The Taxman Cometh

They say the best things in life are free. And in some cases, they're right. For example, J-Fed helping Mr. Ex move. Not free. Watching J-Fed squirm in front of the tax man. Free. Not only free, but priceless. 

Since J-Fed spent last Sunday morning helping my boyfriend move, it was only fair that I return the favor. J-Fed had pleaded with me to go with him to the accountant prior to be needing his assistance. At first, I balked at the notion. It was bad enough going to the accountant when we were married. Why in the hell would I voluntarily go with him now? And what would the accountant think? Sure, he was my accountant. Yes, he was still J-Fed's accountant. But now he was also Mr. Ex's accountant. It was all a bit incestuous.

All that aside, I agreed to go with him. I packed my Charmin -- since we all know the real reason I was there was to wipe said ex-husband's ass. It's not that I blamed J-Fed for being scared. Certain things instilled the fear of God in his heart -- laundry, dishes, yardwork and of course, tax time. Most times it would get him so nervous, that his ass would be glued to the toilet seat days in advance simply from the build-up of stress leading up to the big event.

I know what you're thinking. But Kiki, it's August, shouldn't you have written this blog six months ago, during say, tax season?  Why yes, if he had actually had his taxes done during tax season, I would have. But as it so happens, he needed an extension... and not the kind of extension you might be thinking. But I guess it's simply a case of better late than never.

We agreed it would be best if we took two separate cars -- just like when we were married. After 10 years, I knew better than anyone else that nothing said WW3 like J-Fed and I in the same vehicle. I had a lot of words for his driving... and every single one of them had four letters.