Numbers scare me. Math scares me. The IRS scares me. April 15 scares me. You get the picture...the tax man cometh every year and every year I remember exactly why I did not pursue a career in accounting.
When our kids were babies, we'd tuck them into bed on New Year's Eve with the help of Reema, our then college-age friend/nanny/godmother. Not that we couldn't have put them to bed without her help, but the fact is, we -- Fred -- couldn't do the taxes without her.
Every New Year's Eve for about five years, the night went like this: Drink some wine, take a deep breath, pull out all the paperwork from the year to which we were about to bid adieu, drink some more wine, and plunge into the intricacies of Form C or whatever it was at the time. This was almost 30 years ago. Don't expect me to remember everything.
I should probably clarify this picture because if I don't, my husband and Reema will rat me out. My part in this was to refill glasses until about 11 p.m. when -- this is true -- I would nod off, lulled to sleep by Reema's voice as she read the numbers from our statements. At about 2 minutes before midnight, they'd wake me up to watch the ball drop and send me back to sleep
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