And With Postage That's A Net Gain Of $34

I finally got around to doing my taxes today. An experience I find both ridiculous and yet very gratifying because it reminds me that I actually make money somewhere on this planet.

I definitely don't make money in France. I've tried to find jobs on several occasions but I've learned that my degree doesn't really translate and my other basic skills don't qualify me for anything. Plus the fact that I can not write in French just goes to show I'm pretty much unhireable. Perhaps it was a good thing we kept having children...

Filling out the taxes forms usually doesn't take me too long. Fill in the one line about how much rental income I earned on my shitty lovely little house in Idaho, figure out how much tax I've paid on the interest and Bob's your uncle. This year I earned a whopping $39.

Yes, you read that right. $39. Luckily with all the tax credits I get for these children and for having a spouse of questionable foreign origin, I'm not obligated to pay anything this year. WHEW.

Truth be told, I feel really silly for even filling out the tax forms in the first place. I hate thinking that some poor schlep of a tax person, who's at their limit right about now, someone who hasn't seen their kids or had a shower in over two weeks, has to sit down with my papers and get all excited because this woman who lives in France made $39 on a shack in Idaho.

I'd love to argue that at least it's my taxes paying for the poor man's salary but, alas, that sure ain't the case. Maybe I'll stick some smiley stickers on the forms or let Bubba-Love draw some gribouillage all over in bright red marker so at least the tax agent gets a little smile or minute of joy this April. I'd put in some cheese, but I'm not sure that would send the right message.