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I have nothing major on my work schedule this week, but there have been daily commitments I've had and will continue to deal with, plus more than the average amount of aggravations. 

Monday was pre-Tax Day; we filed ours weeks ago, getting a small surprise refund from the state for once, but it's also that wonderful time of year when I have to corral copies of tax returns from newly-filing bankruptcy clients and from certain old ones who have to produce them annually. I spent much of Monday trying to run the last of those down- when I wasn't being run down myself.

There's nasty looking construction on my main route from home to work, so I've been doing the route by a slightly longer, clockwise set of streets.  One of them has always had a dangerous spot: Park Club Lane, which is a commuter-traveled road for most of its northerly trail from Main Street, but which bends to the east just before the edge of our subdivision where a differently-named street begins.  Cars coming from the small stretch beyond the bend have a stop sign, and it is the only one of the three directions that does have one.  A year or so ago, after doubtless many bad assumptions about it being an all-way stop, the one and only stop sign got capped with one of these:



You think that stops people? Of course not. It certainly had no effect on the woman who saw me coming, and not stopping, and decided to plow into the intersection anyway, missing me by no more than twenty feet.  I greeted her with a honk and the Brooklyn dialect of American Sign Language, but only then did I catch that her license plate was KARMA B.

Yeah it is, lady. As you'll find next time you try that and the other guy DOESN'T stop.

----

Tuesday morning was just feisty.  I got into arguments with at least two friends over a seemingly joyous moment at the previous day's Boston Marathon:



It came from a Facebook page called Marathon Investigation, which routinely rats out runners for taking shortcuts, or for going bandit and running without a proper signup and bib, or, here, for blocking the finish line and ruining the finish photos of the people behind them.  My initial reaction was that anybody who runs that far can celebrate their finish any way they want as long as it's not in the competitive stage of the race.  When questioned on who I was to say whether this was a competitive stage or not, I cited the time shown on the clock above the finish, checked where it put this stage relative to other finishers (well into the 4,800th-placers) and concluded that it was okay at that point.  That only got stronger reactions, much about how this is the one race not to be taken trivially.   (At least I didn't say anything as dumb as Adidas did.)

They're right. I've never come within a fifth of this distance and my best 5-mile time would've had me a good hour behind these finishers if I'd even somehow managed to maintain it for a full 26.  And most of my running experience involves dodging drunks in dinosaur costumes on a routine basis.  I've only shot through maybe six chutes in my life (four more if the 20-mile March of Dimes walks in the 70s had them), and I can't remember paying attention to anyone ahead or behind me when I saw the F(inish) word- just exhiliration at having finished.

I stand corrected.  Unfortunately, a few hours later, I had someone else in need of correcting, and it wasn't something I could do.  I took a client to a routine bankruptcy hearing; by all accounts, she had nothing to be concerned about, but her trustee took a gratuituous opportunity to slam her, suggesting that someone in her line of work should've known better about getting into so much debt.  I didn't catch the tears until we were through, and I tried reassuring her about what the guy was probably frustrated about but I wished that hadn't happened, either.

No taxes filed or received.

----

That gets us to today: Eleanor and I switched cars, since she had a doctor's appointment Up The Transit and Ziggy doesn't go that far and back on a full charge.  Since we'd both be leaving early, I did everything I could think of to be ready for the switch in the morning.  But after she left first and I finally backed out, the staccato of rain on the sunroof reminded me of the one thing I'd indeed left in JARVIS's hindquarters: my umbrella.

Fortunately, Karma was less bitchy this time. I was annoyed already since I was only going downtown, in full lawyer clothes, to adjourn something I got (what else?) a last-minute call about yesterday, after the court didn't answer or return several calls I made trying to do it late yesterday afternoon.  But despite the rain coming down in buckets on the 33 inbound (and eventually outbound), I not only found a close-in parking place near court, but the rain let up for the whole 20 minutes there, in, out and back.  That got me home, back into casualer clothes and a hoodie, and then I didn't give a shit about the rain any more.

If I got two more things accomplished all afternoon, it was a lot.  We did confirm that we will have a new tenant joining us when the current two lawyers end their leases at the end of the month (one of whom I've been subletting from), and we took the new lease as an opportunity to request some repairs in the small bathroom we use in our office kitchen.  A gaggle of workers came, saw and apparently stripped up some ratty old tiles they will be replacing- but left the Liquid Nails-ish adhesive on the floor where they'd been.  I was almost trapped in the amber in a position where anthropologists wouldn't appreciate seeing me in 5 million years, so I escaped and put an OUT OF ORDER sign on the thing.

Maybe we'll catch someone in there who hasn't brought me their tax returns yet.
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