There’s one day each year that causes me immense angst, almost as much as having to endure those singing Jardiance diabetes commercials. Consequently, I’m inclined to make myself a lemon drop to dull the pain. Or better yet, a martini, sans the olives. I don’t want anything in my glass taking up valuable vodka space when it’s really needed. And I really need it every April 15th.

If you live in America, you know exactly what I’m talking about: TAX DAY. Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining about paying my taxes. I’m perfectly happy to pay what I owe. Well, maybe that’s going a bit too far. Let’s just say I pay what I owe. It’s figuring out what I owe that’s the issue.

For this I blame my CPA, or should I say the woman who WAS my CPA. Each year, well before April 15th, she sent me a folder with a list of questions about that year’s finances. I sent it back, she did her magic, I subsequently paid her then said, “See ya next year!” But there was no next year because she actually had the audacity to retire a couple years ago.