The best thing about death is you no longer have to do taxes.
Every year I vow to use one of the 27 receipt organization systems I’ve bought. I make a good attempt in January and February. Then, somewhere around March I get tired of sorting bank statements, bills and checks and start throwing everything in a shopping bag.
By May, I’ve lost the original shopping bag and decide to start a new one.
In July, I make a halfhearted attempt to sort the receipts in the second bag and start searching for the organization systems that were left in a third shopping bag back in January.
By October, I’m determined to change course and get a new system – one that involves an app and requires scanning everything I remotely buy.
Over Christmas break, I run into that first shopping bag and realize I’m going to dread February.
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Sure enough, when my tax preparer sends a “worksheet” I know I’m going to have a lot of sleepless nights and a living room floor littered with every receipt that didn’t get thrown away.
Usually, I vow to do it on a night when there’s good TV that doesn’t require much attention (in other words: an awards show). I start by sorting the stuff into categories: House, car, entertainment, utilities, clothes, medical and miscellaneous.
While figuring what qualifies as a deduction, I get a good idea of the year I’ve had.
Frequently, I realize I’ve gotten far too many new pairs of shoes and I like eating at Red Robin.
Last year, for example, was a good one for the folks at the Apple store. (I don’t think you can write off broken or lost cords. But I’ve got the receipts.)
I’ve also got physical proof I’m a hypochondriac, I don’t like shopping around for the cheapest gas in town and I spend far too much time buying junk online.
I also treat my car better than most people treat their children.
Once I’ve amassed all the proof I can find, I make lists for each of the categories I’ve deemed tax-worthy. Adding up the columns should be easy – if you can find the calculator you supposedly have or know how to use the phone one without absent-mindedly adding zeroes.
Convinced no machine does it as well as I do, I check their work by using my first-grade math skills. I carry so many “ones” and “twos” I begin to think I’m ready for a CPA exam.
Then, armed with all these numbers, I make my master list, insert the numbers on the tax guy’s worksheet and realize he’s counting things I’m not.
I go back to the mass of receipts, look for the missing ones.
And then I pray.
When all of the paperwork is done and shipped off, I have fantasies of refunds and exotic trips. I have no idea how much I’ll get back, so I think Powerball big and mentally start remodeling projects.
By the time I’m ready to go out and look for the materials, I usually get a call from Ryan (that’s the tax guy’s name), asking more questions than a health care provider.
“I’m not so sure you’ll get anything back,” he says in the kind of monotone you know is masking a deep cackle. “But, we’ll run the numbers and see.”
Sure enough, when the paperwork returns, I’m writing checks – to the federal government, the state government and Ryan.
That refund bubble bursts and I’m left thinking, “What went wrong?” Quickly, I search for my tax organization system and vow to do a better job the next year.
Certainly, that’s the key. Had I kept an eye on all those receipts – or shoe purchases – I might be contemplating the next refund on a beach.
Where shoes are optional.
