A tax on our marriage

This year was going to be different. This year we weren’t going to be like my father and wait until the very last minute to do our taxes. As soon as we got every random W-2, 1099 and miscellaneous receipt in the mail we were going to hammer these dastardly things out.

(Side bar - My father has, literally, waited to the very last minute to do his taxes. A few years back he delayed until April 15th to finish his return and then drove to the giant US Mail Center in Merrifield, VA so he could drop them off in person. He lingered outside until 11:59pm and then ran in so his could be the last envelope in the mailbag. I pointed out that it probably meant that his was the first one filed since it was on the top of the pile but he was having one of that. “Last one,” he kept saying.)

Thinking we had every last form, we sat down in front of the computer last weekend only to have Turbo Tax tell us we owed several million dollars. But, it said, you guys filed property tax as a deduction last year so you’ll probably want to do it again for 2007. Naturally we couldn’t find that form and this past week was filled with silent cursing and indecipherable emails from CitiMortgage’s customer service reps.

We finally got all our ducks lined up last night and there was much success. Thank you governments for our free monies. Now, hurry please and deposit electronically into our bank account and secret pockets sewn into our fanciest pantaloons. We addressed and stamped the envelopes and placed by the door for the mailman. Goodnight IRS.

Amazingly, that’s not where the story ends. Last night I dreamt I was dinging with several famous people. One turned to me and said, “It’s time to wake up, Nabob. You didn’t sign your tax return.”

As Secretary of Treasury Henry M. Paulson, Jr is my witness, I swear that this is exactly what happened.

I woke the G up and told her we needed to go open our returns and sign them before the mail came. She thanked my nocturnal assiduousness by telling me to “shut the fuck up and go back to sleep because, dude, seriously, it’s 4:30am,” and “what’s wrong with you?” However, she grudgingly acknowledged that she was impressed this morning when we opened the envelopes and saw that, indeed, we had forgotten to sign them.

Amazingly, again, that’s not where the story ends. A few minutes ago, I spilled an entire grande English Breakfast tea on our taxes as they patiently awaited their trip to the post office. Even worse, when I was trying to open the quickly dissolving envelopes with a letter opener, I cut the return in half.

So, tonight we need to print ‘em out again and we’ll mail ‘em out tomorrow. I assume the G will take charge and not let me anywhere near are sweet, giant refund.






What about filing electronically, you say? To be honest, I don’t trust computers. They steal your identities and give them to Nigerian oil magistrates. Just ask that girl whose credit card keeps getting charged by the DMV for someone else’s $250 parking tickets. I bet she files electronically.