Sex and Taxes (Or, Just Taxes)

Time that you have child care is precious time, so you need to prioritize. The first year or two of being a parent I’d wildly overestimate what I could get done in one weekend while my parents kept Jack. Now I’m much better at setting realistic goals. I had two for this weekend: sex and taxes.

Then I came down with the flu, and I felt so sick that I wasn’t even sure I’d manage those two. I slept almost all morning the day of our appointment with the accountant, right on through possible sexy time. Sure, we had the whole evening too, and the next morning, but I knew how these things always went down. We’d each get involved in some sort of project and never connect. I might have missed the window. I was going to have to multitask by turning tax time into foreplay.

On the way to H & R Block, I told G. what I planned to do. “I don’t have much so far,” I admitted. “Probably ‘cause I don’t know anything about taxes. All I have is de-DICK-tions. Get it? Tax de-dick-tions. I hope we have some really BIG de-DICK-tions.”

G. scrunched up his eyes. “You missed the completely obvious ‘de-fuck-tions’?”

My face fell. “Oh. Yeah. That’s way better,” I said. “Let’s go get some de-fuck-tions, baby.”

“I don’t know; that sounds like a bad thing,” G. mused. “A count against you. Like, ‘You’re late for work again! DEFUCTION!’”

I sighed. I tried to make eyes at him during the appointment, but the rotund bespectacled accountant with sausage fingers was really squashing my libido. That and completely unsexy terms like “rental property” and “mortgage interest.” And the fact that all my body systems had been jacked up by influenza. Once I perked up a little when the accountant said “out of pocket,” but after some consideration, that innuendo fell flat. It made me imagine a creepy old man who keeps a detachable penis in his pocket and is constantly trying to pay cashiers with it instead of bills. Just before we signed the return, Sausage Fingers started talking about someone’s RAC, but it turned out that stood for “Refund Anticipation Check.” G. and I then had to sign our names on one of those little plastic boxes. We were told by Sausage Fingers to “tap it” multiple times. I tried to catch G.’s eye so I could telepathically communicate “Tap it! Tap that box!” He wasn’t looking. Ehh, my heart wasn’t in it anyway.

By time we got home, G. wasn’t feeling so good himself. We both decided to go back to bed, but not in a good way. As I was peeing, inspiration struck.

“H & R COCK!!!” I yelled from the toilet.

“I’m still thinking about all those defuctions,” he said.

“Wait, are defuctions good or bad? I can’t remember.”

We fell asleep for hours, dreaming of our big fat refund.


I have no idea if this book is any good, but I want it.
I have no idea what’s in this book, but I want it.

4 thoughts on “Sex and Taxes (Or, Just Taxes)

  1. Taxes, working through sickness, and sexual frustration. Can’t beat adulthood. Unless you have a metaphorical stick. Also, now I have the song Detachable Penis in my head. Know that song?

    1. YES! I thought of that song and almost put it in the post! Oh, the nineties. *sigh* Thanks for reading. I can’t wait to meet you at BlogU.

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