Welcome to Enron

This summer I spent some time with my parents. As I've mentioned, they've chosen me to be their "Executrix" when they pass into the great beyond. I accepted the task and not just for the frisky title. We had our official meeting to discuss all the details which was excruciatingly uncomfortable. My Dad is really secretive (is that spelled right? It looks like I'm saying he secretes which I won't even go into). My Dad is private, I'll say, and now he knows his jig is almost up. I mean, when you die, somebody (me) is going to learn everything about you and probably more. He even said, "Well, Honey, the good news is we don't have any debt." Do I want to know what the bad news is? No, I do not. You remember my parents? The Depression Babies who don't throw anything away? The ones with two basements filled with stuff? They do file things; they love to file. File, File, File. Files all over the damn house. Files in the bathroom, as God is my witness. More often than not, when I asked the location of items from my official Executrix checklist, the answer was, "In the basement". Remember that old horror movie with the tag line, "Don't look in the basement......"? Well, now I know why you don't want to look. The personal result of this incredibly morbid but practical meeting was a renewed interest in filing with the bonus of purchasing a new shredder! I read Suze Orman and she says you don't have to keep every little piece of paper. It's too late for my parents, but not for me! So, in the spirit of Enron, I am shredding everything in sight, or rather, everything that's 10 years old and stuffed in a random box because, "We might need it someday". We won't.