Benjamin Franklin wrote, “nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes”.
Actually I’m thinking only one: death.
Taxes are optional if you want to live on the edge, and totally moot if you’re dead.
Every year at tax time, I am reminded that I personally live on that edge, thanks to Hubby’s particularly punctual paycheck.
I had full time jobs before, during, and after we wed, the kind involving money with Mr Franklin’s face on it.
After the kids came, I lost my paycheck but started putting extra letters after my name to compensate.
Like, DDS. And MD. And also, OB/GYN. Go ahead, ask me anything.
I am that bona fide rare species called “housewife” or “homemaker”; “domestic engineer” if you will. The job pays zero overtime, lunch breaks are unreliable, there is no union, and tips are nil.
No wonder we’re going extinct.
My hours – if tallied and valued at
fair market rates minimum wage – would likely put us in the millionaire tax bracket.
You can’t tax Monopoly money, mister.
I have been a SAHM longer than he’s been pinching pennies, and he knows it.
So does the judiciary branch of our government because every time I am called to Jury Duty, I have to list every single child ‘under my daily care, i.e.: locked out in the backyard’ who desperately needs me to not be a juror….unless they themselves are suing for injuries involving a Big Wheel, a trampoline, and a Rhode Island Red hen.
Hubby, on the other hand, is the tax-man’s dream.
When we file our taxes “jointly” it means that Hubby has filled out all the forms and I’ve signed on the dotted line.
My line says: “What he said.”
Next to it is a box that states my occupation.
He threatens every year to write “freeloader” in it.
I am a “kept woman” as in: “he put her in a pumpkin shell and there he kept her, very well”.
Hubby made all those cute little numbers in the tidy little boxes.
My contribution was along the lines of “monetary redistribution”.
I’m in upper management, which is none of the IRS’s business… I receive the incoming funds and delegate them to worthy causes such as ‘new couch pillows’ and ‘potted palm for the dining room’.
I could never get behind items such as ‘give the kids an allowance’ although they lobbied regularly and hard for it.
Why should the kids get a steady income when I don’t have one?
Social Security hasn’t heard from me in years. I would worry more but I’ve heard that by the time I’m old enough to need it, the system will be bust anyway.
Besides, according to Facebook, I’m quite secure socially, thank you.
I feel the tax-man specter lurking behind the azaleas at my front door.
He’s waiting to pounce the very minute I decide to reunite with Mr Franklin.
All of my excuses for staying home are over six feet tall now, and keeping my taxes optional is about to get tricky.
What shall I write in my little untaxable “occupation” box this time?
How about “Distractible Director of Internal Affairs”?