The taxman beckoneth, and I don't want to think about him today

I really have nothing to write about today, but there's something about having a blog that draws one to the keyboard and screams, "DO SOMETHING ALREADY!" And so one does. The first thing they ought to teach in Journalism 101 is this: if it ain't on the paper, it doesn't exist. And the second is like unto it: Once it's on the paper, it's out there for everybody to see, baby, so it had better be good.

As Paul Harvey used to say, Page Two. Maybe he's still saying it; I just haven't heard him lately.

Yesterday was St. Valentine's Day. No moonlight and roses for us. We spent three hours in the afternoon sitting in the automotive department at Sears having new tires put on our eight-year-old car. Romantic, huh? We joked that I gave Ellie two Michelins for Valentine's Day and she gave me two Michelins. I am old enough to think that tires ought to cost about thirty dollars. These cost more than a hundred dollars each, plus the installation and balancing and front end alignment and a new rod whatchamacallit thingy and road hazard warranty (and labor, let us not forget labor) made the total come to seven hundred and fifty dollars. As in $$$$$. That would have bought a forest of flowers and many, many mushy cards and enough chocolate candy to pave the entire Sears parking lot. My beloved settled for a safe ride home in a vehicle with an odometer reading of 211,234 miles. Jethro was waiting for us in the laundry room and happily settled for a doggie treat. I am a blessed man, and I know it.

We did go out in the evening, but not as a couple. As a group. Every Thursday is "old gang night" with a group of friends from church, so we shared our Valentine's Day dinner with Hugh and Jean and Kate and Carolyn. Esther and Patrick and Sharon and Rosemary weren't able to attend this week. But a good time was had by all. Hugh spilled soup on his shirt, so it wasn't a total loss. I don't know why, but it reminded me of the bit in Shelley Berman's first comedy album way back in the sixties about having spinach in his teeth and also that wherever he sat in a restaurant, it always looked as though he had been passing the food up through the tablecloth. One gets one's jollies where one can.

This afternoon is the final session with Cindy, the physical therapist, on Ellie's new right knee, which the orthopaedic surgeon pronounced "absolutely perfect" on Tuesday. Lest we be carried away with rejoicing just yet, however, we also now have a firm date for the surgeon to perform his skills on her other knee: March 31st. That is why I said up in the title of this post that the taxman beckoneth. I have to buckle down and just do the taxes in the next week or so, because there won't be an opportunity to do it later.

I'm exhausted. I hope my Muse is happy.