I've got ants in my pants and I need to talk to someone in Finance

So, ants. I don't know if it's because we spent the previous 17 years living on the second floor and we're new to this whole ground-floor business, but suddenly we seem to have ants just streaming through the house. What did we do? What do they want? To hoard delicious crystals of sugar (if Chris Van Allsburg is to be believed), and to have me slap the shit out of myself when I feel one crawling on my neck? Jack inadvertently discovered that ants hate Pledge, so he keeps spraying the lip of the garbage can under the sink with Pledge, and every time I take out a full bag to replace it I'm newly surprised that my hands are slick and lemon-scented. I recently realized that I have Alzheimer's disease on BOTH sides of my family (my dad's brother, Harry, and my mom, who I was told had dementia but whose doctor wrote Alzheimer's on her death certificate, which suggests to me that the two are interchangeable? I must remember to Google that when I'm feeling less vulnerable). So while I'm trying to take care of my brain health, I'm also trying to accept that I'll be hiding my own Easter eggs sooner or later, and I'm working to be okay with that. It's a pretty awful thing to try to accept, though. To the people of the future who might read this and wonder how all these words came out of the angry, withered husk drooling under a moth-eaten lap robe sitting before you: maybe playing some Elvis Costello will calm me down? Try anything from Taking Liberties or Get Happy! and I will probably stop yelling at you. Recently I had to go to our storage locker to look for my tax stuff because our taxes are due October 15 and I always like to do important things at the last minute. We got an extension instead of filing in April, and when we moved I'm sure I did something clever with my W-2s and my 1099s ("I know, I'll put them here in this special place I will have completely forgotten about in six months") (the one thing that consoles me about losing my mind is a quote from Meryl Streep I read once where she said that when she hit 50 she became unable to memorize scripts anymore, so either this memory bullshit is a normal part of aging or I have Streep's disease, in which case I will become progressively blonder and be offered amazing roles as a sign of Hollywood's shift toward featuring more mature women HA HA HA HA HA). But while I was digging through our storage locker, looking for tax stuff, I happened to find another box that I'd been looking for for seven years:

Yay, old photos! That is my kindergarten class, helmed by the lovely Miss Jackson. I did not name my son after her but it would not be weird if I did, as I remember her as a wonderful teacher who once helped me put an Archies 45" (which I'd cut out of the back of a cereal box) onto the classroom record player, and then laughed when I did the Mashed Potato to "Sugar Sugar." I have clear memories of at least half the kids in this picture, thanks to the fact that a lot of them continued at the same schools with me for the next ten years. (For example, the boy on the left side of the front row in the blue sweater's name was Bobby and his father played for the New York Jets. The girl on the far right side of the second row was named Phyllis, but the boys called her Waffles. :-( Sorry, Phyllis.)

Anyway, I ended up finding my receipts in our garage, in a box supporting a table saw (?), and then I spent half of yesterday begging various freelance agencies to go back through their records and e-mail/fax me the rest of what I needed. I'm already planning on hiding next year's 1099s in an empty Comet can under the sink. Financial time capsule!

How to be a fan of problematic things

I've been Popcorn Whispering again.

Barack Obama can swear like a motherf*cker.