My husband’s talking to himself again. I’m trying to give him a wide berth, not because his eyes are spiraling in odd directions – although that’s still a possibility – but because it’s tax season.
As a couple who exemplify the adage of opposites attracting, whatever he’s doing over there with all those spread sheets of our past year is basically necromancy to me. Unsure if you’re using that semi-colon correctly? I’m your person, but keep your distance if you plan to talk about percentages.
Years ago, we had a tax man, but every April he’d send us what he’d done, and my husband would inevitably check it over and then find something Mr. Tax had forgotten. That seemed a bit redundant, so we decided to keep the work in-house. Might as well get our money’s worth out of that MBA.
I wonder if those long-gone relatives who left us bits of this and bobs of that ever would have guessed that their generosity would turn out to be a mixed blessing. We’re (well actually, he’s) dealing with not only the all-around fun of federal and Massachusetts taxes, but Oklahoma taxes. Conversation around here is peppered with “K-1”s and “503”s and I don’t know what all.
There’s a gleam of light on the horizon, but there are still one or two more slowpoke documents to roll in and numbers to crunch.
So I’ll likely be hearing more of “Give me a break! We owe $__________?!?” and I’ll begin wondering if there’s a nearby school system that might be interested in hiring a sexagenarian.
An hour passes, and next will come, “Whoa Ho! Guess what I found! We only owe $ __!” and I’ll stop planning meals based on hamburger and pasta.
In the meantime, I’ll speak in soothing tones, since for a few more days if we were a comic strip, one corner of the house would read like $#@$!*.