At the desk, 8:07 a.m.
I thought I was done (again) yesterday when the husband came home and showed me a few more boxes.
Did I ever mention that my mother is a hoarders? Did I tell you that when my aunt died, she had entire rooms filled three and four feet high with paper? They had to go through it a tiny bit at a time because she was as likely to have a US savings bond, stock certificate, or even cash mixed in a stack with the water bills. I'm confident my mother's house is the same.
Stacks and stacks and stacks of paper.
In my case, it's little boxes filled with projects, paper, and everything else.
"Jeez," I said to the husband. "This is like hoarding."
"This isn't like hoarding," he looks at me.
You see the logic goes like this:
A. Everyone is out to get you, particularly the IRS.
B. Being wrong is fatal
C. You must always be able to defend yourself against everyone and everything because of (insert A)
D. You will only be able to defend yourself if you have all the tiny scraps of paper.
Did I mention that schizophrenia was the "white elephant" in my childhood home?
Anyway, I have four more boxes to go through and then, I honestly think, I'm done.
If the evil, out to get me crowd arrives to ask for my taxes from 1995, I'll have to say that I don't have them.