At this time of year, my Sicilian father always reminds his children and his shadier relatives: "You have to pay your taxes. It's how they got to Al Capone."
Wendy takes this very seriously. She's the primmest, most Puritanical cat I've ever had. She sits on the table beside our growing pile of tax files, staring at us pointedly.
Wendy urges us to do our civic duty.
Finding the boxes was easy. Figuring out how
to ship each other is proving complicated.
On top of that, every year we get to the end of the program and realize that I never entered my self-employment tax payments. So we go back to the beginning and click through every single page a few times, killing an hour or two. We never find the right box. Eventually we give up and put the correct amount in the least illogical box. We surely miss deductions, because we don't understand the questions or we can't bear to do any more calculations.
Last year, we got a layer cake from Lyndell's Bakery to give us the strength to get through this annual nightmare. We completed our taxes in record time (confusion and agony were intensified in direct proportion to the shorter time period). It must have been all that sugar energizing our brains.
It will therefore be necessary to get a cake from Lyndell's this year.
So, although we've been saying for several days that we would definitely start our taxes tonight, there's no cake, so it's not happening. Maybe tomorrow night. The boys could use a little extra time to work on their flight plan, too.