IRS

Thanks for the congratulations, everybody. I'll post pictures as soon as I get them.

The ring, see, is in the mail.

So's the check. I swear, Comcast.

Despite the fact that I'm going to be married at some time in the nebulous future, I'm going to try and refrain from talking about it here. There are some things that are better not discussed, perhaps, and I can think of nothing that would freak me out more than writing each detail down and realizing how much remains to be done.

Besides which, despite the fact that wedding plans have abruptly consumed my life almost to the exclusion of everything else, there are some non-wedding related things that I've been meaning to mention.

For instance, the IRS.

Have I mentioned about the IRS?

A couple of months ago, I received a letter in the mail. "We do not have a record of your 2001 federal tax return," it said in paraphrase, between all the light-hearted chatter about the IRS wanting to 'Be Of Service to You, the Taxpayer!' which is bait in the tradition of the herring they offer baby seals before angry, parka-bereft Canadians club them over the head. "Please fill out this form and return it to us if you think we are mistaken, together with a copy of your 2001 return to prove you're not a liar."

"--Which is weird," I said to the Guy, waving the forms around. "Because I did my taxes."

"You didn't," the Guy said. "I kept offering to help you with them, but you said they were boring."

I paused. I considered. I admitted, "That does sort of sound like me," and re-read the letter. "I remember doing it, though."

"You were missing a W-2 from one of your employers."

"I remember that. Wow."

"And you said you'd send it when you got it."

"I did? But I remember doing my tax return. I think the federal government owes me, like, money or something."

For the first time, the Guy showed interest. "A lot of money?"

"A couple of thousand."

"See, this would be a good reason to send in your taxes."

No letter from the IRS should be ignored with impunity. It was obviously something I should get on immediately. Being me, I forgot all about it.

I found the letter three weeks later, floating around aimlessly in my car. I had no explanation for how it got there; I can only think that I put it there in some fit of optimism, under the premise that if it was in my car I would remember it on my way to work and take it to the office to deal with. I moved the letter to my desk, obedient to my earlier self's plan.

And then I forgot about it again for another three weeks.

By the time I actually got around to calling the IRS, a month and a half had passed. I had no particular feeling of urgency in getting back to the federal government; after all, they owed me, and it didn't seem like I'd be doing any favors in point this out to them. To my reckoning, they should have been grateful that I hadn't called them back sooner. That was just an extra six weeks they could dink around with my extra money.

Besides which, I wasn't exactly positive that they wouldn't send me to jail. More than one government has thrown people in prison because it owed them money, and ours hasn't been representative of sound mind and stout thinking lately.

Our family's relationship with the IRS has always been a friendly one. Back in the day, they audited my mom and dad in one of those random, "Let's get to know our neighbors!" sweeps they periodically make through immigrant populations. My Mom is the queen of all packrats. Paper of all shapes and forms is holy to her. Her friends assure me that when she went to her audit, she carried fifteen years worth of tax forms, complete with original receipts, invoices, and stamped checks.

The IRS did her audit and actually gave her back almost $5000. She hasn't been audited since.

Naturally, that kind of history leaves one with a sort of careless, friendly attitude towards the IRS, an inclination to pat it on the head like some large mastiff, savage to others, but over whom you happen to have the goods.

I think the IRS guy I talked to was in a call center in India. I distinctly heard Hindi in the background. Not only that, he was polite and pleasant, which is a giveaway if ever there were one.

The IRS has outsourced our taxes.

Thank God.

"Am I in trouble?" I asked, after explaining the letter I had received. "Am I going to jail?"

Polite and pleasant though the IRS man was, he had no sense of humor. I could hear it in his voice. A born bureaucrat. "No, ma'am." -- Ma'am! -- "You just need to file your taxes for 2001."

"I don't think you want me to do that."

"Yes, ma'am. We do."

"It's just that I'm owed a refund, and at this point, don't you guys need my money?"

I waited for the laugh. Silence, except for the Hindi still reeling away in the background. Hm. Tough room.

"Please send your 2001 tax return to the address specified in the letter, ma'am," he said placidly. "We recommend that you file it as soon as possible."

"Or I'll go to jail?"

"Or," and here was the first hint of the Great and Mighty Wrath of the IRS, "or we'll do it for you."

"Cool!" I chirped. Free H&R Block service!

Added the IRS man, ominously, "You don't want that."

"I don't?"

"It'll be expensive."

"You'll charge me?"

". . . no. Not exactly. But we don't take the optimum deductables for you. We'll just use the standard ones."

"Those're the ones I use."

There was a small pause while the IRS man attempted to recover lost ground. "You won't like it, that's all," he said darkly.

You know, this threat never worked on me even when I was a child. When my Mom threatened us, she did it with details. With flair. With style. With the top register of her voice. She didn't trust our imaginations to do the job for her; she carried it a few miles down the proper avenue just to make sure it knew the road, then let it down to see how much further it could go.

"Why not?" I asked.

"It'll . . . if you're owed a refund, you won't get back as much as you should."

"So now you want to give me money?"

"We simply wish you to file your taxes, ma'am, and get what's owed you."

Now, that would have worked as a threat. Nicely ominous, has style, has class, has history behind it. It lacked real zing to it, though, because he obviously didn't mean it as one. See, this is part of the special personalized service you lose when you outsource your IRS call center.

Just out of curiosity, I asked, "Will I get my refund with interest?"

Hah. Finally made him laugh.

Six weeks after this phone call, I finally got around to doing and filing my taxes. The tax return was fairly simple, at the end. I used an old copy of Turbo Tax and plugged in numbers, singing -- for whatever reason -- Winnie-the-Pooh to myself. That is to say, I sang the first line of Winnie-the-Pooh, because that's the only one I know. There's just something about Pooh that makes me think of taxes, that whole bit about getting wedged into Rabbit's doorway so that Rabbit has to use his back door. . . .

Taxes or prisons. Anyway, the federal government owes me $2,600. I told them they didn't want me to do my taxes.