Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Roofies

Took the day off. Getting roof repaired. At last, when the next hurricane hits, there will be NEW roof shingles to blow off. Roofers found interesting assortment of pesky critters nesting in the rotting wood. Termites. Whoa boy. He said they're wet termites and will die if they are dry. Wet termites? Does that mean they like to party with Jack Daniels? Said termites damn better well be going on the wagon, because I don't relish waking up to having the fixed roof fall down on us as we sleep.

My dad died nine years ago today from heart failure. Was thinking about him as I did taxes to the tune of BANG BANG BANG overhead all day. Dead old Dad. I mean, Dear old Dad. He hated tax time. He'd sit at the very same kitchen table where I sat today and keep up a low grade hum like a generator, only it was a hum that had sentences like this, "&#@*&# taxes, IRS &#*@&#*@&, I can't &#*@#&@, MARIAN! Where the &#*@&#*@ is the &#*@#&@ receipt?"

I miss him. No one could swear up a storm like my dad. One can only hope there are no IRS auditors in heaven. At least one thing's for sure... you can't take it with you. I once tried telling that to a charity that kept sending letters asking for money, only they were addressed to dad. It was a pretty painful reminder he was gone (I had his mail forwarded to my house after he died to pay the medical bills). I kept asking them to take dad off the mailing list. Finally I wrote them a nice little letter like this:

Dear (name of charity),

They say you can't take it with you. They were right. I didn't. I'm dead. Please either take me off your mailing list or change my address to the Fountainhead Memorial Park, Plot XXOO. Sincerely, Harold Fischer..

It worked. Never heard from them again.

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