Thanks, but.....?

So yesterday, as is my custom, I’m watching the national news, and they have one of those teasers as to what the next segment is going to be.

“Up next! We meet a woman who fought back against the IRS….”

Next thing you know, the phone rings insistently. In my usual intuitive fashion, I know who it’ll be.

Ring ring

Me: I know mom, I’m watching the news.

Mom, all excited: You’re watching channel 7? You saw they’ll have something about the IRS?

Me: Yep, I’m on it.

Clearly this was going to be a David vs. Goliath story, where this lone woman took on The Man, pushed back against their absurdity, and emerged victorious. Proletariats, unite!

Then the story comes on.

And they show this woman who, yes, has engaged in battle with the IRS. She owed them the astronomical sum of about $3K – and paid them in full. And had forms and receipts showing this. And yet the IRS didn’t believe her, so they took out more money from her bank account – this time $5K+, for the original supposed amount plus interest and penalties. And then they were still harassing her- showing up at her door, calling at all hours, etc. Now saying that she owed them $7K. This woman then tried using the Taxpayer Advocate service – and those folks determined that yes indeed, she had paid the IRS in full and should get that second $5K back. But the IRS wouldn’t budge.

Then ABC news got involved. Wrote to the various congressmen responsible for overseeing the IRS – no response. Contacted the IRS, got a standard form letter in return: “If we have erred in any way, we apologize for this theoretical error that may or may not actually be an error and may or may not have actually occurred.”

The story ends with this poor woman still out her money, with not even the ABC people being able to help her. I try to call my mom back, to chuckle about this rather depressing story. No answer. Undoubtedly, she’s gone out drinking.

I am sooooo screwed.

Chugging along on the Bitterness Train

So I’m more pissed off than ever these days. I know, I know, what else is new, right? Well, the more I think about all this IRS crap, the more pissed off I get. Seriously, you people are auditing me because you don’t understand how someone can make so little money in the year they’re diagnosed with cancer and have a bike crash/brain injury and are thus unable to work? Really? And then you also don’t understand how someone could have such high medical bills? Do you people even watch the news once in a while?? You know, to have a clue about those skyrocketing medical costs all of us out here have been yammering about. Apparently not.

So in my mind, they’re picking on the broke person with cancer because, quite frankly, they’re idiots. I mean really. Let’s let Bernie Madoff get away with scamming billions and billions of dollars for years, and let’s see nothing wrong with IL politicians paying zero in their own federal income taxes – but let’s pick on Miss Tasha.

And I have to give credit here to my most awesome friend George from Canada, who tried to help me out by contacting my congressmen to tell them how appalled he was, as a Canadian citizen, that I was having this crap foisted on me. And to the credit of Mike Quigley’s office (current congressman, who I once played ice hockey against!), they did contact me. I sent them the info, they sent off an inquiry, blah blah. Then yesterday I’m toodling around on the Googles, and I’m trying to see if this “contact your Congressman” idea ever does any good – and I find a website where a lawyer is answering a question, and basically says – oh, you don’t want to contact your Congressman except as a last final resort. We consider that – are you ready for this? – the nuclear option.

Fantastic. So now the IRS will be even MORE determined to find something wrong, just to prove they were right.

Tonight I was talking to Normal Brother Andrew from California, and I tell him my latest woes and how I’m basically screwed. Because once they start looking at your bank statements, suddenly everything is income, even if you’re just being reimbursed or paid back for something. And expenses, pshaw, why did you think that was deductible? I tell him all this, and there is…..silence. And then:

Andrew: Wow. Well……so……I guess things really did get worse, huh?

This, from my brother of the “It could always be worse” fame.

So, my friends, in times like these, when your life is falling to pieces all around you and there’s no bright spot on the horizon, not a glimmer, one is left with only a few options.

The first is to hunker down, hide from the world, which I guess is what I’ve been doing, but it hasn’t done much good. Trouble still hunts me down, like the sly bastard it is.

The second is to check out, as in check out. I can’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind, but….no. Not an option.

Then there’s the third option. Oh sure, I guess there are other things one can do – like join a monastery, or go AWOL, etc, - but when everything is scraped down to bare nothingness, this seems like the only realistic thing to do. Yes, the only one.

So yes, I’m doing it. I’m heading to N’Awlins. It’s not quite putting the band back together, because my former fellow NOLA-travelers have full normal lives unlike myself – but rumor has it that Craig can be persuaded to head to the Bayou with me and as many of my awesome CancerChick friends as we can round up.

Or, as I put it on Facebook – “I’m broke, I’m being audited, I’m probably headed to jail – fuck it, I’m going to New Orleans.”

So it has been spoken, so it shall be done. Not tomorrow, and not next week, but soon. Because, as I like to put it, when you’re robbing the bank you don’t worry about double-parking. And because……life is short. And the IRS can just suck it.

The Reckoning, part II

I glare at them as they come in, toting their wheelie bags of torture documents, and as soon as I open the door, I realize – oh yeah, I have Dobes. Big dogs. Oh well.

AMIL: Oh…oh boy….can’t you put them aw….
Me: NO! They’re little lambs, look at them. Konie baby, no jumpies!
OMIL: Aren’t those dogs mean…
Me, firmly: Lambs. Precious little lambs. Just keep walking to the back room, try not to let them trip you up.

They finally make it back, and to the boys’ delight, I give them big marrow bones to gnaw on to keep them occupied. The interrogation begins.

Me: First, should I put on some coffee? Would you like a brownie? I made them just for you guys, to soften you up.
OMIL and AMIL: Oh no, thank you, we’re fine.
Me: Do you guys really operate under a “No Snackie” rule? My friends and I were wondering this.
(speaking at the same time)
OMIL: Not really…
AMIL: Yes.

(pause)

OMIL: Okay then, so, before we start, do you have any questions?
Me: Well, yes, I suppose. Why are you people bothering me? How did I get picked for this?
OMIL: It’s a random process…
Me, ranting: It’s not like I make any money! Especially in 2008!
OMIL: Oh, that reminds me, we’re going to audit 2006 too.
Me: WHAT??? You can’t do that! What happened to the 3 years statute of limitations? I can barely find my papers from LAST year, now you want 2006??
AMIL, who’s been silent until now: Blah blah random explanation that’s probably made up blah blah can look at returns up to 7 years back blah blah.
Me, muttering: Well, good luck with that.
Me, more loudly: I don’t get it – what’s the deal? Do you think I have a printing press in my basement? Gold brick manufacturing in the garage? What??

Yes, I actually said these things.

OMIL: Well no, but when your income is less than your expenses….
Me: I know, it’s a problem! I’m po’! Everyone knows this!
OMIL: Well, that’s why we…oh….oh! No thank you, I don’t need that.

Kona has come along and, in showing off his generosity of spirit, has decided that Mean IRS Lady #1 needs to partake of his bone. His slimy marrow bone. Which he’s just placed into her lap, on her black pants. Oh my.

Me, smiling weakly: Heh heh, that’s my boy, he’s generous that way. Umm, where were we?

OMIL starts with the questions, and we’re trucking along, until we get to a question that almost has me burst out in laughter.

OMIL: So, would you say your income in 2008 was typical? Less than other years? More than?
Me, giggling: Oh, I’d say I made significantly less – I did only work half a year you know. That was the year of The Cancer. (Sad Cancer Face)

I go through my spiel – The Cancer, bike crash, broken collarbone which left me unable to type, brain injury that left me stupid, daily radiation treatments, etc. I think this either brings AMIL over to my side – or they’re suddenly segueing into a good cop/bad cop routine.

AMIL: OH! Oh no! That’s my foot!

Timmy has come along and plunked his little head on her foot, as he’s continuing to chew on his bone.

Me: Tim Tim! Move please.
AMIL: He’s cute. Are you planning on keeping him?
Me, sighing: No, it’s too hard as a single person. Plus it’s so expensive… (Sad Cancer Face)

She reaches out to pet him and he sits there like a good little boy, and I tell her about where he came from, and she tells me about a friend of hers who works in rescue. OMIL can’t get a word in edgewise.

OMIL: So back to these questions!

Me: Oops, sorry. Kona, no!

He’s just dropped his bone on her lap for about the seventh time. This is getting to be a bit Monty Python-esque.

Me: I can see the headline now – “Woman jailed for IRS agent harassment.” Just send me the dry cleaning bill. They love you guys, by the way! I keep giving them bones to keep them occupied.
AMIL, giggling: That one likes you Yvette – you’ll have to take him home with you!

Kona is now trying to climb into OMIL’s lap. Sigh.

AMIL: Oh, and are those poinsettias? How do you keep them alive so long?

Thus follows a long conversation about how I keep my poinsettias alive, and how hers always crap out by mid-January, but how she’s tried to overwinter them, etc. OMIL manages to break in every once in a while with a question, which I think AMIL finds slightly annoying. We’re bonding here, okay? Hmph. Kona keeps burying his head in my lap, which I figure has to be a good thing, yes? I mean, it’s not like Bernie Madoff had dogs that adored him, right? So according to the transitive function, Kona loves me ergo I am a wonderful, non-tax-evading gem of a person.

AMIL: So if you wind up needing to pay for any of these documents you need, like from the bank, you just call Yvette and let her know – we don’t want you to have to pay for anything. We’re trying to be the kinder, gentler IRS you know….

My eyes widen in disbelief, but somehow, by the grace of god or someone, I manage to remain silent at that.

Timmy then starts barking, loudly, apparently to indicate that this interview should be over. Luckily, they’re wrapping up, telling me what the next steps are, blah blah blah. I’ve been informed that this will “go on for quite some time” – yippee.

Let the drinking commence….

Okay, I’m back

I know, I know, that was quick. And as usual, I know what you’re thinking:

“But Miss Tasha – we be all worried ‘bout you! And here you be, waltzin’ in like nobody’s business! What be up with dat, girlfriend?”

(For some reason, grammar goes out the window when my sixteens of readers speak to me. I know, I don’t quite get it either.)

I think this is a large part of why the Universe hates me – because I’m the most stubborn person in creation, and I refuse to let The Man keep me down. I guess I’m kind of like the evil villain in a slasher movie who won’t stay dead even though he’s been shot multiple times, bathed in acid, and hung and quartered. Err, or I’m like a Weeble-Wobble. Take your pick.

Plus the billions of emails I’ve gotten from friends offering sympathy, advice, their accountant husbands and friends, alcohol, flamethrowers, etc., has warmed my soul. Truly. Whereas yesterday I was despondent, today I am….okay, still despondent, but writing up in my head a post about the amusing conversations I’ve had with friends and my brother about the IRS. My brain will not be stopped. Plus, as always, I have some useful Tips from Miss Tasha, for those of you also facing this idiocracy known as an IRS audit. To wit, this is what I’ve learned from searching the internets:

• If you’re being audited, you’re screwed. Be paranoid and suspicious and realize that they’re out to get you.
• Be polite to the auditor – they’re just doing their jobs.
• Their goal is to trip you up, so say nothing, use one-word answers.
• Be open and forthright about everything.

Umm, okay. I guess.

As for why I’m being audited, I finally figured out the reason. The IRS can’t understand why someone of my brilliance and overall fabulousness isn’t rolling in money and fame and fortune; hence, they assume that I am, and are coming over to search the premises. Or as my dear friend Motya put it –

“I blame Komen. The IRS is thinking, "Oh, Miss Tasha has the cancer, so she must be swimming in monetary donations that she has failed to report. We'll get her!"

Damn you Komen! Yet another thing you’re responsible for. But yes, I’ll be dressing up mighty fine on Audit Day, in one of my many pieces of Fuck Cancer attire. That way Ms. Audit Lady will know exactly what she’s dealing with: a crazy person.

Next up: Conversations with my brother, and my potential tactics for dealing with Audit Day

P.S. For the purposes of this blog post, please substitute "Audit Alert" for Rumspringa. Thank you.

Glorious victory!!

Let’s recall that I’ve been stubbornly appealing my property taxes for months now, filing appeal after appeal, and it all culminated in a trip downtown over a month ago to the Board of Appeals, the final arbiter of such things. And, bloated government inefficiency notwithstanding, that was such a pleasant experience with such nice and friendly people that I walked out of there feeling as if I had done everything I could, but if I didn’t get a further reduction, I’d be okay with that.

Flash forward to today. The mail comes in, and there’s a thin envelope from the Board. I ponder whether a thin envelope is good news or bad, remind myself that this isn’t college acceptance time, then gingerly open the dang thing partway. First catching the words “this assessment is based on comparable properties” – which isn’t good as that's their usual excuse as to why you shouldn't get a reduction, when they find the lone house that's assessed higher than you. But then I see the magic word: “reduction”!!! I then actually open the letter to read it rather than trying to make out what it says by holding it up to the light, and lo and behold, I win! I WIN!!!!! Well, that’s how I view it at least. My assessment is still more than it was before, but only marginally rather than by a huge amount. AND I’m back to less than my yuppie neighbors, with their house that’s worth over twice what mine is. Sa-wheet!!!

Of course, I have no idea what the hell this actually means for my taxes. Really, it’s true. And that’s not my fault. In Chicago they have a number of ways to tinker with property taxes to make sure you pay more – special temporary caps, changing the multipliers and percentages of various things that go into the formula, etc. So I’ll still almost certainly be paying more than I am now – but at least it’ll be less than the more it would have been before.

Naturally, I run to tell the one who has the most invested in this monumental verdict:

“Koney!” I scream, while dancing around the house. “Kona, look! This means Momma can keep you in pig ears! In the style to which you’re accustomed! All hail the Board of Appeals!”

I think he was pleased.

My new love = the IRS

No really, it’s true. And I don’t even think this is a result of the brain injury or anything. To recap – I’ve been dealing with the IRS because of issues with my 2003 return – and then to add insult to injury, they told me they couldn’t find my 2004 or 2006 returns. WTF? So because I’m a dumbass and have the filing system smarts of, say, a peanut shell, for the last month I’ve been frantically looking through every scrap of paper I own, looking for those damn 04 and 06 forms. They also wanted a copy of 2003, which I figured was a piece of cake – just print off a fresh copy, right?

Wrong.

Because you see, when you buy a new TurboTax for each subsequent year, apparently they overwrite the program for the previous year(s), so when you go to open, say, the 2003 return, you can no longer do so. Unless you use the original disc that the ’03 program was on – and god only knows where that is. Remember, my system of filing < the intelligence of a peanut shell.

So I can’t print out 2003. I can’t for the life of me find 2004. And 2006? Well, my printer doesn’t work when hooked up to my Mac, so I figure I’ll print it out on the PC – except that doesn’t work either, as 2006 is before the TurboTax people made it easy for you to save as a PDF and thus be able to open your docs on a PC or Mac. And all this is supposed to be faxed to my Taxpayer Advocate friend at the IRS today. I’ve left a message for my erstwhile accountant to see if she can fax me 2003, but she’s been pretty useless from the beginning, so I’m skeptical that that’ll work. Needless to say, I’m a little stressed out. Contemplating a cocktail. Cursing my disorganization. Drinking a cocktail. Saying “to hell with it, I’m goin’ to jail!” Okay, so I didn’t quite get to that point, yet, because just at that moment, the phone rang.

Me: Hello?
Most awesome person in the world: Hi, this is Michelle M. from the IRS Taxpayer Advocate Office and...
Me: Omg, great to hear from you! I was just thinking of you!
MAPW: I was just calling to tell you that I did pull your 2003 returns, and it’s still not clear if anyone was assigned to them, so I’m going to forward them to the review office, so it’ll take another 30 days for that.
Me: Great! So glad you found the 2003s. About the 04 and 06 ones...
MAPW: Oh, that’s not a big concern right now...
Me: But I do want to make sure you have them, so I have one less thing to worry about. I have 2006, but I can’t find anything for 2004, and as god is my witness I swear I did my return but I just can’t find a damn thing even though I’ve looked everywhere in this damn house! It could be on one of the computers that died – there were two of them – so that’s my next tactic, to try to retrieve them.
MAPW: Okay, that would be fine, but really......
Me: But just in case, could I perhaps get a summary of my 1099s and whatever forms you guys have, so I can recreate my tax return if necessary?
MAPW: Oh sure, that’s not a problem! I have them here – how about if I just fax them to you?
Me: PERFECT! That would be so great. You are the BEST! Thankyouthankyouthankyou...
MAPW: You’re very welcome – have a great day!

So she faxes me the forms, and I discover that a) they seem to be missing my key 1099 for 2006, so it looks like I didn’t make any money and hence I have no income to declare*, and b) I made little enough money in 2004 that it would be easy enough to just redo the damn tax return already rather than spending hours, nay days, looking for the originals. Even though it irks me to have to buy TurboTax 2004 again. Why oh why does technology hate me??

After I realize I’m okay with the IRS for now, i.e. I don’t have to worry too much about them freezing my bank account again or anything, I feel so dizzy with success that I wonder who else I can call to try to straighten things out. Dare I even think it.......the Driver’s License people??

Maybe I’ll just start drinking again....

And seriously, would it be so wrong if I sent Michelle a lovely bundt cake? That's acceptable, right? Like an IRS agent has never received a bundt cake as a gift before - puh-leeze.

*Just to clarify that I’m NOT an itinerant scofflaw, at least not with my taxes, I did put all my income on the 2006 return, even though they don’t seem to have a record of it. I’m not THAT stupid. Well, not all the time, at least.

Our inefficient government bureaucrats, cont.

When we last left our plucky heroine – aka me – I was trudging along to the County Building to meet my fate, or the Board of Appeals as it’s commonly known. Knowing that it would be a long wait, I came prepared, but damn it all if my wheelie bag didn’t keep tipping over. Sigh. I should have known how the day would go when I went up to the 6th floor of what I thought was the County Building, yet found no Room 613. What the hell, our government bureaucracy is so inefficient they can’t even be bothered to put numbers on the doors? Puzzled, I ask a woman in the elevator what’s going on.

Me: Excuse me, do you know where room 613 is?
Woman: Oh, that’s in the County half of the building – you’re in the City half.
Me: You mean this building - that’s all one building - has a magical invisible dividing line down the middle?
Woman: Exactly.

Good thing I remember reading about this odd phenomenon, whereby this one building that takes up a whole block is half county, half city. And by going in the wrong door, I had unwittingly entered the city part. Silly me!

Now that I’m in the right half of the building, I find my room on the 6th floor, and follow the signage to the Board of Appeals room. Finally, let the madness begin.

Me: Hi, I’m early but I have an appointment to....
Woman behind counter, cheerfully yet efficiently: Appear before the Board, right? Not a problem, just hold on a quick second and I’ll be right with you. Sorry for the wait!
Me: Excuse me a minute.

I go back out and look at the door – yep, Cook County Board of Appeals. What’s going on here??

WBC: Okay, let’s see your paperwork....great, just grab a seat and someone will call your name shortly!

Here it is then, the government process we’ve all come to hate and dread: the interminable wait, hours long, as we look at our watches and wonder how much in parking fees this will cost - somewhat akin to watching paint dry on grass as it grows. I slump over to a chair with my wheelie, and start tugging out my copy of War and Peace – in the original Russian, of course. I’m sure I’ll have time to plow through at least several hundred pages of it, which would mean I’d be about 5% done with it, and the.......

Guy: Tasha Huebner?

Me, startled: What? Who, me? You must mean a different Tasha, don't you?
The guy looks at me like I’m slightly unstable, but still responds chipperly and efficiently: Nope, there’s only one of you! (thought bubble over his head: thank god...) Come this way! You’re meeting with that guy sitting right over there.

Aha! Here’s where the bureaucratic part begins. I lived in the former Soviet Union for a few years, I know how these things work. Damn, why didn’t I bring a bottle of vodka as a bribe? I could be here for days, as he "pretends" to work!



Desk guy: Hi, how are you! So glad you came in, have a seat.
Me, resigned: So I have this paperwork but it’s probably not what you need and...
DG: Great! Let’s take a look here. Comps, perfect. All these listings, great. And pictures! Terrific! Though I’ll let you in on a little secret – nowadays you don’t even have to take pictures – you can just use the ones we have on our website.
Me: But that’s just the front of the house. You don’t need pictures of my crappy garage compared to this beautiful double-decker one with roof deck? See, look how my garage is falling apart, made in the Polish style by having pieces of plywood tacked on willy-nilly.
DG, cheerfully: Nope, not necessary! So you can save money by not taking pictures and use it on a bottle of wine!
Me: O.....kay then, but...
DG: And I’ll tell you something else, that’ll save you time next time. See, you can check this little box on the form and then you don’t even have to come down here – we’ll file the appeal for you!
Me: Seriously? So I could avoid all this and save money on parking?
DG: Exactly! We do that also so that folks don’t have to come down here in the winter, especially the older people, and deal with the snow and ice and everything that can be dangerous. Plus how expensive it is to come down here these days.
Me: O....kay then....
DG: But make sure you keep filing these appeals – you want to get whatever savings you can! Okay, we’re all set, now just wait over there and then you’ll speak to the Appeals person. Good luck!

I feel like I’ve just entered some form of BizarroWorld, or maybe Oz. Yeah, that’s it, the Land of Oz. When do the flying monkeys attack?

As I’m walking the less than 10 feet over to the chairs by the side of the room, no fewer than 2 people look at me, smile, and also wish me luck. This is really bizarre. I’m starting to think that because this is more or less the last step in the appeals process, they must figure that the folks who pursue it to this degree are batshit crazy or poor or both, and need to be handled vewwy vewwy carefully. Either that or, like a restaurant critic, my fame precedes me. Yeah, maybe that's it.

I wait for a minute or two, during which time DG has come over to chat with me some more and wish me luck, again, and then someone grabs my file and sends me over to the Appeals person. I am positive that now is when the bureaucratic process will kick me in the teeth. Positive. She’s a stern-looking black woman, and aren’t all stern black women angry yet inefficient? Isn’t that the government way?

SBW: Hello, and how are you doing today?
Me, suspiciously: Fiiii...ne, and how are you?
SBW: Just great, thanks! Okay, let’s take a look at what you have here. Comps, pictures, great, looks like everything is in order.
Me: Do you want more pictures, of, say, my crappy falling-apart garage?
SBW: Let’s see – no, these are fine.
Me: Oh, and here are pictures of my yuppie neighbors’ house that I threw in there – the house is a different style, but it’s a gut-rehabbed place that they have on the market for $1.3M, and mine is a dilapidated 2-flat.
SBW: Oh, that’s just not right. Okay, we’ll include that. Now, what I’ll do is go to my computer later and look up more comps so that you have more data in your file. We want to get your assessment back down to where you should be!
Me: Bu...bu.......
SBW: And you should hear back from us within 4-6 weeks, and if you don’t, or if you have any questions, just call us any time at the number that’s on your assessment form. Or here, take my card, you can also call me directly.
Me: Bu....bu......you.....I.......can I just tell you how great you all are? Seriously! You know, with this health care reform, people keep talking about how inefficient and horrible government is, but you’re all wonderful, and then compare that to the idiots I talk to at BCBS about the bills for The Cancer!
SBW, whispering: It’s true, people don’t understand shit about those kinds of things until they have to deal with insurance. Oops, I shouldn’t say things like that.
Me: But it’s true!
SBW: You have cancer? I hope you’re in remission – that’s tough, my grandmother dealt with cancer, but she’s doing well now.
Me: Oh, I’m glad to hear that.....

At this point, I’m ready to invite my new BFF Shani over for some bundt cake and tea as well – hell, at this rate, I should buy stock in a Bundt Cake Emporium or something. We finish chatting and I walk out of there grinning, just because everyone’s been so damn nice, then I thank the nice people at the front counter, make my way out of the building, and see that it’s.......2:50? That took half an hour total? I decide to get a celebratory bagel from Dunkin Donuts, but the one I pass on the way to my car is inexplicably closed. So I just get my car from the garage - $10 – and am on my way. No flying monkeys......yet. I remain alert.

More sullen, bloated government inefficiency – the background

We all know that I can be, well, a wee bit stubborn. Wee. And that I have a long history of doing things for the principle of the thing, no matter what a time/money/energy suck it turns out to be.

So given that, it should be no surprise that I’ve been contesting rather vigorously the increased assessment of my dumpy humble abode – you know, where the grand poobahs of Chicago decided that, all evidence to the contrary, we here in Chicago live in a microcosm of prosperity, where property values have gone up significantly from 2008-2009. By 74% in my case. Seriously. Even I can’t make this shit up.

To improve my mood even MORE, because you can look up everyone’s assessments online, I can see that my yuppie neighbors with their gut rehabbed single family home that they have on the market for $1.3M – yeah, they got a huge decrease and are now assessed lower than me. Again, with my place worth less than half that. This is just not right on so many levels that I refuse to let it go.

Therefore, I file my appeals. Simple enough process, whereby you look up houses comparable to yours (“comps”, they call them) that are assessed lower, take pictures if need be, send it all in and wait. These were the results:

First appeal – nada. “Our analysis indicates the assessed valuation should remain as originally proposed.”
Second appeal – same.
Third appeal – they throw me a bone in the form of a slight reduction, though I’m still higher than yuppie neighbors. “Geez, this one’s persistent. Give her some miniscule reduction, maybe she’ll go away.”
Fourth appeal – this one is to the Board of Appeals, whereby I take some forms to one of the County Buildings and they get back to me with a court date.

Friday was that court date. Thursday I wander around in the blustery cold to take pics of the comps I’m offering up, and throw in a few of Yuppie House for good measure. According to their instructions, you should take pics of the front, back, garage, etc., so I do, and seethe even more when I see that one of the comps is also a beautifully rehabbed house, with a spankin’ new 3-car 2-story brick garage with a roof deck. WTH? Do they have monkeys doing assessments with a dartboard or something?

So for Friday, I plan ahead. The appointment is at 2:45, so I assume that I’ll get called up probably around 4PM or so. And that we’ll be herded up all at the same time, so I won’t get my say until maybe 5, given how I’m usually last in the queue with these things. This means I need to park in a parking garage, since you get towed if you’re on certain streets between 4 and 6, and there’s NO way I’ll be done before 4. Ha, as if! Let’s recall my numerous trips downtown to Small Claims Court and dealing with Dwight (“ID, yes or no!”) and getting into a tug-of-war with the security guard who thought my keychain was a lethal weapon and wanted to confiscate it (Me: “I don’t have time for this shit!”). Ah, the memories.

I park, leave the Keychain of Doom in the car, grab my dog-eared copy of War and Peace, the XL thermos of coffee, the huge bag of trail mix, and of course my huge file of documents, pictures, and spreadsheets - and set off. As ready as I'll ever be.....