Tax Man

Its grade school, I'm in first grade, it's time for Math. The teacher is tall, the day is long, the kids noisy and the desk graphitized to death. Generations of students before me put their frustration into action and scribbled, etched, carved their sorrow into the desk.

Fast forward to fourth grade, the best and brightest are taught by royalty: The Principal. The group is spearheaded by the son of the shop owner from around the corner. He had lots of practice in algebra, taking our meager pocket money and exchanging it for toys, pencils, candy and the occasional birthday gift. I'm not in that group, I'm more of a shopper, you see.

Years go by and it's me who has a business, selling hand made, artfully designed scrapbook albums. I'm still lucking in Math but VERY good at shopping and so tax season is not my cup of tea. My coffee tucked safely at my side, the desktop smooth and gleaming, I'm having the gloomiest day ever. Excel charts carve their frustration into my brain, receipts are flying about, the different passwords I most creatively created at some point (beware thy hacker, you'll never get THIS combination!) are long forgotten and the effort of re-creating them is enormous. Hubby, AKA Numbers Man, refuses to help - after all, it's my business and I have to learn how to do it myself. Isn't there a quote about  'Thou Shalt Not teach a tired frustrated student'?

Almost midnight, I flex the numbers, stretch my spine, flex my feet, point them, to no avail: numbers stay the same and I have to jump in the receipts bin once again to find that long lost piece of paper that will save the day. Wish me luck...

How's your tax season and what do you think of Obama's efforts to kill the bourgeoisie in favor of social capitalism?

Be happy, get a CPA that does it for you,
Sara Brown.