rollers and saying “Shut up !” a lot to each other.
These girls were Mean Girls, just like in the movie. When I asked them to let me off because it was my floor, they eyed me from the top of my velour jogging suit to the bottom and visibly snarled. I was something sticky on the bottom of a Payless shoe.
“What ever ,” they said, nearly in unison.
Later on, I saw a couple of them in Neiman’s and was rewarded by this delicious conversation between two cheerleaders that I’ll call Posh and Paris.
Posh: “Ohmigod, this Prada purse is so cute. I am so going to buy this in every color. My mom is so going to like so totally flip out.”
Paris: “Ohmigod, you really shouldn’t do that.” (She said this with that upward inflection that all these girls use when they talk, as though every statement is actually a question? It’s so incredibly irritating that it makes me want to strangle them?)
Posh: “Ohmigod, why not, bee-atch?”
Paris: “Because you should, like, use some of that money to help, like, the Tsunamis?”
Posh: “The who?”
Paris: “The Tsunamis. They were on the news. People are sending them money?”
Posh: “Ohmigod, you are so random.”
Paris: (giggling) “I know?”
Yes, I thought to myself as I pondered Paris’ developing social consciousness. They are a proud people, those Tsunamis. We really can’t do enough for ’em.
9
Taxing Matters (IRS Means I’m Really Stressed)
When you’re self-employed like me, you have to worry about really boring things like making quarterly estimated tax payments. Are you asleep yet?
I have a hard time remembering this “law,” so every year, along about April fifteenth, I begin to slowly and carefully freak out.
It’s about this same time of year that it dawns on me: We could save a lot of money by doing our own taxes.
Why shouldn’t we, after all? Would you go to a “doctor” to fix your broken arm? You would? Wuss.
I mean it’s our income. Who is more uniquely qualified to deduct the new gas grill and tiki torches as business expenses?
Besides, how hard can it be to do your own taxes? All you need is a smidgen of patience, a freshly sharpened pencil, and a handy supply of Schedule 2 narcotics, right?
It might not have been the best idea to do my own taxes during the year of the remodel. For starters, I had no idea how to claim the tax credit for the amazing Paul Harvey water heater or a bunch of other stuff we’d done that was supposed to qualify for some sort of historic district exemption.
But I was still confident that, between hubby and I, we’d figure it out.
All we needed to get started was the appropriate forms.
Here’s the good news: The IRS is seriously trying to become more user-friendly. It wants us to like them so much that it smacks of desperation. The IRS is like the awkward teen that yearns to sit at the cool table in the lunchroom but knows she never will because she doesn’t have enough money or isn’t smart enough or doesn’t really think that the band Yes is all that and a bucket of chicken. Oh, sorry. Having a little flashback to ’74 there.
Anyway, I’d seen all sorts of ads about the IRS’ willingness to help out. First stop: the shiny new local office for forms and guidance.
I walked into a cavernous space, the carpet so new that you couldn’t help but notice the overwhelming aroma of potentially carcinogenic carpet fibers. The place reeked of new paint and just-opened office supplies. It was, honestly, a vision, right on down to the several hundred padded chairs that had been perfectly arranged in long, straight rows that would do an obsessive-compulsive proud.
I was very impressed. Also puzzled. Because there wasn’t a single human being in this enormous room, just a row of walled cubicles as far as the eye could see.
“Hello!” I called, my voice echoing back to me. Cool. I did it again.
Finally, a voice came from behind one of the far cubicles.
“Please take a number.”
OK, for
These girls were Mean Girls, just like in the movie. When I asked them to let me off because it was my floor, they eyed me from the top of my velour jogging suit to the bottom and visibly snarled. I was something sticky on the bottom of a Payless shoe.
“What ever ,” they said, nearly in unison.
Later on, I saw a couple of them in Neiman’s and was rewarded by this delicious conversation between two cheerleaders that I’ll call Posh and Paris.
Posh: “Ohmigod, this Prada purse is so cute. I am so going to buy this in every color. My mom is so going to like so totally flip out.”
Paris: “Ohmigod, you really shouldn’t do that.” (She said this with that upward inflection that all these girls use when they talk, as though every statement is actually a question? It’s so incredibly irritating that it makes me want to strangle them?)
Posh: “Ohmigod, why not, bee-atch?”
Paris: “Because you should, like, use some of that money to help, like, the Tsunamis?”
Posh: “The who?”
Paris: “The Tsunamis. They were on the news. People are sending them money?”
Posh: “Ohmigod, you are so random.”
Paris: (giggling) “I know?”
Yes, I thought to myself as I pondered Paris’ developing social consciousness. They are a proud people, those Tsunamis. We really can’t do enough for ’em.
9
Taxing Matters (IRS Means I’m Really Stressed)
When you’re self-employed like me, you have to worry about really boring things like making quarterly estimated tax payments. Are you asleep yet?
I have a hard time remembering this “law,” so every year, along about April fifteenth, I begin to slowly and carefully freak out.
It’s about this same time of year that it dawns on me: We could save a lot of money by doing our own taxes.
Why shouldn’t we, after all? Would you go to a “doctor” to fix your broken arm? You would? Wuss.
I mean it’s our income. Who is more uniquely qualified to deduct the new gas grill and tiki torches as business expenses?
Besides, how hard can it be to do your own taxes? All you need is a smidgen of patience, a freshly sharpened pencil, and a handy supply of Schedule 2 narcotics, right?
It might not have been the best idea to do my own taxes during the year of the remodel. For starters, I had no idea how to claim the tax credit for the amazing Paul Harvey water heater or a bunch of other stuff we’d done that was supposed to qualify for some sort of historic district exemption.
But I was still confident that, between hubby and I, we’d figure it out.
All we needed to get started was the appropriate forms.
Here’s the good news: The IRS is seriously trying to become more user-friendly. It wants us to like them so much that it smacks of desperation. The IRS is like the awkward teen that yearns to sit at the cool table in the lunchroom but knows she never will because she doesn’t have enough money or isn’t smart enough or doesn’t really think that the band Yes is all that and a bucket of chicken. Oh, sorry. Having a little flashback to ’74 there.
Anyway, I’d seen all sorts of ads about the IRS’ willingness to help out. First stop: the shiny new local office for forms and guidance.
I walked into a cavernous space, the carpet so new that you couldn’t help but notice the overwhelming aroma of potentially carcinogenic carpet fibers. The place reeked of new paint and just-opened office supplies. It was, honestly, a vision, right on down to the several hundred padded chairs that had been perfectly arranged in long, straight rows that would do an obsessive-compulsive proud.
I was very impressed. Also puzzled. Because there wasn’t a single human being in this enormous room, just a row of walled cubicles as far as the eye could see.
“Hello!” I called, my voice echoing back to me. Cool. I did it again.
Finally, a voice came from behind one of the far cubicles.
“Please take a number.”
OK, for
Similar Books
