No. Literally. From a glass still half full, dislodged from its precarious perch on the corner of my desk, by my non-London derrière (a musical pun to start your day) as I sorted through a bin of miscellaneous paperwork in search of my tax return for 2011. I picked up the glass, threw an old washcloth down onto the puddle, and kept searching.
I had already found my W-2's for last year, in with the piles and piles of stuff on Beloved's desk, as well as our marriage license, the conformed copies just received from my attorney, a copy of both death certificates, and copies of the letters to the creditors of the estate.
That was my FHE last night. I hope yours was less messy but at least equally fruitful. Why all this activity, you ask? Because I got a call back from the officer at the mortgage department telling me that the title company said,"Bring it on!"
He didn't specifically request a copy of the marriage license, but I vaguely recall another man at that bank telling us we would need it, when we got them to start listing Beloved's late wife as deceased on the monthly bill.
Belt and suspenders.
During the course of the evening, I shoved tax-related paperwork for 2012 into three manila envelopes. I'm still not done. But I think I'm out of envelopes for the moment.
I skimped a little on recorder practice last night. I seriously skimped on reading in my French BOM. I will repent of both tonight. But since I was so tired that I forgot to set the alarm, I need to fix lunch and inhale breakfast and decide what to wear and take out the trash and see if there's one last virginal envelope so I can mail the truck title to my sister in law in California.
All, ideally, in the next 33 minutes.