We had a very unpleasant shock delivered over a week ago. I haven’t mentioned it to anyone but my closest friends because, frankly, we didn’t know what the fallout was going to be.
Joey is a partner in a construction company – there is one majority partner, M., and one partner named R. who owns the same amount as Joey. Last year, for some strange reason we ended up getting part of our share of the profits in December…and when the accountants cut the checks, they didn’t withhold any tax. Now, we have had this happen one other time and ended up getting bent over by the Tax Man. Having been there before, I highly recommend wearing loose, comfortable clothing and bringing an industrial-sized vat of KY jelly. It ain’t pretty, people.
This year we actually invested in an actual accountant instead of slaving over Turbo Tax like we have done every other year. Part of it was the fact that we bought and sold a house this year, but also it was the fear of what the tax implications were going to be from the profit distribution. Frankly, I’m not going to trust myself enough to enter the crap in Turbo Tax correctly, nor am I going to trust my personal freedom to a software package you can purchase at WalMart.
Our fears were confirmed…Uncle Sam was pissed and he was going to rip us a new one to the tune of…well, it was a shitload of money. Sphincter-clenching news at its best. We started packing our overnight bags, purchased soap-on-a-rope, and hoped that maybe we’d get to stay someplace nice. I was hoping for Camp Cupcake if nothing else…hey, they welcomed Martha with open arms, why not me? Joey, instead of being paralyzed by fear at the thought of going to federal prison, was actually relishing the thought of getting a nice little vacation with no cell phones or laptops. Sick bastard.
We are soooo lucky in that we could’ve paid it if we had to – but it would have totally drained our savings and that would suck big time, because you know what happens when you do that, right? The toilet explodes and ruins the ceiling in your dining room, your car suddenly develops a chronic propensity to throw itself into reverse at inopportune moments, your oven catches on fire and your countertop melts all over the floor…so we really didn’t want to pay it and put off mailing the check as long as we could.
The sticker was that if they’d taken out the taxes properly, we would’ve gotten a nice refund back. As it turned out, partner R. was in the same boat as we were, but he approached the majority partner M. about it since he didn’t have the money in the bank to pay the Tax Man nor did he have any interest in being Bubba’s girlfriend. And thank God, M. ended up reimbursing both R. and Joey for the taxes due plus any refund money they would’ve received as well. Whew, disaster averted. Sphincter unclenching.
On Friday afternoon Joey came home and handed me some of the refund money and told me I deserved to have some fun money to spend, although he suspected after the stress of the preceding week I would be spending it on lots of therapy. Well, he’s right on that account, but it will be retail therapy. I am in such desperate need of new clothes that it’s pathetic. Thursday I wore my favorite black Capri pants from last year and they absolutely hang on me like I dropped a huge load in my pants. You could pull the suckers down without unbuttoning or unzippering them, and they don’t have an elastic waist either. Good problem to have, though, so I’m not complaining too much. And all of my summer shoes were trashed from spending last year on the jobsite, so they all need replacing too.
So today I am loading up Monkey Man in the car and we’re headed to the outlet mall that is about 45 minutes away. He won’t be too thrilled, but I am a woman on a mission and will not be deterred.
If anyone is interested in some soap-on-a-rope for a great Christmas present for your loved ones, please e-mail me. I think we can make a deal.