Each year, while most people are dreading the almighty April 15th deadline, I have a different feeling about the whole thing. For me, getting prepped for my annual visit with the CPA is a nice, long trip down memory lane–one receipt at a time.

So, I am going to quickly recount my last year in receipts:

The first of January in 2005 found me stuffing receipts with the Euro symbol on them in my pockets. I was in Paris for 10 days, and spent another 4 in San Francisco afterwards. There were museum stubs from La Louvre, espresso receipts from the Marais, and a whole collection of Metro tickets. Itemized lists of food printed on tiny white slips of paper was not quite as good as eating those meals, but it was fun for awhile.

A single, handwritten receipt brought me back to docks of my sailing lessons in the early summer.

In the summer time, there were weekly receipts from the Friday afternoon concerts in the park. Oddly enough, they were from the Beer Gardens, and certainly would not qualify as deductible. Regardless of the tax implications (or lack, thereof), they certainly brought back the memories of a summer of Red Hook beer and live music in the maddening Sacramento heat.

Towards the end of the year, there were records of the spawning of my last relationship. There were dinners that her and I had together, coffee receipts, and stubs from an occasional midtown drink. Too bad that more things didn’t survive, but finding these relics certainly left a wonderful taste in my mouth . . . .

The end of the year papertrail recorded Christmas presents, art supplies, new Christmas-time music, and for a moment, I thought I heard the prancing of hooves of reindeer on the roof. Maybe not, but it was festive for just a moment.

I don’t think there is a moral to this story, unless, it is the simple encouragement to NOT keep on top of your tax information all year long. Perhaps you could simply save the work for the couple of days prior to your tax appointment, and take the scenic route (Turn right on Memory Lane) to your CPA’s office . . . .