Danish and Taxes

Well, it turned out in the end that the T4 I spent my Wednesday morning searching for never existed in the first place (excuse me while I pat myself on the back for being less disorganized than previously reported), and thus I spent my Friday morning (and one hundred ten of my hard-earned dollars) having my taxes done. I won't bore you with the gritty details, but suffice it to say that when all was signed, sealed, and delivered, I was quite ready to be done with the whole ordeal. Happily, there was a Timmy's across the street, and so I went there to drown (smother?) my sorrows in fatty pastries.

(N.B. Surprising though it may seem given the ubiquitous references to Timmy's, this blog is neither endorsed nor sponsored by Tim Hortons Inc. However, Timmy, if you're listening, I am open to such a partnership, and am will to accept payment in Timbits.)

Now for the record, I did try to resist the advances of the cherry-cheese Danish in the glass pastry case. Still, I could swear it was staring at me like a sad puppy at the pound, and in an act of compassion I relented and took it home. (Actually, it didn't make it past the first block, but I would have brought it home if it wasn't so tasty.) Nonetheless, I felt the need to justify my unhealthy eating choice when I ordered it from the lady working the cash. She looked like every cool aunt you've ever wanted.

"I totally shouldn't, but I just did my taxes, so I figure I deserve it."

"Oh, honey . . . " There wasn't even an ounce of sarcasm in her voice. "I feel your pain. I just did mine on Tuesday and I got a lousy eleven bucks back. Shit!"

"Ugh, that's harsh."

"Well I know right? I mean it's not like I'm raking in the millions. And you know the corporate fat cats aren't paying a damn penny. I mean, shiiiit."

(She spits out the word with enough conviction to give Marcus Fenix a run for his money. Definitely the cool aunt.) 

"It just makes you want to go out and vote, but there's nobody worth voting for, it's terrible."

"Well I've been saying for years now I need to start a new party, call it the Pajama Party. Have lots of nap-time on the mandate." 

"You've got my vote" I said as she passed me the Danish. I smiled at her on the way out, but as I stepped onto the street, I couldn't help feeling a little bitter about the whole thing. In an age of corporate welfare tax breaks and government kickbacks, it stings to see a good person working hard at a minimum-wage job when she should be retired. Sure, she was joking, but her jokes were masking the pain.

Between a visit to the bank and lots of paperwork, the rest of the afternoon didn't look promising. But when I bit into the Danish and discovered it was still warm, well, elections and taxes be damned, maybe it wasn't such a bad day.