Beware the Ides of April

I hate tax season. I really, really do. Tax season interferes with my life. Most of all tax season interferes with my knitting. Working in a government tax office in April and May can drive the sanest individual to the point of constructing various aluminum foil garments and accessories in an effort to keep the drone control waves from taking over their bodies. Not being the sanest individual, I find myself arriving home from work exhausted from controlling all the personalities and shushing the voices in my head. This does not produce that great, knitting mojo energy that one needs for knitting socks, much less lace.

Of course if I am the victim, there is a perpetrator, a criminal, if you will. Actually, in my experience, there are several classes of these individuals.

The most frequent is Mr. Loudmouth Yellypants. He phones just to tell you how stupid and useless taxes are, how he doesn't benefit from taxes, and how he doesn't think he should have to pay taxes. He has no questions. He won't shut up. He just yells into the phone like I am personally responsible for the state of taxation in the county he lives in. The voice inside my head says, "Look, jerk, don't make me get out my voodoo doll. I haven't used it in a while and have been wondering if my knitting mojo is rusty." The words that come out of my mouth are, "Sir, our office enforces local tax ordinances. Any concerns regarding current tax policy should be addressed to the elected officials. If you do not file your taxes, then you are in violation to local ordinance and subject to all criminal and civil penalties. Thank you for your opinion. Bye." CLICK.

The second most frequent caller is Ms. Weepy-Myhusbandmademecallbecauseheisanass . The entire time While Ms. Weepy is on the phone, Mr. Jack Myhusbandmademecallbecauseheisanass yells instructions from some location in the vicinity of the phone, so I have a three party conversation by proxy. Mr. Jack is never satisfied with any of the answers to the questions. After about 15 minutes of this, Ms. Queen Biahtch inside my head says, "Put Jack on the phone. Mr. Jack, I don't know what your problem is, but any man who sends a woman to do his battles for him has no stones whatsoever. Seeing as you are a class act, I sentence you to five years locked in a room with Mr. Loudmouth Yellypants with your mouth taped shut with duct tape." What I say, "Ma'am, this is a private tax matter between our office and your husband. We are prohibited by law from discussing private tax business with anyone other than the taxpayer. I would be more than happy (mentally barfing into bucket) to speak with your husband." Once this message is relayed, the general response from Mr. Jack Myhusbandmademecallbecauseheisanass is, "Just tell them I will pay the damn tax."

My most loathsome of all callers, however, is Mr. Jerko McBlowhard. Mr. McBlowhard is a first cousin of Mr. Loudmouth Yellypants with the added bonus that he is the holder of that lovely Expertus Everythingus PhD. Mr. McBlowhard, therefore, can never, ever be wrong, and threatens litigation if you politely imply, insinuate, hint, or directly tell him he is full of crap and an idiot. Each answer is met with sarcasm, incredulity, and rudeness. The entire time I explain current tax law, Mr. McBlowhard snorts, interrupts, and is generally rude. At some point in the conversation Mr. McBlowhard threatens legal action and demands a jury of his peers. The voice inside my head says, "I'll give you a jury of your peers. We just have to run some IQ tests first to make sure we get a true peerage for you in the jury box." What I say, "Mr. McBlowhard, you can debate the point all you want. It won't change the facts or the law. You may choose to comply or not comply. That is up to you."

Working on the receiving end of this kind of hostility reminds me that a bully in high school grows up to be a bully in life. I am also made painfully aware that there is no cure for congenital jackassery.

The good thing about tax season is that it makes me more perceptive. I will share some of my TSESP (Tax Season Extra Sensory Perception). It seems that car manufacturers no longer install turn signals on their vehicles. They must adversely affect gas mileage. The raised finger has become the most common signalling device. More and more people need talking holes in the seat of their pants. My final observation is that people believe their car and telephone imbue them with some kind of anonymity and bubble of invisibility that allows them to engage in behavior they would never admit to in their own home much less church. Dude, we can ALL see you booger mining. For the love of God and all that is holy, please stop! Small children are terrified and teenage boys now have a new threshold of gross.

For all these things, what I hate most about tax season is how energy draining it is. When I get home I don't want to talk, think, knit, read, or do anything. I want to sit totally comatose on the couch, brain flat-lining until my energy store recuperate enough to do it all over again the next morning. Thankfully it only lasts 6 weeks. Any more and I would suffer irreparable brain damage and would have to go for a knitting mojo transplant. As with all transplants there is always the possibility of rejection. No. That is too horrific to contemplate.

At least spinning doesn't require that much energy. If I can't knit yarn, at least I can make yarn.