When tax time rolls around, no one wants pay the piper. And when I say no one, I mean me. As some who works in the non-profit sector, my salary compared to my self-calculated "earning potential" already seems grossly inadequate. After having personally conducted a thorough analysis of my own experience, skills, education, and je ne sais quoi, I have come to the scientific conclusion that my earning potential exceeds my take-home pay by roughly 10-12 million dollars per year. So when I get my taxes done, I assume I'm going to get some friggin' money back. But we all know that old adage, and let me just say that you definitely shouldn't assume when it comes to taxes, because the IRS enjoys few things more than making an ass out of u and me.

Now, here's the thing ­ last year, I didn't do my taxes. Shocking, I know. I refused to pay someone to help me, but I couldn't figure them out on my own because they were very, very complicated (in my opinion, that is, though I realize that anyone who owns things or invest in things would consider my complications laughable). Nevertheless, I filed for an extension. And by the way, extensions are dumb, because you basically have to do a "rough draft" of your taxes in order to file for one, and that's almost as complicated as doing them in the first place. But guess what? It's been a year, and I still have not gotten past that rough draft.

So now that tax time is creeping up on us once again, I began to experience low-grade panic attacks regarding April 15th, which I was mentally referring to as "Doomsday". So on March 15th, one month before Doomsday, I decided to suck it up and pay someone else to do my taxes. I took them to The Block.

Famous throughout our nation, The Block will do you're taxes when you can't afford a real accountant. The Block is an odd phenomenon, for the block is a seasonal thing. Like the superstores that sell Christmas tree ornaments or Halloween costumes, The Block will spring up a month or two before the dreaded day in any given neighborhood and close a month after the day has passed. The Block makes its nest of forms and files in storefronts between owners, manned by average-to-poor accountants. Now, this is not to dis on The Block. If you want a fashionable haircut, you don't go to SuperCuts, and if you want a real accountant, you don't go to The Block. You get what you pay for.

The general level of professionalism at The Block was highlighted by an interaction that my "accountant" had with a co-worker. She approached the desk, leaned over and very politely said, "Excuse me, Joe, but I¹m going to get a soup from the Chinaman, do you want anything?" That's right, "Chinaman". Yes, "Chinaman" is a term that can be bandied around at the Block. That, my friends, is not a good sign.

Now, this is not to say that I don't like my accountant, Joe. He seems like a good guy, clean cut and well dressed. But I'm not sure if that's what inspires confidence in an accountant. In a date for a political fundraiser, Joe hits all the marks, but as an accountant, he falls short. To inspire confidence in me, an accountant needs to sport a comb-over and thick glasses. I know I am stereotyping, but I want a nerd working on my return ­ and not a hipster nerd, a real nerd. I want a man (or woman) who breathes, sleeps and eats taxes. And I want that to be apparent in their nerdy appearance. But although I may want a nerd, I simply cannot afford one. I can only afford Joe, well-dressed guy at The Block.

This is how it went down on the Ides of March. I know, I know, beware it, but it was the only night I was free that week. I arrived, dumped a pile of unorganized forms and post-its on Joe's desk, vented about my inability to file in 2002, agreed to use their services for help with both 2002 and 2003, and sat back to watch Joe go to work. And go to work he did. And when he was done, he told me I owed money for 2003.

I almost started crying. "How can that be? I make no money! How can I owe money? I don't understand?" This is what I thought to myself. This is also what I whined about out loud. I was definitely fighting back tears at this point, and Joe could tell, so he tried to make me feel better.

"I know how you feel," he said, looking at me very sympathetically. "I just had someone in here who had already picked out the pair of Manolo Blahniks she was going to buy herself with her refund, and then she found out she owed them money!" 

"Um, Joe? Hi, how are you? Are you okay, because you seem like you might be crazy. You're looking at my income! You're seeing how much I take home! Do you think I want to hear about some Sarah Jessica Parker wannabe who was an itty-bitty-teensy-weensy bit saddy-waddy because she couldn't buy her $600 high heels? Because Joe, you are not hitting the mark with this one. I can't even afford to fantasize about Blahniks, let alone buy them. Not that I would want to anyway. So Joe, that's not making me feel better. It's not making me feel better. And if that was your idea of a joke, you need to go back to clown school." I didn't say any of that to Joe with my words, but I'm pretty sure my glare got the point across. He went back to accounting and dropped the conversation tip.

When I came back a few days later to provide Joe with some final details, he punched in the new numbers. I now owed the government half of the money I owed the previous week. I guess I gave him some good details. So we paid my taxes online, and I paid Joe, and I walked out of The Block with a good feeling. Yeah, that's right, world - my taxes are done. And you know what? It feels pretty damn good. Even if I cannot get that pair of Blahniks I was hoping for.