The Eleventh Hour Tax Evader

I am just completing a joyous vacation without pay, a euphemism of the State of California for end of quart break of a part-time teacher.  I had neatly set aside this period for the organization, accumulation or bottom line hysteria known as tax preparation.

Last year, I was so paranoid I made an appointment in January.  There was, indeed, a method to my madness.  My CPA gets the brittle frizzies in April and I cannot stand to see a man in the throes of hysteria.  Unfortunately, this year I chose to slide in midst weeping and gnashing of teeth to meet the deadline…..just barely.  I’m booked for April 12.

But back to my enforced vacation, nee organization period.  The first two days were spent in court arguing with an ex-husband over cost of living, starving children and tattered clothing.  That altercation left me far too upset to address the IRS.

The next four days were spent in dignified preparation for St. Patrick’s Day.  I cannot be held accountable for the fact that an old friend named Flynn had a birthday, the Hybernia Society had a formal banquet or that an Irish pub opened up within a stone’s throw of my home.  I was rendered disabled with Charley horses in both calves from jigging.  Surely, with a low pain threshold like mine, I did not dare approach my W2.

Next came the first day of spring and the infinite possibility that tiny little wild flowers might be blossoming SOMEWHERE.  Despite the warning of the AAA that no reports had yet been received from the hinterlands, I packed a lunch of feta cheese, Greek olives, french bread and wine and allowed myself to be kidnapped in a sports car heading north.  No wild flowers, no tax preparation, but we had a helluva fine picnic.

All is not lost, however.  I have 48 hours left before I face the crazed accountant in my life.  I have locked myself in my office/spare room.  (If the IRS ever questions that this room is used for business, they need only to put a federal periscope through the window.  No self respecting slob would habitate this den of chaos.  I am surrounded by piles of paper:  One for babysitting, one for telephone, another for gas and electric.  Let’s see, business expenses, educational fees, ah bank statements (why didn’t I balance my account monthly all year?)  I’ll do it next year,what’s left of it.

I also have copies of “How to Get Organized”, “How to be a Financially Secure Woman” and “Pulling Your Own Strings.”

Since I have not broken out in a rash or a crying jag, I must not be serious yet.  Just in case, the refrigerator is stocked with a modest amount of wine for medicinal purposes only.

Well, maybe I’ll just dive in, organize, stack, file and finish; but…….the grout in the bathroom looks moldy, the patio needs sweeping, and it just happens to be a perfect morning for sitting on a rock and photographing squirrels.  I guess I don’t need to get too uptight.  As Scarlet O’Hara said, “Tomorrow is another day.”


I found this attached to my tax file.  Nothing changes, nothing remains the same.  I am still Scarlet O’Hara at tax time.


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