I've Got a Secret

There have been studies that reveal that men use an average of three thousand words a day while women use an average of five thousand. All I can say is, there's must be a woman somewhere who isn't saying a word to make up for my five digit daily verbal barrage.

I've always had a bit of trouble keeping my mouth shut. My mom tells me that I've always been quite chatty, to the point of being afraid I would walk off with one of the nice strangers polite enough to listen to my endless yammering. As I got older, I did manage to curtail my incessant need to speak after being made aware (by fed up friends) that others had a right to chime in once in a while, too. My need to express myself and every feeling or opinion that I've ever had has gotten me in trouble more than I'd like to acknowledge. But it's never really stopped me. Until now.

My son has informed me that the reason he doesn't share more of his life with me is my "big mouth". He's afraid that I won't respect his privacy. He's afraid I'll reveal embarrassing confidences to my friends over lunch. And, you know what? He has every right to be afraid.

So, I've promised him I'll do better. I've promised him that I'm going to regain his trust and show him that I can keep his secrets. I've promised him that I'll stop myself before diving into any conversation that I know would embarrass him. Now I just have to do it.

Still Hovering

I once saw a piece on a national news show about "helicopter moms". Smugly, I judged these crazy women who were calling their college aged children, checking up on everything from homework assignments to roommate squabbles. 'That will never be me', I told myself. 'I would never humiliate my children (or worse, myself) by sticking my nose into every aspect of their lives. Some of these women even called their kids' professors, pleading for better grades or leniency for missed assignments. It's a wonder that their "little darlings" were still taking their calls.

While I'm proud to say I haven't actually done any of the above, I have to admit I'm still having a lot of trouble not allowing my kids to suffer the consequences of their actions. Take taxes. They knew they were due on the 18th. So why did I feel I had to beg, cajole and, I'm sorry to admit, actually do most of the work associated with filing their paperwork? Why couldn't I just step out of the way and let them take care of it? Why couldn't I mind my own business, concentrate on finishing my own and head to the post office without those extra envelopes in hand. It's not like a SWAT team was going to show up to haul them off to jail if they were late. They were getting money back. The IRS probably doesn't mind a bit if you're late if they owe you. But I simply could not wrap my head around their procrastination. They were going to get money back. What the heck were they waiting for? Oh, yeah. They were waiting for me to do it for them.

It's That Time

Well, today is tax day and for the first time in my life I'm going to be one of those people scrambling to finish before the deadline. So, what am I doing writing this blog, you may ask? Why am I not crunching numbers and imputing data into Turbo Tax? Denial. Plain and simple. I do not want to face the inevitable writing of that check.

When I hear friends talking about what they're doing with their tax refunds, I want to cry. We haven't had the pleasure of opening one of those envelopes for years. And now, no longer able to claim our children as dependents (even though one of them is still occupying a bedroom), the possibility of ever receiving payback from Uncle Sam seems more remote than ever.

I suppose I have no right to complain. I live in the greatest country in the world and everyone needs to pull their weight, right? But it's not always fun to do the right thing. Maybe I shouldn't have watched that show on CNBC last night about tax cheats. Stories about billionaires hiding money in the Cayman Islands and millionaires trying to get away with paying $400 tax bills didn't help. I'm being honest and they're sailing off the coast of Barbados. Of course, a bunch of them ended up in jail. I did enjoy that part.

So, I guess I've procrastinated long enough. Time to stop whining and pay up. After all, the IRS did give us a couple of extra days this year. Good thing. When I'm finished I still have to help my two non-dependents with their returns. But they have no good reason for their tardiness. They're two of the lucky ones. They're getting money back. Must be nice.

Is This Really the End?

Today, I put on a pair of shorts for the first time in seven months. That they still fit was the first cause for celebration. The second, was enjoying an April day that topped eighty degrees. Just a few days ago I wrote about the vice-like grip of winter and the feeling that spring would never actually arrive. But that's Chicago for you. One day you're grabbing your down coat to fetch the newspaper off the driveway and the next you're sitting on your deck in a tank top. (Okay, I don't actually own a tank top anymore. No need to expose those flappy, Grandma waving arms; we have new neighbors).

So, what did we do with this lovely day? I can't believe I'm going to say this but we went to the garden store. Along with fifty-thousand of our closest friends. No, we weren't there to buy plants. I'm not that crazy. I know I can't plant anything around here until Memorial Day. But we did need new patio chair cushions. Seems as if some resourceful squirrel family in the area is now enjoying a very plush den (?) with what used to be the stuffing of our former outdoor seating. If we were going to enjoy this day sitting down, we were going to have to brave the crowds in search of replacements. After roaming the three aisles housing our choices, we quickly (as quickly as I can choose anything) settled on a red and gold striped pattern that looked like something we could live with for the next eight to ten years and headed home to throw a couple of gorgeous NY Strip steaks on the grill.

Life doesn't get much better. But if I ever get my hands on those high-living squirrels, they better be ready for a fight. They owe us $120.

Enough Already

Okay. Yesterday it was 71 degrees and today was 41. I've had it with weather that cannot make up its mind. Is this Spring? Are we on our way to summer? Or have we been sucked into a 'Groundhog's Day' vortex of the winter that just will not die? I'm starting to think it's the latter.

You'd think I would be used to it by now. I've lived in Chicago most of my life and, when I got the chance to escape, I ended up in England where the lack of sunshine was enough to make me want to take a dive off the London Bridge (if it hadn't already relocated to its sunny new home in Arizona). Maybe that's one more reason I'm so enamored with Italy. Among other things going for it, there seems to be an endless supply of sunny days without the joys of twenty-seven inch snowfalls and winters that last for six months.

I've dealt with this winter for long enough. I just want to pack up the heavy sweaters. I want to deposit the hats, boots and gloves in the back of the closet. I want to turn off the heat. I want to take the extra blankets off the bed. Oh, wait. I forgot. I live in Chicago. I can't safely do any of those things until May. But, if I'm lucky, I may not need any of them again until September.