I'm finished. Done. Even the paperwork has been completed.
Tax season is over. No more clients lyingmaking excuses earnestly hiding reporting their income.
No more tears of joy and/or frustration when I reveal the bottom line on refunds/taxes due.
No more stories about negligent baby daddies, job losses, bad bosses, financial ruin and bad life choices.
Adults who still need mommy to make their appointments and pay for their tax prep. A stripper. A woman who visits a methodone clinic. Moms who neglect to pay student loans and are then surprised when their refund is kept by the government to pay off their obligations.
Men who don't practice safe sex - and have several "deductions" who need his child support payments.
And the client who was a victim of identity theft, and was subsequently arrested for robbing a store? What clever criminals, wonder how they made the images from store surveillance cameras look like the guy - heck, they even stole the man's car - so a nearby security guard could record his license plate number.
I'm sure his guilty plea was accidental, too.
Whatever will I do?
I thought about going back to bed this morning, after The Boy got on the bus.
I'm now back to be looking for work, and polishing my June Freaking Cleaver mad domestic skills.
The Mister, also, is done working. We'll be home together.all.day, every day.
Housework will now be done.
Oh, who am I kidding? Housework will continue to be avoided. I need to schedule family gatherings, so I can have a deadline to get this place whipped into shape.
The Boy is upset too - he will no longer have two hours after school to himself (which means that food has a fighting chance to stay in the fridge and cabinets - and out of his mouth).
Here's what he said about the upcoming change in routine: "No more girls, no more parties. How can I be the 14-year old Hugh Hefner?"
Then he asked me if I would buy him a subscription to Playboy.