Mrs. Dalloway Shrugged

In which the ample shoulders of Mrs. D makes a genteel gesture of ennui… …
Or in other words, I'm feel like ranting today but in a Dallowish sort of way.
Because I'm cranky with the government and their system for filing taxes. Bad enough that you have to file a refund, honestly, if money, such a sensitive subject of conversation in the first place, has to be taken in the name of sharing the wealth of the nation in the first place, then bloody work out a way of getting the right amounts in the first place, or if you're going to take more than you should as a safety precaution, then bloody do the work to figure out the refunds, and send them back to us so as to spare us the tedium, the joy-killing sensation and utter banality of the process. Tiresome shekels.
It's not actually the calculation that bothers me so much for it's relatively simple once you gather your receipts together, although there always seems to be the one piece of paper missing which buggers up the process. Most fortunately, the tax receipts were all in one place today and the reporting of one's income, over which one shall quickly draw a curtain so as to not offend those who have less, and to spare my own chagrin at the realisation that so many others have more – have I mentioned that the people we employ, have bought their own place of residence recently? How is this possible? How? Obviously we are paying them too much.
The filing process is simply ridiculous, much like the sentiments that come out of, well never mind whose mouth they come out of. They're ridiculous, why bother with several agencies – all of which have their own security systems, i.d. numbers, password formats, ridiculous security question – "Favourite Dessert?" Goodness me, as the voluble RB said to me recently, "my favourite dessert changes with whim, age, season and mealtime"…how, oh how is one supposed to remember. Might as well ask one to speak precisely and with focus on one topic at a time. Oh, I should go get some flowers and wander the paths less wandered today looking for newly bloomed crocuses, whose plural form should really be Croci.
 No, instead, I have to cudgel my brains to think of what my favourite dessert is. Well, as of last night, there are three more potential desserts (one is pictured to the right, Guinness Cake with frosting poured over top so as to make it look like the head of a stout. When I pointed this out to the faithful gathered last night, there were squeals of admiration) which only makes matters worse when answering security questions. RB, during the conversation had on February 15th, 2011 – I write the date now so as to make it more formal, more scientific as it were – also went on to tell of a harrowing story related to getting financial information for his tax return and how three government agencies had to be traversed to find out how much was contributed to some fund or other in his name – and the kicker is, he works for the government, and no less, tells various departments how to streamline their tax processes.
The problem is that one only files one's taxes once a year and of course one cant' remember one's login i.d. much less one's password and favourite dessert of the time. Ridiculous. Simply ridiculous. And then the websites threaten to lock you out should you make mistakes. The thought of it all makes one's head spin and then I have to sacrifice a bit of my liver by taking an advil to stop the pain.
Speaking of pain and pains, but first the pain – this muscular ache I have in my back must be resolved soon for it's driving me insane. RP has run out of ideas, TM can only poke so many needles in, and I can only take so many yoga classes. I suppose that the only solution really is to hie myself away to a deserted island where it's warm and there's a Marriott resort close by with ice towels being handed out every now and again. There I can sit, read and sleep and let the muscles relax of their own accord.
Perhaps in 2011, I should resolve to become lazy, but no, JG will hound me back into running hills, as will KM. Bastards. May the hounds of love hunt them down and run them into the hills which they run up. Oh. My. Kate would be so proud of my last sentence. She really would, and I'm not running myself down here.
Pains. Officials who don't know what they are doing, and who can't calculate. Drivers who creep along a bike path looking for a parking spot and who are oblivious to the train of bicycles behind them. Bastards. Die. Die. Die. People who collect houses for living – unless you're a superstar Opera Singer of world renown, you should not be allowed to collect houses. It's just morally wrong given the number of homeless there are around. People who develop severe cases of delusion of grandeur. Goodness, they're the worst. Selfish people who can only think of external circumstances in relation to themselves, or who only see events from the view of it shall impact them. Die. Die. Die.
Oh my. I guess the die has been cast.
Last night, the faithful gathered for dinner as it was March and Spring is on its way. There was hot spicy broth, noodles and any number of meats from the fields, seas and air (assuming that chickens once flew). In addition to this, there were tiny little crusty pieces of bread with cheese and onion jam, and roasted Kale chips which were green, salty, peppery and crisp for the most part. Eight for dinner, almost 10 but because Bob had pee'd in DWA's bed, he and Jim who must not be separated from Bob, having severe separation anxiety, neither Jim nor Bob were allowed to come, and instead were place in the CRATE (read PIT OF PUNISHMENT).
The usual suspects were there plus one West Coaster for some local flavour and an easy target for the occasional verbal cudgel – he's not yet learnt to talk back, although one never know – he could be home casting spells on the rest of us. Interesting that he and DWE have pagan interests in common, apparently there are Five Aspects to Paganism, but as I pointed out, that was 14 fewer than the articles of faith, which elicited a huff of exasperation an d an incantation to the super moon and the muttered threat of collecting moon water for the casting of spells – casta diva and all that – followed by massive downpourings of Incan blood wine, which is to say fermented virgin blood mixed with grape juice.
Goodness, the potential for Bacchanalia was immense, but fortunately quelled by the promise of Laksa which brought about the expected silence; for I know when the dish has been made properly when the grumblings, the dissent, the mutterings of of the massess are silenced by the first bite into the dish. And so it was, a silence fell broken only by the sniffs of approbation and the gnashing of teeth tearing into the flesh of the various beasts of sea, field and air, and the sucking of the same gnashing teeth when the spice and salt bit into the tender gums of the uninitiated.
Then once the last bowl was collected, 7 pairs of expectant eyes were cast on to the quivering Fig Crostata, the Guinness Cake and a dessert brought by Dr. Shark and the Seal Consort, Sour Cherry Frangipane Tart or something like that – the argument about the meaning of Frangipane (I think it means almond bread or fragrant bread myself, but what do I know, I merely think with my head and write what comes in). The crowd immediately declared themselves in the throes of filing tax returns and the like, and protested their absolute need for favourite desserts to provide answers for questions about favourite desserts and so they demanded a slice of each – 21 slices of dessert cut and delivered.
The combination of wine and sugar was disastrous bringing forth revelations of a salacious nature about almost everyone in the room, but more for some than others. I can only draw a veil over these statements, although they were well noted for FUTURE USE. For knowledge is power, and power is knowledge.
Then to bed late, after washing up various bowls and the 21 dirty implements used to taste the three deserts (so as to not sully their respective tastes), and another laksa gathering came to an end. This was supposed to have been a gathering for the March Babies, but only one such baby was present, the other wailed about having to attend the WA, although truth be told, one doubts that the WA's gathering was actually attended by baby #2.
And on that note, Mrs. Dalloway desperately needs to use the loo.