Back at the ranch

While I was moaning over the fact that I missed my favorite Rolling Stone, Ronnie Wood jamming with Bob Dylan yesterday somewhere in England, Hubby was moaning that he had stomach cancer. Alas, 'tis nothing more than a mere stomach flu. I had it yesterday. And worked right through it. But him? He was moaning and groaning all through the night, kept the kids awake who ended up laughing at him and told me at 2 am they were embarrassed listening to all the sounds he's making. What will the neighbors think? That we're having sex all night long? ah nechtiger tug - which is loosely translated Yiddish for - Ha! But I think he got the nervous stomach because he got a letter from the National Insurance agency saying he owes them in excess of $10,000, when in reality it's perhaps a bit more than $1,000. Not only did they send him an enormous bill - they said they had already put a lien on his bank account, which had me laughing up a storm. He doesn't have a fucking bank account, you government freaks!! The bureaucracy here is evil. Our former landlord owned a flower shop in town. How much money can one make selling flowers, for Christ's sake? But the tax authorities came to his shop, see he has a car, owns an apartment and presto! He gets a bill for over $100,000 in taxes. No paperwork was needed for them to create this amount. They're experts. Everyone cheats, so they assume. Why shouldn't they just pick an enormous number out of a hat and terrify every business owner that just wants to put food on their table. Getting back to Hubby, we don't own our home. So we're considered "nebbishes" - pathetic - in this country. I armored him with documents of our debts and our rental agreement proving we don't own a darn thing in this town, and they lowered the $10,000 thing to a more reasonable $1,400, payable in 12 payments.