I flew a kite with my husband yesterday. Baby wanted nothing to do with it. I ended up putting it together. I couldn't figure out were the pockets for the short rods went, so my husband did that part. Anyways, we took turns flying it and playing on the outdoor equipment with the two year old. I got some rope burn on my right middle finger. It stung bad yesterday, but it's fine today.
I did my taxes. Well, most of them. I need the 1099-M that's coming in and the other forms I ordered. I ended up needing a 8812 and 8919.
If you have a child, or dependent, you can't file 1040-EZ. You have to file a 1040-A, which doesn't cover all the forms of income and deductions that a 1040 covers. Oh, and that 1099M isn't on the A form, go figure.
8919 is the form for unreported SSI taxes on wages that weren't tips. 8812 is in order to get the full $1,000 credit for my child. They want to give you that money, but you have to file a form if your tax is lower than the credit amount. They pay you the money. I need to look into EIC. We're paying in only for them to tell us, oh hey you make shit so have all your money back. Thanks, really needed another reminder of barely making it here.
Books I want to read:
Dreamveil
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Failure to Communicate
*pause*
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...
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...
That's it, right? I'm going to type with my eyes close and get this out here. I'm stressed. My husband lost his job. I learned to type, although slowly, somewhere since ninth grade. Didn't pick up the numbers I guess. I couldn't hit the 9.(Yes, I looked for that one.) "Draft autosaved at 12:03AM." My baby girl hit me in the face when I went to bed. She didn't want me to curl up with her, though Daddy was okay. Tonight, I read a girl's? blog, only a part of it, but she didn't use caps at all. I don't know her or the lady with the four kids and the farm/garden, I read some of their work. My mom says people on the internet don't exist. So none of this counts, and you're not reading this. This was documented by me, for me, and there's no one out there that will stumble upon it googling "smile in your pocket lyrics". Wasn't that a song I sang as a kid or a poem I read in a Brownie book for Girl Scouts? Or was it just some song for puppets in Mister Rogers Neighborhood? I need paragraphs. This is running together. Fine. Here's one now.
I want to write. I think. I read somewhere the important part to writing is to sit down and write. I couldn't find it again. I wanted to so I could etch it into my mind. Maybe that's God's way of taking my crutch and removing the quote, so I have to retype it and paraphrase it since I can't copy it verbatim. This is writing. Even it's bullshit, right?
To my therapist in the future: I hate the idea of you, but I think I need to write you some notes. Things I might forget to say later.
I don't want to be a zombie like my mother's mother. I have so much in common with her already; although, I missed the productive and supportive bits. The backbone, you might say.
I'm a failure as a mother. I don't speak to my daughter as often as I should. I'm afraid to take her outside. Even given that the wicker bench on the porch hasn't been destroyed or stolen. That should say something good about the neighborhood.
I don't like meeting new people; it's awkward and humiliating because I'm abnormal. I like daydreaming, it's like my life; only there's no one to impress or play audience. I guess it's the no pressure aspect, and the fact that godmode cheat is always enabled so you can redo fuck ups.
...
...
...
...
That's it, right? I'm going to type with my eyes close and get this out here. I'm stressed. My husband lost his job. I learned to type, although slowly, somewhere since ninth grade. Didn't pick up the numbers I guess. I couldn't hit the 9.(Yes, I looked for that one.) "Draft autosaved at 12:03AM." My baby girl hit me in the face when I went to bed. She didn't want me to curl up with her, though Daddy was okay. Tonight, I read a girl's? blog, only a part of it, but she didn't use caps at all. I don't know her or the lady with the four kids and the farm/garden, I read some of their work. My mom says people on the internet don't exist. So none of this counts, and you're not reading this. This was documented by me, for me, and there's no one out there that will stumble upon it googling "smile in your pocket lyrics". Wasn't that a song I sang as a kid or a poem I read in a Brownie book for Girl Scouts? Or was it just some song for puppets in Mister Rogers Neighborhood? I need paragraphs. This is running together. Fine. Here's one now.
I want to write. I think. I read somewhere the important part to writing is to sit down and write. I couldn't find it again. I wanted to so I could etch it into my mind. Maybe that's God's way of taking my crutch and removing the quote, so I have to retype it and paraphrase it since I can't copy it verbatim. This is writing. Even it's bullshit, right?
To my therapist in the future: I hate the idea of you, but I think I need to write you some notes. Things I might forget to say later.
I don't want to be a zombie like my mother's mother. I have so much in common with her already; although, I missed the productive and supportive bits. The backbone, you might say.
I'm a failure as a mother. I don't speak to my daughter as often as I should. I'm afraid to take her outside. Even given that the wicker bench on the porch hasn't been destroyed or stolen. That should say something good about the neighborhood.
I don't like meeting new people; it's awkward and humiliating because I'm abnormal. I like daydreaming, it's like my life; only there's no one to impress or play audience. I guess it's the no pressure aspect, and the fact that godmode cheat is always enabled so you can redo fuck ups.
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