He used to do our taxes. Every year. You
know how some people get really aggressive when they’re behind the wheel in
city traffic? That’s the way he did taxes.
Back in those days a booklet would come in
the mail along with the basic filing forms. The booklet, printed on roughish,
beigish-grayish paper gave you current tax rules, listed the forms you needed
and gave you the postal address of the nearest Internal Revenue Service Office processing
tax returns. Ours had to be mailed to Austin, Texas. We had IRS offices in
Oklahoma, but they never got the pleasure of processing annual tax returns. I’ve
never been to Austin, but my tax returns have.
Some of the forms needed would be included
in the booklet. Some not. You had to collect up all the forms necessary for
your particular situation not included in the booklet. The post office and the
public library kept them on hand “Free to the Public.”
He approached tax season as though
preparing for battle. Not the assaulting side, you understand, but the side
being assaulted. He would make a list of forms and send me to retrieve them.
Any little hiccup in our daily life during that time was not only a personal
affront but a shot across the bow.
Once the dryer quit working. We both
worked full-time and had a toddler. Considering our income, he should have
considered us lucky that he could fix it. Right then in the middle of tax
season.
And there was the time I locked the keys
in the car at the post office. The post office was thirty minutes away from
home. He was a model of restraint and kindness, or at least silence, when he
arrived with the spare key and took away the forms.
Each year there was a nontax-related disaster
for him to overcome. And each year I would take the children away from the
house while he prepared our tax returns. It was best that they not learn any
new words that would get them in trouble at school.
Somewhere along the line I volunteered to
take over tax duty. Somewhere along the line, tax preparation companies started
making software available at a reasonable cost. Each year I am so grateful to
them.
And each year I put it off to the last
minute. Today is the deadline. I finished them yesterday. I’m always afraid it’s
going to be too hard. I won’t be able to find all the information I’ll need.
Somebody’s going to get sick and I’ll be too busy with them in the hospital. If
I’m lucky, it’ll be me.
My computer will conk out. The internet
will go down. There’ll be so many of us at the last minute that the IRS’s
website will crash.
We’ll have to pay.
We won’t have enough money to pay and I’ll
be arrested. I’m sensitive to tomatoes, potatoes, peppers, and eggplant. What
kind of food do they serve in jail. It will be Federal Prison who knows where.
There are Federal Prisons all over the country. I could end up in Kansas. I won’t
know anyone there. Will they let me watch Downton Abbey?
After the appropriate number of sleepless
nights, I did our taxes yesterday. He stayed away while I did them. In fact, he kept a low profile all last weekend, knowing that the end was near.
It wasn’t as difficult as I expected. The
software has simple, easy to follow instructions and walked me through the
process, step by step. It never has been as difficult as I imagined, but this
could have been the year. And, HOORAY! We don’t have to pay. I won’t be going
to prison anywhere. At least not this year.
He came home all smiles. He didn’t comment
on the last-minute-ness of my tax work. He didn’t make any suggestions about
how I could do it differently next year. He just brought me a present. A bottle
of Riunite Lambrusco.
He remembered my
favorite wine.
“I had trouble finding it.” he said. “I
looked all over the store. It was on the bottom shelf. Guess that’s where they
keep the cheap stuff.”
This I promise myself. I won’t wait until
the last minute next year. I’ll put important documents and receipts away
promptly – somewhere it makes sense so I will be able to find them. I’ll consider
investing in one of those bookkeeping software programs. Next year I'll start as soon as I get my husband’s W2. Next year.
This year, I had a nice glass of red
wine with grilled chicken. It’s nice being married to someone who loves me and
buys me cheap wine because I like it and won’t mention that you’re supposed to
drink white wine with chicken.
No comments:
Post a Comment