Alas, our audit drags on. The mean old IRS agent (I believe that is her official goverment issued title) insists upon seeing receipts for home improvements that were done close to twenty years ago. Problem is, we thought we only needed to save receipts for seven years and space is tight due to the Lord & Master’s massive collections, so I did what anyone would do…I burned our receipts in the backyard Weber grill. Look, we weren’t using it to barbeque and I’m an amateur pyromaniac. It seemed like a win-win.
We’ve considering bagging up the charred remains with a side of slaw and bringing ’em along to the next audit meeting. Unfortunately, our accountant put the kibosh on that. He said we should have kept the “important” receipts. Now he tells us.
Clearly, we shouldn’t be allowed to own our own home. (Actually, it’s Wells Fargo’s; they just let us live here.) So far we’ve sent our priority docs up in flames, disconnected our smoke alarms because the excessive culinary haze kept setting them off, and held off on painting our peeling exterior. Why, you ask? ‘Cause we’re waiting to replace the original 1932 oversized windows, which will then reveal the dry rot, which San Francisco law requires to be fully repaired upon discovery – the upshot: we ain’t gonna paint anytime soon. We prefer to think of the shabby outside as an economical burglar deterrent.
Please Ms. Mean Old IRS Agent, can’t you pick on someone else? We barely know what we’re doing over here.