My Next Tattoo


Will be the word “Gullible” in all caps on my forehead.


I will disbelieve the e-mail from the head of the financial aid office at the university I will be attending in the fall saying I have a full ride, I will read it over and over again and still have pause.



Are you sure?


When I received the phone call from an officer with the IRS this afternoon while at work I will burst into tears, bursting into tears being apparently my go to all this past week, and say yes, of course, I’m guilty of tax fraud, please don’t arrest me, what do I need to do?

I mean I was fished and fished hard, hook, line, sinker.

The guy on the phone had enough of my personal information to have me convinced that due to my improper tax filings for the years of 2010-1014 I had colluded to fraud the United States government and there was a warrant for my arrest pending and the cops were about to show up at the house to arrest me and haul me off.

I freaked out.

Did I budge on my taxes?

Did I do them all right?

Was I defrauding the government?

I mean, I had gotten some of my nanny money under the table last year, but arrest me, sue me, black mark my credit for the next bazillion years.

I don’t think so, but maybe?

I was so distraught, scribbling notes as fast as I could, the full body flush having nothing to do with amazing date I had last night.


They had caught me.

Whoever “they” are.

They were coming to take me away.


They are coming to take me away.


Just kill me now, I can’t have them arrest me in front of the boys.

I flew up the stairs, interrupted the mom in tears and said I had an emergency and I had to go to the bank I would be back as soon as possible and flew out the door to my bank.

Note to self.

Hate these socks.

The suck, these socks, as I am flinging myself down Mission Street to my bank, B of A, on 23rd and Mission, I resolve to throw away socks when all this is over.

Of course there’s a line!

I feel myself starting to breathe too fast, hyperventilation, I am about to have a panic attack.

The entire time, I’m still on the line with this guy, the “representative” from the IRS who is talking to me and telling me what I need to do.

I hear a friend’s voice in my head, “this is a scam.”

I am still so panicky that I can barely think, but start marshaling my breath and it suddenly occurs to me that I have agreed to pull all my money out of the bank, $900, and go to some, as of yet, undisclosed location, purchase “government issued bonds” then give the numbers of said bonds to the person on the phone and what?

I started asking questions.

And irony?


Is it odd or is it God?

I actually have my tax paper work on me as I thought during lunch I might call the hotline and find out why my federal tax return had not processed yet and was there any information I needed to give to the government?

I ask the questions and I am not getting the kind of answers that make any sense to me.

I step out of the line at the bank.

It might be the first time I was ever so grateful to see a long line at the bank.

I ask another question.

It doesn’t make sense.

I hang up the phone.

I start to call the number on the tax paperwork that I have for my own filing last year.

I get another call, this time from a 415 area code, aka, a San Francisco number.

It’s the police!

That want to know where I am that there is a warrant that just came in from the IRS and they are going to arrest me.

For two seconds I panic.

Then, I think, fine, let them arrest me, at least I’m sober, at least I didn’t drink, at least the boys aren’t going to see me get arrested.


Do it.

I ask for the badge number of the officer.

And suddenly realize that the person I’m talking to, the “police officer” sounds like the first guy who called, but with a bad Irish accent.

Cross an Indian accent with a poorly produced high school play about Irish immigrants and I know it.

Fuck me.

I’ve been had.

I hang up.

I am hyperventilating on the walk home, I call the IRS number on my paper work and I am on hold for 45 minutes without ever getting a live person.

I think, well, if this is all true, I could just go to the Mission Police Station and turn myself in, I mean, better that than embarrassing the family with having their nanny arrested in front of the house.

Then I realize what I am going to sound like and that the police will call General and I’ll be 5150’d instead of jailed.

I take a big deep breath, unlock the door to the house and explain myself to the mom.

The only loss I have today, one of dignity.

I am gullible.

I am an easy mark.

Anyone want to sell me a bridge?

I’ll probably buy it.

I only have $900 though and it will take me a minute to go to the bank and withdraw it.

The mom was very sweet and compassionate and the dad told me what I could do to make sure that my identity on-line was not compromised and to change all my passwords on my accounts.

I shared about it tonight after work and someone came up to me and said, “two things, was it the IRS who called you?”


“The IRS don’t call, and I received that same phone call last week,” he continued, “I had the same reaction, but it just didn’t add up, I called the IRS and was told that it was a fishing fraud.”

Jeez Louise.

I am thankful that I didn’t pull that money out of my account and for the kindness of my employers.

And that I was able to laugh about it only a few hours later.

I was also relieved that I wasn’t going to have to cancel my date for tomorrow night due to being in jail.

That would have been a bummer.

I’m awfully looking forward to seeing him.

It would have sucked to cancel.

Now I just have a funny story to share about being naive.





But not broke.


Not that.


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