It's all written down ... somewhere
I'm one of those people who have to write down ideas as I get them or the thought is gone forever. I scribble most of these thoughts onto the backs of ancient ATM statements, grocery receipts and old movie tickets I randomly pull from my wallet.
The trouble with this system is I either misplace the scraps of paper or I have to blow my nose when there's no tissue available.
Occasionally I find one of these scraps, won't remember why the thought was worth saving, and throw it away. I recently pulled a few of these scraps from my pocket and typed them up before they hit the trash.
So here they are. Quick, read them before an editor grabs one and forces it to make sense:
- One of the differences between my wife and me, apart from the obvious gender-related issues, is how we deal with paper. She takes everything important she gets in the mail and puts it into a properly labeled, color-coded envelope and stores it in a filing cabinet. I leave documents like these in piles on my desk until the piles start to get in my way then I scoop them into a drawer.
Both filing methods work, but my method is superior only because it saves me time.
If I open an envelope with some form of tax threat or bank statement, I can think of dozens of better ways to use my time than to file these papers in color-coded envelopes and never look at them again. Having a beer would be one of those better uses.
Oh, look, the mail's here. I think I'll have a beer.
- Does it really matter what kind of stamp you stick on an envelope? Yes, because I hate putting a "Love" stamp on the electric bill.
- A day at the DMV.
"You need your 2004 personal property tax receipt," the Department of Revenue clerk said, looking up from the pile of papers I'd brought with me.
The Department of Motor Vehicles is one of the most frustrating, paperwork-driven agencies on the planet. If you asked a group people whether they'd rather go to the dentist or the DMV, most of them would pick the dentist. At least there they'd get painkillers.
"But I've got my 2005 personal property tax receipt," I said. "I only want to renew my tags for one year."
"You need your 2004 personal property tax receipt," she said again because I obviously didn't hear her the first time.
"OK, what would have happened if I hadn't paid my 2004 personal property taxes?"
"You would have to pay a penalty."
"So, if I have a receipt from 2005 that doesn't show a penalty, isn't that proof I paid my 2004 taxes?"
"Sure," she said.
Hmm, was using logic with a government agency finally getting me somewhere?
"Then this 2005 receipt should work as my 2004 receipt, too, right?"
"I suppose it could, but you still need your 2004 personal property tax receipt," she said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because that's just the way we do things," she said.
At that point I realized I'd lost the argument because logic and government procedure had a fight somewhere around the 14th century and haven't spoken since.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go through the trash. I'm all out of paper.
