This morning when I looked into the kitchen I saw - to my horror - one of those ghastly huge water bugs or Palmetto bugs or whatever they're called on the molding of the short wall next to the back door.

Had Don been alive and at his desk in the bedroom, a shriek of "DOOOONNNNN!" would have rent the air.

However, Don is otherwise occupied in heaven, so there I was. Keeping a wary eye on it I circled around to get the bug spray from under the sink, and took aim.

Finally it moved and began running, with me hot on its heels. Figuratively speaking, as I doubt those disgusting legs have heels.

As it began to head under the buffet I remembered I was wearing hard soled shoes so stomped on it in a truly savage fashion.

By jingo, I almost enjoyed that. Very catharic. My husband's dead, I've no income, my life's taken a sharp downward turn....I WANT to stomp something flat. I want to feel the crunch.

Bring 'em on.

A friend of mine told of how his cousin's 4 year old grandson, upon being asked what he thought his grandmother would like for Christmas, thoughtfully replied that it should be pretty and breakable.

Apparently he's constantly warned against touching her things as they'll break, so he reasonably concluded his grandmother favors breakables.

Fortunately it's such a small glitch as to scarcely qualify as one.

The funeral home somehow sent in the form for the death certificates without using his full, legal name so it was rejected by whichever government entity is charge of such things.  As was appropriate.  The death certificate needs to match the birth certificate, after all! 

Still, it means it'll be another couple of days before I can get those certificates and start the various proceedings that follow a death (life insurance, car loans in Don's name, Social Security survivor benefits for Dmitry, etc.).

Here's an odd thing!  I'd ordered a book from Amazon, "Finding Your Way After Your Spouse Dies", which had been highly rated and it came today.  Glanced at the back cover and found a promotional blurb from the editor of "Bereavement" magazine:  Andrea Gambill. 

Freaky!  It's not as if there's an overabundance of Gambill's, after all, and here's one on the back of the grief book I ordered.  

BTW, it's still a work-in-progress (meaning, please don't be offended or upset if you spoke at Don's service but you're not here....I just haven't finished, is all), but if anyone would care to listen to some of the remarks and comments at the memorial service:

This evening Dmitry has Carolyn over so I fixed dinner and, when given the choice of where to eat, Dmitry opted for the dining room.

Just got the table set with three places (sniff!), having put Dmitry where Don usually sat, when I yelled "DINNER!", giving a start of surprise when the front door opened and a male voice cheerfully exclaimed "Perfect timing!"

Charles was here to collect a lovely fruit/sausage/cheese/cookie basket his employer had sent him and his visit coincided with dinner, thus booting Dmitry back into his accustomed spot.

Still, it was a cheerful meal, which was nice.

One thing that occurred to me at last was now there's really no particular need to keep having dinner so late as has been our custom for many years. With Don working in Dallas and often not home until 7:15 or 7:30, dinner usually got served about 8:00 or a bit later. Oddly enough, we kept to that pattern even after he began working from home.

As they say, old habits die hard.

I think I'm going to start aiming for 6:30 for dinner.

Oh, and I baked the ginger cookies I'd planned on baking the day Don entered the hospital. Between baking those cookies and getting dinner made and on the table - with placemats and everything - it's starting to feel a little more "normal" around here. Which is good.

Just went to Greenwood to collect Don's ashes, which are housed in a rather stately cherrywood box, suitable for two. IOW, that's where my ashes will eventually wind up as well.

No death certificates yet, which is a bit frustrating, as I'm frozen like a skeeter in amber until I have them. GMAC won't answer questions about the loan on the van because it's in Don's name, the life insurance policy cannot be collected on until I have it, etc. etc.

One disappointment (that's a huge understatement if 'ere there was one....ONE disappointment?!?!) is that try as I might I cannot locate Don's Dell PDA. I know he would have had it with him, for his GPS program was on it. Only thing I can figure is that I somehow overlooked it when clearing out his rent car before it was returned to Enterprise (he was too weak to do so) and though Don drove it back, he didn't notice it, either, and whoever cleaned it, found it and kept it. I really, really wanted his PDA. That was going to be a tangible something that he used every day that I'd also be able to use. Should have been more careful when clearing the car out, I suppose.

Last night Dan escorted his sweet babboo, Sarah, to her company's Christmas party, and this morning he brought me the 8x10 photo they'd had taken at it:



Next Friday night is the Alcon Christmas party, then the following night some of his buddies from the warehouse are throwing a Christmas barbeque bash of their own.  Parties, parties!  Quite a change from the guy who was either at work or home with Dmitry, Joe, and Max the Megadog, eh? 

I love it. 

Its title is "I Will Miss You Gently", and while I like all the poems, a couple stood out:

From the talented pen of Naomi Stroud Simmons.

For his personal email stuff, Don had a Lycos.com email account for years and years.

Whaddaya wanna bet that's where the info is regarding the TiVo registration? And who knows what else I'm not even thinking of?

Do I know the password? Noooooooo....

I've emailed the Lycos people to ask how I may gain access to that account for the purpose of retrieving various registration emails, etc. No idea if they're going to help, or if I'm just out of luck.

I need to make sure someone knows how to access my various email accounts, etc.

Even I couldn't manage to beat my conscience into agreeing that the widow whipping out her camera and snapping photos during the service would be acceptable, but I did sneak into the sanctuary a good bit early so as to quickly take a photo of the flowers and plants that came. 

It was a beautiful occasion, I thought.  The hymns were sung by the congregation (Amazing Grace; It is Well; Be Thou My Vision; and Victory in Jesus), and there were Scripture readings, a clear preaching of the gospel by the officiant (Dr. Jim Boyd who, BION, was the obstetrician who delivered Jonathan Andrew), and remembrances by family and friends. 

It was balm to my spirit to sit and bask in the appreciation so many people showered upon my beloved Donald.