I had an epiphany this weekend. I’m totally burned out on taxes. Or at least writing about them. Yes, I’ve had fun with BackAlleyTaxes.com, and I might pick it up again in a few months or a few years, but for now I’ll leave it as fallow as a North Dakota Pineapple field. For the past few months I’ve had a bit of a conundrum, still wanting to write short articles, but  struggling to dredge up something not stirring in the bowels of controversy, a.k.a. anything political in an election year.

Where does that leave me? At first I thought I was as empty on ideas as Trump’s vocabulary after the words “Liar” and “I’ll Sue” have been removed (sorry, had to throw some politics in here). But then I realized I do have one topic I could write about unceasingly: my family.

Why am I writing crap, anyway? Only because I like the diversion from endless hours of sterile calculations. I’m not searching from fame or fortune (not to say I would turn down the latter if it was handed to me). My writing isn’t tied to my ego like a cartoon character to a rocket. Why not just write about what’s going on in my life and be done with it? That well is always full, especially with Finley’s neverending struggle to tear apart our house one sheet of drywall at a time.

At least this way I can entice one reader to check out my posts with the hopes that I’ll post a picture or two of the grandkids (hi mom). Anyone else is free to come along for the ride.