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Posts Tagged ‘legal proceedings pending’

Look, I’ve been trying to write a blog post called ‘It’s A Hot-Off!’ for the past hour but I just can’t get it to work. It was all about how I told my friend MM that the Prep Mums at the school this year are apparently really hot but that I refuse to go to the Prep area because I don’t want to have to enter a ‘Hot-Off’ situation with these (allegedly) Hot Mums.

(“‘Hot-Off’ sounds kinda wrong, doesn’t it?” I said to MM.
“Yes,” MM replied. “And yet so right…”)

Anyway, ‘It’s A Hot-Off’ has now been banished to my Drafts folder along with some other never-to-be-published ‘gems’ that I can’t quite bring myself to delete because maybe, just maybe, the world will one day be ready for them.

For example:

How God Almost Got Us A Late Pass

A true story. It involved Tiddles McGee claiming he saw God in the mirror, but whether or not he was actually seeing his own reflection and thinking that he, himself, was God remains unclear to this day.

I Never Said You Could Play The Egg
A post about my total lack of rhythm when it comes to playing the egg. Or rather, the egg-shaped shaker. Yes, it’s as exciting as it sounds.

In A Post-Apocalyptic World, The Man With Cable Ties Is King
This post is actually just a title. But what a title.

John Cusack Says “John Cusack Wants Table Five And A Food Tent!”
The title pretty much sums the post up. It attempted to start the rumour that John Cusack always talks about himself in the third person and insists on having his own personal food tent to protect his meals in restaurants. No, I don’t understand why either, but while I was trying to write this post, I actually also tried googling John Cusack’s legal counsel so I knew who I’d be dealing with.

2012: The Year Of Marrying David Bowie
The story of how, in 1985, a Ouija board predicted I would one day marry David Bowie and how I, myself, have predicted that this will happen next year. Like, for real.

The Iron Latte
A post about how my husband always travels with an electric iron which he uses as a make-shift stove for his espresso pot. Again: true story. Why would I make up this shit?

Don’t Trust Anything With Eyes On The Side Of Its Head
This started off about my aversion to birds and fish but then ended up being about being about the fear of potatoes and how there is a word for the fear of potato PRODUCTS (potnonomicaphobia) but not for fear of potatoes themselves and how the lack of a formal label for this phobia probably makes people who are genuinely afraid of potatoes feel unrecognised by the medical profession and how there are probably people out there with a genuine fear of developing a phobia that doesn’t have a label and that, ironically, that fear probably doesn’t have a label either. Yes, this post was a winner.

So there you go. If you ever feel that my blog is strange or mundane, there’s the proof – THE PROOF – that it could be whole lot stranger and/or mundaner. Oh, it could also include more made-up words like mundaner. Whatevs. Just thank your lucky stars that I don’t publish everything…

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Here’s a step-by-step guide to having a midlife crisis:

1. Tell everyone as early as possible in the year that you’re going to have a big 40th birthday party. Go on, talk it up. It’s going to be epic,  or whatever the young people call things when they’re totally mintox.

2. A month before your party, realise that at least eight interstate friends have already bought airline tickets to come to your allegedly ‘epic’ party.

4. Panic.

5. Print at least 80 invitations and make sure you hand them all out.

6. Count the number of RSVPs you’ve received and realise your party is now officially bigger than your wedding and your house is a fifth of the size of your wedding venue. Epic.

7. Realise that all chance of turning 40 by curling up in a quiet corner with a litre bottle of vodka and a straw has passed you by. Yep, you’ve blown that option completely.

8. Panic a little more.

9. To make yourself feel better, go to the dentist so you can be presented with a $1000 bill. Make sure you end up crying in reception because you’re having to spend money on your dental health instead of, say, your epic party.

10. Get a cold sore.

11. Even though you’ve asked everyone to bring a bottle, send your husband to Dan Murphy’s to buy the “supplementary” alcohol. Have a paper bag ready to breathe into when he comes back with his credit card maxed and a carload of this:

12. Realise a few days before your party that you’ve completely failed to look for and find the perfect pair of red shoes to turn 40 in and that turning 40 in the perfect pair of red shoes has suddenly become inexplicably – and yet vitally – important to you.

13. Instead of, say, cleaning your house for the party or making beds for your interstate guests, go on a last minute shopping trip to find the perfect pair of red shoes to turn 40 in.

14. Find and buy the perfect pair of red shoes to turn 40 in, using money you really don’t have.

15. Realise that said perfect pair of red shoes to turn 40 in do not actually match the perfect dress to turn 40 in.

16. Also realise that the party fairies totally failed to tidy the house or make the beds for the guests while you were shopping for shoes.

17. While attempting to put a fresh cover on your king-sized quilt for your guests, put the quilt in the wrong way and end up have a full-blown panic attack with a doona cover on your head. When your husband finds you and remarks “You’re really enjoying your party so far!”, burst into tears and say you don’t know why you’ve spent so much money just so over a hundred people can come and stare at you and your cold sore and your ill-matching shoes and your messy-frickin’-fuckin’ house with its doona covers that you can never frickin-fuckin’ fit properly the first time because the tag on the side of the quilt and not on the bottom and that is frickin’-fuckin’ counter-intuitive and, if you hadn’t already spent all your money on your dental-fucking-health and so-called supplementary alcohol, you’d, like, totally be seeking legal counsel and suing the quilt tag off somebody somewhere instead of sitting on your bed sobbing like a baby wearing the wrong pair of red shoes.

18. Listen to your husband when he wisely tells you “If you’re going to do these things, you’ve got to do them properly. You only turn 40 once and we’ve got the rest of our lives to pay it off.”

19. Both know, in your heart of hearts, that it will take the rest of your lives to pay it off.

20. Prepare to party.

________________

Tomorrow, I am turning 40 – in case you haven’t guessed.

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I am a person who prides myself on paying my bills on time. There, I went and said it. 

Anyone who has read my post about my toy box classification system may not be surprised to hear this fact – nor that I have created an Excel Spreadsheet and filing system to ensure that nary a bill goes overlooked or unpaid. 

However, anyone who has actually seen the state of the rest of my house –  or, indeed, watched me run along the street with multiple children in tow, screaming “We’re late! We’re FUCKING LATE” –  may be surprised I’d ever be organised or punctual about anything. Ever. 

What can I say? I offer the world a complex package. 

Anyway, the other day I received a surprising letter from the State Revenue Office informing me there were “Legal Proceedings Pending” because of the matter of some unpaid land tax. Unpaid? How could this be? Especially since a quick check of my spreadsheet, files and bank records showed our last land tax bill had been paid in full last June.

It turns out – after a phone call to the SRO – that the unpaid bill in question was first issued in 2006, shortly after we’d moved in to our new house. And the reason that I’d never received such a bill was because it – and all its cheerful red-coloured successors – were sent to our previous (rental) address and not the address of the house we’d just bought to live in, even though that was the address whose land was being taxed. You know it makes sense. 

Anyway, the crux of the matter was that we owed the SRO two hundred and forty big ones and had less than two weeks to pay. I broke the news to my husband, who took it rather badly. 

“Who the hell is the State Revenue Office, anyway?” he snarled. “Why, I’ve never heard of them! How can we be sure they’re not some Nigerian widow outfit looking to extort money out of us?”

I showed him the bill and the website and told him I’d just spent 15 minutes trapped in their elaborate automated phone system. “Either they’re legit or this is the sting of the century,” I told him. “In which case, you’d think they’d aim a little higher than $240, wouldn’t you?”

My husband humphed for a while and then said “They can’t threaten us with legal action just like that! I’m going to sue them! I’m going to speak to our legal team!”

I gently reminded him that we didn’t have a legal team. 

“Yes, we do! We have that guy who helped us with those contracts last year!” he replied. “In fact, I’m going to ring him! What’s more, I’m going to ring him RIGHT NOW! Threaten us with legal action? The nerve… the sheer bloody nerve!”

He disappeared into the back room with the phone, emerging some fifteen minutes later.

“Well, I rang our lawyer,” he said, somewhat satisfied with himself.

“And what did he say?” I asked. 

“He said ‘Pay it’,” my husband mumbled, adding with greater confidence: “Still, I’d like it stated for the record that I didn’t take all this lying down. They threaten us with legal action and we threaten them right back.”

“By ringing our lawyer totally unbeknownst to them?” I asked. “Yeah, that’s a pretty big threat. Like, a totally ‘under-the-radar’ threat. Perhaps even an ‘under-the-table-completely-shit-faced-drunk-and-passed-out-in-a-pool-of-our-own-vomit’ kind of threat. That’ll learn ’em.”

“Indeed it will,” he replied, pouring himself a big glass of wine. “In fact, I am going to continue showing the State Revenue Office exactly what I think of them by drinking this glass of wine and living a good life.”

Apparently, as he told me later, he was paraphrasing the “Living well is the best revenge” quote by some metaphysical poet (by way of Seinfeld). Whatever. There’s one thing that’s for certain here: that living-well-by-drinking-wine shit sure would have fucked the SRO right up.  

As for the lawyer, apparently he was “really nice” about it all.

“He even said I should feel free to ring him whenever I had any legal queries,” my husband boasted. 

“Of course he’d say that,” I said. “That’s because he gets to charge us every single time.”

“Yeah, well, obviously… ” my husband replied, somewhat deflated. “Whatever you do, just make sure you pay *his* bill on time. I won’t be able to ring our lawyer if it’s our lawyer himself who’s taking us to court over unpaid bills.”

“Don’t worry, my darling. You’ll still be able to drink wine and show them all,” I said.

And we both drank to that.

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