Hi Darling Ones,

I’m not sure if it’s a generational thing or it’s a jodirational thing, but every time I think about my taxes Uncle Pennybags from Monopoly pops into my head and narrates all my taxation thoughts with various images from the Community Chest and Chance cards. This is probably because Monopoly was my first experience of taxes.

The other day before I had to give the first of three presentations I was so anxious I decided to distract myself by doing my taxes. This was a whole four days earlier than I planned. I was ahead of the game like an actual professional business woman. For the most part, taxes are just a pain in my ass. I’m constantly afraid I will hit the wrong button and my computer will sound the alarms and the IRS will be at my doorstep in moments to arrest me for crime.

IRS, if you’re listening, I am much too poor and stupid to do a tax crime.

Taxes only annoy me rather than enrage me, because I magical think my way into believing all my tax money goes towards funding public libraries.

So the gist of all this is I did my taxes early for the first time since like 2009. I submitted them on Tuesday and on Friday I got a notice that Scott County messed up my property tax statement. This is why you never do anything early. Ever. However, it worked in my favor because now I qualify for a rebate which will help me pay my stupid property taxes.

I hate this for me, and you. I hate that I’m a nearly fifty-year-old woman who talks about her fucking taxes. Ain’t nothing sexy about that, no matter how cute the Joan Jett shirt I’m wearing is. I should not be talking about taxes. I should be talking about the new Wet Leg record and how much I love singing the line I went to school and I got the big D. Or the recurring dream I have where a bunch of guys I went to college with are chastising me for not being prepared for moving to a new house.

Or my new Medusa shirt.
Or how I’ve started calling my favorite ginger cookies emotional support cookies.
Or how I’m a little bit in love with Rodney Mullen.
Or how the ever-rising cost of groceries is super freaking me out.
Or how I had three Random Replacements’ sightings* yesterday
Or anything else, really.

But, I talked about my boring taxes because they’ve been on my mind. Somehow there seemed to be more meat to that story than to the one about how I didn’t swear in any of my presentations even though I was really worried I was gonna and I had Rockin’ the Suburbs stuck in my head all week because of that fear.

Taxingly yours,
Jodi

 
*A Random Replacements Sighting is when you run into a reference, a mention, or a song by The Replacements when you least expect it. A man I’ve had a crush on for twenty years once told me I was inescapable because The Replacements are inescapable. I told him he should be happy because I’m a fucking delight.

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Hi Darling Ones,

Sometime in the recent past, which could mean anytime between March 20, 2020 and yesterday, I read a tweet from someone carping about adulthood. Specifically this person was complaining about how if you have a mortgage and pay your utilities you cannot complain about being bad at adulting.

I wish I could remember who tweeted this. My guess is it was someone who was in the gifted program as a child and now has self-diagnosed ADD and suffers with anxiety.*

That is a complaint for the footnotes. What I really came here to talk about is being an adult and how I’m 98% sure everyone thinks they are bad at it and none of us are entirely sure what it means.

By all relevant markers I am a full-assed, responsible adult. I’m nearing fifty. I haven’t gotten taller since the mid-90s. I have a mortgage that I pay on the reg with the money I earn working. All my bills are paid in full on time, for the most part. There was that blip in November where I forgot to pay everything and I blame that on November being a crappy month and not on me.

If the appearance of financial stability is how being good at adulting is measured, then I measure up. However, this is America and I’m one medical incident away from being bankrupt. So that’s fun. Maybe recognizing that fact makes me good at adulting?

How else do we define adulthood? I keep wracking my brain for other examples outside of financial independence, and so much of what I think of — being able to work steadily, having the capacity to feed, bathe, and clothe myself, fulfilling hobbies, etc — seem to have more to do with the double-blessings of good mental health & lack of addiction problems.

Is a steady and healthy romantic relationship a marker of adulthood? What about the ability to commit to a person, office job, what you want in life? If any of those count, I get a big, fat fail.

What I wish I had said to that mysterious, forgotten tweeter in the moment is that as far as I can tell adulthood just happens while you’re trying to make it through another day. If you asked me how to buy a house, refinance your mortgage, or work as a freelancer, I’d be all, “I don’t fucking know.” Because I don’t. I’m sure I googled these things and then magic happened.

A lot of times things just happen and keep happening and the next thing you know you have a house, a 12-year freelance career, and you’re fucking fifty and BOOM a real-deal certifiable adult, I guess?

I know I seem like a real adult and I play one well on the Internet, but I went to bed early last night with a stomachache from eating too many cookies. The fact that I didn’t say tummy ache. . . maybe that’s what makes me adulty?

Also, I’m an actual, factual grown-up and the number of records that have come to my house recently is a little embarrassing. I’m like a 9th grader with a dishwashing job & zero plans for retirement all over again, only now I have grown-up money.

Does spending all my disposable income on books and records make me a bad adult? Are these childish things?

Is blogging about it childish?

And what’s so bad about being good at adulthood? It’s kinda nice over here. Does that make me a square? Does that fact that I don’t care make me square? Does using the term square factor into any of this? Who makes the rules around here?

Eagerly awaiting a sweet, autographed copy of “Lucinda Williams” on red vinyl that I bought myself as a treat for redesigning PaulWesterberg.net like a goddamn adult,
Jodi

 
*I’m pretty sure every single person on social media, sans me, was in the gifted program as a child. Every time someone tweets about it all the people gotta retweet and say, “I feel personally attacked.” Well, I do feel personally attacked because I was not in the gifted program in school, which was called High Potential at University Avenue Elementary in the 80s. They do the same thing with ADD now. Everyone’s got that too. It’s like when all the people suddenly wanted to be introverts in like 2018. Annoying.

Sister #2, the tenured professor with the PhD who was so far away from our elementary school’s gifted program she didn’t even know we had one or what it was called, tried to ease my bitterness about my childhood ungifted status by explaining that all the kids got to be gifted at one point because gifted programs counted as special education and thus schools got more money for it. This made me feel moderately better, but I am still bitter.

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“2019 is not a year on which I shall look back with undiluted pleasure. In the words of one of me, it has turned out to be an annus horribilis” Jodi Chromey ripping off Queen Elizabeth II who had a shitty 1992 when all her kids got divorced and her daughters-in-law were being royal pains in the old lady’s bum.

This is eventually going to be a post about self care. Also, I should warn you that I’m into week two of an epic bout of insomnia so I’m alternately belligerent and blubbery on a second-by-second basis.

Before I get to the self care, I have to say that 2019 has not been kind to my people. I am not lying or exaggerating for melodramatic or comedic effect when I say four of my people have been hospitalized at different times since January for suicide attempts and/or threats. The most recent occurrence happened two weeks ago and the repercussions are still reverberating throughout my life.

I am being intentionally vague because I feel like these are not my tales to tell. Because our country is hot trash when it comes to mental illness (and, well, virtually everything else too), I don’t feel comfortable naming names, some of which will be familiar to long-time readers of I Will Dare. I also feel weird not acknowledging that these huge, life-threatening events have happened and it’s only through luck, chance, and the strength of my people that I have not lost any of them.

So, yeah, it’s been a rough, shitty year. I know I’m not alone. I see it on twitter, and hear it from my friends, and every week at CSA Supperclub BFK and I give the double middle fingers to 2019 as it slowly oozes its way into history.

Because it’s been a rough, shitty year you hear and read a lot about self care. From giving into naps to multi-step skin care regimens to eating decadent homemade macaroni & cheese in your underpants while watching Bob’s Burgers (again). Self care seems to be the term we like to give whatever we feel like doing for ourselves, and I’m for it. Life is hard, do things that make you happy.

However, I feel like by labelling all the indulgent things self care we start to devalue the term. And I only say this because I’m a pompous jackass who legit did some self care this week.

What did I do? I opened up a SEP-IRA which is tax break and retirement thing for self-employed people I had never heard of until this week. I cannot explain it very well, but this Nerd Wallet post can.

I’m bad at money. A lot of that comes from fear of sounding stupid, shame for not having enough, and, well, ignorance. I grew up in poverty. You could fill an ocean with what I don’t know about money. And the tea-cup of stuff I do know was all learned the hard way through making stupid decisions and ignoring things.

So now I’ve really truly taken care of myself by opening this IRA. I still don’t expect to be able to retire ever, late stage capitalism being what it is, but at least I won’t get fucked as hard by Turnip’s tax plan this year as I did last year.

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episode one: the whole asking for a bigger raise thing during my review.
episode two: upon being handed the lastest route of this promotion i’ve been working on and seeing the copy totally rewritten and the creative direction of the project changed once again (after two seperate meetings to discuss this direction) i didn’t hit, punch, kick, scream or cry.

instead i rather calmly nabbed the two people responsible for this rewriting and direction change and pointed out that if they wanted something else they should tell me. it’s my job to write, not theirs. also, the direction changed and they never told me so how i can i deliver the copy they want when they don’t even know what they want.

i think i impressed most everyone within earshot on that one. even the bossman was impressed.

episode three: i’ve devised what i think is logical and rational plan to deal with aforementioned disappointing reveiw.

all this adulthood really tires a girl right out.

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i’m not sure what to do yet. the review portion went super well. bossman told me how wonderful and brilliant i am and what not– and that’s all nice to hear. but when it comes time to put the money where his mouth is, he didn’t come through.

bossman told me my compensation right up front and so i sorta tuned out for most of the hour-long review. it took me that long to screw up my courage. it took everything i had not to cry. but finally i just said, “you know, that’s all fine and good. but i can start a new job making more than what i’m making now. i’ve done some research on current market values and i’m being sorely underpaid.”

he was totally and completely shocked. i went on to tell him how my job has changed significantly since i started this position and i don’t believe the compensation justifies such a change.

he said we’d take a look at my job description and see what might change. but i’m really not counting on anything changing. except perhaps my place of employment. anyone know of anyone hiring any writers?

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