The Tax Man Cometh


It’s January 23rd in southwestern Pennsylvania and the thermometer reads 50 degrees. And the sun is shining. There’s something very wrong about this. Not that I’m complaining. We had single digits, snow, and ice last week. This is much better. It’s just wrong. It’s in my nature to complain vehemently about winter weather. That’s hard to do when you can wander outside without a coat.

But there’s something else about this time of year that I can still grumble about. Tax season. If I wanted to spend my life adding columns of numbers, I’d have been an accountant. But I’m not on good terms with math. I prefer words. So I’m a writer.

Except this time of year, I’m a writer trying to balance my spreadsheets.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I only had one business to keep tabs on. Silly me. I have three. Writing. Yoga. And Avon. That last one is the most involved, so I’m doing it first.

Oh, it would be much simpler if I kept up with income and expenses as they happen instead of letting the receipts collect in a folder all year long. I always intend to do better. But you know what they say about good intensions.

So for the next few weeks, I’ll be sorting through almost a year’s worth of paperwork, receipts, invoices, and bank statements. If you try to contact me and I sound grouchy (or grouchier than normal), that’s why. 

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