The Tax Man Cometh... 4/15/2009

The tax man cometh...

Depending on when you get your newspaper, you're either scrambling to finish your taxes while checking to see which post office is open late, or you've already sent your taxes and are waiting by the mailbox for your refund. They say that death and taxes are inevitable, and depending on how your return comes out, it may be tough to decide which you prefer.

I used to love tax season. Yes, you read that right: I used to love tax season. In my twenties, I'd file my E-Z form and then wait for my big fat check so my friend Susan and I could go somewhere tropical. The IRS was my own personal vacation fund. I'd claim zero deductions so my employer would remove the maximum from each paycheck, yielding me a big refund every spring. It never occurred to me to claim "1" and earn the interest for myself, instead of letting the Federal Government hold onto it for a year. Never much of a saver, I would have probably blown it on Cape Codders and tacky clothes from Tellos.

In my thirties, I was married (filing jointly) to a freelancer (schedule C). This was uncharted waters for me, actually paying the IRS more money. Though my husband wrote off every legitimate business expense, we'd still end up owing money. Plus, he insisted we file quarterly to avoid penalties, so we'd end up paying the IRS every three months. It's like having your wisdom teeth purposely removed one at a time instead of yanking them all out at once. By all means, let's prolong the misery.

My husband has always been super careful about taxes since his...ahem...indiscretion with the IRS during college. He worked as a bartender for a restaurant in Ithaca, NY and because he was paid off the books, never filed a return for those wages. Eventually the restaurant was audited and that lead the IRS, several years later, to my husband's door (they're like elephants...they never forget). It's no fun when the IRS asks you to come in for a chat, and not even that handy Steve Martin excuse ("I forgot") could save him. When they revealed the amount he owed (with interest and penalties of course) he practically passed out. Cheerfully they asked if he would be paying by cash or check and that's when he discovered that the IRS is always willing to work out a payment plan.

Just when my husband took a full time job (yay, W-2!) I started my Pampered Chef business (sigh, schedule C).This time it was my turn to track expenses, write down mileage and fudge my write-offs. Add to this a home purchase (mortgage deduction!) and a couple of children (deduction! deduction!) and our taxes became increasingly more complicated.

It was around this time that my husband discovered the not-always-so-wonderful-world-of-Turbo Tax. On the one hand, it was an inexpensive way to do our taxes, and the software never chastised us for waiting till the last minute to file. I'd peer over his shoulder as he crunched the figures, holding my breath to see if the red numbers would change to green (indicating a refund). When it was clear that we owed, I would start hyperventilating, wondering where the money would come from, at which point my husband would say, "Well, it we contribute $2000 to our IRA then we could reduce what we owe by about $70." Uh, right honey, if we had an extra two grand lying around for no specified purpose, I probably wouldn't be breathing into a paper bag right now. So let's skip the IRA contribution, shall we?

Turbo Tax seemed to work out just fine, until we started receiving those friendly "notice to assess" letters from our buds at the IRS. Apparently, we must have entered something wrong or calculated incorrectly. Usually the amount was minimal, but when we received a notice this year for the unfathomable sum of $2,300 (from tax year 2005... elephants, remember?) we decided it was time to kick Turbo Tax to the curb and go back to having our taxes prepared by a living, breathing human being.

Enter Kelli...goddess of accounting. Kelli intervened on our behalf with the IRS and cut our assessment in half. Kelli sent us a tax organizer that we could actually understand. Though we still had to collect and calculate receipts, Kelli met with us and immediately found several areas where she could increase our deductions. Best of all, Kelli had our taxes finished within a week and actually got us money back!

Is it enough for a tropical vacation? Not really, but at least it'll pay for a round of Cape Codders.

Happy Easter! - 4/8/09

Sitting in church this past Sunday, waving palm leaves with the rest of the congregation, got me thinking about all the Easters of my past. Easter has always been important to me, but the reasons for that have changed over the years.

When I was little, Easter was all about the dress. Each year my mom would take us shopping for a brand new Easter dress, complete with matching hat and purse. I don't really consider myself a girly-girl, now or then, but I loved the idea of picking out that springy, flimsy, short-sleeved Easter dress (and on those occasions when Easter fell in March and the temperature was still frigid, we'd just suck it up and pretend it was a balmy spring day.) The hat was my favorite part. (Does anyone even wear hats anymore?) Usually they were straw, in pastel shades of white, pink, yellow or green. I'd sit in church trying to ignore the elastic that was digging into my throat, triggering my gag reflex. Inside my purse would be my offering, Kleenex and my Bonne Bell Lip Smacker.

My sisters and I would each receive an Easter basket filled with candy, silly-putty, play-doh and coloring books. The candy was definitely the most treasured item, and we'd trade our favorites with each other. Jennifer, my older sister, loved malted milk eggs, so I'd trade mine for her orange jellybeans. My Cadbury Mini-Egg addiction was still years ahead of me. Before Jelly Belly's were invented, jellybeans came in five flavors: green (lime) orange (orange), red (cherry), yellow (lemon) and black (death). Dad was a licorice freak, so the black ones went to him. There was the hallowed hollow bunny, the one that stared at you with its candy-button eye, daring you to bite its ears off. Our house was a Peeps-free zone since none of us could stand those neon chicks (they usually ended up in the microwave...try it!)

The day before Easter we would dye hard-boiled eggs, reveling in the smell of sulfur and vinegar (it's the Paas that refreshes!) Miraculously these eggs ended up in our Easter baskets the next morning (and why didn't it strike us as strange that the Easter Bunny was rooting through our fridge at night, searching for those eggs?) Easter dinner brought the entire family together to enjoy a fresh ham or turkey, followed by angel food cake (heavenly!) The day would end with a 5-hour showing of "The Ten Commandments" or "Ben Hur" on our local television station. It wouldn't be Easter without a heapin' helpin' of Heston.

As I grew older and became more active in my church's youth group, Easter became less about candy and more about God (though I still liked buying that dress.) I was less resistant to the lamb-scented Maundy Thursday service and on Good Friday I would watch a video of "Godspell" or "Jesus Christ Superstar" (gotta love the 70's). My sisters and I would wake at the crack of dawn on Easter morning, not to raid our candy baskets but to participate in our youth group sunrise service. Releasing white balloons into the early morning sky was a meaningful way for us to begin our Easter.

As an adult, I spent a long stretch of time absent from the church. I had a full time job, worked Sundays, then eventually married an agnostic. I moved often enough that I convinced myself that it didn't make sense to join a church; who knew where we would settle permanently? I'd visit my old church in NJ from time to time, always attending Christmas and Easter services, but it wasn't the same.

It was the birth of my children that prompted me to finally join a wonderful church near our home. My kids are growing up in this church, attending Sunday school, vacation bible camp and youth group. Ironically, we never attend Easter service at our church; we travel to NJ to visit family. But the warmth and fellowship we enjoy all year-round travels with us. In addition to the candy and toys, I'm adding a Bible to each of my boys' Easter baskets. Hopefully I can squeeze in a showing of "Godspell" before we leave. And you know I'll be getting that new dress.

Happy Easter!

Puppy Love - 4/1/09

I have a friend who, like myself, worked for many years before making the decision to stay home full time with her children. A stay-at-home mother is both the hardest and most rewarding job there is. She provides food, love, comfort and discipline while enduring sleepless nights, endless worry and a house that is never completely clean. Eventually my friend had reached a point where her children were in school all day. For the first time in years, she could go to the gym, do food shopping alone, run errands at her own pace and keep her house clean. And just as she was getting used to that small amount of freedom, my friend was suddenly thrust back into the world of sleepless nights, baby gates and a messy house.

Oh, did I mention this is because she got…a puppy?

Recently my friend mentioned that she and her husband were picking up their new puppy at the airport the next day. Her kids had been begging for a dog, so they did their research, settled on a breed, and arranged for their puppy to travel cross-country. I had my doubts, of course, since my friend is allergic to dogs and is a bit of a clean freak (her house is always neat and tidy). But they chose a hypoallergenic breed (Labradoodle) and she was so excited to surprise her kids that I couldn’t bring myself to voice my concerns about the decision.

The day after my friend picked up her puppy, I received this e-mail (edited for language): “Holy bleep! My home has turned into a haven for urine...Holy bleep! What have I DONE?” The next day I received this email: “I have an infant running around my house that is not potty trained and peeing all over…he was CRYING in his crate (or should I say crib) from 9pm-2am…shoot me…shoot me!”

After that, the e-mails stopped (an ominous sign). I visited my friend and her incredibly cute puppy the following Monday, after her husband left for work and her kids were at school. As I handed her a much-needed coffee, I noticed redness around her eyes and nose. Had she been crying? Nope, that was her allergic reaction to the hypoallergenic puppy (uh oh.) I asked how her kids had reacted to their “surprise” puppy. Her daughter was thrilled. Her son asked, “How old is it?” followed immediately by “What’s its life expectancy?” Then the puppy nipped her son, whereupon he said, “I think it needs to be put down…it bites.”

My friend learned quickly that the bulk of the puppy care would fall on her shoulders. Who else would be there to let the puppy out hourly, feed it, play with it, walk it, clean up after it? To quote her directly; “I’m doing everything but breastfeeding it.”
To her credit, when she does something, she gives it her all. Soon she was enrolled in puppy training classes and watching Cesar Millan videos (he’s the “dog whisperer”).

Two weeks later, I met my friend for lunch. I suggested bringing lunch to her, but she quickly asserted that she NEEDED to get out of the house. As we ate, she filled me in on all the news. The puppy could only be crated for two hours at a time. The puppy needed to go out hourly. The puppy was trying to chew the cabinets. She sprayed the cabinets with something nasty to discourage the puppy from chewing. The puppy was now licking the cabinets. The spray seemed to be giving the puppy the runs. She had to collect stool samples for the vet. Some of those samples contained glittery beads from her daughter’s craft kit.

At least her allergies had abated and I consoled her with the fact that, just like our children, the puppy would grow and learn and eventually require less round-the-clock care. It was also clear to me that she really did love the puppy, even if she didn’t love the full-time attention it required. We both realized that the best part about having a pet when we were kids was that our parents took care of them. Now we’re the parents.

So if you’re thinking of getting a puppy, come over to my friend’s house first and walk a mile in her shoes. Just be sure to watch out for the poop.