Each year on April 15th, taxes are to be filed. I know this, I’ve been filing taxes for years. But for some reason, I wait until the absolute LAST MINUTE. Every single time.

Here’s the thing. I have done our taxes for the last seven years, like correctly and stuff. I mean, I’m not in jail, so assume I have the thumbs up. Despite being married to an Asian man that is excellent at math, I am in charge of all things payment and bank related here at Casa de Dubs. I am not being stereotypical by any means when I say that he’s Asian and he’s excels at math, he is and he does. And honestly, I’ve really never met an Asian that was a straight up genius at life and when I married one, I thought I could stop doing my own effing taxes. WRONG.

I’m quite sure that my reasoning behind waiting until the last possible day to finish up with Uncle Sam is because I convince myself that we are going to owe money out of our eyeballs. We never do because we overpay throughout the year (Asian husband’s idea) and we always get money back. Besides personal taxes, we also had business taxes to file and I knew we would totally owe for that hot mess.

And being how I am not Asian, I suck at math. It amazes me every month when bills are paid (semi) on time and we still manage to even have 57 cents left over.

Here’s my top secret method to paying bills.

1. Get bill in mail. Don’t open it.

2. Lay it on counter and give it hateful side eye every time you walk by it.

3. Wait about three weeks and open it.

4. See the bill is due in three days, freak and log on to bank account and hope we have funds.

5. Breathe sigh of relief because we have way more money than I thought. Pay all of our bills in four minutes.

6. Repeat every 30 days.

Being how I am a money management guru and my head would probably explode if I tried to do two sets of taxes, I decided that it would be in our best interest if I did something I have never done before: I had our taxes done by someone else.

Of course, I call on April 12th to see if I can make an appointment. I can? Great. Oh, you want me to come on the 15th at 1 p.m.? Do you have anything sooner, you know, because I’m an asshole who only waited until the last minute and I don’t have a sitter for the 15th. Fine, see you at 1 p.m. on the 15th.

All the way over in the car, I’m talking this up big time to Troy. Because not only have I waited until the last possible minute to file, I have to take my toddler. Good times. I have packed a bag for what looks like the damn apocalypse, complete with toy cars, his favorite stuffed animal, books, a sippy and the pièce de résistance, a coloring book and markers. I plan on doling it out slowly, saving the markers as my go to last resort toy. He loves markers more than anything and he’s not allowed to have them. Ever. Ask my sofa. I hear myself tell him he has to be very, very good and I see him staring at me in the rear view mirror. I don’t even know what I mean by that, he’s two. So basically that translates to “Don’t set anything on fire”.

We walked into the joint and it’s packed. It’s a gigantic open room with a bunch of desks crammed in it and each tax person has a laptop. Everyone stops what they are doing and turns to look at us and Troy announces, “HELL-DOH!” (Hello) and you could have heard a pin drop. And my soul. He is the only person under the age of not a grown up. I know immediately this is going to be the most taxing (haha, see how I did that? sorry) hour and a half of my life.

I am paired up with a gruff, down to business Grandpa-type man and he introduces himself to me. He calls Troy “little solider” and tells him to sit in a folding chair across from us. Yeah, right. Troy climbs down, walks over, points and says “Puter-Puter?” That is Troy talk for Let Me Punch All The Buttons On Your Computer And Make Your Toolbar Disappear So Your Mom Has To Email Tech Support.

I immediately dump the bag out and hand Troy the markers.

This bides us a good twenty minutes. Troy is sitting at my feet, happy and pretending to draw bicycles all over Zoe’s coloring book. The grumpy tax man is plugging in our information and is so slow that I think this might be the first time he’s ever seen a computer. He wins me over by telling me that he got us an extra $287 by something or other and line something else and then apologizes for being so slow because his eyes aren’t what they used to be, but Hey! I’m not doing the taxes! Take all the time in the world! This isn’t that bad!

And then Troy announces he has “Hungies” (Hungries) and is signing he wants to eat. He wants a snack, the only thing I did not pack in the bag because we just had lunch. I ask the tax man if there is a vending machine and he tells me no, but that he will be right back. He comes back with a cooler and asks if Troy is allergic to peanuts. I say no and he gives Troy his own package of two peanut butter cookies, like right out of his own personal lunch stash. Troy now loves tax man and is quietly eating his cookies and drawing with his markers, a tiny bit on the carpet, but he’s quiet! This is the nicest thing ever. EVER. Tax man is like toddler whisperer.

Troy then proceeds to finish the cookies and is ticked. You would think he never gets cookies at home and is stomping his tiny toddler feet, signing for more. Tax man/toddler whisperer tells Troy that he’s sorry and he’s all out of peanut butter cookies.

Troy takes this opportunity, in a room filled with people frantically trying to get their taxes finished and people hard at work finishing those people’s taxes, to scream at the top of his not-so-tiny toddler lungs, “MORE PEA-NUS!”

It sounds just like it looks.

I know he meant More Peanuts, you know he meant More Peanuts, but in that room on April 15th, I wanted to die.

Everyone just stopped and looked around, like “Did we just hear what we think we thought we heard?” And then he screamed it again. And is now lying on the floor and throwing markers.

I forcibly laugh, bend down to pick Troy and then in a too high-pitched voice was all, “He means PEANUTS, he just had a PEANUT butter cookie. Troy, Momma will get you more cookies as soon as we leave here, OK?” Except what I really meant was if you say PEA-NUS one more time, you will never see another cookie, so help me Jesus. He keeps repeating it and then someone laughs. And then someone else. I can feel my face burning like the fire of a thousand suns.

Troy knows he has won. He sits on my lap, emptying out my wallet, pausing to yell “PEA-NUS!” while clapping and laughing, trying to make everyone else laugh because PEANUTS are hilarious. Tax man finally finishes up our taxes, I thank him and scramble to pack up all of our stuff. When we are leaving, Troy is stopping at every desk, telling people goodbye and high-fiving them. I feel like I am quite possibly raising Eddie Murphy. Or a politician.

When I get home and relay the whole incident to Jeff, he thinks it’s pretty funny. I tell him that it was completely mortifying at the time and while they did an amazing job on the taxes, I can never go back. Jeff told me that’s what I get for not doing the taxes myself.

He almost got punched right in the PEANUTS. For real.

After the snow this weekend, we were straight trapped like R. Kelly. Except in the house, not a closet. The plow didn’t even come down the street and the cars were buried in the driveway. Some of our neighbors lost power, but somehow ours stayed on. Thankfully we had groceries and most importantly, we had each other.

Which was cute and all until about an hour into it and then we needed some cocktails.

After a quick assessment of what we had, I realized we were moderately screwed in the happy hour department. Unless you can think of anything to make with 2 airplane bottles of peppermint schnapps, 1 airplane bottle of Gran Mariner, 4 Miller Lites, one remaining glass of syrah, 2 bottles of (sick) Bud Light lime, half a bottle of cooking sherry and a few shots of tequila.

Luckily for us, I can.

What? You thought I used all the ingredients? We weren’t that desperate. (Jeff said no.)

Here’s what you do for the most amazing snowstorm cocktail ever. Meet the Roughneck Margarita.

1. Dump all the tequila you have into a large pitcher. It was less than half a bottle. Hold the bottle upside down for 30 seconds too long, making sure that every. last.drop. comes out. Desperate times=desperate measures. Receive side eye from judgey husband.

2. Realize you don’t have any soda/ginger ale because you don’t let your kids drink it. Curse in your head because now you’ve straight ruined snowstorm cocktail.

3. Go downstairs to Mom’s kitchen area because she stashes soda and that is where the kids drink it.

4. Steal an open bottle of 7-Up and add about a cup to large pitcher that has tequilla.

5. Add 1 Bud Light Lime because that beer is sick and no one should ever drink it, but it will add hotness and flavor to the party. Decide two Bud Light Lime beers are better than one. Add another.

6. Toss in a can of frozen limeade. Make sure it’s the store brand so you stay under budget.

7. Add about a cup or so of water and mix it all up.

8. Serve over ice in a glass rimmed with salt. Reluctantly share with your husband.

These are surprisingly redneck refreshing. But the next day? Yeah, you better believe we dug the driveway out.

Because there isn’t anything I can make with schnapps and cooking sherry.

Hi friends. Did you know that I live in Colorado? And that we get the majority of our snowfall in March and April? Before moving here, I lived in California. California is the land of seven days a week sunshine and flip flops and where all your dreams come true. In California, they did not wake up to this last Friday LIKE I DID.

You might be thinking, “ZDub, that’s a crapload of snow”. And you would be right. It’s almost May; it is a ridiculous amount of snow. Jeff’s grandma told me that one year in Colorado, it snowed on the Fourth Of July. That isn’t right.

Zoe’s school was canceled because of the weather and the kids were b-o-r-e-d because it was straight up Little House On The Prairie up in here, we had NO TV. And we were burning a fire. Did I mention it’s almost May? I sold our TV cabinet on Craigslist last week so Jeff would let me buy a new used one. How was I supposed to know ours would sell like in 17 minutes? I found one I loved, but we couldn’t pick up the new used one until Sunday so our stuff was just hanging out on the floor like Duckie’s bed in Pretty In Pink. The TV was still hooked up and watchable, but then Thursday night Jeff caught Baby Troy trying to DRAW ON THE FLATSCREEN WITH A PENCIL and he freaked out and unhooked everything and boxed it up and put it in the dining room.

I decided to keep it to myself that Troy was also trying to put money and a spoon in the Playstation 3.

Zoe has a TV/DVD player in her room, so I set the kids up in there. I also mentioned to them that they were welcome to take a nap. They weren’t having it.

Once the 42 mph winds died down and it became obvious that no one besides me wanted to take a nap, I bundled everyone up and we went outside. I really like this photo of Troy because he looks very, very Asian here, don’t you think? (Say yes.)

I went around to the side of the house to check on Napoleon’s feeder. It was pretty much empty, but the snow was almost up to my knees and I fell down like twice trying to take this photo, so it stayed empty. (Sorry Napoleon, come home soon.)

The children spent the majority of their time outside lying down screaming “SNOW AWFF!”, which is toddler for Snow Off, (Troy) and swimming (Zoe).

Troy is apparently not a fan of snow touching any of his skin or sticking to anything that he is wearing.

Sorry little buddy, you better get used to it. This isn’t California, this is Colorado. We have snow. You need to get on board with this, you are wearing a $18 beanie with matching coveralls. It’s not like we have to take a buggy into town during a blizzard for sugar and calico like the Ingalls.

Sink or swim, Troy. Obviously your sister has the right idea.

They are six years, nine months and twenty-seven days apart. Technically half brother and sister.

He wants to do whatever she is doing, almost always chasing after her.

And she always comes back for him.

Because they know nothing about half this and half that.

They are brother and sister.

You Capture-Sweet

Immediately after I posted on Friday regarding Napoleon’s hot new red feeder, my sister (dream killer) messaged me and was all “I’m pretty sure squirrels HATE the color red”. I argued that was possibly the dumbest thing I had ever heard and then she sent me this:

“Some studies suggest squirrels don’t like the color red since the red-headed woodpecker is the natural enemy of the squirrel, competing for similar grounds. By adding red to your backyard color scheme you may be able to render your bird feeders squirrel proof while sprucing up your yard.”

And because she’s a lawyer, I know she researched this thoroughly before stomping a gigantic hole in my dreams of being reunited with Napoleon courtesy of his amazing hand painted, distressed custom RED feeder.

Also, DAMMIT.

I decided that I would take a trip to the hardware store and pick up some new paint. Maybe a kicky yellow? Or perhaps Napoleon would prefer a soothing blue?

And then this happened.

This squirrel, probably sent by Napoleon to survey the situation, is obviously terrified of the color red, so much so that he climbed on top of the feeder. He hung out for a bit and then ran away because crow jerkwadface showed up. Nothing for you to see here crow, this is a top secret feeder that opens and you don’t have thumbs, so beat it.

The feeder is a huge hit with my backyard wildlife community. The red stays.

After Napoleon’s BFF finished hugging it out with the offensive red feeder, he scurried off to the forest. In my mind, he’s knows where Napoleon is and quickly can get the word to him that ZDub is running a safe yard with comfort foods and plenty of l-o-v-e.

Now if you will excuse me, I’m off to shop for more squirrel feeders. I have a whole lot of trees and I’m gonna take it to the max. Think squirrel sanctuary. Don’t think I won’t.