Tax Man

We met with our accountant today. And by we, I kind of mean me. I tucked a small menagerie in our diaper bag to keep the girls occupied. I know, I know. The accountant. Kids. What the hell was I thinking? I wasn't. It's taxes we're talking about, they terrify me. Sean was waiting for us when we pulled up, both girls having played through nap time. I know, I know. The accountant. Kids. No nap. No chance.

I set the animals on the floor and encouraged the girls to play with them. These animals fit in the palm of my hand (I have large hands) and represent most of the animals you would see on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. They are also heavy, quite heavy as a matter of fact. When lifted and dropped 12 inches they make a ghastly racket. We tried to redirect the girls to look daintily out the window or to count the tiles around the hearth or to gently run their fingers along the table and marvel at its smoothness. You'll be shocked to find that the girls didn't exactly take to our suggestions. Sean took them for a drive after about 6.3 minutes.

I was left with our accountant. I like him. This doesn't mean I didn't feel sheer terror as I sat there. He had a laptop open across the table from me. Fujitsu. Fujitsunomo. Fugetbouthavinmoneynomo. He sat there looking at the computer and looking at our documents. Our pathetic, dog eared, scribbled upon documents. You can't know how proud I was to have been able to even lay hands on these papers. Then, sitting there, I looked at them and saw how absolutely hopeless it all was.

"How sure are you that you wrote that check?"

I could not have been less sure if he'd ask me to perform algebraic equations while naked in front of a room of exes and standing atop a large scale.

"Umm, maybe not totally sure," I squeaked.

He turned back to the computer and made the sorts of was that a good sound or a bad sound noises that the tech made during our first ultrasound. Just when I'd begin to think that the silence might kill me he, "Aha!" and say things like, "There's gold in them thar hills." He so does not have a southern accent, not that there is anything wrong with that, this is more to illustrate how he'd go from dry, cerebral, making me crap myself serious, to light and dare I say, playful.

Turns out our last accountant overlooked some things. In a good way. Well, actually not in a good way if you think of Suze Orman or someone like that who might be able to calculate the interest lost based on the funds not being available to us blahdy blahdy blahdy. I can't keep track of our estimated taxes payments, you think I'd have the diligence to put that money to use for something other than sidewalk chalk, leave-in conditioner and Smartwool socks? I'm ok with the government keeping a bit of my money here and there. Life here seems to dictate that just as you get ahead some sort of disaster, usually of the plumbing variety, occurs and out the window, or down the toilet as the case may be, goes any extra money. I will say this, I am going to strive to keep better records and better track of the records that I keep.

I hope you all find a little extra something in your return, or maybe not, how much do you enjoy a working toilet?