deep pocket

I have a new motto:

"There is a fine line between participation and mockery."

I saw it in a magazine the other night, and it spoke to me.

That is all.

Taxes are done. My federal went off via registered mail on Wednesday; my California state taxes were done online. It would be too much to say I'm gratified by having to do taxes, despite all my claims in the past. For the first time in, perhaps, ever, I actually found myself in the position of having to pay taxes rather than get a refund. In fact, I've now pinpointed my reason for liking tax season; my protestations about having been delighted to do my taxes in the past were directly related to the fact I never had to pay any.

I choose not to consider myself a hypocrite. Simply . . . deluded.

For someone who's grown accustomed to viewing April 15 as an extra holiday bonus for the bank account, this paying out of monies was something of a rude awakening. Considering I was expecting to get a refund and have had, in the past, something of a habit of not doing my taxes until the following year, I probably owe an extra debt of thanks to my purple monkey coworkers, who harassed me remorselessly until I caved in out of sheer exhaustion.

In total, the damage was about $800, nowhere near deserving of the drama I enacted when writing out the check. My bank account was barely able to suffer the agony, so I had my fair share of qualms when stuffing the envelope. Fortunately, payday came to the rescue, and injected a transfusion just this morning. This was something of a relief; ever since we moved to a new payroll company, our pay has taken on something of a teenage menstrual quality: always variable, never on time, inspiring panic.

This is the last year that I'll be able to do my taxes without the assistance of some professional consultant. As of next year, I'll be married, and while the marriage penalty is lower than it was, it's quite possible that in 2004 we'll find ourselves qualifying for the AMT. I'm not looking forward to that day. Having spent my entire life resenting the rich, I dislike the thought that I might, by marrying the wrong man, end up technically being one of them. "Rich," of course, is relative, and by many standards I'm quite well-off, being able to pay off my debts (incrementally) and even buy things I want from time to time.

On the other hand, there's no plasma TV hanging off my wall, Wells Fargo charges me $20 a month in service fees -- need to move my accounts to Washington Mutual -- and I've still got over $10k in student loans I'm laboriously paying off, bit by bit.

Wealth is relative. It's just never been a relative of mine, is all. I find its inclusion in intimate family moments a little jarring, to say the least, like waking up one morning to find that Pauly Shore crawled into your bed overnight, and you're left wondering if you accidentally, you know, slept with him--

...never mind. This post-tax season has me feeling a little woozy.

In other news, we found a stuffed peacock sitting in front of a light labelled "Do not turn off," in the next-door office. Why? Why do you think?

Feng shui. I'm telling you, these monkeys are insane.