one held in 1977), and I was starting to love running so much I thought I’d give it a try. A half marathon. 13.1 miles. Bill Rodgers even came to compete in 1978.

I kicked up my mileage to five miles a day, but about two months before the race, one of my ankles began to swell. A lot. I went to the sports doctor. That, too, a new concept. This sports doc was the only game in town back then.

He looks at my Nike Waffle Trainers….which I’d had so long, the entire backs of them were worn flat.

[Yes, there they are, in the photo below. One of my most cherished possessions.]

He asked where I was running and how far. When I told him about the indoor track, he had only a few words to say. “Get new shoes. Run outdoors.”

Now, you have to know, my parents, specifically my mother, had instilled in me a complete terror of asthma attacks and I thought surely running that far outdoors would do me in. Never mind that I planned to do exactly that two months later. Talk about convoluted logic. I remember that first outdoor run. I went slower than usual and paid attention. Nothing. No wheezing. No shortness of breath. I felt like a bird set free.

Ultimately, I ran the 500 Festival Mini-Marathon in 1980, 1981, and 1982…..

...and then again in 2005 and 2006. Remarkably, my recent times are comparable or better to those first races twenty-some years ago.

Running has taken me through two divorces, multiple moves, career changes, night school, deaths, and personal catastrophes. Running caused me to stop smoking for good and become something of a health nut. Running has surely kept me sane. Running helps me work out solutions to problems and feeds my creativity. There is nothing like air unsullied by exhaust fumes, birds waking, and a glimmer of sun over the eastern horizon to start a day. There is no better time to talk to God.

I had someone accuse me that I run "to impress men.” I laughed so hard at that idiotic comment that I nearly sprained something. Seriously. I run at 5:30am. Even if the streets were lined with men at that hour, all they’d see is a middle-aged woman in mismatched clothing, white legs turning pink from the cold, hair soaked with the effort, and exercise-induced snot running down her face. Yep. What guy wouldn’t be attracted to that?

My morning run seems to be failing me now, and I don’t understand why. This current type of stress has been different and even getting out the door to run has been a challenge. Maybe it’s just that this stress has gone on entirely too long and the mental wear and tear are more than a daily run can repair. I don't know what to do about it except keep trying.

So, next time you see me, don’t ask, “Are you still running?” Ask me, “Did you run today?”

whither thou goest

I went for a run Saturday morning. Nothing unusual about that, except that I got a “late” start. Late for me is anything past 6:30am. I wasn’t into it half a mile, when Karma took a turn, and I came upon these two little guys. Karma knows an animal lover when she sees one.

They were panicked. He-Dog stood at the side of the road while She-Dog paced here and there, ears perked and straining for a familiar voice. Up and down the middle of the street She ran, then up to meet me when she saw me coming. Both little faces look up in that beseeching way little dogs have.

Are you her? Where are we? Will you help us?

A truck had already passed. A mother and daughter stopped; I must’ve looked as distraught as the dogs. The Daughter told me she’d never seen them before. No collars. I’d managed to get closer, and I see that their coats are matted and unkempt.  I think they’ve been dumped. A third car. Nope, they’d never seen these dogs either.

After the fourth car sped by, I didn’t think about it any longer. The dogs trusted me by then. I picked up He-Dog. He was heavier than I expected so, rather than pick up the other, I started walking, and She followed. Led, really. No way was She going to let her mate leave her side. That half mile to home was a long, odd procession.

I fed them, gave them water, enclosed them in my garage in Jasmine’s old crate, and called for someone to take them to the shelter. They huddled together, grooming each other, and shook with fear until I talked to them and told them it would be OK.

You’ll be warm. You’ll be fed. This shelter has a good adoption rate. You won’t have to run the streets anymore. I promise.

When the Officer came, I picked up He-Dog, and She-Dog, of course, followed us out to the waiting van. But what amazed both the Officer and I was when I placed He in the back of the van. She, as short as she is, nearly managed to crawl into the back of the van all by herself.

Not without me, you don’t.

They refused to be separated. Never mind they are hopping into a van with a tall guy in a uniform who they’ve never seen, going to who knows where. It’s all unknown, but they don’t care. They’re together.

I’ve always thought we as humans were meant to travel through life in pairs. The Dogs demonstrated that today.  If you’re lost, hungry, have no idea where you are or what to do next and the future is completely uncertain, you still have each other, and that means everything. Each of you gives the other strength to face whatever happens next, and it’s true...love is all you need.

If two dogs can be that committed to each other, can’t we?

autumn leaves

How can one chance encounter – not even an encounter, really, since at least twenty feet separated the two of us and he didn’t even know I was there at the time – have changed my life so completely?

I realize that’s as trite and idiotic a statement as they come. Maybe. Every single second, lives are changed by marriage, divorce, birth, death…but those are large events. My life changing event was only the crossing of paths. It should’ve been inconsequential.

It was seven years ago today, that chance encounter. I sent the fateful email the next day….and received a reply.

My entire world changed as a result, and I thought it was for the better.

It didn’t work out.

You can take the logical side of the situation and try to see the good that came of it while also admonishing yourself to never, ever waste a thought or feeling on that person again.

So, the good:  I took a job that allowed me to gain some incredible accounting experience I wouldn’t have gotten otherwise. I learned to fly. I met hundreds of new people.

The bad: I got divorced (both good and bad). My finances are a shambles.

Am I better off? I don’t know how to answer that. Some days I feel like I only traded one type of stress for another.

Then, turn and take the illogical side, the side ruled by the heart, the side we’re all supposed to ignore, right? I cut myself a break for being vulnerable and actually letting someone in far enough to cause that much pain.

When it ended, I took a year to absorb what I’d learned, letting it sink in that what I thought was true was not and “we” were not an “us.”

I took the next year and a half to forgive him.

Then I took the year and a half after that year and a half to forgive myself. A wise man once said “forgiveness is the gift you give yourself.” It is, to this day, harder for me to forgive myself for being blindly stupid than it is for me to forgive him all his lies.

But still, the internal argument continues….

Brain: “How can you possibly give this person a passing thought after all this time? You are a complete frigging dunce.”

Heart: “So your point is? I’d rather be a fool who lost than someone afraid to take a risk.”

Brain: “Without me, you’ll be nothing but babbling spineless mush.”

Heart: “If you want to operate without me, go ahead, be a cold hearted bitch.”

This argument can and does go on until the wee hours. My head’s so full of noise it’s a wonder I sleep at all.

Once the brain is done telling me that logic should rule, the heart/my artist’s side demands that the swirling foggy colors of those memories take over. I don’t will this to happen, it just does. It just is. There is no right or wrong.

Why is it that two people who theoretically meant something to each other can not sit and have a conversation (a much needed conversation, for me anyway)  that might clear the air and allow each to let go and go on? I tried to arrange it. He said he would do it. We never did.

Yes, Captain, this time every year, when leaves begin to turn, and there’s a slight chill in the air, it’s your time of year, and you are on my mind.

talkin’ ‘bout my guy(s)

It’s been one big struggle for me to write this blog entry. The depth of my gratitude is just not coming though and I’m sounding like an idiot. How do you let guys know what a difference they’ve made? I mean, they’re guys, for Pete’s sake. They don’t communicate. When forced to talk, they grunt their responses, all the while staring at the television. They don’t talk about touchy-feely stuff, right?

Or maybe they do. Some of ‘em.

Completely by accident and all of a sudden (so typical of me lately, to be that oblivious), I look up and something in my life has changed. I have a pack! Call them my homeboys, my guy committee, my band of brothers. It is like having a huge family of nothing but brothers, the brothers I always wished I’d had to help guide me through life. Do this, don’t do that, don’t be scared, you can do it….advice, confidence, someone looking after me.

I know what you’re thinking - how very odd, she’s writing something positive about the male gender for a change. It’s true, there are a few of them who frustrate me more than, say, trying to thread cooked spaghetti through a keyhole.

Several of them are “new,” but more are from the past. The unfortunate bit about that…more of my past has become my present. Damned the past, anyway. Who asked you to show up now? So that rabbit hole beckons me again. At some point, I suppose I’m going to have to go willingly, see what is down there, find out what it is that so haunts me, and make my peace.

Oh hell. This was not on my calendar any time soon. If ever.

All these guys have a way of being amazingly complementary in an oddly matter of fact way… yet forcing me to remember who I was, to consider who I am now, to wonder who I should be, can be, who they think I am…which is the real girl? Instead of hearing “give up, you can’t, you won’t, you’ll never, you’re dreaming,” I’m hearing them say “you can do it, it will be OK, we’ll help you.” Quite the refreshing change, after hearing so much negativity for years on end.

My guys. You’re workin’ magic and you don’t even know it.

small town

Last week, I went back to the town I was raised in, and simultaneously, accidentally took a trip to Nostalgia. It’s not a place I’ve ever been terribly anxious to visit, but there I went, anyway, just like Alice down the rabbit hole. She couldn’t help herself. Neither could I.

I took the State Road east, and for the first half hour, it’s a congested mess. There are some folks – mostly politicians and/or developers/builders - who believe retail is the answer. The only result we got for their ‘vision’ was congestion, vacant buildings, and peaceful open farmland that will be no more.

Once the State Road east/west crosses the State Road north/south, it’s an entirely different story, and a relief. Fields after fields of corn. Native bachelor buttons line the road. A roadside stand piled high with that corn for sale. Even the few stop signs that pop up as you get closer to my Small Town are still there, still the same. It’s Middle American at its best, and I’d choose to live nowhere else.

So I drove that section, eastbound, and thought and thought and got lost in those thoughts, no traffic to wake me from my reverie….

I have flashbacks about the twice a year trips we’d take from my Small Town to the Big City for school clothes and shoes. That same State Road, then the one heading south, to the only shopping mall that existed in the ‘60’s. I can remember riding in the car in silence, watching and tracing the abandoned railroad track that paralleled that road, wondering what happened to that train and the people on it, dreaming of the day I’d be grown up, living in the Big City on my own, working in the department store we were headed to visit.

48 years later, the drive over is comfortingly the same. Nothing has changed. Given the tumult in my life, that’s a welcome sight.

I pass the street my 4^th grade teacher lived on. I pass the big fancy house that the “rich” people lived in. I pass Davis Park and remember summer day camp there and decide to take a chance and drive through my old neighborhood. I haven’t been there in 10 years.

One of the things that surprises me is how narrow the streets feel. The other observation, which, why it didn’t occur to me until just then escapes me, is that all the streets were named after either trees or flowers or plants. Dogwood, Laurel, Redwood, Oakwood, Ivy. Given my immersion in the gardening world, I find that ironic, and wonder if, subliminally, these old streets had any impact on my future life. I’d always given my maternal farmer grandparents the credit for that.

So I turn the corner onto Tulip Street and slow down….it’s only two blocks long, and “my” house is on the end….and “my” house looks fine. Better than fine. The new owners are taking good care of it. I sit at the end of the street for a second or two and breathe a sigh of relief.

The next stop before my appointment with my attorney is the cemetery. I am ashamed to say I forgot where She is. I took a wrong turn, got out of the car, and wandered aimlessly about, plastic flowers in hand, in 95° heat and flip-flops and a black dress, until a caretaker on a mower stopped and asked if I was lost. I guess I’m good at looking lost.

But what happened is one of those conversations you have with complete strangers that changes your day. That also happened to me once in early 2007, too, crossing a downtown street as I was leaving a job I hated. Strangers should not underestimate their impact. This caretaker engaged me in conversation for maybe 10 minutes, and had I not had an appointment, I’m sure I would’ve stayed longer. No matter. He made me feel like a normal, desirable, intelligent human being, and that’s what’s difficult to hang on to when you live as I do right now. I don’t know who he is, but I’d like to thank him for it. Such a simple thing, but the direction of my thoughts, spiraling downward for months, was changed by that conversation. I felt like I’d known him all my life.

So I leave him, and take the right turn, and find Her. Her spot, too, looks familiar and unchanged, or as unchanged and “normal” as 10 years can be with no one to ground you or tell you that you are doing fine, better than most people would be doing in the same situation and not fucking up everything you touch.

From there, to downtown.

I have known this attorney (and I say “this” attorney because I must know at least 10) since the early ‘60’s, since grade school. There are no presumptions or pretenses between us. That, too, is a relief. He is he, and I am I, and once the business is taken care of and lots of papers signed, we retreat to the Country Club for a civilized lunch and off the record discussions of the hell we’ve both been through over the years. Attorney-client privilege is a good thing.

Is it possible you have to go back before you can go forward?

I didn’t need to go back…I’m tiring of all the rabbit holes and confusion and wrong turns….but in this case, I’m glad I went.

customer service

I’ve run into multiple bad examples within a scant 24 hours. I’m shaking my head, wondering how any of these people keep their jobs, let alone run companies.

First up…I applied for a job yesterday….in person. Now I realize that’s waaaay too up close and personal and human for a lot of folks these days. They’d rather run you through their computer and assign you a numeric score. These same people wonder why the employees they ultimately hire aren’t warm and fuzzy and a good ‘cultural’ fit.

It went like this….

“Is M*** in?”
“No.” No explanation, just NO.
“Will you see that he gets this?”
I hand the woman at the desk an envelope with my resume and business card enclosed. She eyes it suspiciously.
“Is this about employment?”
“Yes.”
“We’re not allowed to take paper.”
“HUH?”
“It’s a new rule.” Oh good, a Rules Person.
“Oh Really? I’m a CPA, and I’ve never heard of that rule.”
“It’s new; it all has to be on computer now.”
“Federal or state rule?”
“I don’t know. It’s new.”

She says she’ll give it to him, did I apply on line (yes), and oh by the way, my dropping in would not go well with him either.
I didn’t even get to explain that the purpose of my visit was twofold, that I might possibly want to relocate a certain piece of equipment to their facility. That pathetic excuse for a customer service representative cost them a potential $500+ a month client.

Next up, a new café/restaurant in town. I call to order carry out for tomorrow. The girl-child on the phone is just not sure I can do that.
“Huh?”
Well, they never know what they’re going to have from day to day on the menu, and what they have posted on their website is not always accurate.
“Do you have chicken salad?”
“Yes.”
“OK, do you have the turkey Swiss avocado sandwich?”
“Well yes, but it’s not on the same bread.” Oh Good Lord. As if I care.
“Any sides?”
“Yes we have pasta salad.”’
“Great. Let me order one of each of those for pickup tomorrow.”
“Ohhhhh. OK.”

So tomorrow, meaning today, comes.

I go to same said café.
There’s a man-child working the counter and I’m not sure he’s even going to speak to me at first. It’s not like he’s busy. There are no customers at all.
Yes, he has my order all ready. Well that’s nice. I’m wondering when, if ever, he’s going to get it out of the cooler. He’s way more interested in fussing with the espresso machine.
I ask about the artists’ studio spaces they have for rent there. He has no idea about them. Nothing. Not how many, not what they cost per month. He does get the brilliant idea, finally, to write down the shop owner’s name and email address.

Two hours later, someone from Employment Yokels calls and leaves a message. The reason they don’t take paper job applications is to do with affirmative action, and I should apply on line and attach my resume there.
Again, HUH?
What about the folks who don’t have computer access? How, please tell me, does this procedure, in the name of affirmative action, benefit them?

And of course, grand finale of the day, there’s always the jackass who never returns calls or emails. When did “I’ll call you” not mean exactly that?

I give up. I was raised better than this.
When did common sense, respect, and customer service disappear?

redemption

What do you do when black becomes white, white becomes black, and there’s so much gray you wish that you’d wake up out of this Kansas tornado nightmare/dream to find color again so you could really see? Please Glinda, help me.

It’s been like that here for weeks. The bad guys have become good guys. The good guy has turned bad.

One, who has hurt many people over the course of his lifetime steps up and says he will help, then gets scared, then when the firestorm calms and he is sure he won’t get burned in the process, follows up with his words and promises and helps me do something that I would have no way of doing on my own.

Another, who did a Really Bad Thing a long time ago and paid the price for it, who everyone still wonders about, comes to my rescue with the essentials of life.

The third, who looks to the outside world to be benign and kindly as your local dairy farmer is kicking me as hard as he can, knowing full well I am already down and have been for so many years that there is nowhere else to go but up or die and frankly right now terminal cancer sounds like a great idea. What kind of person kicks someone who’s already down? Does that make him feel like a Big Man?

Then there are two new players who, through their continued kindness and perceptions, managed to get me through the end of the worst of the shitstorm and convinced me that those who were screaming “off with her head” the loudest were really the ones with the problem. Deep down I knew that, but when you hear all the insanely crazy for so long, you almost drink the Kool-Aid and start to doubt yourself.

And God Help you if you tell the politicians the truth. They don’t want to hear it. This is Camelot, you know. Everything Is Perfect.

So you’ve got two that you thought were really bad that maybe aren’t totally, and you’ve got one you thought was good who has turned hateful and vengeful and doesn’t care, by golly he will get even, even though that getting even is the equivalent of kicking a dog and will create him some noticeable bad Karma and probably already has because the news of his spitefulness has spread like wildfire and this is the one instance I’m grateful for the grapevine of gossip.

So it’s all a jumbled up mess, isn’t it? No one is as they seem, no one is as you thought. It’s the bowl of vanilla ice cream you’ve just dumped chocolate syrup on, when you were a kid. First it’s black and white and the delineations are clear, then you start mucking around with your food and pretty soon you’ve got a swirling mess of every shade of gray imaginable and you’re not quite sure what to do with it.

Nothing in life makes sense anymore. Only the sun coming up, the weeds growing, the pets wanting to be fed, the sun sets.

All I know is my life will never be the same again. And all because I didn’t want it to be the same….I wanted it to be better.

that girl

I barely remember her.

She was happy, had a fun job, someone who loved her, and life was just the best adventure ever.

This hell that passes for her life now is not what she signed on for.

statistics update

I need to update my statistics. I may be setting some sort of record, and it’s sure not a record I’m happy about.

I’m pretty sure I’ve surpassed the 300 mark in terms of job applications (that’s since about April 2008). The only reason I say “pretty sure” is that in the beginning I was not tracking them on a spreadsheet, just printing out the application or email, the reason for that being I never dreamt it would take more than a few months to secure work. When that folder full of printed applications and subsequent emailed rejections got too big to fit in the drawer, I stopped printing and started tracking electronically. I can account for 285 there….add another six months’ worth of search, and I think I’ve easily topped 300. One of these days when it’s too miserable to do outside chores (which could be any day now, we’ve had so much rain, and are predicted to have even more), I’m going to go through that file and record those, too. Call me morbidly curious.

Of all of these, I’ve had only 13 interviews to date. I’m not counting the countless treks to every agency in town. Turns out, most recruiting companies just collect resumes and collect your reference names so that they can turn around and call them. It’s bait and switch, near as I can tell.

I tell you, this is exhausting. It has been three years since I’ve had anything that resembles a normal life. I want normal back. I can’t begin to tell you how much I want normal.

I have resumes and business cards all over town. I’ve registered on every corporate job board I can think of and spend a good chunk of each morning sifting through all the computer-generated job leads, applying for those that match my expertise. I have pestered everyone I meet and everyone I know for either a job or a project or a referral. Full time, part time, project at a time….I like working, and always have.

Very few folks I know come close to understanding the strain. If the recession has not impacted their lives or lifestyle, they understand it even less.

If you know me at all, you know I’m motivated, energetic, intellectually curious, grounded, competent, and the polar opposite of lazy. I do not sit and watch TV and eat bon-bons. Hell, the TV in the kitchen has been broken for over a year; best I can do out there is listen to the news while I prepare meals, which is the only time the televisions in the house are turned on anyway (5am, 5pm), unless I have someone here who wants to watch…a rarity in itself.

As a former BF once wrote to me, “you’re not the do nothing kind.” He knows me and my capabilities and tells me I do good work. I just wish he’d help. I think he may have a lot of connections, but has yet to call any of them on my behalf. I wish he would.

As another guy I recently met recently said, “you must be a good money manager.” Yes, I am, but at some point you have to have some to manage. You cannot cost-cut your way to prosperity.

As another male friend said, just the other day, “you’ve got to catch a break sometime, Deb.” Well yes, you would think that eventually it will be my turn on the Good Karma Wheel of Fortune. It’s not like I’m not trying to make my own luck, either. The effort is there, every single day.

I haven’t given up.

april showers

 Please send a dozen of your best goats.

I know....it's bad, isn't it? 

We're all whining and wishing that the rain would stop. I've got my ark kit on order.

Meanwhile....let's look at it this way....

it's.....

not....

snow.

my people

I have a small unhappy following of employees. Not my employees, but my potential employees. They belong to someone else right now. They whisper to me, periodically, are you still going to hire me?

I have told them I will. I have to think of a viable business, something that will make sense and a profit right from the beginning. As soon as I do, I will call them. They will likely have to learn entirely new skills, but that’s OK. I know they can. I know they want to. They already look to me for leadership, the leadership they’re not getting now.

I didn’t acquire these employees purposely. They have come to me over the years for advice, to vent, to ask opinions. They know I will listen, give them an honest answer, and they know anything they confide in me is safe. They know, too, that I will be a fair boss. All I will ask is an honest day’s work, respect for each other, and the willingness to do the right thing to make the company a success. What I won’t do is belittle, berate, or in any other way emotionally abuse them. I will not play one off against the other. I will not lie to them. My company, whatever it may be, will be a place where everyone is happy to be there, and no one need quake in fear when the owner walks by.

I’ve seen that. I see it all the time, and I’m seeing it now. Narcissistic, passive-aggressive owners are hell to work for. They’re sneaky, suspicious, irrational, and afraid of new ideas or anyone smarter than they are. They fear being exposed for the frauds that they are, so they strike out at anyone who would dare question them….even their own clients.

That makes no sense. And it’s no way for employees to live.

I’m trying, people. If you have a good idea about a new business, I’d sure be willing to listen. Let’s talk.

It’s Business

It’s that time of year again, when nearly everyone on the planet becomes a tax expert. Small wonder that the IRS instituted a mandatory registration and education program for all who hold themselves out as tax preparers. The buzz this year? "Oh look! I can write it off!" The bad advice I overhear irks me no end.

One of my mentors, long ago, had a rule for his clients: do not make business decisions based solely on the tax ramifications. I couldn’t agree more, and have continued to advise my clients the same.

Manufacturers started salivating when the section 168(k) deduction (that’s bonus depreciation in layman’s terms) was extended, and the section 179 deduction increased late last year. (1)(2)

If you really need that piece of equipment, fine. Planning the timing of the purchase makes complete sense. Even so, if someone’s trying to sell you a fancy new widget-maker, and the only advantage to the purchase they can come up with is the great tax savings, walk away. Why aren’t they telling you how their product will increase your production or your efficiency?

Worse, if they’re trying to sell you a piece of equipment to start a new business, they’re probably the only ones who stand to gain; they’re likely selling you a pig in a poke or something that’s going to depreciate as soon as you take possession. You’ll be upside down in your loan and possibly unable to sell or trade the equipment, as the next best thing is no doubt just around the corner.
Step back and take a breath. Hire a CPA with expertise in the line of business you’re considering. Do some five-year realistic projections. Talk to folks in the same business. What makes you think you will succeed if they have not? If you do extensive homework, you’ll be able to make an educated leap.

Consider this: if the property you purchased is “listed” property (cars, airplanes, computers, boats, until recently, cell phones(1)), and the business usage drops below 50%, you’re subject to recapture (that accelerated depreciation you took) at ordinary income rates right then and there, no waiting until that equipment is sold. Furthermore, your depreciation from that point forward must be calculated using the (slower) straight-line method.

Consider this possibility as well: say your accelerated depreciation deduction threw you into a lower tax bracket, but a year or two down the road, you’re back in the highest bracket (partially caused by the low depreciation expense you now have). Voila. Your recapture will be paid at higher tax rates than the tax rate you took the deduction/savings on a few years back. Did that salesman tell you that?

If you have an overwhelming need to divest yourself of some cash to obtain a tax write off, rather than buy unneeded equipment, why not consider giving to a charity? You get the same deduction, you won’t be paying property tax on a piece of equipment as long as you own it, or making loan payments or paying for repairs on same-said equipment. You win, the charity wins.

***

Footnotes:

(1) The Small Business Job Creation and Access to Capital Act of 2010 removed cell phones from the definition of listed property. The Act also increased the maximum deduction for qualified Section 179 property to $500,000 and the investment limit to $2,000,000 for tax years beginning in 2010 and 2011.

(2) The Tax Relief Act of 2010 increased the bonus depreciation to 100% from 50% for the period September 9, 2010 through December 31, 2011. The bonus reverts to 50% for 2012.

the case for (real) books

I heard two troublesome bits in the news last Wednesday the 16th….

First, Borders’ filling of Chapter 11. It’s a reorg, so it could be worse, but they’ll be closing a lot of stores. Not that they were my first choice bookstore, but I hate to see any bookstore fail, and I hope, when they emerge from bankruptcy, they make a comeback.

The other statistic was even more distressing (in my eyes, and I realize I may be the only one who sees it this way) – CBS reported that Amazon now sells more digital books than both hardcover and paperbacks. Experts predict that digital vs. print books will reach 50% each within three years. This makes me sad, and is not a milestone I welcome. I’m no Luddite. I love technology and I keep up to the extent my finances will allow…and to the extent it makes sense.

But books?

Near as I can tell, I’ve been a book lover since birth. I was surrounded by books as a child. I “worked” in my grade school library one summer, cataloging and shelving the new books as they came in. Come to my house now and you’ll see. Two rooms have floor to ceiling bookcases, with a library table so you can pull one off the shelf and read. Another full bookcase is in a back hall. In the kitchen are another 100 or so cookbooks.

Among my collection:

A 1943 edition of The Joy of Cooking, with my mother’s (maiden) name written in it, by her, 1949.
My childhood version of The Tale of Peter Rabbit (Beatrix Potter’s amazing illustrations).
A 1956 copy of No Children No Pets, which still smells like the sun, where I read it, multiple times.
A 1945 edition of Black Beauty, The Autobiography of a Horse, inscribed in my mother’s handwriting, “To Debbie – from Daddy – September 16, 1961.”
A copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, so old and tattered and yellowed that I can’t find the publication date, but it has my scribbling all over it. I’m guessing the 1930’s or 1940’s.
A 1947 edition of The Lincoln Library of Essential Information, inscribed in my grandmother’s handwriting, “The Fishers, January 12th, 1949.”
And my paternal grandfather’s old bible, his name in the front, dated October 17, 1911, and on the next page, a note from his mother, quoting scripture, dated September 20, 1912. If I have the story straight, he took this bible with him to both World Wars.

So again, what’s not to like about ‘real’ books? They’re tactile. You can scribble in the margins, highlight phrases you like, autograph them, write a note in the cover, let them slide to the floor when you fall asleep reading (how many times do you think your reader will take that kind of abuse?). The old ones have that old book smell. Can you say that about your reader? Curling up with a machine and a blanket and a glass of wine next to a fire just doesn’t sound the same, does it?
Don’t get me wrong; I see use in some cyber-applications. It makes total sense to me to read electronic magazines and newspapers, anything that would typically be disposable anyway. But I read those on a computer or smart phone, not a reader or pad computer. With all of the technology out there (desktop, laptop, pad computers, readers, smart phones, TV’s with computers in them) capable of doing the same thing, isn’t it a matter of time before there’s a convergence of systems anyway? Who needs all those gadgets?

I wandered off point. Sorry.

I tried on line dictionaries and thesauruses, but gave up on them and bought an Oxford thesaurus that I use constantly.

So, when the day comes, my will won’t read “I hereby bequeath all my eBooks to…,” it’ll say “here are all my books, a lifetime’s collection spanning more than 100 years. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.”

paging Mr. Wright

Maybe I haven’t been specific. Maybe I’ve been looking in all the wrong places. Maybe it’s time for a tutorial to those human life forms plagued with the Y chromosome. I say plagued, because I can tell you men right now, you plague the crap out of us females. You make us crazy. We love you but you drive us bat-shit-nuts-over-the-edge-can’t-take-anymore-insane.

*No, I don’t like camping. Never have. Never will. Don’t even try to convince me otherwise. My definition of camping is no room service and no coffee available as soon as my feet hit the morning floor.

*You are not as cute as you think you are when you’re drunk.

*Getting me drunk will not make you look cuter. Bad news for you - I can keep my wits about me no matter how much booze you pour down my throat. Try that on an 18-year-old instead. OH. You did. [For the record, I don’t think women are cute when they’re stupid drunk, either.]

*There is not a chance in hell I’m going out with you if you send me a text at 6:45pm on a Saturday night. Seriously, I’m way over booty calls. Develop some manners and ask me out properly at least 36 hours in advance, and you might have a chance. It’s called respect.

*If I hear you say you don’t want any drama, I’m not going to believe a word of it. I’m betting you not only love drama, you thrive on it, and you most likely create it all yourself to get your kicks. I’ve had enough of drama-kings. Your head games bore me. Watch me run like the wind in the opposite direction.

*Listing yourself on match.com as ‘separated’ when you’re not isn’t cool. A bimbo might not catch that, but I can.

*I really don’t have a penchant for guys in uniforms, and I don’t care what color or how many stripes that uniform has either. If you’re sincere about a job that requires you to wear one, fine. It’s those guys who wear it arrogantly and only for the attention a uniform garners that I take issue with. It’s been my experience, too, that a guy with more than one “uniform” career may have authority issues.

*I’m not impressed with the stereo in your car. Woofers, tweeters, whatever you call ‘em, I don’t care. I’d rather we had a conversation.

*It would be very cool if you could cook. I mean really cook, not just burn something over a grill. But please, I beg you - expand your epicurean repertoire beyond fried chicken, steak, and French fries. Chicken wings is not a food group.

* Chewing gum makes you look like a cow.

*I can learn a lot about you from seeing you at work and your interaction with others. If you bully your employees or lie to your clients, I will know you’d treat me the same.

*Liars, prevaricators, and Joe Cools need not apply.

*Those of you with WDS* need not apply either.

By now, all you Y’s have probably thrown up your hands.

“What,” you ask, “do you women want?”

It’s simple, really. Security. Fidelity. A friend.

The thing is, I know what you look like. I know the sound of your voice. I know you’re out there somewhere.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. Wright!

***

* You figure it out.

negative reporting

Maybe it’s time all of us long term unemployed stop reading the “experts’” articles. They’re not helping. “Folks above the age of 15 will never work again.…if you’ve been out of the workforce longer than two weeks, your skills have slipped….you’re a fossil…you’re irrelevant.” And on and on they go. Today's article in the Star  is a prime example.
You can’t you won’t you never you shouldn’t you don’t.
I heard enough of that kind of talk when I was married. The negativity is toxic. It can work on you, if you let it.

And yes, for the record, I do think there is discrimination going on when an employer won’t even look at a candidate whose work history and skill set match the job opening in question.

Last week, I got the chance to prove the pundits all wrong.
Let me back up and just say that somehow, I became known as a solid troubleshooter of spreadsheets and data bases while working at my favorite job ever. I’ve also prepared more financial statements in my accounting career than I care to admit. The opportunity came via an operations director/MBA I’d had a phone interview with a few weeks back. Nice guy. Liked him a lot; we mentally track alike, and he didn’t sound like a plodding relic either. His company needed someone on site daily; we both concluded it was crazy for me to drive that far five days a week, and he’d asked if he could use me, contractually, for some “heavier” work, if needed. Sure. Absolutely.

So that call came last Thursday. Three year projections had been prepared in house, but something was wrong with them. Balance sheets didn’t balance. Cash flow statements showed negative millions. They needed a fresh set of eyes, and had a deadline. He emailed it all over.
Tabs upon tabs of data. I hadn’t seen spreadsheets this complex for several years. For a fleeting moment, I was worried. Then I jumped in. First, I isolated and corrected all the issues in the balance sheet, both data and formulas. After that, it was easy to locate the flaws in the premises for the projected growth. I was done and sent it back in three hours.

I love this stuff. I know, I know, it doesn’t sound creative or sexy, but you throw down a puzzle like this in front of me, and I can’t resist and I won’t quit until I figure it out. Go ahead and call me boring if you want, but it makes me glad I decided to become a CPA.

That’s what a potential employer would get from me. Does that sound alike a lazy, out of date fossil to you?

random bits

I have so many ideas swirling around my head for posts, yet not one of them will cooperate by solidifying into an entire story. If you could see them, they’d look like egg whites do when they first touch hot chicken stock and you begin to stir them in; making egg drop soup, they turn to floating free-form threads. There’s something in good there, you just have to look for it. So today, it’s a random day…

*I got so red-hot pissed a few days ago that I must’ve surely lost some brain cells due to the heat and smoke generated by all the illogical this-does-not-compute craziness. My poor little synapses are starting to mend now, I can tell. I have returned to speaking in complete sentences, have stopped meandering from room to room, and remembered to feed the dog. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t become a lawyer after all, though if this exchange had been in a courtroom setting, it would’ve been at least semi-civilized, subject to rules of order, and no extraneous irrelevant crap allowed. My attorney would’ve been jumping up and down like a jack-in-the-box, objecting to every falsehood uttered by my accuser, and same-said accuser would’ve been reduced to mincemeat on cross-examination, because, of course, I would hire a brilliant attorney. Whew. I feel so much better now!

*It looks like I may not become the knitter I had hoped. Not yet, anyway. Yesterday I sat down with the pattern for a scarf MK brought over and a skein of gorgeous cream silk yarn. It’s delicate, fragile, scattered with beads. Stunning stuff. I’m working away, come to SSK, no problem. Come to the first SSSK, that’s a bit tougher. Come to the second of those, botch it, try to undo it. Screw that up. Say OK, I’ll just rip out this row back to the pearl row and try again. Do that. It’s a big confusing mess and my eyes cross. I rip it all out. It wasn’t like I had that many rows or hours in it but really, who likes to start over? Then I decide perhaps things would go better if I’d take the time to wind the yard. I begin that process, skein draped over a chair. Halfway through the process, it slips off the chair and into a jumbled heap. It took me about six hours to untangle it and as it is, I will probably have to cut out about two ruined yards. I may switch projects and start the snood instead. At least that’s your nice and safe k1p1.

*Have you ever looked into someone’s eyes, expecting to see brains or a rational thought process behind them, but gotten an eerie look you just can’t place instead? The person is just sure they’re right about something (though probably not sure why) and will not listen to reason. It’s like arguing with a goldfish. What’s in back of those eyes anyway, oatmeal?

* I have a phone interview coming up for another controller’s job. Not to get my hopes up (again), but the location couldn’t be better, the CEO is involved in his industry, and the company is dedicated to putting out a flawless product. For the love of Heaven, if you read this, please send out positive vibes.

*When did the word “hot” become the preferred adjective for flattery? What happened to “beautiful” or “stunning” or “gorgeous?” Just for the record, I was called this by an oh-so-much-younger man this week. No, it’s not gone to my head. I was surprised. Then I giggled. Good thing it came in text form, and far be it from me to dissuade him of his opinion or clue him in as to our age disparity.

Time for the fireplace and football. Maybe I’ll go make some egg drop soup. Go Colts!