It’s that most horrific time of the year.
Tax season.
It’s the time of year when you curse at your computer, fight with your ex, drink a lot of wine, and wonder if the people who create tax laws are human or aliens in disguise.
Or zombies.
Whomever they are, they are obviously sadists.
Before marriage, buying a house, having children, separating from my husband – you know, life – taxes were fairly easy. They were, actually, EZ.
Don’t shake your head. I’m a little slap happy after filing my Form 10256987365854.
For two years, I gathered all my information together in a little folder, wrote out an Excel spreadsheet, attached receipts, and schelpped my way to an accountant. Who then charged me $300 to enter the whole thing into a Turbo Tax type program.
Now, I do it myself. Even though doing your own taxes while your two year old is playing Angry Birds and your five year old is invading the computer area with a fleet of dragons and a troop of Army men is somewhat…frustrating. Add in an ex husband who stopped by to “help” out and ends up leaving his tax forms for you to fill out and file because he finds the program too confusing, and, well, you have the number one reason why I waited until April 12 to file my taxes.
But I did it. Even though I had to be fortified with wine, chocolate, and bacon.
Okay. I’m lying about the bacon.
Don’t audit me.
Who does the taxes in your house?
