Grand Party

I'm feeling much calmer after partying all weekend with Hubs and the Grandkids. The coveted fix was all I hoped for. Again, I am struck by the irony of how difficult it is to get much verbage out of the good times. I can ramble endlessly about the pains and the sorrows, but the good times I can cover in a single word. "Wow."

Next is the Tax Return from Hell. The rote simplicity of our usual tax return has been swallowed by the shared inheritance between Hubs and his only surviving brother. That brother inherited the Huntington's Gene and is progressed far enough that his wife must speak for him. She is a youthfully tinted, spa coifed Big Pharma executive who is difficult to talk to. She does better with captive audiences than collaborators. Whatever the subject, she is the expert demanding respect. Insert updated Who song here. Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss with painted lips and youthfully tinted hair. Gee, it all sounds better, coming out of that new look of business suits ever so creatively designed.

Onward through the confusion. . .