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What's this?Winter is the only season not in the running. Not that I hate winter, understand. It's just that when it's minus 10 and snowing you can't go around wearing shorts and a T-shirt. I mean you can, but people look at you funny.
In winter when I take the dog for a walk I have more layers than a $1,500 wedding cake.
So winter is out. And if there's a Winter Protection League out there that will try to get me fired for saying that, well then I take it back. I love winter. I will personally apologize to the U.S.
Olympic Ski Team for making that winter slur. It was said in the context of trying to be funny.
The only reason spring is not the hands-down favorite season winner is that for reasons I don't understand, the U.S. government decided to schedule tax day just as the season is really starting to kick in. The viciousness and cruelty of this decision cannot be overstated.
By placing the federal tax deadline at midnight, April 15, all the things we love about spring are ruined.
(Don't panic, this year the nice folks at the IRS gave us two extra days.) Just how does tax day spoil spring? What is the first thing you think about when you spot a crocus poking its pointy purple head through the melting snow?
Not, "Ah, life is reborn tra-la, trala," nor, "Gosh, time to pot the bib seedlings." No, the first thing that pops into your mind is this: "Oh my god it's tax time!" (Rather than
Thoughts turn to love: OMGITT!
Apparently when Congress invented the income tax, an accomplishment rivaling the CIA's invention of water-board torture, it initially set March 1 as the deadline. But a few years later they realized that this early date would not cause nearly enough pain and suffering to the taxpayers. So they dragged the deadline out to April 15. Like religions, government officials hate it when their subjects are having too much fun, and will go to great lengths to reduce excess pleasure.
Like most other things that have to do with numbers and filling out forms, I have a strategy for taking care of my taxes. I just avoid thinking about them for as long as possible until finally the fear of going to jail overcomes my ability to block out the unpleasantness.
Until last year the way to block out the tax unpleasantness was to pay a lot of money to an accountant to do them. The most recent accountant I hired did a fine job except for one thing: in 2004 he neglected to include my income in his calculations of what we owed. I thought this was very creative on his part, especially since I got a $3,000 refund.
Unfortunately those eagle eyes at the IRS spotted the tiny omission.
They sent me a bill for the $3,000 plus a little penalty just for fun.
Enough with the accountant.
Last year I hired my daughter, Susan, to do my taxes. The good thing about this is I don't have to pay her (she still owes me big time for those high school years). For some reason Susan did not inherit the family's number-aversion gene. Last year things went really well. I sent her the W-2s and the expense records I found under the couch and the medical receipts I used to plug the leaks around the air conditioner. Never heard another thing until the refund arrived.
This year was going similarly well until the phone rang one night.
It was Susan wanting more information on something called an " IRA."
Until that moment I thought an IRA was an organization fighting England. I was tempted to say, "Hey, what the hell am I paying you for?" But I remembered I wasn't paying her.
Since the kind of IRA she was talking about has to do with numbers and filling out forms, I couldn't help her much - OK, at all. Bright kid that she is she eventually figured it out on her own.
(Advice to parents: Whenever your kid asks a question, pretend you didn't hear them. They'll eventually figure it out themselves.) You can reach Charles Walsh by e-mail at cwalsh@ctpost.com, or by mail at this newspaper, 410 State St., Bridgeport, CT 06604.
