Tag Archives: adulthood

Adulthood–Who’s Keeping Score?

hot pink grownups

hot pink grownups (Photo credit: niznoz)

Every so often, it gets brought home to me that I’m even worse at being an adult than I used to be at sports.  The most recent round of self-flagellation was brought about by the realization that my Mysterious Engaged Friend, now Mysterious Married Friend, has never been to my apartment.  The problem is mostly that, at any given time, my meal plan consists of Diet Coke and Doritos, I have a hamper full of dirty laundry that I can’t wash because I haven’t yet put away the clean laundry from last weekend’s chore-a-thon, and I’ve been saying I’ll mop the floor for approximately three weeks.  My total score at being a grown-up wouldn’t get me past the first elimination round.

It starts early in the morning.  I hit my snooze button about five times before I end up getting out of bed.  I always mean to get up early, hope to get up on time, and actually get up late. It continues with lunch; when I go grocery shopping, I always fondly imagine my lunch will be a healthy salad with chopped broccoli, grated carrots, and cherry tomatoes.  It usually ends up being stuff I got at the convenience store around the corner from where I work, so– pop tarts and fruit snacks.  Then, when I get home, I think “Oh, I’m totally going to do chores now.  This place is going to look great by the time I go to bed.”  It could happen.  No, it couldn’t.  That’s never going to happen.

But Mysterious Married Friend is moving away (sad!), so I invited her over, along with her husband and another friend.  I did this in total good faith, and also because my apartment is actually in fairly good shape for once, having been the subject of a recent cleaning marathon.  I forgot one vital fact, though:  I can’t cook.  At all.  I could have invited them over for tea, or a movie night, or–I don’t know–poker, but I didn’t.  As I sort through various takeout menus and wonder what would seem the least obvious when I serve it on my nice (read: not paper) plates, I can’t help but wonder if I’m alone in this.

And, you know, I don’t think I am.

Golfing

Golfing (Photo credit: emersunn)

So I’d like to propose handicaps for adulthood, like they have for bowling and golf.  For me, I think I should be able to add on to my total score another 50% of what my Sainted Mother would have been able to do in the same situation.  If I can manage to have the dinner table completely clear by the time my friends come over, that’s like my mother having polished all the silver and ironed the tablecloth.  If I find takeout that suits everyone’s dietary restrictions and doesn’t cause an allergic reaction in anyone, that’s like my mother cooking a four-course meal.  Right now, my Sainted Mother is falling out of her chair laughing while thinking about all the Hamburger Helper she used to fix, which actually makes me feel better.  Ooh, Hamburger Helper!  I can totally manage that.

Problem solved.

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Mom! Come do my dishes for me!

Unwashed dishes in a sink; an authentic situation.

Unwashed dishes in a sink; an authentic situation. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I suck at being a grownup.  I came to this realization yesterday as I looked around my apartment at all the chores I had to do:  wash the dishes, do the laundry, clean the bathroom, take out the trash, pay the bills, go grocery shopping, etc.  My mother would have already done most of these things and then would have done the rest without even thinking about it.  Me, I looked at funny pictures of cats for an hour and went to bed.

When I came home from work today, the dishes were still in the sink.  I don’t even remember using some of these dishes.  I don’t know how they got dirty.  I’m pretty sure some of them aren’t even mine.  It’s like the dishes come out and party while I’m at work, apparently getting into food fights with my glassware and cutlery, then collapse into the sink five minutes before I get home.  So I had to wash the dishes.  Or just eat off paper napkins for the rest of my life and never use my sink again, and don’t think I didn’t seriously consider that option.

And the laundry was still dirty.  This is when I fully understood that I will never be as good at adulthood as my mom.  Each item of clothing in my closet has different instructions for how to wash it, except for all my favorite clothes, which all read “Dry Clean Only.”  Everything else, though, has some unique combination of requirements such as “wash in room temperature water only with fabrics of like texture and color on alternate Tuesdays while playing the viola.”  My mom would learn how to play the viola.  I just throw everything into the same load, spin a few dials, and push the “wash” button.  Which explains a lot about the state of my wardrobe.

I did not take out the trash.  I don’t take out the trash until I can’t push it down any farther and the lid won’t close.  I also don’t clean out the refrigerator until there’s no room left and I don’t mop the floor until I’ve forgotten what color it is under the dirt.  I’m not going to tell you about the inside of my microwave, because I like you, and because it’s embarrassing. If there were some sort of practical exam we all had to pass before we were allowed into adulthood, not only would I fail, I would find a way to get negative points.  Of course, I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in that.  Maybe if they graded on a curve?

I’ll take out the trash tomorrow.  For now, I’m going to have a glass of wine.  Which I can do.  Because I’m a grown-up.  Yay!  I finally found a part of adulthood I’m good at.

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Taxes or death? I don’t know, it’s a close call

Title: "No, No! Not That Way" Locati...

Title: "No, No! Not That Way" Location: Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So taxes are due again.  There’s a reason death and taxes are so linked, and it’s not just because they’re both so reliable.  Though, if you think about it, death only comes around once.  But anyway, if you’re like me and you put things off until the absolute last second and then, when the last second pokes its head in the door and says “Hey, I’m here!” you throw a pillow at it and tell it to go away, then you’ll understand me when I complain to you about my deep and abiding hatred of all things tax-related.

I don’t just hate income tax, either.  I resent sales tax.  I seethe inwardly about restaurant tax.  I mean, these things are supposed to go toward…I don’t know…keeping the roads paved and regulating businesses and stuff.  I’m cool with the businesses getting regulated, probably because I don’t run a business.  But the roads in my area are not particularly well-maintained, which makes me wonder where my money is going and why I’m paying it in the first place.  It’s getting to the point where, when I see footage on television of one of those expensive fighter jets, I’ll shake my fist at the set and scream “You’re welcome!”  Not really, but inside, you know?

But income taxes hold a special place in my personal hell.  All the other kinds of taxes are at least light on paperwork, which is probably why I don’t make more of a fuss about them.  Income taxes, though, I have to get all kinds of receipts and forms and statements for, and then I have to calculate my taxes several different ways so I know what kind of deduction I should take, and then I have to calculate them again because it seems like, even though I’ve got the same information to plug in, I get a different result every time.  Then I give up and go online to TurboTax or some other program and shell out money so that a computer program can tell me what an idiot I’m being and get all the math right.

Charge calculations 4

Charge calculations 4 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

And while we’re on the subject, does anyone out there understand tax math?  It’s not like any other math I’ve ever encountered.  It’s worse than trying to figure out who owes what on a shared phone bill.  It’s like the rules of math get sucked into some kind of IRS wormhole so they get warped and distorted, and then when they come through the other side, 2+2 suddenly does not equal 4.  I don’t understand.

I can face attempted burglary, attempted mugging, drunken groping in bars, crap at work, crap at home, crap randomly around town, and I’m like, whatevs.  You’re gonna have to try harder than that.  But taxes make me want to crawl into bed and wait until my mommy makes it go away, or maybe does it for me like she used to do with my science projects.  She can make an awesome diorama.  But, since I doubt the IRS people will accept a diorama in place of my tax return, I’m stuck in Grownupland with everyone else, with a desk full of papers, a bottle of painkillers, and one of those big, clunky calculators they use on TV when they want to show Serious Calculation being done.  Is it too late to secede from adulthood?

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