IRS, you can't touch me

Looking at the date, April 15. Is it really the 15th ? Why hasn’t our tax person called us to sign forms? It’s been a month since she’s had the data. Now I think of it she was late last year, too. But this doesn’t bother me. She’s in control. She promised to take care of it and pay any penalties. She also promised to go to jail in case agents showed up at our door. And she did. I mean she took care of everything. That’s the beauty of Hillcrest Accounting. Walking into Melinda's office, even for a few minutes is as good as going to an all-day spa, though I wouldn’t know for sure since I’ve never been. Sitting opposite her desk, gentle waves of confidence flow over me. I feel pleasantly dizzy like I’m drinking patchouli and eating chamomile. Every year she disarms dangerous numbers, scoffs at IRS threats, and offers us a peppermint.

Memories of this bad day are faded now as I sit at Caribou enjoying a coffee. If anything, Denis is organized and a darn good administrator. He keeps careful records and it was only last year that I convinced him we could stop writing down the mileage and gas cost every time we filled up. It seemed so pointless, but who am I to say since the only numbers I like have to do with document word count? And only a year before that he let me throw 20 years of tax records. The preciseness of his nature has kept us from ever needing to file an extension, which is good because I’m only good at throwing air punches at whoever writes the forms. But I do remember the first time we turned them in at one minute to midnight, and had to drive to the main post office. I had no idea. There was a traffic jam. Cars were lined up being directed by cops, and a p.o. employee stood at the curb receiving envelopes as people rolled past and hand delivered tax forms that needed to be post-marked April 15. Sort of improves your self-esteem, knowing you’re not the only slug in the universe.