The Tax Man Cometh
I get a weird feeling as tax time comes every year. I suppose that it goes back quite a few years when I anticipated a return but was instead hit with a bill. I really don't understand a lot of what happens, but I try and keep good notes and hand the whole package off to someone smarter than me.
Regardless, I sort of don't like the whole process. Thankfully, my tax guy is a good guy, and he usually does me justice.
Not to know if he didn't, but whatever.
The problem that I have each year is that it seems to get harder to make it through the season and expect that refund.
"How old is Jake?" my guy asked me.
"I'm not quite sure," I said. "He's big and his voice is deep now."
The guy looked at me.
I tried to do the math back to the time when I played softball, golfed regularly, drank to excess, ate like there was a gun to my head, and laughed every day.
That was a long time ago.
"Let me figure how long I've been married and then subtract one fun thing from every 18 months," I said. "When I get to zero I'll be able to figure his age."
The guy laughed.
(I told you he was fun).
"Do you still have the same job as last year?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Do you still have the same wife as last year?"
"I'd never get a new one," I said.
"15!" I said. "Jake will be 16 this year. That's how long it's been since I laughed out loud."
"You won't get a tax credit on him once he's over 16," the tax man said. "You'll still be able to claim him, but the credit is gone."
"Seriously?" I asked. "Mitt Romney gets a hundred grand for his horse and I can't get a grand for my kid?"
"Buy a horse," the very funny man said.
I was asked if I got a new hot water tank, or new windows. I had to strain to remember where I made charitable donations, and had to claim each and every book sold.
"Do you like doing all of this?" I asked him.
"Eh," he said.
I thought about the phone call he'd make to me in the next couple of weeks. He always says the same thing:
"Are you sitting down?"
I just hope that he doesn't make me fall down with news that I indeed owe more than what I already paid.
"Do your magic," I said.
"It gets more difficult every year," he answered.
I think I might throw up.
Regardless, I sort of don't like the whole process. Thankfully, my tax guy is a good guy, and he usually does me justice.
Not to know if he didn't, but whatever.
The problem that I have each year is that it seems to get harder to make it through the season and expect that refund.
"How old is Jake?" my guy asked me.
"I'm not quite sure," I said. "He's big and his voice is deep now."
The guy looked at me.
I tried to do the math back to the time when I played softball, golfed regularly, drank to excess, ate like there was a gun to my head, and laughed every day.
That was a long time ago.
"Let me figure how long I've been married and then subtract one fun thing from every 18 months," I said. "When I get to zero I'll be able to figure his age."
The guy laughed.
(I told you he was fun).
"Do you still have the same job as last year?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Do you still have the same wife as last year?"
"I'd never get a new one," I said.
"15!" I said. "Jake will be 16 this year. That's how long it's been since I laughed out loud."
"You won't get a tax credit on him once he's over 16," the tax man said. "You'll still be able to claim him, but the credit is gone."
"Seriously?" I asked. "Mitt Romney gets a hundred grand for his horse and I can't get a grand for my kid?"
"Buy a horse," the very funny man said.
I was asked if I got a new hot water tank, or new windows. I had to strain to remember where I made charitable donations, and had to claim each and every book sold.
"Do you like doing all of this?" I asked him.
"Eh," he said.
I thought about the phone call he'd make to me in the next couple of weeks. He always says the same thing:
"Are you sitting down?"
I just hope that he doesn't make me fall down with news that I indeed owe more than what I already paid.
"Do your magic," I said.
"It gets more difficult every year," he answered.
I think I might throw up.
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