Day 5 of the Ice Age

It continues to be icy with dangerous road conditions. Today, I ventured forth to meet with my accountant -- that story later. For now, I'll rage against the stupidity of drivers. The ones that forget that more than half of the road (my half, thank you) is still covered in slick ice and who drive fast -- clocking speeds that rival Nascar races. Do they forget the danger of passing me in my "lane", honking and flipping me off? Do they think that one small fish-tail won't take us both out? Do they think that the crags in the road that I'm forced to drive on is going to suddenly melt under my tires so that there is no danger to them? Why are they so angry that I'm going a mere 45 mph on Tulsa's death road (HWY 169) while they top out at 70 plus?

Oh, I get it. They want to be the first to hit the ditch about a mile up the road. First to the auto repair. First to the chiropractor or hospital. First to be a thoughtless pig.

People are crabby because of the cancellations I guess. Five days of watching TV and ridiculous shows like the "Golden Globes" will do that. One cancellation I couldn't get out of: the annual meeting with the Tax Guy. (Strike up the scary music...)

Meeting with the Tax Guy is a lot like being held up -- only it's legal and no gun is required - except the gun that if you don't pay you lose your house, your wages, your job. It's a friendly fleecing, I guess. You make money? You pay.

Still, I can't complain about paying taxes. I really cannot. No one in my neighborhood had their car explode from a car bomb this week. And my drinking water is safe, more or less. The roads in my city are full of potholes but they will be fixed eventually. And no one has arrested me or any members of my family for saying demeaning things about the government. The fact that we can talk about the "worst dressed list" from the Golden Globes Ceremony and act like it means something is a tribute to the fact that we live in America, where our royalty waltz down a red carpet, accept commendations from their peers while a senseless war wages on in a country far away.

God, I love this country. I love that I can pay taxes because there have been days in my life when I stood in the FREE LUNCH line at my school and was laughed at by kids whose parents' income - and their paying taxes -- made that possible. I love that I can volunteer at a local organization, giving my time and energy to people not unlike me and that my tax dollars -- in part -- make that organization and its services possible. I love that I can rant against a school system that is fallible in most every way but still remains one of the best ways to educate worldwide.

Still its sobering to look at a year in pictures, painted in the language of numbers and neat columns. The Tax Man looked at me after I recovered from the anxiety attack that came from the "Pay here.." column...and said, "What does success look like to you?"

His question didn't surprise me. It's one I've been asking myself a lot lately. I looked at him, square in the eyes, and said, "The problem with success is that the definition keeps changing." He must have read some book on talking to clients because he acted like he might actually care about me past the W-2's and all. I told him that the greatest moments of joy for me this past year were when I saw my son graduate, my daughter hit a 3-pointer, laughing with my husband on our anniversary. And I found the courage to answer his next question which was, "What would you do if you could do anything?"

And to that, I felt my stomach quiver and my strength slip. Do I tell him that my most satisfying moment this year came from the weekly class I teach at the Parent Child Center? Or that the moment when I danced in my office is when I got my first letter from an editor, telling me the submission was all wrong but to keep trying. To me, these were really important moments, moments that were made from that place deep inside that says, "This is what you were really made to do."

In many countries, following a dream takes a backseat to surviving the daily war lords and their brutality. In many countries paying the bills means working years with nothing remotely looking like "minimum wage" or health care. In many countires, studying a painting or reading a book isn't lawless, just non-existant.

It's imperfect, sure. But it's my country and it's worth paying for. Who do I make this payable to...?