How Twenty-Something Years of Being My Father's Daughter Prepared Me for Doing Taxes

Oh man. My life. This week has been a series of events that make me roll my eyes at the cosmos and think, typical. Only in bRob's world.

 I just finished filing my taxes, which has put me in the foulest of moods. These taxes have been a laborious and drawn-out process. I only finished them after a ton of whining and pleading with my father, begging him to help me because obviously these things are not meant for me to figure out by myself.

Which sounds  a lot like how the past twenty-some years have gone.

this picture is not a good look for either of us.
but i will remind you that you do not read because i am glamorous.

When my dad helped me move in and out of the dorms [back in the day], we always had this really sweet tradition. He told me a week beforehand, "bRob. HAVE YOUR STUFF PACKED IN BOXES AND READY TO GO." [my dad lives his life in CAPS LOCK] 

And I stuffed about three things into one box and left the other stuff in "piles" [read: exactly where it had been] to be put into boxes. Dad arrived and immediately began CAPS LOCK-ing, "bRob, I TOLD YOU TO PUT THE THINGS IN THE BOXES. WHY DID YOU NOT PUT THE THINGS IN THE BOXES."

And I always responded, "but dad i don't have boxes how do i pack things in boxes when i don't have boxes" [not to go all The Sound and the Fury on you, but that's how a live my life - without punctuation or capitalization].

My dad, all piss and vinegar, stormed around helping me put stuff in the extra boxes he had laying around the house while mumbling, "I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO HELP YOU PACK ALL YOUR NONSENSE", and then we awkwardly carried about 1003 different hairbrushes and pencil jars down three flights of stairs. Then he made me take him to the dining hall for dinner.

Every. Single. Year.
bless his heart.

Doing my homework, from gradeschool to high school, was oddly similar. Pops always got stuck on homework-helper-duty. Each time he began the same way, "HAVE YOU READ YOUR TEXTBOOK?"

No. Who does that?

His inner mathematician would begin somewhere with Aristotle, do some elusive black magic derivations on his homemade chalkboard for about thirty minutes, and then turn to me expectantly.

To which I responded in a voice that might recall that of a banshee's, "iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii don't get itttttttttttttttttttt. this is stupid. i'm quitting. i don't need to know this. this is stupid. that's not how mrs. bradshaw did it. this is stupid. you're wrong."

I don't know how to type so that you'll understand I was whining-screeching, but imagine that in your head.

Dad huffed, "YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND WHERE THE EQUATIONS COME FROM BEFORE YOU CAN USE THEM. GOOD STUDENTS LEARN WHAT THE EQUATIONS MEAN." [10 years later and I'm still not sure].

After a lot of yelling [him], a lot of tears [me], a bit of flailing on the ground [me], and throwing textbooks [me], Dad would inevitably storm out of the room, red-faced and convinced his daughter would grow up to be the sort of girl who throws textbooks at walls and decides she should have been a photographer. It should be noted that he was right. It should also be noted that Mom was suspiciously silent during these episodes. Mom, I know you were in the next room. I could hear you breathing.

Probably thirty-seven minutes later, Dad would, temporarily calmed, come back into the room to find me sulking and glaring while post-sob hiccuping. He knelt down beside me [i had a thing about sitting on the floor], and slowly but surely explained how to factor polynomials and, later on, something about Euler.

I finally understood. He looked over, asked  me if I understood, and I, crinkling my face as sourly as possible, begrudgingly mumbled "kind of only a little."

And that, my friends, is how tutoring in bRob's house worked.

Now, a trillion days later, I called my Dad to help me with my taxes.

Every five minutes during the conversation, Dad states, "WE HAVE A GUY TO DO OUR TAXES. WHY DON'T YOU HAVE A GUY. YOU SHOULD JUST GET A GUY. I HAVE A GUY SO I DON'T HAVE TO DO TAXES."

bRob goes, "Daaaaaaaaad I can't do it and it's your fault because you told me to do this and ...." [fill in the ... with any number of ridiculous reasons]

Dad goes silent on the other line, and I know, by his huffy breathing, it's because he's trying hard not to mentally strangle me. "I GOT A GUY SO I DIDN'T HAVE TO DO THIS STUFF."

"i know Dad but i don't have a guy because i'm poor."

"YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE WAITED UNTIL THE LAST MINUTE."

"i started a week ago but you told me not to file yet"

"I HAVE TO GET UP AT 5:30AM TOMORROW MORNING."  [to be fair, it is 1am]

This time there is silence on my line, which I think my Dad figured out was because my lip was quivering and I was about to throw something at a wall. Probably a textbook.

Dad says he'll talk to his guy and call me back the next day.

He calls me back and tells me a bunch of complicated things that require I pull out a calculator, which I try not to do, seeing as I'm about to graduate and all.

"ugh Dad are you sure i have to do all this stuff because taxes are stupid and i am currently getting a federal refund of twelve dollars"

"YES. EVERYONE HAS TO DO TAXES. SUCKS TO BE AN ADULT, DOESN'T IT."

Eventually Dad and I get into a dispute as to whether or not I should enter a certain form. Cue the yelling and waterworks.

"I HAVE TO BE UP AT 5:30AM TOMORROW MORNING. MY BATTERY IS DYING."

"fine! i'll figure it out!" With the most illogical of resolve, I dramatically hang up and carry on with my taxes, which has really just devolved into pouting and scrunching my face at the laptop screen.

My brain chips in, " if the IRS wants to audit me, be my guest! Screw the PoPo, I ain't scared of no PoPo!"

I contemplate crying.

 Just like ten years ago, Dad called me back to once more, and gives me one more redemptive chance as he  patiently explains what I should do.

And just like that, my taxes are filed.

Same time next year, Pops?

-bRob