Assuming

You've heard the jokes about don't assume because it makes an ass out of you and me.  (I first heard that while watching The Bad News Bears....how's that for old?!)  But let's face it.  We all make assumptions all the time.  You have to.  Can you imagine checking and double checking everything all day?  You assume that your car is where you left it.  You don't go out and check every once in a while to verify that it is still there.  We assume that our key still works in the front door of our house.  We don't check it before we leave to make certain that we can get back in the house at the end of the day.  I wake up assuming that the laws of gravity still operate.  I don't throw a pillow on the floor just to make sure that it falls rather than floats.

We assume, and we really do have to.

But sometimes our assumptions can cause unintentional problems.  Thus all the "ass-u-me" jokes.

In my job we emphasize communication.  It's very important to communicate well, considering the kinds of questions we are required to answer.  And one of the things they teach us is to state all of our assumptions.  So if you called to ask me a tax question and didn't specifically say that you were talking about your 2010 taxes, I would have to tell you that I am making that assumption.  And that I assume you are talking about your personal, rather than your business, tax return.  Seems silly, right?  But laws change, and the rules for personal and business returns are different.  So those assumptions can be a big deal.

Yesterday I spoke to a young lady with a question.  I stated my assumptions and it startled her to hear such, to her, obvious statements being made.  And she asked me why I was doing what I was doing.  Once I explained she said, "Oh, what a great idea!  Wouldn't it be wonderful if everyone had to do that?"

I don't know if she was simply referring to customer service-type situations, or about people in general, but I have to agree that it would be wonderful if we all stated our assumptions up front.  When I tell you my assumptions about your taxes you can either agree with me, and we move on, or you correct me, and I adjust my way of thinking, and we move on.

Imagine if that is how all of our conversations proceeded.  No more false assumptions based on clothes, hair styles, method of transportation, the people we associate with, our jobs, our houses, our cars, our mothers, out housekeeping, our diets, and on and on.  If we had the courage to state our assumptions, no, if we knew that, like my job, it was a requirement to state all assumptions, we would be more cautious about the assumptions we make.  Imagine not assuming that woman on the bus with twenty eleven packages and four layers of outdoor clothing on is a homeless person (maybe she has no other way to travel but by bus, and can only make one trip to the store a month and it is February after all).  Or not assuming that the man with slurred speech is drunk (did you know that a number of medications can cause slurred speech, and stroke victims may also find that their speech is no longer clear?)  If we didn't assume all "fringe" people were radicals, or that our way of living is the only acceptable way to live, or that there is only one right way to hold a pencil.....

I could go on and on.

But I would challenge you today to examine your assumptions.  Think about what you are assuming as you come across various people, even your family.  Ask yourself if those assumptions are valid.  Maybe even state an assumption or two and prepare to be amazed.

I assume you can do it.

And I assume that you will!


And in case you like the tshirt.....To Save Time Lets Just Assume I'm Never Wrong Women's Tee Shirt  Medium-Light Blue Babydoll (petite fit); Let's Assume I'm Never Wrong Magentic Mini Tin

DANGER: Poking into the past can be interesting AND troubling

Last night I completed another item on my 101 things to accomplish in 1001 days.  I finished my Dad's side of the family's scrapbook.  Initially it was just to be about my Dad, but it morphed into the entire James family, from the late 1600s to my Dad's death in 2006.

I have already shared with you the story of my Civil War relative with PTSD who left his wife.  But he is not the most interesting person in my family tree.  There was a woman in the early 1800s who gave birth out of wedlock to a son.  Scandalous enough for the time, but the father of the baby was a Native American.  Family legend has the father being a famous chief.  Pretty cool, huh?  However, I am a historian and wanted to know the facts, so I roped my son in to assist me and we determined that more than likely we are NOT descended from this chief.  If I could locate any of my Uncle Bill's sons and get one of them to submit to DNA testing we could determine the truth for certain (apparently the testing has to be done on a son of a son.....so those three are the only ones who qualify out of all 34 of my cousins).

Then there was another lady who was really cranky.  At least I assume so, based on her will.  She tells her three daughters they get nothing since she already took care of their weddings.  One son gets $5, the other gets all of her land - over 100 acres, with the house, barn, various out buildings, all the livestock, and farm implements.  But only on the condition that he provide her a place to live, takes care of her through her final days, and provides a proper funeral and burial.  If he fails, everything goes to the $5 brother.  Needless to say, the son did his duty and got his big fat inheritance.  I am sure the family did NOT get together for Christmas after that will!

More recently, my father's grandfather is supposed to have committed suicide.  I have several newspaper clippings regarding his death and the police investigation.  Seems his beloved first wife died and he remarried.  But his second wife was a bit of a disappointment.  They did not get along well.  But he didn't seem to be depressed or distraught about it.  So everyone was surprised when wife #2 came screaming out the front door that John (my family is big on naming everyone either William or John.....they litter the records and only middle initials make it at all possible to keep track of who you are talking about) had killed himself. 

The police investigated and sure enough, there lay John on the bathroom floor, blood everywhere, his throat slit, an apparent suicide.

But the family didn't buy it.  All of John's children were grown and gone so no one was home but John and wife #2, so there are no other accounts to belie her story.  The police ruled it a suicide in spite of the other questionable evidence, which would have made for a great CSI episode.  This was the late 20s or early 30s, so no forensic units, no blood spatter patterns, no rigorous questioning of the witness.  John's now widow was covered in blood, but that could be explained by here bursting into the bathroom and cradling her dead husband.  But there were one or two little bitty items that no one bothered to ask about.  Maybe it was easier to label him a suicide and move on.  Maybe the police chief was inept.  Maybe he didn't like Great-Grandpa John.  Who knows?

But the questions that my grandpa always asked started with:  Where was the weapon?  Wouldn't a suicide still be holding the straight razor, or at least wouldn't it be on the floor near his body?  You'd think so, but it wasn't.  Turns out my great-grandfather slit his throat (if you believe his widow's story and the evidence of the facts) and then threw the straight razor into the toilet (the razor was indeed found in the plumbing leading from the toilet), then flushed the toilet (the old fashioned kind with a chain from the overhead tank) and then died.  Pretty amazing feat, huh?

Wife #2/widow provided what my Grandpa James always considered to be further evidence of her guilt.  A few years after the death of her husband (also her second) she was admitted into the state mental hospital where she remained for the rest of her life.  I don't know if she was sent there by her children, if she admitted herself, or if the police had something to do with it.  My Grandpa James always insisted that her final years in the mental hospital prove that she was crazy and that she was capable of, and indeed did, murder her own husband.

I'm just glad that she isn't related to me except through marriage!

Now that I have my Dad's side of the family's scrapbook complete, I want to start working on my Mom's side of the family.  There won't be as much drama, mental illness, and kooky behavior (my Dad's family is Welsh and Irish, Mom's is German and English, so they are much more respectable) but there are some war heroes and one murder victim where I am 100% certain that the men they hanged for that crime were innocent and were simply victims of local bigotry and prejudice.

But I'll save that story for another day.

New Funky Barely-There Running Shoes

Here are my new running shoes:  Vibram KSOs.  Initially I wanted Bikilas, but they fit too snugly across the top of my foot and a larger size didn't help.  So I switched to the KSOs and they fit like a glove.  Literally.  Slip one on your foot, wrangle the pinkie toe into its place, and then the rest follow relatively obediently.

I'm not a fan of pink, but I liked these better than the all black ones, so I'm going to wear pink shoes this year.

Walking in them is supposed to get your feet accustomed to the different way of walking, but, to be honest, I am such a bare footed gal anyway, that I don't think wearing them for two weeks will do diddly squat.  This morning I decided to take them out for a spin. 

Jackie has me scheduled for a 5 miler today, but I knew that wouldn't happen in these.  (sorry Jackie - off plan already!)  It was a bright, sunny, cold morning when I hit the trail.  There wasn't enough wind to make me want a coat, but there was enough sun to make me thankful for my sunglasses.  Long sleeves, gloves, and I was ready to try out my new running shoes.

Folks will tell you that running barefooted or in minimalist shoes works different muscles.  I have no idea what they are talking about.  Everything was the same, my foot strike, the muscles that are used, the way it feels running in Vibrams. 

Okay, I lie.  It was a TOTALLY different feeling.  Sure, you could choose to run in the now-normal heel-striking method that we have all grown accustomed to using with our heavily padded shoes.  But to do so would create havoc on your heels in short order.  Those of us with plantar fasciitis and/or heel spurs would be in agony after five minutes of slamming our poor heels into the pavement with nothing but a thin layer of rubber merely designed to protect your skin from rocks, gravel, glass (and dog poop!)  I thought it might feel awkward or unnatural to run with the ball or forefoot of my feet striking the ground first, and was sort of afraid I would look like some sort of goofball prancing along, but I quickly and comfortably settled into a rhythm and method that worked well for me, didn't feel unnatural, and didn't make me look too odd (I mean we are talking about a nearly 48 year old, overweight woman in spandex - who is going to notice how I run!?!)


I promised myself (and all of my running friends, both real and virtual) that I would only run a mile today.  But as I started getting into the groove I wondered how far I could go.  I felt good.  I wasn't laboring.  My breathing didn't sound like I was about to keel over and die.  I didn't feel that I was struggling to maintain my pace (although it was still my normal "slow" speed).  And, glory be!, my weren't making snotty, rude, or obscene comments as they slammed into the pavement.  How 'bout the balls of my feet?  Were they in throes of agony instead?  Nope, they were fine.  No complaints from them.

A little over 3/4 of a mile into my run I discovered that yes indeed ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, running in bare, or nearly bare, feet is substantially different than running in modern running shoes.  You use different muscles.  My calves, never fans of my running on a good day, were beginning to make noises.  My hamstrings were waking up and not liking the fact that they were being used to propel me forward.  The arches of my feet were mildly protesting the excess stretching that was required of them.  And my ankle muscles (I assume you have muscles in your ankles) - they were whining and complaining about the demands that my new style of running was making on their little pampered selves.

I finished the mile and then did a tiny bit more just to prove that I could, cooled down and stretched.  Drove home and passed my next test - I was able to get out of the car without limping or hobbling, something that I often do after a particularly difficult run coupled with insufficient stretching.  Since then I have spent over an hour sitting still while I ate lunch and read, and once again, was able to stand and walk without  the usual need to "warm up" to get things moving in the proper direction and coherently.  It's now 5 hours since my run and I just got up and began walking to prove that I can do it without the ordinary post-run aches and stiffness.

Yes, yes, I only ran a mile.  And tomorrow will tell how I really feel post-run.  But I think I may have hit upon the proper shoe for me.  Less, not more, is what I needed.  As a child I spent most of the spring, all of the summer, and as many fall days as I could get away with it, in my bare feet.  I climbed trees, waded in creeks, ran across gravel, played soccer in the street, all without the benefit of shoes.  We get too much cold rainy weather and I am required to wear shoes at work, so I don't think running barefooted is going to ever be a practical option for me.  But these, my minimalist Vibrams, may very well provide the happy medium I need to become a successful runner.  Could I run a marathon in these shoes?  I don't know.  Those of us who have run the marathons know that one mile is nothing compared to the following 25.2.



I am sure that I will have more to say about these shoes as I strengthen my muscles and build up the mileage.  Stay tuned!

Vibram Fivefingers Womens KSO Grey/Fuschia/Grey 41

These boots were made for walking

I did not grow up on a ranch or farm.  Didn't spend a lot of time around cowboys.  Didn't ever have a horse (although there was that memorable year my sister and I were allowed to ride a horse that belonged to another family in order to get him ready for sale).  Currently live in Suburbia, where there is nothing even close to a cowboy. 

Yet I long for a pair of cowboy boots.  I used to own a pair.  Tan suede.  Nothing fancy.  Yet when I worse them I felt like a different person.  Confident.  Capable.  And, yes, sexy.  I wore them with jeans and skirts and just about everything I owned.  I did not wear them with shorts.  (Sorry, that seems like a silly fashion statement to me.  What is it saying:  "I forgot to shave but I want to wear shorts"?)

Sadly, the soles wore out.  I considered getting re-soled and that's when I really looked at them.  The years of living in Portland and wearing them in the rain had taken their toll.  They really didn't look all that great any longer.  Pretty ratty, actually.  Not only were the soles in need of replacing - the toes and back of the heels had been scuffed so much they were no longer suede, but shiny leather.  And they were dirty.  So I threw them away, figuring I could always buy another pair.

Now here we are, more than 10 years later, and still no boots in my closet.  About a million pair of sensible flat black shoes.  But nothing that makes me feel different. 

Thus item #59 on my list of 101 things to do in 1001 days:  Own a pair of kick-ass cowboy boots.

I spent several hours looking online at various boots.  Went to the local feed store where they sell boots and Wranglers and dinner-plate sized belt buckles.  (who knew there was a market for these things in Gresham, OR?!)

And I have finally found them - the boots that I want.  Fancier than the ones I used to own.  But not Texas State Fair Rodeo Queen fancy.  I like that the toes and instep look like normal, brown cowboy boots and it's not until you see the shaft that you know there is anything unique or fancy about them.  So in jeans, they will look like plain old boots.  (I like to think that they are a sort of reflection of me...to look at me you would think that I am a normal middle-aged wife and mother.  But there is more to me than meets the eye.)

But I'll know. 

My blood type

I was born and raised in Steeler Country.  I am a member of the Steeler Nation, and I bleed black and gold.  I remember the Immaculate Reception. I remember the Steel Curtain.  Mean Joe Greene.  Jack Lambert.  Ham.  Bradshaw.  Franco Harris.  Lynn Swann.  Chuck Noll.  Myron Cope - yoi!

I made a celebratory cake designed to look like the Terrible Towel after we won our fourth Super Bowl.

I adore the Rooneys and trust them to make the right choices for the team.  They have proven themselves right time and time again, both in choosing the right players to become Steelers, in letting the wrong players go, and in standing behind Big Ben.  The choice of Mike Tomlin surprised us all - and we are delighted with the foresight and wisdom behind our amazing new young coach.

The Rooneys and the Steeler Nation think of themselves as all part of the same Steeler Family.  And the Steelers were some of the glue that held my father and I together when I was a teen and parents were the worst invention ever.  (I am still jealous that my sister, Barb, got to run a race with my dad and a group of the Steelers back in the day - what a treat!)  My son was taught from birth to be a Steeler, and to hate the Cowboys, the Raiders, the Brownies, and now the Ravens.  Just as a common love of the Steelers bridged the inevitable gap between my dad and I, it did the same thing for my son and I years later.  And that common love for the Steelers has given my 10-year-old nephew and I something to talk and text about although separated by over 3000 miles.

So, as you can imagine, I was thrilled when the Steelers made it to the Super Bowl.  With six Super Bowl rings firmly on our hands, we were dreaming of number seven.  My husband, a native Oregonian, and my father-in-law, also a PNW-er, were amazed that the score at the end of the first quarter didn't cause me any great grief.  Ditto for the score at halftime.  I explained to them that I had confidence in my team, and that as long as we were within a touchdown with the ball in hand and two minutes on the clock, the Steelers have shown that a victory is still firmly within their grasp.

Sadly, this was not the year for us to gain that seventh ring.  People who know that I am a Steeler fan asked if I was upset by the final score.  Of course I was sad.  But not angry.  It was a good game, no bad calls, no really dirty play.  There were mistakes that shouldn't have been made.  But all-in-all, it was the Super Bowl that we all hoped for, only with the wrong final score.

So what is the purpose of this blog?  None, really, I guess.  I just wanted to talk about my Steelers one last time this season.  With a lockout looming on April 1 I wonder if there will be a draft.  Will there be preseason practices for my sister and her son to attend?  Will February of 2012 bring us another Super Bowl, or were those predictions of Armageddon in 2012 accurate, and next winter will bring no football.

I am a member of the Steeler Nation, and I bleed black and gold.

You're not getting older, you're getting....

I'm going grey.

Actually, this is not a news flash.  My first five grey hairs came in overnight about 20 years ago when I was working as a men's dorm supervisor.  An angry student swung at me and the dean chose not to expel him.  But I did get a restraining order which made it almost impossible for the guy to live in the dorm.  (and once again, I have gone off topic before I even finish the first paragraph.)

No, I've been going grey for 20 years now.  But I've been coloring my hair for about, oh, 18 years.  Sometimes I am light brown.  Sometimes I am dark brown.  Reddish.  Auburn.  Caramel.  Mocha.  A touch of burgundy.  And one memorable experiment gone badly awry when it became sort of orange-y.  If I had to tell you my actual hair color, which I do for ID purposes, I say "brown" but I could not pick out the right color to save my life.

But life has been so busy that I haven't been able to find time to re-color it.  And so I have about two inches of grey growing in.  Sadly, it isn't 100% grey, it's about one third grey and the rest is brown.  Enough grey to notice it, but not enough to look cool.

With no time to fix it, I have reverted to my childhood hairstyle:  Pull back the front into two barrettes and call it good.

So my aging hair has caused me to wear it like a child.

I don't mind this hairstyle.  It's easy.  The headset at work doesn't mess it up.  No expensive "product" involved.  And drying and styling time is minimal.

I wonder if this means I have given up, or have come to terms.

By not staying up until oh-dark-thirty in the morning to get it colored, have I made the decision that I don't care how I look, since I am old?  Have I lost interest in the fight against aging?  Against becoming my mother?  Against looking my age?  (how un-American!)

Or have I come to terms with the fact that, although my father blessed me with his genetic makeup which makes me look a good 5 to 8 years younger than I am, I am, indeed, closer to 50 than to 40?  Heck, closer to 50 than to 45!  Am I finally able to embrace the fact that I am not a child, not a teen, not a young woman, but a middle-aged woman?  I have a child who is closer to 30 than to 20 and my mother is in her early 70s.

Is this a sort of mid-life....not "crisis", but perhaps mid-life peace?

It's nice to think that maybe, after warring with myself for my entire life, I am finally accepting who I am.  I'd like to think that this is the answer to why my grey hair is out there for everyone to see.

But I suspect that the real answer is that I am just too busy, and some weekend when we have nothing going on, you'll find me in the bathroom experimenting with the latest color.  Maybe strip it and see how I look with totally white hair.......

I suck at my job

I really do.


My job is to take calls from tax payers who have questions about the tax law.  You have a question, maybe "can I claim my granddaughter as a dependent?" and call to find out.  I am supposed to ask you some specific questions, discover you if you meet the criteria to claim the girl, and then tell you "yes" or "no" and why.  Give you the information, educate you as to why, and move on to the next caller.

Problem is, I can't do it.

In the process of taking your call I find out that you are a single person, low income, you sound scared (who isn't, calling the IRS?!), you don't really seem to know a lot about the tax law, and I suspect that you qualify for the Earned Income Credit and the Making Work Pay Credit, both refundable credits that would put some money in your pocket.  But I am not supposed to offer this info.  I AM NOT YOUR TAX ADVISOR!  I am here to answer your question, the end.

It's killing me, not to help these people.  So I find creative ways to phrase my questions so that I can tell you about the credits without just telling you.  In the course of asking the required questions I phrase them in such a way that you ask what it is, so I can tell you a bit about the credit, and then (if we're lucky) you ask if you can get that, too.  When it all works according to plan, I am such a happy camper.  But I have a feeling I am going to get busted for it someday. 

Then there was the combat-wounded veteran I talked to.  He called because money that was to be non-taxable was listed as taxable.  Come to discover, this is something that the courts ordered corrected TWENTY YEARS AGO and the computer programs still haven't been corrected.  I could tell him how to "fix" part of it on his tax return, but the rest - well, finally I had to suggest he call him congressman and senator to get it corrected.  The telephone number I had for him to call to get the other corrections taken care of was one that he already had called.  And their response was basically "sucks to be you."

This was three days ago and I am still steamed about it.

Every day there are people I talk to who simply need some guidance.  They need an advocate.  They need a person who will point them in the right direction.  They aren't looking for someone to do it for them.  They aren't looking for a free ride (although I get plenty of them, too).  They are just simply ignorant of the law, ignorant of their rights, ignorant of how to work through the system.  They want to do things properly, and they sure don't want to arouse the wrath of the IRS.  But they just don't know.

And I want to help them.  But it's not my job.  For every person I spend extra time sneakily finding ways to tell them things they don't know, I am making two others wait on the phone longer than they should have to wait.  It's a catch-22.  Either I help everyone a little bit but not enough, or I help a few people fully and make the others do without.

I'm not complaining about my job, or what I am supposed to do.  I completely understand that I was NOT hired by the US government to be a tax advisor to these folks.  But my instinct is to help; to offer them the full benefit of my knowledge and the tax code.  But that isn't what you all are paying me for.

Anyone want to pay me to be a tax advisor to the good citizens of this country who want to do it right but don't have a clue?