I don't know about you, but we like to live it up on Friday nights.
And by that I mean I spent Friday evening watching a BBC documentary on Auschwitz and eating a frozen pizza while James worked. It was a lot more fun than it sounds. Sort of.
James came home bearing gifts in the form of ZzzQuil in hopes that it will cure my long-term insomnia. I took a quarter of a dose since anything in the NyQuil family is known for putting me in a 3 day coma, and while I need to start sleeping again, I can't afford to sleep that much at once. I was finishing a chapter in my current library book, feeling like I might actually fall asleep without struggle, when I heard a loud gasp next to me. I rolled over to discover that James had been lying in bed at 10:30 pm doing our taxes.
Like I said, we're known for living life to the fullest.
Apparently, TurboTax thought we owed the government a sizable amount of money. The effects of the Zzzquil instantly wore off and I felt like I was going to be sick. James was horrified. We went back through every single step. It was all done correctly and still came up with the same dollar amount owed. We resigned ourselves to the fact that we'd never buy a house and we were stuck forever. I went through the process one more time and finally realized we forgot to add Gracie as our dependent, which is funny considering she's been more dependent on me than ever the last few days while teething.
The intensity of the whole experience was so severe that I was running around looking for her social security card because I couldn't for the life of me remember where it was. It happened to be right where it was supposed to be; I was so frazzled I didn't see it the first three times I looked. We entered in all her info and wound up with a refund for almost the same amount we thought we owed.
I'm here to tell you it literally pays to have kids.
I'm also here to tell you to do your taxes during the day when you're well-rested and you've neither worked a 14 hour day nor been under the influence of a sleep-aid.
It was only a 10-15 minute experience, and yet I felt the full range of human emotion. I was so hopped up on adrenaline from solving a tax crisis that I once again couldn't fall asleep. Who said staying home on a Friday night to do taxes isn't a scintillating experience?
On Saturday night, James and I were watching Parks & Rec while Gracie was in bed. We were at the scene where Andy is trying to figure out if he's too old to date April. Tom tells him to take his age, divide it by 2, and then add 7, and that's the minimum age he can date. He's 29, and he couldn't get past trying to divide 29 by two. "It's 36, you idiot," James lovingly chimed in.
"No, he's trying to divide 29 by 2 and then add 7," I explained.
"Oh. Then 19. Duh."
The man who did our taxes, ladies and gentlemen.
In his defense, it was once again past our bedtime and we were slap happy, and maybe I considered pulling out my calculator to divide 29 in half.
Numbers and I have never gotten along well. I tend to ignore them, especially in the form of cookies eaten. Ignorance is bliss.
I think the guy who labels shoes at Nordstrom Rack would beg to differ. I bought Gracie a pair of shoes yesterday for exactly 71% off, according to the sticker on the bottom. Considering that attention to detail, I should hire him to do our taxes next year.