Taxed

Standard

Hooray, hurrah.  mrpeenee has done his taxes.  Yay.

Actually mrpeenee has shoved a bunch of papers into an envelope and sent them off to my long suffering tax guy for him to work his wonky magic on.  Every year, just as the last of the Thanksgiving turkey is clogging up my cholesterol, I start receiving mailings inscribed with something like”Important Tax Document Enclosed, Do Not Discard.  Idiot.”  They pile up on a corner of the desk I keep reserved for them, looking more and more ominous until I finally give up and that’s where the “shoving into an envelope and praying that it’s enough and signed in the correct places” part comes into play.

And tonight I have done that.   As I said earlier, yay.

As a reward to myself for doing the absolute, bare minimum in what could be considered money management here;

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Why can’t I get s percentage of that?

15 responses »

    • Oh, it is so worth it, plus the letter he sends each year listing what I need to send back that concludes with the notice “If the IRS contacts you in any form, tell them to call me.”

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  1. I do the same thing. My tax guy is very cute, have no idea whether he is gay or straight. But I’d like a crunch one of his figures, just once.

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    • Mine looks like a he was gnome before he got into the tax biz. But again, the relief of “here. Do this.” is so palatable. Much like the blonde pictured here who looks like he ‘s probably not sure exactly what “taxes” are. But does it matter?

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  2. Mother Muscato did my taxes for many (many) years, and since she’s gone I’ve kind of faffed around with H&R Block and worse. Last year, for the first time, I did them myself and did rather well, too, if I do say so myself. It’s always a bore, though, as I have to wait for one set of forms to come from a very annoying bank in Our Hometown, as I have an embarrassingly tiny family trust that annually puts out just about enough for a dinner out somewhere respectable, but the existence of which requires massive amounts of documentation. That blasted piece of paper finally arrived this week, so now I have to sit down and file. Terribly dull.

    If it’s not a chore, I’d prefer a tax-assisting toyboy with a little more avoirdupois; I find even the cutest specimen with zero bodyfat unnervingly anatomical somehow, and not in a good way.

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