From Out Of Nowhere...
As stated last year and now stated again: I hate tax season.
Not for the reasons that most of you hate it, though. See, I'm married to an accountant so that means while everybody else is freaking out, running a shaking hand through their hair and scrabbling madly through envelopes and boxes trying to locate their W-2, my lady has it handled. Our roles are pretty well-defined in our relationship; I'm usually the designated driver, she is the financial mastermind. Truth be told, I think I got the clean end of the stick there...
...but I'm not typing at (squints at desktop clock) 1:15 in the AM to talk about that. The unavoidable truth of the matter is that I loathe tax season because is plays havoc with the schedule of our lives, and I can't wait until April 17th bids us a fond fairwell so that I don't have to deal with this shit again until next year.
See, although it's terribly unfashionable and may in fact be an early warning sign of being Communist to say something like this, I'm going to go ahead and admit that (gasp!) I actually enjoy being married to the person I said "I do" with on August 31st, 2003. The only similarities between myself and Al Bundy is that we both drive Dodges, the hand in the groin play when nobody is a witness is all good in my playbook, and we both have NFL enthusiasm. Strangely enough, I look upon getting married as one of the best decisions I ever made, which completely flies in the modern depiction of American life, where it's something to be endured until the sweet, sweet release of death that waits for all of us.
Those people are cordially invited to scuba-dive in a tank of burning napalm for wrinkling the noses of so many people, by the way. Are you listening, you slack-jawed lowest common denominator jackasses who are responsible for producing new episodes of According To Jim as I struggle for publication?
The thing is, during tax season Lady Jade and I don't get to see each other very much. For example, today we talked on our cell phones, and... I didn't see her at all. Not unless you want to count the sight of a dark, huddled lump in the darkness of our bedroom as I hoved on in, grabbed my robe and prepared a bath in an attempt to get tired so I could get to sleep, having gone to work at 11:45 AM and gotten home at just past 10:30 PM. On the non-tax season, it's not like this. Lady Jade has a regular schedule and for the most part, so do I.
During tax season is a different story. I do the dreaded Extra Board, where I am a completely at the mercy of the bus company and the dispatcher, and she works long-as-fuck hours. We both soak up as much overtime as we can, and it leaves very little in the way for quiet evenings together seeing the newest treats that Netflix has brought us as we drink blackberry merlot wine. Oh, and my dinner usually consists of sandwiches from my lunch pail rather than actual meals, which sucks on ice because I am actually a pretty damn good cook. Add that to my list of wonderful qualities that gets the bum's rush during this time of year.
So I have just over a month to go. God-damn. Forgive me in advance, my devoted peeps, if I get a little persnickety. Because I assure you, I will with a vengeance before it's all said and done. So if you have a subject of group you want me to flay alive here in this blog, by all means suggest one. I need something to chew on.
Back to sports. Oh, and don't forget to crush me. Out.
Not for the reasons that most of you hate it, though. See, I'm married to an accountant so that means while everybody else is freaking out, running a shaking hand through their hair and scrabbling madly through envelopes and boxes trying to locate their W-2, my lady has it handled. Our roles are pretty well-defined in our relationship; I'm usually the designated driver, she is the financial mastermind. Truth be told, I think I got the clean end of the stick there...
...but I'm not typing at (squints at desktop clock) 1:15 in the AM to talk about that. The unavoidable truth of the matter is that I loathe tax season because is plays havoc with the schedule of our lives, and I can't wait until April 17th bids us a fond fairwell so that I don't have to deal with this shit again until next year.
See, although it's terribly unfashionable and may in fact be an early warning sign of being Communist to say something like this, I'm going to go ahead and admit that (gasp!) I actually enjoy being married to the person I said "I do" with on August 31st, 2003. The only similarities between myself and Al Bundy is that we both drive Dodges, the hand in the groin play when nobody is a witness is all good in my playbook, and we both have NFL enthusiasm. Strangely enough, I look upon getting married as one of the best decisions I ever made, which completely flies in the modern depiction of American life, where it's something to be endured until the sweet, sweet release of death that waits for all of us.
Those people are cordially invited to scuba-dive in a tank of burning napalm for wrinkling the noses of so many people, by the way. Are you listening, you slack-jawed lowest common denominator jackasses who are responsible for producing new episodes of According To Jim as I struggle for publication?
The thing is, during tax season Lady Jade and I don't get to see each other very much. For example, today we talked on our cell phones, and... I didn't see her at all. Not unless you want to count the sight of a dark, huddled lump in the darkness of our bedroom as I hoved on in, grabbed my robe and prepared a bath in an attempt to get tired so I could get to sleep, having gone to work at 11:45 AM and gotten home at just past 10:30 PM. On the non-tax season, it's not like this. Lady Jade has a regular schedule and for the most part, so do I.
During tax season is a different story. I do the dreaded Extra Board, where I am a completely at the mercy of the bus company and the dispatcher, and she works long-as-fuck hours. We both soak up as much overtime as we can, and it leaves very little in the way for quiet evenings together seeing the newest treats that Netflix has brought us as we drink blackberry merlot wine. Oh, and my dinner usually consists of sandwiches from my lunch pail rather than actual meals, which sucks on ice because I am actually a pretty damn good cook. Add that to my list of wonderful qualities that gets the bum's rush during this time of year.
So I have just over a month to go. God-damn. Forgive me in advance, my devoted peeps, if I get a little persnickety. Because I assure you, I will with a vengeance before it's all said and done. So if you have a subject of group you want me to flay alive here in this blog, by all means suggest one. I need something to chew on.
Back to sports. Oh, and don't forget to crush me. Out.