pretty much any jackhole who has ever touched a texas instrument could do my taxes ... except this number transposing, minus-sign fearing jackhole.
me, unblinking in the face of the irs's steel-grey humorless eyes.
"excuse me, sir, but it looks like you owe me one meeeeeeeeelion dollars," i try to kid.
cut to me writing haikus about jesus in a prison cell.
i did not, however, have ole stirup pants e-file them. i let her idiot-proof them into fool-safe bundles so that i wouldn't miss out on that april fifteenth thrill. you know how i feel about hordes of rabid procrastinators, frothing and seizuring and gathered in the name of chaos.
as a sign that my maturity level has in the past year begun to tickle personal lifetime world record, i took my taxes to the post office at 7 p.m., rather than drag racing through neighborhoods at 11:55 p.m. [i've also started brushing my teeth every night before bed.]
i'm not sure if its because i am dating a postal clerk, or if i've just recently become deeply interested in postal service literature, somehow i knew that our main post office no longer sells stamps from a vending machine in the lobby. and if your post office does ... you might want to head there right now with your sock full of nickles because this convenience is going the way of ... well, mail. luckily the ATM at wells fargo -- comparatively archaic -- was willing to sell me a sheet of stamps for just a two dollar markup.
as the one person with a sheet of stamps at an otherwise stampless post office, i was basically tripping over the flower petals they were throwing at my dainty little responsible toes. two for the soccer mom [i thought they always had stamps squirreled away in their clutch handbag?], and one for man who stood in the lobby and spat the obvious, albeit fruitless, question:
WHAT KINDER POST OFFICE DON'T SELL STAMPS?
to which i wondered:
WHAT KINDER PERSON MAILS THEIR TAXES -- ASIDE FROM THOSE APPROACHING IT SCIENTIFICALLY?
another woman and i negotiated with the mail scale, trying to figure out how many stamps to put on our envelopes. the scale was hard steel with divots marking off the ounces. the sort of thing a caveman would have barked at with laughter before melting it into bullets. the scale told us nothing, so we pasted stamps all over our envelopes like they were scratch and sniff stickers and these documents were our trapper keepers. all the while, people were shoving dollar bills at me and snatching stamps.
"dude," i said to the girl. "the IRS is going to laugh so hard when they see these."
i almost went back with another sheet, a card table, a tin can and a dream.