Facing the Music

On top work and the decision to move to Florida, my time has been occupied dealing with a little IRS issue. You know, even the act of writing, "IRS" makes my bottom pucker just a bit. They scare me. Anyway...

As a condition of his divorce settlement, Dallas was to turn over half of his stock options and half of his 401K to his ex wife, which was pretty standard as far as the division of assets usually goes. All marital bills were paid out of the proceeds and the remainder was split. Dallas took his half, put his chopper on a boat and flew home to New Zealand. He didn't expect to return.

But he did and recently, we were alerted to the fact that we might have a wee tax problem (again, involuntary constriction of said nether region). It seems that Dallas's divorce decree was missing a QDRO or qualified domestic relations order.

What's that, you ask?

Basically, it's an legal order which in this case, would have acknowledged that the retirement honeypot was raided early and split between the parties. It would have directed the retirement company to send one disbursement cheque to Dallas and one to his ex. Unfortunately, with no QDRO only one cheque was issued.

In Dallas's name.

And even though he did exactly what he was supposed to and gave the proceeds to his ex, the IRS doesn't give a fig about the details of a divorce decree. All they recognize are the tax documents reported to them. Blah, blah, blah. What this meant is that ALL of the taxes and ALL of the penalties became his (our) responsibility.

YIKES.

And even this would have been manageable except that the full value of the retirement plan and the stock options put Dallas into a tax bracket reserved for wealthy people and trust fund babies. I kept doing the calculations on the amended return over and over because I just couldn't believe the "tax owed" number that was popping up on my calculator.

And when you add a couple of years of penalties and interest....

Yeah. Fugly.

$25,000 worth of fugly.

Gulp.

The Sunshine State

Where the heck have I been?

I know how annoying it is to see a lack of fresh material day after day and I apologize. My work life has been out of control lately and in this economic environment, I am very fortunate that my cup runneth over.

For the last couple of weeks, my time has been divided between two enormous projects. The first one had me researching and writing the business plan that proposed the formation of a new company. The other involved the debut of a product line that has been in development for close to two years. Next month, I will stand by my client as his innovation is introduced to the world retail market. It's all very exciting. And exhausting.

I was crazy busy but managing well until last Thursday when my boss and the chairman of the company dropped the F bomb.

The corporate home office is relocating to Florida.

And I was invited to make the move.

After hearing that news, I went from being busy to being completely overwhelmed. What about the kids? And our ex spouses? And our houses? And our friends? And my husband's job? And that income? And...

We live in Bentonville, Arkansas which is a surprisingly modern small town with all of the amenities and a great regional airport thanks to the fact that three large companies are headquartered in this region. The schools are great, the traffic manageable and the weather gives us four distinct but moderate seasons. Some of the best Harley riding in the US can be found in this area. For a big city girl, I've become remarkably attached to this town. I've been here for ten years and it's a wonderful place to raise children.

When Dallas was told, he was equally stunned and the two of us spent most of this last weekend trying to assess the situation. We scoured the internet for information on housing costs, schools, taxes, amenities, culture and all those things that grown ups consider when weighing a decision like this. We sought the advice of parents, friends and colleagues. We drew up pro/con lists. We LABOURED over this decision.

Yesterday, I spoke with one of my colleagues in Florida and after our conversation, the answer became crystal clear to me. I stepped outside, called Dallas and explained how I felt.

Together, we came to a conclusion.

In early August, just after the celebration of our first wedding anniversary, Dallas, Olivia, Dylan, manchild and I will become Florida's newest residents.

Alligators, mosquitos and hurricanes, be damned.

Texas Hospitality

Sorry to be away so long. Things have been absolutely insane lately. More about that later.

Last week, I was in Dallas to witness the first production run of a product that took seventeen long months to bring to market. Watching a pallet being stacked with the first cases off the line was a tad emotional for me.

It was like giving birth.

With a really LONG gestation period.

Like an elephant.

I took pictures.

And stroked one of the cases lovingly while whispering, "Fly off the shelf, baby".

I called for a taxi to take me to the airport for the flight home. It was driven by a very, very, very large man and as I climbed into the minivan, I was hit with the overpowering scent of cinnamon. I commented about the smell. I think I said, "Wow! your car smells like Christmas"...or something like that.

He enthusiastically held up a bottle of pink Febreeze which turned out to be Apple Spice Delight fragrance. And I am sure that under normal circumstances, it is probably a lovely scent but the dude kept spraying little puffs every five minutes or so and what was at first, a pleasant diversion quickly turned into a cloying, eye-watering, get-me-out-of-this-vehicle experience. I was afraid my clothes would be saturated with the smell by the time we reached the airport. I struggled not to gag.

I rolled down the window in an effort to keep breakfast in my stomach and as the cloud of Christmas was swept outside, I understood why the driver kept his Febreeze bottle so handy. Buried underneath all of that apple and cinnamon, was a mixture of sour sweat, greasy fries and dirty bum. There was a large, grimy patchwork comforter inhabiting the front passenger seat and a small suitcase in the very back of the van. Then, it hit me.

My driver was living in his taxi.

Since I am not the most subtle girl on the block, I came out and asked him what was up with the bedding in the front seat. I half expected him to tell me he napped between fares but he unselfconsciously confirmed my suspicions and shared that he was homeless after foreclosing on his house. For the rest of the day, I had a hard time thinking about anything else.

It's really not a level playing field out there and I suppose we are all products of the choices we've made but as I snuggled next to my hubby in our king bed that night, after a hot shower and a home cooked meal, in our comfortable house, in our sleepy, safe neighbourhood, I felt a gratitude that has been absent for a few months.

I despise the use of the cliché, "it could be worse" but when I think about where that taxi driver is likely to lay his head tonight, I know that for some people, the worst has arrived.

Makes my heart hurt.

My Body Hates Me

Oh my. I can barely move this morning.

Monday night, we were back at the gym for our Body Pump class after a two week hiatus. Dallas warned me to go light with the weights and I heeded that advice for the most part but it didn't matter. Today, I am a stiff, painful mess.

The soreness is so widespread that I actually had a fitful night's sleep. Every time I moved, I woke myself up moaning. This morning, I stumbled into the bathroom, quads and calves screaming and used the bathroom walls as braces to lower myself onto the pot.

We have another class tonight. To say that I am dreading the squat set is an understatement of biblical proportions. And tears spring to my eyes when I think of the lunges that will have to be performed.

I have decided to encourage both of my brainiac children to enter the field of research medicine with the specific purpose of developing a magic pill that will melt body fat without diet or exercise or any ill side effects.

Once they discover this little gem and sell it to big pharma my children, having been conditioned to understand that I gave them life therefore they OWE me, will buy a tropical island somewhere and allow us to spend the rest of our days drunk, well-fed and THIN.

I can hope, right?

I Failed

Parenting is sometimes a giant kick in the gut.

My ex husband's daughter (the one who made me a grandmother) and I have been at odds since before Christmas, mainly because she took it upon herself to lecture Dylan about the benefits of regular marijuana use. Yes, let that sink in for a bit.

He's eleven.

And hormonal.

And easily influenced these days.

It should be mentioned that my step daughter and her partner haven't two nickels to rub together and yet they are somehow able to fund a cigarette and marijuana habit. Oh yes, there is also the small issue of pot being ILLEGAL. Recreational drug use is not something that I want for my son.

She finished her conversation with Dylan by telling him that I had done plenty of weed in my time.

Nice.

And although this is true, it was not her story to tell.

After a fairly heated discussion where she defended her behaviour, I finally waved the white flag. My stepdaughter has lived most of the last five years of her life moving from one crisis to the next and allowing her to have a front row seat in my life has been exhausting. On good days, she treats me like an ATM machine. On bad days, I'm the voice at the other end of the phone telling her to calm down and take a deep breath. I'd felt an obligation to this child that persisted beyond the dissolution of my marriage to her father but the last couple of years have been especially challenging.

Late last week, my ex called to tell me the latest twist in the high pitched drama that is her life: both she and her partner were in an outpatient methadone clinic. It seems that somewhere along the way, they had become addicted to prescription pain medication.

But that wasn't it.

For the last eighteen months, they had been living with her partner's father, Steve. When my stepdaughter had become pregnant, Steve had generously offered to take them in. Apparently, it's been a nightmare and last week, he finally gave them the boot. They went to my ex, looking for a place to live. He called me for advice. How does one possibly respond to that chain of events?

After mulling it over and feeling torn to shreds thinking about the innocent baby in this whole thing, I told him that I thought he should refuse her. On the outside, it may seem like a harsh bit of advice but if those two people don't make the decision to change their lives, if they don't feel the consequences of their bad choices, what will motivate them to take a different direction? The last five years have been a train wreck and now, there is a baby involved. When I view the situation from the outside, the things that we did to "help" like purchasing vehicles, paying off bills, buying bags of groceries and remaining supportive without question, look less like examples of good parenting and more like something of which I'm not proud.

It's awful.

Olivia and I sat on the couch last night while she read me a story. As I listened to her lisp her way through the book, I sent a silent prayer out hoping that I didn't make the same mistakes with her that I had obviously made with her sister.