“It is the duty of a good shepherd to shear his sheep, not to skin them.”
- Caesar
Oh how I love this time of year. The snow is starting to pile up and you can sit and listen to that lullaby of sound which is the wind blowing against the house reminding you that it isn't just cold out side, but it's freezing!
I swear that if the weatherman's smile gets any bigger while saying we might get three or four more feet of snow I just might have to smack him.
What's with those guys anyway? It seems the more catastrophic the weather; the happier they are. When the big one finally does hit, I bet they will be doing keg stands and dancing like it's Mardi Gras.
And you know what? I don't care if it's lake effect or arctic blasts because either way my hands will be turning white because driving to the grocery store to get milk turns into an episode of “Fear Factor” no matter where the snow comes from.
At night I find myself so wrapped up in blankets that I'm starting to feel like a Bradley burrito. Now there's a menu item you won't see listed at Connie's any time soon.
But I need to focus here because this is the weekend that I do my taxes. Trust me, it isn't easy trying to fill out forms with mittens on, either.
I learned a long time ago that numbers and I just don't get along.
I once tried to be all fancy and do my taxes myself and I'm not sure if it was a long form or a short form but as they say ... size doesn't matter. Doing it on my own helped me find all sorts of deductions, too. I had a cat, so I figured that made me the head of the household. I've always considered my cable to be an entertainment expense, so of course, that went onto the form. I felt I needed a travel expense to make it all look professional, so I bought a bike.
As far as charities were concerned, I'm broke, so I assumed I qualified for that, as well.
When all was said and done I was making out like a bandit, but when it came time to actually add up all the stuff I had filled in, my calculator started smoking. I don't mean it over heated, it actually had to go outside and have a cigarette. I guess it just needed some alone time.
So that brings me here, to this little office of cubicles, sitting across from a total stranger that for the next hour holds my financial future in her hands.
The tax lady puts in all the information from my 109's, W2s and W4s while I sit nervously and hope that maybe we can add WD40 to grease this cycle of letter-number combos. It's as if I'm playing a government inspired game of Battleship and I'm really hoping not to sink.
When she finishes doing the tally she turns to me and tells me I won't get a return, and in fact I owe more to the state.
I notice that she has a smile on her face and all I can think is ... she would make an excellent weathergirl.
Auburn native Bradley Molloy's column appears here, each
Sunday, in The citizen.
He can be reached at lovonian@hotmail.com
Oh how I love this time of year. The snow is starting to pile up and you can sit and listen to that lullaby of sound which is the wind blowing against the house reminding you that it isn't just cold out side, but it's freezing!
I swear that if the weatherman's smile gets any bigger while saying we might get three or four more feet of snow I just might have to smack him.
What's with those guys anyway? It seems the more catastrophic the weather; the happier they are. When the big one finally does hit, I bet they will be doing keg stands and dancing like it's Mardi Gras.
And you know what? I don't care if it's lake effect or arctic blasts because either way my hands will be turning white because driving to the grocery store to get milk turns into an episode of “Fear Factor” no matter where the snow comes from.
At night I find myself so wrapped up in blankets that I'm starting to feel like a Bradley burrito. Now there's a menu item you won't see listed at Connie's any time soon.
But I need to focus here because this is the weekend that I do my taxes. Trust me, it isn't easy trying to fill out forms with mittens on, either.
I learned a long time ago that numbers and I just don't get along.
I once tried to be all fancy and do my taxes myself and I'm not sure if it was a long form or a short form but as they say ... size doesn't matter. Doing it on my own helped me find all sorts of deductions, too. I had a cat, so I figured that made me the head of the household. I've always considered my cable to be an entertainment expense, so of course, that went onto the form. I felt I needed a travel expense to make it all look professional, so I bought a bike.
As far as charities were concerned, I'm broke, so I assumed I qualified for that, as well.
When all was said and done I was making out like a bandit, but when it came time to actually add up all the stuff I had filled in, my calculator started smoking. I don't mean it over heated, it actually had to go outside and have a cigarette. I guess it just needed some alone time.
So that brings me here, to this little office of cubicles, sitting across from a total stranger that for the next hour holds my financial future in her hands.
The tax lady puts in all the information from my 109's, W2s and W4s while I sit nervously and hope that maybe we can add WD40 to grease this cycle of letter-number combos. It's as if I'm playing a government inspired game of Battleship and I'm really hoping not to sink.
When she finishes doing the tally she turns to me and tells me I won't get a return, and in fact I owe more to the state.
I notice that she has a smile on her face and all I can think is ... she would make an excellent weathergirl.
Auburn native Bradley Molloy's column appears here, each
Sunday, in The citizen.
He can be reached at lovonian@hotmail.com