They say only two things in these life are certain.
It's frustrating though -- because it's been a long time since I've actually gotten a tax return. I've been paying out to the government for a long time (and if this weekends results are any indication, that trend's not going to change anytime soon). But the worst part is that I've essentially got no one to blame but myself. The reasons my taxes this year are so ridiculous would have stung me regardless of which party was in power, or even if nothing was happening in the Middle East. Sure these things contribute to the percentages and all, but once you're at the point where you're actually discussing payment plans with the IRS it's not like those things really matter.
In the end it's almost like a epilogue to a chapter of my life that didn't turn out the way I was hoping it would, and the decisions I made along the way. Still, the sheer weight of it was enough to damper my spirits for the remainder of the weekend -- because now that I had a real number in front of me I could see all the unreal numbers that had been floating around in my head falling down like dominoes.
I'd actually been scheming towards getting a new vehicle, or maybe moving into a nicer place (or even a different city). Not that I'm rolling in cash, but I've got (or had) a little breathing room that I could see putting towards some kind of long-term goal. And that's where I think my weekend got torpedoed, because seeing those things evaporate in my hands made me want to be pissed at the IRS for seeing me rollin', hatin', patrollin', and wantin' to catch me ridin' dirty.
The thing about it all that sticks with me though is this sense that in at least this arena I'm still kind of a child. Taxes is a game for grown ups -- or at the very least requires a certain maturity in your mental processes if you want to get ahead of it. Through the whole tax preparation process the woman who was helping me (who was really sweet) kept saying things like "if you'd only done this," or "Man, that mortgage broker really did a number on you". She was only stating the obvious and perhaps trying to soften the blow, but all it really sounded like when it reached my ears was "are you sure you should be swimming in the deep end of this pool without your floaties, young man?"
For better or for worse, I've always seemed to approach tax day like a game show. I go in, give my stuff to someone, and after they put it all into a computer they kinda morph into Bob Barker with his skinny microphone either saying "A brand new car!" or "Thanks for playing, and please spay or neuter your pets."
Maybe it's just because I got stiffed with this monster bill, but it dawns on me that the older I get the more I need to get away from this sort of thinking. Because lately it's been more like that game I sometimes play in the bathroom called "What did I eat to make me do that?" -- which sounds gross, but I know I'm not the only one who does. You sit down to do your business, stand back up, look inside the bowl in horror and think to yourself:
And if that's true, one of them just walked up and kicked me in the nuts.I've never been what you would call a financial wizard. I work, I make money, I wonder where my money went. Maybe other people do things differently, but I rarely think about how my financial decisions are going to affect my taxes until somewhere in early April when I'm staring at a computer screen saying things like "I owe how much?"
It's frustrating though -- because it's been a long time since I've actually gotten a tax return. I've been paying out to the government for a long time (and if this weekends results are any indication, that trend's not going to change anytime soon). But the worst part is that I've essentially got no one to blame but myself. The reasons my taxes this year are so ridiculous would have stung me regardless of which party was in power, or even if nothing was happening in the Middle East. Sure these things contribute to the percentages and all, but once you're at the point where you're actually discussing payment plans with the IRS it's not like those things really matter.
In the end it's almost like a epilogue to a chapter of my life that didn't turn out the way I was hoping it would, and the decisions I made along the way. Still, the sheer weight of it was enough to damper my spirits for the remainder of the weekend -- because now that I had a real number in front of me I could see all the unreal numbers that had been floating around in my head falling down like dominoes.
I'd actually been scheming towards getting a new vehicle, or maybe moving into a nicer place (or even a different city). Not that I'm rolling in cash, but I've got (or had) a little breathing room that I could see putting towards some kind of long-term goal. And that's where I think my weekend got torpedoed, because seeing those things evaporate in my hands made me want to be pissed at the IRS for seeing me rollin', hatin', patrollin', and wantin' to catch me ridin' dirty.
But I really can't be.I mean, there's plenty of blame that could be thrown around, but it's not like if I find the right culprit the bill's going to go away or anything. So instead I'm adjusting my goals a bit, and finding a way to deal with it.
The thing about it all that sticks with me though is this sense that in at least this arena I'm still kind of a child. Taxes is a game for grown ups -- or at the very least requires a certain maturity in your mental processes if you want to get ahead of it. Through the whole tax preparation process the woman who was helping me (who was really sweet) kept saying things like "if you'd only done this," or "Man, that mortgage broker really did a number on you". She was only stating the obvious and perhaps trying to soften the blow, but all it really sounded like when it reached my ears was "are you sure you should be swimming in the deep end of this pool without your floaties, young man?"
For better or for worse, I've always seemed to approach tax day like a game show. I go in, give my stuff to someone, and after they put it all into a computer they kinda morph into Bob Barker with his skinny microphone either saying "A brand new car!" or "Thanks for playing, and please spay or neuter your pets."
Maybe it's just because I got stiffed with this monster bill, but it dawns on me that the older I get the more I need to get away from this sort of thinking. Because lately it's been more like that game I sometimes play in the bathroom called "What did I eat to make me do that?" -- which sounds gross, but I know I'm not the only one who does. You sit down to do your business, stand back up, look inside the bowl in horror and think to yourself:
I'm no doctor, and I'm not sure I even really want to know -- but it seems like there's a time period between when you eat that bacon cheeseburger and the day you're sitting on the can grunting obscenities about how you should never have eaten that bacon cheeseburger, and will never have one again as long as you live (whether you really mean it or not)."There's no way that thing came from the soup I had for lunch today."
Which is exactly how I felt sitting at H&R Block this weekend
[Listening to: 40 Below Summer, "Falling Down"]
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