Change= ‘Tis a Fixed Fact of Life

I put off making updates to my website as long as I possibly can, and then put it off even longer. My external excuse is that I struggle with the formatting and technical aspects of my site. It’s much less user-friendly than Blogger here. Inserting an image, or changing placement of such, has caused whole paragraphs to disappear. Or, even worse, to appear juxtaposed over each other in a frantic jumble. The techies in my house refuse to deal with it and I’m too embarrassed to ask again, after they all had declared my site a disaster area.

That is my external excuse.

Internally, it’s a different story. I loath to change because I find change traumatic. Maybe if I don’t make the changes for the world (or the handful who look) to see, they won’t be real.

But change is the third thing you can count on, after death and taxes. It will happen.

Me^ back when… Not anymore!

My bio, called About Me , continued to mention the next door neighbor’s cat who’d gone to heaven long ago, and not my own three who have been with us for almost two years. Worse, it suggested my two kiddos still lived with us full-time. That is insulting to college students, and if you know any they will verify. Alas, it had to be changed.

Making these seemingly tiny changes, I felt my insides squishing. You mean to tell me the kids have flown the coop? Must be. It says so on your official website, in black and white*. (*Black on blue, really. But you get the point.)

Chin up. I did it. It’s done, and it’s also true. Moving on.

Tax Day Musing

April fifteen just about here, and all over our great nation folks are slaving away to get numbers in order and pay, or at lease pay homage to that other sure thing, taxes.

 A dear friend all the way from my elementary school days, from the far-far-away country we grew up in, was celebrating finishing the deed. Taxes done, wipe brow, let’s raise a steaming hot chocolate to that.

 Unlike me, my childhood friend, who now lives minutes away from me, had had a grown up career in the homeland, Israel. Before she came to the U.S.A. she was already a gainfully employed physician, working in hospitals there, and paying taxes. I came to America when I was still a teen.

 I have no recollection of ever seeing my parents, or any adult, slaving to prepare their taxes. I don’t remember any “Tax Day” or tax-time. Israelis pay a higher tax rate than most, so what was I missing? I shared this with my old friend. Where were we when the grown ups paid taxes? Was I in a coma, or am I suffering some memory block because it was so traumatic and better forgotten?

“Here, in the U.S.A., taxes are mandatory but the reporting is based on an honor system,” said my friend. “The government expects you to tell them all you have earned. In Israel taxes are taken off the top of every payment you ever get. Period.”

 “So it’s not a report-and-possibly-get-audited, but basically we trust you to do the right thing, like we have here?” I said.

 “Trust? Trust you to pay? Are you kidding me? In Israel?” said my friend.

 And then it occurred to me. For all the craziness of our system, the impossible-to-follow maze of rules and deductions we’ve got to navigate, we have something to celebrate.

 When it comes to reporting, we have an honor system.

 

 

 

Call it a bit of light in an otherwise no-fun day. Cheers.