Tuesday, March 11

Stick It to Me, Tax Man

Ah, the torture of getting one's taxes done. I suppose it's less torture than doing them oneself, however, still not a pleasant experience. Adam and I figured it would be a quick in and out. We'd drop off our forms, give him a few facts, and then be on our way. In fact, I distinctly remember saying to Adam, "This shouldn't take more than an hour, so let's eat afterward," to which he wholeheartedly agreed. Well, almost two and half hours later (I hadn't realized that taxes were a group project), the poor baby is screaming inside of me (yes, screaming. Vocal cords developed last Thursday. And yes, it was last Thursday so didn't give me the same crap Adam does about "approximate dates" and "everyone's different." My baby developed vocal cords last Thursday right on schedule, thank you very much!), crying from hunger. The tax guy seems good, but he's easily distracted on any tangent, and Adam keeps wanting to send him on more. "Yeah, the tuition at HBS is pretty high." "Oh," taxman says, leaning back a bit, you know, away from the computer, "when I was in business school, this was back in the '70s, mind you..." And off he went. I kept doing that discreet hit/squeeze under the table to get Adam to shut up so the guy would finish up and I could eat! Of course, the tax man wasn't on my best side, because after asking us, "Who should be the main tax payer?" Adam, knowing I have certain control issues (I know, you're surprised by this), said, "Jenny," to which I enthusiastically concurred. But even with that, Adam was put down as tax payer and I was put down as--gag--spouse! Spouse! Do I look like a spouse to you? I don't think so. This guy better be saving us a buttload of money after starving the baby and calling me a spouse. Sheesh.

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