What is it about the smell of toast?

It just smells like home, and love, and comfort. I should probably toast up every piece of bread in the house, because yesterday was a beast.

Item the First
Issues with TurboTax. I have been more than a little frustrated that I was unable to “gear down” to a lower-level tax program while online doing my taxes this year, when I have one W-2 and two dabs of interest income. So I called their support center while at work yesterday and learned that I cannot “gear down” using the ID and password which I have used for the past 10 years. (I can, needless to say, “gear up”.) And that if I set up a new user ID and password, I cannot import the information from prior years’ returns.

We are not amused. Particularly when we get home and find this confirmation email waiting in our inbox:

“These are the actions we took to assist you in resolving your issue: We resolved your issue by leting [sic] you know there is know [sic] way to downgrade. Thank you for calling TurboTax. Best Regards, [Illiterate TurboTax Dude]”

Item the Second
Shortly after which, my day only got better. A series of text messages from Fourthborn’s Fiancé regarding LittleBit’s car, which she has been working on diligently, if belatedly, so as to transfer the title into her own name. The manager at their apartment complex had Phineas towed, because LittleBit did not have a parking sticker. (She has only been parking there how many months?) And I, as the legal owner, am apparently the only person who can retrieve the car from the impound lot.

I ran it past Trainman, whose child is 7 and too young to be getting himself in fixes like this. I called NintendoMan, who (like me) is a tough-love kind of parent but also has a soft spot for my kids. I wanted to pick his brain; he had a gig last night, so as of this posting, no news I can use. I am aiming for Mama Bear: not too hard, not too soft, just right. [Yes, I know that’s not how the fairy tale goes. That’s because Goldy and Baby Bear are telling the tale.]

And when I went to bed, I had come to no conclusion. Other than the obvious one: I do not have sufficient cash in any of my accounts to bail out her car, nor will I have when I get paid on Friday. That money is already allocated down to the last brass farthing.

Distractions
I found myself laughing heartily at myself when it was 8:56 and I was wishing away the next hour, so I could doctor my foot and go to bed. You know you are getting older when the high point of your evening is a bare foot, antifungal ointment, and a sock to keep it all from ruining your sheets, your quilts, and your duvet cover.

I bought a half gallon of whole milk on the way home from work last night, and I carefully mixed it with the s-p-a-m that was chilling in the fridge, thus rendering it, on average, drinkable. I kept checking the fridge to see if any chocolate chip cookies had spontaneously generated, but was consistently disappointed.

I don’t know what the equivalent moment is for a guy, but frequently the best moment of the day is when the bra goes onto the bedroom doorknob, I roll into bed, pull the covers up to my ears, and fire up the CPAP. Last night was one of those nights.

The night before, my foot was crazy-itchy after I slathered it, so much so that I couldn’t wind down to go to sleep. So I spent fifteen or twenty minutes gently stretching and twisting, opening up my collarbone, elongating my ribs, rotating my shoulders, reaching reaching reaching with my arms, all at a pace that makes tai chi look manic. My goal was to tweak my range of motion without raising my pulse or disturbing the careful layering of quilts, duvet, etc. I think it was successful: the next thing I knew, the alarm was going off. Did the same thing last night; worked like a champ.

A real workout at the real gym is in the budget for this payday (and, therefore, the coming month), unless I get another utility bill between now and Friday morning, or the wonderful introductory offer has expired. Oh, how I wish I were sitting on the recumbent bike this morning...