On a professional level, tax time for me means a series of futile attempts to contact CPAs and whole firms that have basically gone into hibernation until the tulips and crocus begin to bloom. Even the simplest request, such as confirming an address or partner count, is often met with a sweeping anathema from an otherwise sunny receptionist, who sounds more like an enraged stevedore who got his hand caught in a gaffing hook.
On a personal level, tax season is when I train for three weeks to open up my checkbook and painfully write in Uncle Sam under "pay to the order of."
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