Tom Sonday

It was a weekend of tears, but happy tears!

First and foremost, I no longer have any children in college, making me and my checkbook very happy!  Becca graduated at The Big House on Saturday with her engineering degree.  You can see her in the picture; she’s the one in black on the field, toward the left. 

There were alot of people at Bec’s graduation, not ALL of them there for her, oddly enough.  One or two others, oops, maybe several thousand more, accompanied by 80,000 friends and relatives, crashed her event.  It was quite a turnout, even for a U of M graduation, because it turns out that Bec and her classmates weren’t the only important people there, who also included …

… daughter Jessica, and my son-in-law-to-be (!!!!!!) Travis Steck, who became engaged only days before.  Congrats you two!  Here’s a picture of them kissing for the first time … in the Big House … during U of M graduation weekend …  while waiting for commencement to begin … when it was cloudy. I had to put all those qualifiers on it because they kissed oh, maybe 1 or 2 times more throughout the weekend (roll eyes.)

There was other kissing going on as well, because Ben and girlfriend Sloan were occasionally smooching as we waited on the oh-so-comfortable spacious bleachers for Bec’s graduation (and Barack’s speech.)

So sorry Mr. President, but you were second fiddle, I mean third — behind Becca’s graduation and Jess’ engagement.  You seemed to handle it OK.  Nice speech, BTW.

While it was a grand weekend, it was bittersweet.  Tom and I are supposed to be starting our golden years together, and I felt awfully alone at times, sitting between the two lovebird couples that my children are wonderfully part of.  Luckily, Gigantor (aka Becca) scampered up the stadium to give me a big hug.

I’m the really tired one on the right …

I did get plenty of hugs; here I am with Jessica, Gigantor and Sloan (I’m the fat, really tired one on the left.)  Son Ben and future son-in-law Travis aren’t in the picture unfortunately because we’d sent them to the concession stand (approximately wait — over one hour, average price per item  — $400. What else are you going to do while you wait 2+ hours for commencement to commence?)

Lots of tears — yes.  Most of them happy tears.  Jess and Travis’ news came at a great time as we start to emerge from 2+ years of darker chapters of our lives.  It is so wonderful to have something fun and positive to which to look forward.  While Bec’s graduation was something we looked forward to, getting a college degree isn’t easy even when your parents are in the best of health.  The past two years have been really hard to march through at times, and I didn’t have exams hanging over my head.  I suspect she felt more of a sense of relief than a sense of elation.

Tommy’s life has made us all more careful not to take anything for granted, so getting together in itself was a cause for celebration … and having things to celebrate?  Just icing on the cake.

And because I haven’t yet included a picture of Ben, and as long as we’re rolling our eyes, here is that U of M alum, wearing (gasp!) Ohio State red in the Big House, and a bagel on his head (a very expensive bagel.)

No slight intended, Mr. President!  And Go Blue!

I just got a call from Child #3, who was obviously as some sort of U of M social gathering and is “done with college … at this time!”  (Grad school may lurk in her future after a details-still-to-come developing Peace Corp stint.)

We will be celebrating her graduation next Saturday at ‘The Big House.’  Bec’s graduating along with a bazillion others, and oh yeah — President Obama is delivering the commencement address.  Let’s get our priorities straight though — it is ‘Beccabama Weekend’, because it is mainly all about her (although the restriction on my taking knitting needles into the stadium is all about him.)

Her sibs and their significant others are flying in for the weekend, which will be wonderful.  Because of what we went through with Tommy, we’re very close as a family even though we’re geographically dispersed.

ReBecca graduates with an engineering degree; the apple didn’t fall too far from the nerd-parents tree.  Congrats Baby Girl!  That degree from U of M couldn’t have been easy (because unfortunately half your brains came from me) — and especially because of the last two years.

Your Dad and I are VERY proud.

All my love — the Momster

A week ago Jessica, Shiloh and I left Kentucky with 100,000 bees in my all-purpose vehicle, a Pontiac Aztek.  Driving while bee-ing buzzed isn’t something I’d recommend to just anyone, but — we made it home.

The journey was somewhat uneventful, although it had at least one opportunity to be REAL eventful.  It came outside of Louisville, when we stopped for a late breakfast — because weather permitted.

You see, when you have bees in the vehicle, you can’t leave the windows cracked, or you’ll end up with even more bees.  The queen’s scent is so commanding that stray bees flying by may decide to join her, and will just hitchhike a ride outside of her cage.  (Which yes, means they’d be free in the vehicle.)

So fortunately, it was cool enough to leave the vehicle in the shade (without the windows cracked, and with the dog and the bees inside it) while we inhaled breakfast.  We parked at the far end of the parking lot, near a building that looked like it was undergoing construction, although it was mid-morning and there was no one about constructing anything.

When we exited the restaurant, we found a crane extended over the bee-mobile so men could work on the roof, and a man chain-sawing trees down next to it.  Un-bee-knownst to them, those guys were working around a horrific potential bee sting bomb had anything crashed into the vehicle!

Leaving Louisville, Jessica was driving while I pondered appropriate music to play for our winged passengers.  “Let It Be” sprang immediately to mind, along with anything by the BeeGees.  Then I remembered that bees are deaf, so we listened to miscellaneous music in the key of bee.

Several minutes later, Jessica calmly uttered:  “Um, Mom, I see bees.”

Of course she did; there were 100,000 caged behind us.

But, turns out she was referring to the two she could see exploring the back window.  Jessica was not happy about that.

They weren’t either.

I advised Jess that she could pull over and pop the hatch, and I could hopefully shoo them out (before others got in.)

Jessica didn’t particularly like that idea, concerned about where the bees would, er, be — if we did that … other than abandoned beside a major highway far far from their original hive. 

I appreciate my daughter’s soft heart, but frankly, that was those bees’ problem.  I’d always been advised against picking up hitchhikers, and while these hitchhikers had picked us up, it was still disconcerting–although I guess them having a stinger is preferable to them having an ax or a chainsaw.

I shared with Jess that the hitchhiking bees would probably continue to examine the back window, but if not, we could pull over quickly and deal with them.  I also reminded her that we had a secret weapon protecting us from them:  Shiloh the dog.

Like many dogs, Shiloh has eaten a honeybee or two … or maybe three hundred.  (Yes, really–the benefit of being a beekeeper’s dog.)

She’s been stung numerous times, and sported a swollen gum several times, but it doesn’t keep her from snapping at bees or nosing about the hives, which she considers a place where flying treats are stored.

Perhaps it was the low but steady buzzing from the seat behind her, perhaps it was because when she counted the bees in dog years there were actually 700,000 of them.  Whatever the reason, Shiloh was not resting easily as we drove north.  Thus, if a bee flew by her, there was a good chance it would get snapped up — or so I liked to think!

Except for that low but steady buzzing from the back of the bee-mobile, things were relatively peaceful on our drive.  Each stop though, I had to let hitchhiking bees out.  Each stop I’m sure a few more somehow got in.

It was the stop just south of Fort Wayne, when we stopped to stretch our legs and for me to shoo out two bees we’d seen in the back window, that we learned there were actually three of them.  As I gently chased two bees across the popped hatch with a newspaper, a third bee nailed me in the right bicep.  I unfortunately have severe, localized reactions to bee stings, so by the time we got home, I had a bright red, itching, LARGE bicep rivalling Popeye the Sailor Man’s.

Mom was right — I need to bee wary of hitchhikers.

I recently returned from “spring break” — driving south to Hotlanta to visit daughter Jessica, then going with her, her boyfriend Travis and his daughter Haley to a beach cottage in South Carolina for 3 days, and then — the most EXCITING PART OF THE TRIP:  picking up new bees in Kentucky and driving home with them.

The first two legs of the trip (Hotlanta and South Carolina) had laughs and special memories all to their own, but I won’t blog about those. 

I’ll instead chat about the last leg of the trip, or shall I say, the last 600,008 legs of the trip — if you count the legs in the vehicle (100,000 bees, Jessica and myself, and my dog Shiloh.) 

Jess, Shiloh and I left pollen-everywhere Atlanta Monday morning.  Enroute, we made a split second swerve-off-the-freeway decision to visit Rock City.  This is something I will always cherish Jessica for, because:

1. I love rocks and always wanted to visit their city
2. The many times we went by it enroute to vacation, Tommy would NEVER stop (when going on vacation, Tommy was all about the destination, not the journey to get there.  Plus, he thought I already had enough rocks.  (He was wrong.))
3. I was delighted to discover that while Jessica got many of her Dad’s attributes (love of ink pens, math abilities, love of surprises), she did not get his lack of spontaneity, thank goodness.  And, she got some of my love of rocks!

Other than the geode room, the 2nd best part of Rock City for me was the swinging bridge.  Here’s a photo of me and Shiloh, who did NOT love the swinging bridge and is trying desperately to return from whence she came.

In hindsight, I think perhaps Jessica was more than happy to tour Rock City with me because it delayed us getting to Kentucky, where we’d be loading 100,000ish stinging insects in our mini-SUV (the world famous Aztek) and driving them home.  While Jessica had volunteered to do this with me, she was having second, third and fourth doubts about it.  As she’d told a friend in absolute flat monotone that morning, she was “superty-duperty excited.”  Earlier, when I had asked her to remind me to get water for the dog when we got the bees, she said “if you remind me to take a tranquilizer.”

Two years ago, when I was worried about Tommy ever getting out of the hospital alive, Tommy was instead worrying about his bees.

Because I was coordinating visiting nurse and thrice-weekly doctor visits, the kids flying in and out because the oncologist thought Tommy might not make it much longer, and all household chores while still trying to run a business — the last thing I had time for or interest in was his stupid bees!  But, they meant so much to him I thought I’d try to keep them alive as long as he was alive.  With resentment and anger over them (but in hindsight, probably for situation, not necessarily the bees), through a friend’s acquaintance, I got the number of the Walter T Kelly Company, and was told they’d be very helpful.

As luck would have it, I ended up talking with Jane, who runs the company, and pouring out my fears and frustrations along with lots of tears about the situation.  (Refer to this blog about that time for more.)  Jane talked me through what I had to do for the bees, in addition to giving me much-needed moral support.

Long story short, Jane and I became friends, as did the bees and I.  Bee-cause I love them, as did Tommy, I decided to add more hives this year (for a total of 13.)  The honey that they produce will be sold, with all profits going to Tommy’s charities.  (More about that in future blog updates.)

And, because Jane from the north is full of southern hospitality, she invited Jessica, Shiloh and me to spend the night on Monday, and leave with the bees Tuesday morning.  When we arrived at her place, we were greeted by Jane, her husband Sean, a bear of an incredibly happy dog named Walter, cold beer, and the smell of amazing barbeque chicken on the grill.

We had an evening of laughs — feasting on barbeque chicken and friendship.  When Jessica and I finally retired to the beautiful guest bedroom, we lay there giggling and whispering about Sean and Jane, their crazy life, our crazy life (did I mention we’d be driving north with 100,000 bees in the vehicle with us?), and how they intersected such that we’d be leaving in the morning (with 100,000 bees in our vehicle.  And Walter, if we had room to kidnap him.)

It had been a grand day, and a grand evening, and sharing a room and continued laughs with my grown-up baby was very fun.  As we reflected on the adventures of the day and the circumstances that put us there, Jessica remarked “You know you have Dad to thank for all of this!”

I giggled, somewhat nervously.  “You know, tomorrow we get in a vehicle with 100,000 bees.  We may  not be that thankful about it!”

The next day we did get in a vehicle with 100,000 stinging, not-happy-about-bee-ing caged insects … but unfortunately, not Walter.

Jess was driving, I rode shotgun, and Shiloh rode in the backseat, no longer turning to look out the back window because I think she was a bit bothered by the constant buzz just a foot or so behind her.  We had only one planned stop — the Walter T Kelley Company — where we’d get a tour, and then we’d be making a beeline for Michigan.

I LOVE seeing how things are made / how they work, and found the tour fascinating.  Manufacturing beekeeping supplies is labor-intensive.  The operations were an interesting blend of gosh-darned friendly folks, old world equipment being run by true craftsman both in the art of making precision hive parts and keeping that equipment turning, and pockets of automation to track, produce and ship all that flows through there.  In the midst of manufacturing were bees, like this photo of a load of nucs (small hives of bees) for customers to pick-up.  (We were getting packages of bees to put into hives, not bees already in small hives.)

 Pictured below are 8 of our 10 packages of bees, back in Michigan.

Although we didn’t want to leave the all-enveloping sweet scent of the beeswax room, we finally had to head north.  With a final hug from Jane, we were outta there …

More on our eventful beeline home  in the next post …

Daughter Jessica’s boyfriend Travis says there are two kinds of people in this world:

• Those who have bobcatted, and
• Those who have not.

Travis declared this the end of last weekend … a weekend he spent bobcatting to level his backyard, while wearing farmer-esque clothes, and a huge grin on his face.

I learned of Travis’ joyful activity a day later, when I arrived in Atlanta.  Road weary, I just wanted to collapse on a couch and check my email, and maybe unwind to a little TV … but no.  In his happy bobcatting abandon,  Travis had taken out a few key utilities.

So, if you were wondering why I haven’t responded to emails until now, or posted on Tommy’s blob, it’s because there are really three types of people in this world:

Jess and I had planned to work on Travis’ house — stripping wallpaper, painting the guest bathroom, etc. throughout the week.  Because there was no electronic entertainment, I awoke the next morning and started ripping down the country duck print from the dining room with the enthusiasm of an office worker who rented a bobcat for the weekend.

When Travis returned from work that night, he was very appreciative that the faded, foul fowl print was smashed in the trash, and the bathroom trim had gone from moldy green to sparkling white.  But, he was concerned that I wasn’t enjoying my vacation.

Not at all.  Doing something, or more specifically — wanting to actually do something — was wonderful.

For the last month of so I’ve been in this lethargic state of apathy, broken up by occasional small bursts of energy where I clean out a drawer or closet, but often don’t get the contents sorted and restored before fatigue chews through me.

So, there’ll be 20 types of office supplies from a drawer in Tom’s office, dumped on the kitchen counter, and there they’ll sit, sucking the energy out of me with their tangible reminder that I have much to sort through and figure out and organize … and I don’t care.

My grief therapist tells me that such apathy is normal and part of the process, and not to worry.  (And I’m not worrying — that’s one of the blessings of apathy! )

So, it was surprisingly delightful to have focus and energy again, and a place to apply it (foul fowl wallpaper.)  I felt like those tender green shoots unfurling in the woods — I’ve been pushing and pushing and I felt surrounded by endless layers of dead leaves.  Ripping down wallpaper made me feel like something was finally broken through, and the sun and fresh air of interesting activity was very renewing.  But, like those green shoots, the sun of activity did wilt me over time … allowing me to also fall in bed early each night, exhausted as usual — but this time, exhausted because I’d actually accomplished something.

Such is grief.

By the end of Day #2, the lemon yellow bathroom walls were a calming blueish grey, and the paned windows painstakingly painted (and the paint scrapped off the glass.)  Again, such activity felt great, but along with errant paint splatters on the floor were errant emotions.   I so wished I could talk with Tommy about how great Jessica looks, about how she’s setting up a household and yelling at others for doing things she did as a kid (gasp!  Things spilled in the fridge and no one cleaned it up!)  I wanted to tell Tommy about the half inch of pollen that covers everything in Atlanta this time of year, and how he should be in the south as Spring exploded.

I felt real alone and real depressed a few times, because while Jessica is loved by many, no one loves (and knows) her like her parents, and this one feels incredible pride at seeing the young woman she’s become.  There’s no one else that wants to reflect ad nauseum about that with me.  The guy who so prominently molded her is gone.

But, life is what it is, so I’ve just gotta get through things, and know that a little bit of energy (finally!) is a good thing, and getting down that last-century wallpaper?  A great thing.

I need to hurry along the path toward figuring out my new life though, because the grief angst and apathy are causing my hair to go grey and white.

Or maybe that’s just paint splatters …

Because we’re having July in March, I’ve been puttering about the yard the last few days, doing yardwork and preparing the hives for the arrival of the new bees, due in two weeks.

Sun, ducks quacking from the lake, an ever-changing orchestra of birds, and trees that change hourly as they begin to bud — Spring is fantastic.

And, manual labor outdoors is fantastic.  I get lost in the progress of raking up leaves, or picking up fallen branches (which the dog carries from the pile back into the yard.)

Spring is a time rich for the senses, and rich with memories.

For the past two years, I’ve spent much of Spring in the yard, because Tom was home convalescing.  In Spring ’08 he was recovering from emergency surgeries and a month in the hospital, and between daily visiting nurse appointments and weekly multiple doctor visits, when I wasn’t tending him, I was tending to his gardens or bees.

Spring ’09 saw us in the throes of various chemotherapy attempts, along with trips to Chicago for targeted liver radiation, and enjoying each other in a renewed relationship that was blossoming most beautifully.

I worked in the yard when I could, wearing both phones on my belt — the home phone in case someone called, so I could grab it before it woke Tom, and my cell phone, so if Tom needed me — he could call.

On the days when he felt lousy, I’d check on him hourly, taking him a few slices of strawberries or cheese, and encouraging him to drink.  Looking back through the filter of time, I think there were more good days than bad, more good hours than lousy ones.

Sometimes when I checked on him, he’d be working in bed on his laptop — trading stocks, trading fantasy baseball league players (probably more often), or surfing the internet to find new plants for the gardens or gadgets for the bees because he was always always always planning for the future.

And almost every time, except on the lousy days, if he did nothing else all day, he’d fix me an awesome dinner.

I love getting lost in the manual work of the yard during this lovely weather, until I return to the house.   Only the obese cat is lying in bed, no Tom.  There is no tantalizing smell of dinner cooking … in fact, there’s really not much in the fridge — even if I had the knowledge to prepare it.  UPS no longer makes multiple trips to the house each week, dropping off little brown boxes containing tangible proof that Tom was planning on a long future here.

That didn’t happen, and re-realizing it, sometimes several times a day, causes actual physical pain.   That sucks, severely, but at least this gnawing of grief wears me out such that I sleep easily and deeply, most nights (and some afternoons!:))

I’m doing better now, but damn — there are hours / days when I really annoy the cat but make him move out of the exact middle of the king-sized bed anyway so I can curl up and cry.  Some of the tears come from frustration at doing all the “firsts” (taxes, turning on the sprinkler system, grilling, etc.), and some of the tears come from having to do all these firsts.  That certainly wasn’t in our plans.

Tom was so good at planning many things — gardens, dinner, what we’d do with our lives together, our vacations, our retirement.

I did what I was good at, and let him focus on all of that.  Except the “what I was good at” category was pretty limited (knitting, swimming, managing his bees and keeping him calm about doctor visits), and none of those “skills” is helping me as I try to figure out my future …

I never really thought about what to do with myself, because I stupidly never thought that it would just be “myself” to think about — I was too busy living in the moment to let cancer eat the hope that there might not be a future for us.  Naive, yes — but that’s what you do when you take each day as the gift it is while trying to keep that huge pile of worry piling up from engulfing you.

Golly Tommy, I miss you.

When I got home from work today, I was greeted by a beautiful yard … if you look beyond the brown grass, sticks, rocks and other winter detritius.  The crocuses bulbs that Tommy and I embedded year after year in the lawn had come up and were open in the unusual warmth of a Michigan March.

A photograph doesn’t do their vibrant delicacy justice, but here’s one anyway …

There are three different groups of them — Tommy and I put in bulbs each fall — Tom insisting on using a variety of fertilizers and other nutrition agents to ensure they did their best.

The most brilliantly color group (upper right, and the most spectacular only because it is the newest) was slammed in by me alone last fall — without any special supplements other than perhaps a few tears.  Tommy had purchased bulbs last Spring for fall planting, and I put them in begrudgingly, because I couldn’t return them without a receipt.  (BTW Tommy– check ‘em out.  You don’t need all those high-end bulb fertilizers!)

I’m glad I put them in, as they are a most welcome sight.

It’s like Tommy “brought me flowers.”

Probably because I finally got the taxes done! 

Thanks Tom!

(With sugar and honey on the top!)

I’m keeping myself (waaaaay too) busy by going with 13 hives of bees this year, and setting up a charitable foundation so all honey profits go to Tom’s favorite charities.

In investigating honey containers, I found some new ones, so our theme-dressed bears now include large ones, and two small ones that are way too cute (not practical, but way too cute.)  I need your input, but first — some background.

The “regular” bears hold 12 ounces; the giant bears hold 24.  While they look the same as the 12 ounce, their size makes them rather formidable, so Tom’s Mom crocheted incredible hats to soften their image.

So the giants have hats and scarves, the regulars have scarves — what do I do with the 4 ounce baby bears, and 8 ounce adolescent bears?

I can make them graduation bears … what do you think?  Any other ideas?  And if you like graduation bears, what’s a reasonable price?  (I’m thinking $9, $5, $4 and $2.50 for the 24, 12, 8 and 4 ounce bears.)  Do I offer different color tassles and mortarboards?  Other than the forthcoming foundation website, how else can I market them?  Your thoughts please, and thank you!

Last August, I brought my husband of 28 years home to die from the cancer he’d been fighting for 18 months.

It was the most horrible thing.

I’ve got some distance on the nightmare now — almost seven months — but I have much to emotionally work through when I open the lid on last August’s box of heart-piercing memories, and it makes my stomach churn and my shoulders tighten to even write this much about it, and the oxygen is suddenly awfully thin in the room.

It was hell on the kids and I, watching the strong, capable man we loved die by inches, being executed by failure of cells and then organs as the cancer internally rampaged.

Yet, given that hell, it was such a blessing.  I am grateful that I had the ability, resources and support to bring Tommy home to die.  And the weeks that the kids and I stumbled around as numb zombies — laughing, crying, freaking out, occasionally hating each other but really just the circumstances we were in … we’re better people for it.

Surprisingly, because it was anticipated and I thought I was very strong, Tom’s death shattered me.  “Shatter” is such an appropriate word:  my volume was still here, but for the first many months I was a bunch of disconnected pieces, and disconnections make it difficult to remember things easily or clearly.

Shattered pieces also have sharp edges that are painful, and shattered pieces don’t easily fit together again.  I’m still working on assembling the pieces and reconnecting them in a functional fashion.

Someone told me that things like the death of a spouse can make you bitter or better, and most days, “better” is winning.

I’ve had discussions of that concept with all three children lately.  We concur that it sucks that he had to die, we are better people for having been what we went through, and a better family unit for having stumbled through it together.

About midnight last night I got home from Ann Arbor, where youngest daughter Becca attends the University of Michigan.  I’d made this two-hour drive for four main reasons:

1. the high-mileage car (Tom’s) that Becca was driving was dead by the side of the road, and while this Mom can’t help with the issues that arise when your father dies your senior year of college, or tough classes, I could help get the car to a garage
2. I need to occasionally get away to keep from slipping back in to the depression that lurks in my life,
3. Becca has joined the Peace Corp, and there was a meeting to explain to us parents what our kids have gotten themselves into, and
4. while I’m still in denial that a year from now she might be in Mongolia or Mexico or India or whever, I figured I’d better take every chance I have to see my baby.  (Yeah, I’m freaking out a little bit.  OK, alot.)

There was an email from Becca awaiting me when entered the dark, empty house.  Addressed to me, and her brother and sister, it said simply:  “can I get an amen since we have the best family in the entire world?”

Amen.

And, a happy face! 

I’m not sure what warranted that shout out — my paying for a new alternator?  Having a long lunch together at her favorite vegetarian restaurant?  Not freaking out (visibly) at the Parents of Peace Corp meeting?  Whatever it was, I’ll take it.

Things like that help glue the pieces back together, even stronger.

First, thanks all for your supportive, insightful comments regarding my last blob entry.  That one was tough but therapeutic to write.

In response to it, a friend sent me the following, which is very appropriate for me:  ”She wasn’t where she had been. She wasn’t where she was going… but she was on her way.”

I’m on my way, and continue to do better since returning from vacation.  Part of that is undoubtedly the scent and sounds of spring (!!!) in the air, and some of it is because I’m keeping myself terribly busy out of fear falling into that depressed rut where I was prior to vacation.

Now that my head is generally above water again, I’m trying to find the blessings in my “situation” (being widowed at age 48, when I was planning on growing old (older?) with my spouse.)  One of those blessings happened today–the census form.  It claims it takes an average of 10 minutes to complete.

Hey — when there’s only one person living in the household, it takes only about one minute.   Ha!  What will I do with the extra 8.5 minutes that most of you won’t have?!

Well, I could do the taxes … because someone around here has to do them, and I’m the only warm body in the house with opposable thumbs … so that leaves, um, just me.  (Hey, I was already busy as I’m also the only one to do laundry, rake the leaves, grocery shop, clean the fridge, etc.  I really have to do the taxes also?!)

For about the last decade, we always had our taxes “done” — which I took to mean “someone else did them.”   Tom always coordinated it.

Well, having spent a couple hours going through the extensive tax preparation booklet the tax-doer-sort-of sent me, I think I will rephrase that “we had our taxes done.”

About half the taxes will be done by this person who calls herself a “tax preparer.”  The other half — the “crap, I didn’t know I needed that!  Is it in the pile where the cat sleeps?!” … the really hard half I must do.  Sorry Tom — did I ever thank you enough for doing “our” half?

To assist in doing (her half of the) taxes, the preparer sent me a handy little preparation-organization booklet — which I am to complete.

Sure, I could complete it, if it wasn’t so doggone incomplete.  There are lots of  tables to fill in, and lots of “YES” and “NO” boxes.  But, there is no place to answer the questions with my true responses, such as:

• I have no idea–you’ll have to ask Tom.
• Really?  What the F is that?
• You’ve got to be kidding me.  I was supposed to track that??!!

Sigh.

Only death and taxes are certain, right?

That sounds fairly ominous … because I think doing taxes is going to kill me.