First let’s start by placing my hand on a bible swearing this story is the truth and nothing but.
What’s that? Oh you’re right. I don’t have a bible. I’ll go with a quartz countertop. Wait. I hate this countertop. It shows every finger print. Don’t get conned into quartz. You’ll get tennis elbow from all the cleaning. Okay I have my hand on an Annie Silke catalogue and of course I have no idea what this company even sells, but enough of this side story.
Six years ago I did a freelance gig in California. When tax time came the following year I received a W-9 for $853.70 and I repeat $853.70 just so that sinks in. I give it to my accountant and he expensed against it and life carried on. Until four years ago when the equivalent of a hang grenade hit me. I got a bill in the mail for $26,000 plus another $15,000 in penalties for a late payment fee and four years of accumulated interest on the outstanding balance. Well, I didn’t panic. I walked the dog and got changed for the gym. Dinner that night was … oh who gives a crap (which it likely could have been).
So it seems the non-employee compensation wage of $853.70 was keyed in as $85,370. So I called the provider of the W-9. Wasn’t them. They provided a comprehensive paper trail to support their claim. Called the IRS. Well it certainly wasn’t them. This went back and forth for a year until I filed an appeal with United States Tax Court.
I go to court for a signature and embossed seal. They accepted the appeal and say they’ll get back to me. Boy did they. TWO YEARS LATER, a bill for $65,000 being their response. I skip walking the dogs and the gym and self combust while on hold with anyone with a hand that can hold a telephone working at the IRS, yet it seems they only hire the handless.
I did my 2023 taxes early March and was due a very nice refund which is unusual. So I went online to check for an arrival date only to discover the refund was confiscated and applied to my outstanding bill of $110,000. Hand on the catalogue.
I call them. I wait an eternity to speak with a nice yet powerless woman, so why shouldn’t she be happy? She hems, she haws, she punts and kicks the call to another person who in turn throws a Hail Mary to a supervisor. I’m shaking and starting to lose my sh*t. I mutter “I wanna kill myself” while on the phone with the supervisor.
Five minutes later, my dogs are ballistic. Racing all around the house and barking at the front door where three of Bloomfield Township’s finest (cops) stand.
“Ive gotta go because the police are at my front door and every neighbor is either in the street or peaking out of their front window.”
The police cars have their red and blue lights flashing and lighting up half the Garden State. I let them in and they’re very nice and calm as they tell me I have to go with them to the nearest mental health facility since I expressed suicidal intent to a government employee. I’m then strapped into a stretcher standing up – like Hannibal Lecter – and carried and wheeled into an ambulance. Again, all of my neighbors witness this exit.
I get admitted to a hospital and placed in a bed under a flood light with a suicide watch guard outside the door. His name’s Willis but that’s not really relevant, except for while I was changing into my Johnny coat and slippers and accidentally mooned him. After a few hours of psychiatric analysis, they release into the care of my husband. Thank god we finally got married after thirty five years as I wouldn’t have any family member to call. Calling Janet and Allen (parents) would cost a lot. Their ashes are still in my sock drawer and I guess that includes their ears and vocal cords. I’ve hired a lawyer and paid a $2,000 retainer’s fee. He charges $500 per hour for just about anything he does on my behalf. He’s confident this is an easily rectified claim and I believe him. Like I have a choice. To wrap things up, this $853.70 wage has thus far cost about $4,000 in addition to a trip to Looney Land.
Thanks IRS as if you don’t have bigger fish to fry … like that orange faced dictator.