Death and taxes

The house is starting to warm up again, enabling me to just kind of hang out in my green bathrobe until noon, at which point the guilt that my mother efficiently instilled in me starts to rear its head and then I'll have to hit the shower. I'm also sort of on the guilt wagon from hitting the snooze button on the phone all the times it would let me, and after it stopped still snoozing for a good 20 minutes. It was intending to rouse me at 7:30, so I can't really  be held responsible though.

Anyhow, what am I really going to write about? Lets see. Someone tagged me with a fun thing yesterday, but then I guess while I was dreaming away (or passed out from the wine keeping me warm if you will) they untagged me, so there goes that idea. So, the only thing there really is left in this universe is taxes. 

Not Texas, but taxes, or the Finnish government wanting my money, but not really being interested in telling me just how to give it to them.

After getting back home on Monday I found some papers in the communal mailbox (don't get me started on that rant) from the Finnish tax authorities. Well, actually what there was in the envelope was one huge-ass folded mess and an instruction booklet on what to do. I haven't looked at the booklet yet. I don't usually. Instructions often confuse me, and I'm not one for being patronized - What do you mean "do not apply too much force or the surface might shatter" IKEA? If I want to bang it with a hammer I will. I bought it ('It' to this day remains shattered, but that side is facing the wall). 

Right. Taxes. In our household I don't normally engage in paperwork. I don't like filling out papers (and like the 6 year old that I am, I don't do what I don't want to do if I can get someone else to do it) unless I am allowed to doodle or write limericks or experimental poetry concerning fruit. I have in no way participated in the paperwork behind any of our moves, unless you're counting drinking too much while the hubby quizzes me on what I think the Finnish china is worth, or my 'art' (a lot!).

Right. Taxes. So the folded mess says on the top that it has been 'pre-completed', which must mean that they wrote my name and address on it, because apart from that I only see empty boxes with headers that I don't really understand, only to find out that there isn't a single box that applies to my situation. My only income is the little amount of money my mother's best friend's daughter pays us to live in our 'summer cottage' apartment in Finland. This isn't much, but I'm still Finnish enough to know that not paying your taxes is not an option. I kind of like the whole social welfare thing they've got going on, and besides, if I don't pay they might just send the polar bears after me. The government has always been able to track me down, no matter where I have been... (tracking polar bears...?)

As I'm looking at the mess of paper another thought occurs to me. Hubby owns half of the apartment. This must mean that he should pay taxes too. Dammit. This is getting too complicated, and there is no 'pre-completed' mess for the hubby, and besides, he is in Zambia and it says on the papers that I have to have them back within the next two weeks. Ugh.

What would a normal person do in this situation? I don't know. 

But I skype my dad. And like a superhero he comes through. The only things for me to do are find the thingamajiggy for my printer to hook it onto my laptop as well as a whatchamacallit that makes it usable with the electrical current here,  print out some more forms, forge a few signatures, and I should be able to give the government some money. 

Whew! Aren't I lucky.