I believe I can fry

Turns out, there IS a "Scotty" when you need one. By day, he's an accountant named Jeff, and I think I love him. He took one look at the bale of paper I brought him and filed an extension for me. I had to pacify the IRS with a big bundle of protection money, which I may or may not owe them, but it was worth it. Now I get to let Jeff fuss and worry over the whole mess until August.

It used to be so simple: "Here's my W-2. Please don't hurt me." Now there are three family members with lots of jobs between us, one of which (thanks to corporate layoffs) now involves self-employment taxes. There are investments; college loans; stuff that depreciates... it isn't pretty. Next year will be even worse, with a partnership thrown in. Between the IRS horror stories and my own cynical bent, I live in perpetual fear of the simple, innocent error that wipes out a lifetime of hard work and saving. I think that's why I put it off every year.

I ask you. Is this any way to fund a country?

Tax hell

O my god o my god o my god. Tomorrow is April the freakin' 15th. Yet again, I have managed to put off the whole tax thing until the absolute last minute. WHY do I do this, WHY? It's not like it gets any easier, or disappears if I don't look at it or anything. It's not even like I can bat my eyelashes and con the hubby into it, because that would not be a good thing. He is nowhere near cynical enough to take on the IRS. He actually thinks the kind folks there will understand if he makes a mistake, bless his optimistic little heart. He also still thinks people are basically good, the police are our friends, and the government can be trusted to do the right thing. It's a lovely planet he lives on. I hear there are Oompahloompahs on the sunny side.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, it's crunch time. The Ferengis are at the gate, and they've got Klingon backup. Where is Scotty when you realllllly need him?

I'm BAAaack!

Didja miss me?

I didn't think so.

Well, the guys have backed off my bathroom, now that it's a veritable shrine to the froufrou gods. It's like being trapped inside a wedding cake. But it's MY wedding cake, and that's all that matters. I guess.

I love my guys, don't get me wrong. But I have this recurring fantasy where I have a secret apartment somewhere chic, with a great view. It's cozy, in a minimal sort of way, and very, very clean.

I make some excuse about something I know they won't want to come along for, and instead I slip off to my hideaway. It's orderly and quiet when I walk in. I put on some music ... classical if it's daytime, jazz if it's night. I settle into a deep, soft chair or a hot bath and read, completely uninterrupted, until I'm so mellow I could melt. Late at night, I'll make myself some salmon and asparagus, with good French bread and a nice white wine.

I get the bed all to myself. The sheets are soft, heavy white cotton and vaguely fragrant with lavender. I sleep without waking until dawn, when the spell is broken and it's time to go home.

Nobody knows about this place but me. Shhh. Don't tell.