Just Shoot Me

So, this afternoon I swallowed my pride, dug my heels in, took a deep breath, and started gathering the papers I need to fill out my "past-due-since-the-cretacious-period-you-oughtta-be-in-jail-lady" business taxes for the period ending February 20, 2008.

My Grandmother was the office manager to a team of chartered accountants for I forget how many years. Centuries, considering the number of times that fact has been thrown in my face...

I'm afraid I'm a great disappointment to Grandma, not to mention Revenu Quebec...

I do not possess the gene for accounting.

Or the organization gene.

I gathered anything pertaining to the business off my desk. That was easy - nothing. Heaving a reluctant sigh, I entered "The Room."

"The Room" is where I keep my sewing stuff. If I could actually sell this stuff, or god help me, MAKE something with all of it, I'd probably be rich. Heck, if I even knew WHAT I had in there, I'd be so far ahead of myself I'd be meeting myself coming and going!

Somewhere in there was a box of papers for the approximate taxation period, and I had to climb over everything and find it.

I did, interestingly enough; and I was soon sitting at the table, letter opener in hand, ready to open all the bills and statements and invoices from oh-so-long-ago.

I slit open the first envelope in the box and was immediately overcome with nausea, one of the reasons I am not an accountant, or a secretary.

"Just Shoot Me," my brain said to me. "None of that," I replied grimly, putting down the Mastercard bill in the appropriate pile. "We have to do this, there's no getting out of it. Just shut up." With that, I opened the second and third envelopes, and so on.

I had to fight back tears a couple of times in the ensuing three hours, but I doggedly made it to the end of both boxes. Now I have a box for the period ending February 29, 2009, several piles from the March 2007-February 2008 year piled neatly on my diningroom table, and no fewer than seventeen letters from the provincial and federal governments pleading, nay, begging me to please file a f***g return!

Poor Gran is turning in her grave, I am sure. This kind of thing was all so simple to her. She possessed both the genes - organization AND accounting. She could never understand why I didn't want to be an accountant, or at the very least, a secretary.

"The Secretary," she told me often, "is the secret-keeper of the company!" Woot woot. This kind of thing really turned her crank, but all it does is make me vaguely suicidal. As far as organizing goes, I am dumber than dirt. And for accounting, I'm dumber than even that... so, whatever that could be, it's pretty darned useless.

My brain kept firing pictures at me of things I could be doing with my afternoon - quilts I could be making, food I could be preparing, friends I could call, but I stuck with it. For that, I'm going to reward myself with something, not sure what, and take the evening off.

Tomorrow, it's back into the room to find what I'm missing. At least now I have a clear idea of the three or four items yet to show up, so when I do find them, I'll know I can stop digging.

After that, the fun really starts - preparing the tax return. Yay.

Please, somebody - put me out of my misery!