Because she does the taxes.
This year Sarah is the only one in the family to avoid Uncle Sam's scrutiny. As for the rest of us, we look to Melissa to take care of all the paperwork.
Our three college students have no idea what mom is saving them from. Yesterday evening she presented neat stacks of finished tax papers for each one around the kitchen table and called on them to add their signatures and address the envelopes.
That was the sum of their responsibility, and still they groaned.
Me? I know how good I've got it. Those forms are a royal pain in the backside: The tiny print. All the numbers. The math. The documentation. The obtuse government language. The fear of going to prison.
So when Melissa finishes our taxes (after spending a good chunk of her Easter weekend on them), I plan to pour her a glass of wine and massage her feet.
In fact, as my tax preparer, she could charge me 365 foot rubs a year and I would gladly pay it.
Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean - if, God forbid, the feds ever came for us - that I wouldn't pin all the blame on her.
LOL
ReplyDelete