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Adventures in tax land: Kill me now



When I used to make money, I approached tax season with dread.
Did I keep that receipt for that $135 lunch at Hy's? Will I have enough gas receipts so the revenuers will believe I actually drive my car?
Usually, the tax bill was about $7,000. That's because I got support payments and in the old days, the supportee had to pay tax on support payments leaving the bastard supporter able to write them off. This meant that if he was paying $20,000 in support every year on paper, he was actually paying $12.50.
It also meant that if I worked and made a success of myself, I would have to put away $600 a month for taxes.
The government changed the law the year after I got divorced and I was told I would have to go to court and spend thousands on lawyers to get my situation re-assessed.
Which I couldn't afford. Given the $7,000 tax bills I already had.
Screw and tattooed. That's what I got with single motherhood.
So by the time tax season came, I was a nervous wreck.
In order to get the taxes ready for the accountant -- which I had at the time -- I had to mix several pitchers of Bloody Caesars and by the time I got around to seeing the magic number, I pretty much didn't care.
These days, I have different problems.
I don't pay any tax because I don't make any money.
I'm here to tell Warren Buffett that he does make more money than I do.
Here's what happened yesterday. I put my amount in beside Scott's and  realized that I would have been better off if I hadn't worked at all!
I was, indeed, working for nothing.
In Stephen Harper's land, if you're a stay-at-homer, you do better than if you're a professional gal trying to make a few sheckles to pay veterinarian bills.
I'm getting nothing back, but then I didn't pay anything.
Quid pro quo.
I finished my taxes, then did Nick and Shyla's.
Guess what? Nick paid hardly any income tax and Shyla didn't work. So they're getting back, like two grand, plus the GST credit.
We don't qualify for the GST credit because Scott makes too much money.
Nothing is fair in taxland.
So I poured myself a stiffy and sat in the backyard with the pups and looked at the trees.
Maybe it's time to go back to nature. Live off the land.
Become a squatter.
Go off the grid.
Yeah, right. How would I keep my martinis cold?.
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