Thursday, April 12, 2007


What's that sticky stuff?

It had been a long day at work. A weary commute home. I looked down to see big white sticker under my shoe. The wind has a nasty habit of depositing leaves and every piece of blowing trash in a three block radius in front of our door.

I reached down, removed the offending sticker, and opened the door. I knew was waiting for me on the other side.

The 2-Day FedEx envelope sat on the floor of our entryway. It leaned casually against the wall in a black beret, smoking a thin, brown cigarette... mocking me. I think I would have rather encountered an axe murderer on the other side of that door.

I considered it carefully. Would it bite? I picked it up by the edge.

Phew. What stinks in here?

The heavy envelope made an audible thud as it hit the kitchen counter. I considered putting a match to it, but thought better of it. What horrors would it hold? Could my heart stand it?

I took a deep breath (yeesh - what is that smell?) ripped the envelope like a giant band-aid. The quicker, the better.

Our 2007 taxes.

Suddenly, I could breathe again.

Our tax guy is worth every, freaking cent.

Good news: we got a return.

Eh news: we're handing it all over to Uncle Sam to cover the taxes I will eventually have to pay on my extra business income next year.

Bad news: I tracked in dog shit on my shoe.

All we have to do are sign the forms, mail them on time, and pay the tax guy for his expertise.

My taxes in 2004 and 2005 were something that even Freddie Kruger couldn't have devised in his wildest ravings. I won't post the totals, but let's just say that April 2005 left me gasping for air to the tune of tens of thousands. I still blanche at the thought of it.

And the worst part, was that he was wrong.

For 2006, I got the tax guy of my dreams (let me know if you want a recommendation). He fixed the previous guy's mistakes to the tune of so much of a return, that it prepaid my quarterly taxes for almost half of the next year. Yowch.

It's funny. But even though I know what the end number of the tax return reads, I still involuntarily shrink from it. It's like being bitten by a big dog. He may look friendly now, but you never trust him again.

Yeah. Like I ever trusted the IRS before.

Tonight I toast my tax guy and look forward to next year's simpler... much simpler... tax return.


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