Thin Mints, Belly Dancing, and Fascist, Fascist Tax Collectors.

My weekend, condensed in three nouns.

First, on the fascist tax collectors, because they are currently PISSING me OFF. The scenario is this.  Magda: so dad, I’m getting all these W2s.  Send me our accountant’s address and I’ll send them on.  Magda’s dad: Oh-ho, but you’re all independent and responsible now.  He’s my accountant, not yours.  Good luck!  Bummer, I say.

So I filed them online, which is fine and was no real hassle until the part where my refund, a nice number growing up in the corner of the screen, suddenly just WENT NEGATIVE and all of the sudden I owe money.  Okay, WTF.  W. T. F., people.

I now have the pleasure of paying hard-earned money to both the federal government AND the commonwealth of Virginia.  Magda? NOT HAPPY.  Arrrrg.

I responded typically, I imagine, i.e. spending money.  There were girl scouts outside of the grocery store today, and they were so adorable and thin mints are just so tasty in the freezer.  Seriously.  I had smaller bills, but I gave them a 20 just to watch them make change.  They were so cute, oh my goodness, I totally want to be a mom that sells cookies with her daughter’s troop.  So much more fun than filing taxes.

Before I knew about the hellacious fines awaiting me with the feds, I was out last night with a group of college “friends”—I actually only knew two of them, one of whom was celebrating her birthday, but apparently we have a pretty sizeable alumni base out in these parts.  Who knew? 

We went to a fantastic middle eastern restaurant.  The food was great and the setting intimate.  Suddenly, however, as the clock struck 9, the lights went way dim and the music cranked up and these belly dancers just appeared.  Looking around, we realized—all the other tables seem to be filled with middle-eastern men.  And they all seem to be feeding dollar bills into the dancers’ costumes. We had to decline when they shook their stuff near our table, but it was an entirely entertaining experience.  I do not think the birthday girl had anticipated this “artistic” element to the evening, which made it just that much funnier when we cornered one of the dancers into seductively bringing out the birthday cake.  So. Very. Amusing. 

Belly dancing, I wonder—I bet that money is under the table.  I bet those girls don’t have to pay taxes.  I should really look into that.