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.

She Blinded Me With Science 3/25/09

Spring is here and with it comes that annual staple, the elementary school science fair. Ah, the science fair. A place where budding scientists of all ages can suggest a hypothesis, create a thoughtful and insightful display to prove or disprove that hypothesis, and then completely abandon said display in order to see what their fellow scientists are up to.

One of the things about science is that it deals in Immutable Laws and absolutes (i.e. gravity). The science fair has its own set of laws and absolutes. There will be no less than five baking-soda-and-vinegar volcanoes, and at least seven “tornados in a bottle”. There will absolutely be an impressive display of moldy cheese and bread (a science experiment I conduct in my refrigerator monthly. FYI, mold grows faster on the sour cream lid than the salsa lid).

Kids will absolutely not stay with their project, choosing instead to leave mom, dad or a handy older sibling to explain their results while they run like a pack of wild hyenas looking for displays that involve candy. There seemed to be an unusually high number of candy experiments this year, prompting mini-mob scenes around these booths, begging for samples. My friend’s son gave up candy for Lent. She granted him a special dispensation for the fair at the risk of a major meltdown.

My son’s project involved gravity and how to calculate your weight on other planets. It was a simple matter of stepping on a scale and then multiplying your weight by a planet’s gravitational pull. I formed my own hypothesis prior to the fair. I guessed that not one single adult woman would step on that scale. My hypothesis proved correct. Hooray, I’m a scientist!

Each year I enjoy reading the guidelines for the fair, especially the types of exhibits that are not allowed. For example:

“Nothing that causes harm or stress to humans or animals” (This doesn’t include parents).
“No live vertebrate animals may be brought to the fair” (Giant squids are acceptable).
“No bacterial cultures” (Leave your E. Coli at home).
“No controlled substances” (Please, no “Breaking Bad” meth labs).
“No dangerous or combustible chemicals (See above).
“No open flames” (We love our school, save the open flames for the July bonfire).

How different from the science fair of my youth with bubbling test tubes and noxious chemicals (our junior high had asbestos, what could we do to make it any worse?) My most vivid memory is not of my own experiment, which I can’t recall, but my friend’s display: Dissection of a Fetal Pig. That poor unborn pig, splayed open on a display board, would have been disturbing enough if my mother hadn’t made things worse by bringing me a ham sandwich for lunch. Blech!

The science fair actually lends itself to its own experiments: How high will the gymnasium temperature rise when the collective body heat of moms, dads, kids, and grandparents is added? What is the loudest decibel level reached at the peak of the fair? Is there a limit to the patience and interest shown by the principal and assistant principal as they visit every project? (The answer to that is no, their patience is infinite.) And of course, how fast will the kids snap back to their booth when the trophy cart is wheeled in? (Immediately).

The best part of the fair is watching my child explain his project and realizing that he actually learned something in the process. As he happily accepts his trophy, I can’t help but put forth one last hypothesis: How long will that trophy serve as a proud reminder of his hard work and achievement? Hopefully forever.

In the Midst of Death... 3/18/09

They say that death comes in threes. Whenever a public figure dies, be it a politician, a musician or an actress, two more are sure to follow in quick succession.

This past week, I learned within 48 hours that three people I knew, or knew of, had passed away. None of them were relatives, nor were they even what I could classify as close acquaintances. But their deaths have touched me nonetheless.

The first was Susan, the next-door neighbor of our relatives on Nantucket. When my husband I decided to hold our wedding in their back yard, Susan graciously offered the gazebo in her beautifully maintained garden as a spot for our wedding pictures. Though she is gone, her generosity that day will live forever in our memories and our photos. She was 67.

I learned about the passing of Bob, a fellow church member, at my Sunday service last week. Though I only knew Bob by sight, I was one of many in the church who delivered meals to his family while he was hospitalized. Each week I would see Bob's name in the bulletin, with brief updates on his condition, asking for cards and prayers. Each week I prayed for his recovery. It was a blow to hear that he had lost his fight. He was 52.

Kara, the fiancée of a close friend's brother, was diagnosed with her illness just a few weeks ago. Imagine visiting your doctor and discovering that in all likelihood you would not survive to see the summer. Despite her diagnosis, Kara fought hard, continuing to make plans to marry the man she loved. Her life ended at the age of 32, just six weeks after her doctor's visit.

It's natural to contemplate our own mortality when someone we know has passed. Had I died at 32, I would have been married only briefly. I would have never known the joy of my children, the warmth of my community, the rebirth of my writing or the friends who make me laugh each day.

If I were to die at 52, I might be lucky enough to see my oldest graduate from high
school but not my youngest. I wouldn't see them off to college, watch them find their careers, fall in love, marry or have children of their own.

67 still seems far too young (though it seemed ancient to me when I was 21, it's now just 21 years away!) If genetics play any part, my grandmother lived into her nineties, but the odds these days of living that long seem slim (despite Willard Scott and the Smuckers Club).

On a personal note, I've never been one of those "live for today" folks. I've always been prone to worry about the "what ifs" of tomorrow. But the events of this week have reminded me that none of us knows just how many tomorrows we have left. Given the choice, all pain and illness aside, I'd be willing to bet that Susan, Bob and Kara would have all wished for the same thing: more time.

As a result, I'm going to try to focus less on the "what ifs" of tomorrow and enjoy the moments of today instead. I'll revel in the noise and chaos of an elementary school science fair or my fifth-grader's first sleepover. I'll remember to tell my family and friends that I love them. I'll try to honor those who passed this week by making the most of whatever time I have left.

Care to join me?

Check Me Out! - 3/11/09

You know me.
You've seen me at Shaw’s, Home Depot and Wal-Mart. As you crawl towards the checkout with your bulging cart, waiting interminably to begin placing your items on the belt, cursing inwardly as the patron ahead of you pulls out a checkbook, I breeze by you wordlessly.
You know me.
I am the one who uses self-checkout.

I confess: the self-checkout lane has always intrigued me. Unless I have a shopping cart bursting with food (which would mean real meal planning on my part, so basically never), I tend to drift to those last few aisles that offer the chance to play supermarket cashier for a few minutes. Look, I can scan barcodes and weigh bananas with the best of them! Using self-checkout gives me the feeling, if only briefly, that I have another concrete skill to fall back on (should the need arise). There are those that prefer to have others scan and bag their groceries, pump their gas and mow their lawns (okay, I agree with that last one) but there's something about self-checkout that lures me in every time.

I always think that self-checkout will be a time saver, and sometimes it is. More often than not, there's something in my order that sends up a flag, causing the little green light on top of my checkout to turn red and blink. The oh-so-friendly computer voice says, "Please stand by...help is on the way". Of course, help is not really on the way, because the other cashiers (the professional ones, not the amateurs like me) are all helping their customers, so I've learned from experience that you can't just wait for help to arrive, you need to nudge it along by saying, 'Help, HELP HELP!" in an increasingly loud voice. At this point everyone in the checkout area turns to look at me while an employee with a key hustles my way.

Anyone out there recognize this scenario? You scan your item and place it in the bag. But you were a split second too quick, because the voice then says, "Please remove item from bagging area." You remove the item only to hear, "Item removed from bagging area. Please return item to bagging area." at which point you put it BACK in the bag and the whole cycle starts all over again. Perhaps this could be implemented as a new form of torture. Imagine terrorists removing and replacing items in the bagging area for ten or twelve hours on end.

The aforementioned computer voice is consistent whether I shop at Shaw’s, BJ's, Wal-Mart or Home Depot. I'm sure the voiceover talent was chosen for her soothing, dulcet tones, but that's a small consolation when I hit my third or fourth error during checkout. At that point, all I want to do is find the woman who belongs to that voice and smack her in the head with my oven-stuffer. A clerk confided to me the other day that one customer referred to the disembodied voice as an evil (I can’t print it here…use your imagination.)

The best part of self-checkout is that it guarantees job security...for store employees. I’m sure they were initially fearful that these electronic cashiers would replace warm bodies one by one. No need to worry. As long as there are folks like me who are masochistic enough to use self-checkout, there will be a need for clerks to change our blinking red lights back to green.
You're welcome.

My Recent Job Interview - 2/25/09

These past few weeks, I ventured out of my safe, mommy-cocoon and did something I wasn't completely sure I was ready for.

I applied for a job.

When my children were born, my husband and I agreed that I would stay home full time while he continued to work outside of the home. We felt that if we could swing it financially, it would be great for our children to have one parent home with them through their pre-school years. We agreed that once they were both in school full time, I would go back to work.

Well, my youngest went off to first grade over a year ago and guess what? I'm still home. Why didn't I immediately go out and get that full-time job? Well, for one thing, there's the issue of early release every Tuesday. My friends who live outside of Hanover just shake their heads in disbelief when they hear that the elementary schools have a half-day every week. My older son is now in middle school, and his regular day ends at 2:15p.m. (Except on those Tuesdays when the middle school is released early...good grief!) Add to this the fact that I enjoy volunteering in the classroom and after school. Put it all together and it really isn't conducive to returning to a 9-5 job.

Over the years, I have taken on part time jobs that I could work around my family. As a Pampered Chef consultant, I set my own schedule. My job as a weekly columnist lets me write about what I want, when I want (provided I meet my deadline). So when a part-time position working for my town became available, I went for it.

Now, I haven't applied for a real job in about 20 years. My first challenge was re-writing my resume. Actually, the first challenge was finding my resume. After scanning old back-up drives from a computer that died years ago, I finally located an electronic version. I marveled at the long list of clients I had worked with, then panicked when I realized I couldn't remember any of the jobs we did together! That was about fifty million dead brain cells ago.

Once my resume was "polished", I had to decide what to wear to my interview. Jeans? Too casual. A suit? Too formal. Semi-casual dress with boots and a black vest? Perfect. (Though I worried that my fur vest might look too real, thus giving the impression that I didn't really need the job...Could I slide in the fact that it was a fake and came from TJ Maxx? Possibly.)

I was amazed at how calm I felt on the day of my interview. This calm dissolved as I entered the room and found not one but three interviewers. Being interviewed by a committee made me feel like those politicians you see on C-Span, the ones who stammer and break into a sweat under intense questioning. ("Yes, Madam Chairperson, I do feel that I could bring a great deal to this position...and did I mention this fake fur vest came from TJ Maxx?”) Still, I kept my cool and tried to compose my answers without looking like a deer in the headlights.

Somehow, I managed to make it to a second interview. This time, only two interviewers. We're making progress here. After the interview, I was given a "skills test", a way to be sure that I could do more than turn on a computer and curse at the screen. After successfully recreating both a Word and an Excel document, I left the building bursting with confidence and good cheer. The feeling that I wasn’t a dinosaur, that I could pull it together and reclaim a spot in the working world, was worth all the effort. Hooray for me!

Sadly, I did not get the job. And though I was disappointed, it was my older son who put it all in perspective for me. When I told him the news, he turned to me and said, "Mom, did you do your best?" I smiled as I thought of how many times we had asked him this same question, after a difficult math test or a soccer loss. I said to him, "Honey, I did do my best." and he replied, "Well, that's all that matters."

And you know what? He's right.