My tax dollars at work.

Ho-ly shit. Brian and I came home to a notice from the post office that there were three- count 'em, 1 2 3- certified letters from the IRS waiting for us to pick up. I don't know about you, but I wanted to puke. We file our taxes and pay them, but I was convinced we were about to be hauled away in handcuffs for some unknown reason. I hate the IRS. Nothing from them is ever good news.

Filled with a sudden and deep terror, I called the IRS because we would not get to the post office before Saturday and there was no way on God's green earth I was going to wait that long to find out what merited THREE certified letters. To my everlasting gratitude, I got someone on the phone who was helpful, if not a bit stern and scary-like, and who actually straightened everything out. We don't have to go get those letters: they should never have been sent to us in the first place as we have done nothing wrong.

Hear that?? We did nothing wrong, Uncle Sam! Go screw and take your Certified Letters of Doom with you!

Why do I still feel like hurling though?

last - next