When I was single, it seemed that the entire world catered to couples. Eating-out alone always raised eyebrows, people constantly put a Mrs. in front of my name, and the bread-makers of the world apparently sat up in their big, fancy kitchens, turning their noses up at the idea of making a loaf of bread small enough for a single-person household. And then I got married. I assumed that I was now part of the norm. People were going to stop making me feel like the odd man (woman) out, and those little social annoyances were no longer going to be a problem. Little did I know, because according to our tax man, Rick Martin (yes, like the flamboyant singer), announced that Uncle Sam is STILL out to make me feel judged. With the assumption that filing jointly ("How exciting," she thought to herself, making yet another official statement of marriage) was going to be like one more big wedding present, my husband and I braced ourselves for the hefty tax return that was sure to follow. Naturally, the government would see that two people have just put out a lot of money for a wedding, honeymoon, and moving expenses and they would want to reward such honor and devotion (and lofty economic spending) with at least a decent return.
    Ha! I have been slighted once again. As it turns out, if you are a married woman WITHOUT children, you get to pay $850 to the government (that's by far the crappiest wedding present we received, by the way). If you're a man, however, you GET almost $1000 back (doesn't it just figure....)! With fees, plus state taxes, we brought home $11. How thrilling, we get to celebrate at the dollar menu. Thank the Lord that our local tax people totally screwed up by taking too much from us all year, because at least we got some funds back there, but do not think that will distract me from my rage towards the fedral blokes. But it was awfully nice of Ricky to remind me that I still have a few weeks left to get pregnant and prevent this tax discrimination from occuring again for next year's filing. No pressure. I'll just attach some cables to my ovaries for a little jump start... throw a few juevos down the ole' tube. Get in line, Rick. You're not even CLOSE to number one on that pressure train.