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Oh lord, Governor Baby has announced his big tax break for working Tennesseans. He wants to lower the state’s portion of the sales tax on groceries from 5.5% to 5%, which Jim Voorhies points out will save each of us $2.84 a year.
Believe me, I find this funny just at the level of “guy who’s never been poor a day in his life ‘helps’ by lowering taxes but so slightly that it shows how out of touch he is.”
But I do feel a little bad for Republicans. I mean, you can’t expect people to take your desire to lower taxes seriously when you’re lowering them by an amount of money most of us have on the floor of our cars. This isn’t tax reform. It’s tax “reform.” It’s a soundbite disguised as doing something to help people.
And, when people see that $18 million dollars, spread across all of us is $2.84, it really seems like an insult.
And fucking Craig Fitzhugh is agreeing with this? Dude, keep my $2.84, buy me a shake at Sonic and we’ll call it even.
Honestly, it’s as if they have no idea how to fix the state, so they’re just handing us each three dollars.
Um, thanks, I guess.
And, frankly, releasing news that each of us will get three dollars in a move that will cost the state $18 million on the same day that you announce you’re going to lower the estate tax in a way that costs the state $14 million and that benefits about 200 people (meaning they’ll all get an extra $70,000 a piece) is so boneheaded I almost think Haslam should fire his communications staff. I get three bucks, but some dead rich person’s daughter gets $70,000 just because of who her dad is?
It’s hilarious. They’re so populist until push comes to shove. Then we get three bucks and the special people get $70,000.
The governor’s the baby, but I’m the one who feels like pitching a fit.
My last two weeks have been filled with weird fortuities–two people with similar weird experiences happy to talk to me about them, cash to cover household medical expenses just when we needed it, etc. Weird hard things have been going on, too, but I still feel really grateful.
To Whom I feel grateful is kind of a weird fortuity, too, really. My whole adult life, I wondered what it was like to feel female divine energy. God is just so masculine for me (and I envy people for whom He’s not. I know there’s good theological reason to assume He’s not just, but I can’t change what I feel and what I feel is a Dude.) that it’s part of what makes me feel really alienated from Christianity.
But this week, it’s been like “Oh, so this is what it’s like.”
It’s silly. I always feel weird talking about this stuff. But compelled to anyway, so what can you do?
In Illinois, once you get to be over a certain age, you have to take the test every year before they’ll issue you your driver’s license. While her children would prefer she not drive and while she doesn’t drive much, my grandma will not give up her driver’s license until she fails the test because the grocery store right by her house does not carry good enough chocolate bars for her tastes. She has to be able to drive to the other one to get her chocolate.
Well, upon hearing this story, I went out and bought my grandma the variety pack of Olive & Sinclair Chocolate. We wrapped it along with the other Christmas presents and Mom and Dad took it home with them.
She just sent me a thank-you note for it. She said she could not taste the salt in the sea-salt chocolate, but that my Aunt B. could so she’s assuming the fault is with her 90-year-old tastebuds and not the chocolate. But she raved for a whole paragraph about how thrilled she was to see the percentage of cacao on the wrapper and how she hoped that became more widespread. I note that she mentioned nothing about letting anyone else taste any of the other bars. Knowing my grandma and her love of chocolate, I assume she’s not sharing and only shared the sea salt one because she couldn’t taste the sea salt.
I am tickled. My grandma is hard to buy for and I rarely hit on something that she loves.
She also wondered if I would go see the Hooded Crane and then tell her about it.
But I don’t have time this weekend! Hold on, hooded crane! Hold on.