A link to my communications with Kimmy is at the bottom of the page.

After Dad was killed and Tasha put down in January, 2019, there was no communication from The Flozberks other than mailed disbursements from Dad's estate from Neila's attorney, Kimberly (Kimmy) Vermillion Wright, JD, a partner and mediator at Atwood & McCall. Over the years, I mailed Neila some photos she needed to have and short notes as I went through the artifacts of our lives, but never heard back. 

The Sue Chef was Dad's executor, much against his wishes. She was Mom's executor and Dad's last will was essentially a copy of Mom's. Dad was killed immediately before he was to sign a new will making me executor and instituting a prompt, even asset split between Neila and me.

Neila's silence was unbefitting an executor.

Going into 2022, the remaining material issues were Dad's near-million-dollar house, a six-figure amount of money set aside for the maintanance of the house until it was sold, and the personal property from the house.

Six Figures Worth o' Rampaging Half-Assedness
In mid-June, 2022, we returned from out of town to find a check for $225,000 from the sale of Dad's house had been sitting on my porch since late May, a "partial distribution" from Dad's estate.

I had not been notified about the sale of the house or the sending of the check.

Sighs of Relief
Know that my first reaction upon seeing the check was not happiness at being unexpectedly sent almost a quarter of a million dollars, but rather a sigh of relief that Neila was sufficiently alive and un-stroked-out to actually write a check. Regardless of everything, I still worry about her. Neila, for several compelling reasons, has "dead woman walking" written all over her and I badly hope she gets a chance to enjoy life for a spell after her serial calamities.

I was also relieved, for her and hers, that Neila was not so depraved as to try and nail me for the whole house. We'd considered how that would go down and even held a poll. With 50% being fair, we estimated she'd try to toss 20-25% of the net proceeds from the house at me.

Back to that Rampaging Half-Assedness Thing 
I put the check in my safe and again left town for over a week. Upon returning, I prepared a bank deposit including the check for my Friday errands the next morning, but that evening, June 30, I received an email from Kimmy stating:

- They had not received a response to an email she claimed to have sent over a month ago. It is literally the lone email I've not received in an account I had for 20+ years. They had our phone numbers, too, yet we received no calls or texts.
- The original email I did not receive, allegedly sent May 26, gave me 20 to 68 hours notice to engage the vast amount of personal property from Dad's estate May 27 - 29. How perfectly Flozberkian.
- The check was now voided without notice because it had not yet been "cashed" (uh, generally, people deposit $225,000 checks, not cash them. I'll ask about that next time I'm at the liquor store).
- The personal property from Dad's house had been moved to a Public Storage in my neighborhood and I was offered ONE DAY from July 12 - 16 to take what I wanted and leave behind what I didn't want.
- I was to communicate only with Kimmy, not with The Flozzarinos.

Many brow-furrowers on this one:

- The lack of notification and follow-up outside that one alleged email over a period exceeding 5 weeks was not a job well-done.
- Voiding the check with zero notice after just 5 weeks, one email, and zero calls/SMS was BIG TIME not cool. What if I had deposited it that morning? NEVER have I had a bounced or returned check. This was handled extremely poorly.
- The 1-3 days notice given in the original May email, with no prior communication or warning, for dealing with Dad's tons of personal property is outrageous.
- Giving me just one July day to deal with literally tons of personal property from a 5 bedroom house accumulated during (and before) my parents' 50 year marriage was also outrageous, if not outright malicious.
- I was trying to recover from a grave medical crisis during a difficult year in which I had 5 surgeries, the storage was not climate-controlled, and temperatures that month reached 107 degrees.
- They were well aware that we were disabled, me for almost 42 years since age 12 and my partner Lisa for 14 years.
- The repeated failure of an estate attorney to write the word "estate" without making two errors (in this context, the word was neither plural nor a proper noun) caught my eye, suggesting things were probably about to turn that special kind of strange that seems unique to FlozWorld. I was right.

Heck, maybe it's just me, but their approach seemed punitive, half-assed, and riddled with bad faith. Ye gods, this would have made Dad angry and sad.

I replied, explaining my situation and citing their terms as intolerable and outright dangerous. They responded by sending a replacement check, moving the property to a pair of climate-controlled units much farther away, and extending access to 5 days (with another weekend added later). We arranged for keys and access cards to be picked up at her office August 8, as Kimmy sort of explained:

You will need the Keys [sic] and Access [sic] Cards [sic] to the Public Storage Units [sic]. They are at [sic] our [sic] with our Receptionist [sic] in our office...

Ladies and Gentlemen, Start Your Fiascoes!
The pickup was, of course, a fiasco. Kimmy was not there, nobody knew of the matter, nobody felt helpful, and there were no access cards even involved, causing what should have been a quick, easy errand to instead be lengthy, confusing, and annoying.

Par for the Flozberk course, and we were just getting started.

My Old Toaster Is Doing a 2-5 Year Stretch
Public Storage is far from my favorite place, a sort of prison for stuff that stands as a testimonial to the wretched excesses of fools who buy too much, sell too little, and lack respect for proper living as they often end up spending years and thousands to store hundreds of dollars worth of pointless excess possessions.

A chain of temples for the world's shitheads.

And now, it was personal. Hopefully things would proceed smoothly, hugged by the soft, ever-loving arms of reason and efficiency, but, as you may have already guessed, that's not likely. Not with The Flozberks involved.

Queasy and jittery from my medical issues and the sad heaviness of the moment, I entered the gate code and was amazed to find that it actually worked! Same with the entry door. I half couldn't believe it, this hot streak. This was arguably the greatest triumph in Flozberk history.

Then, it hit me - hot air, and lots of it. Obviously the place was on fire. Or, perhaps Neila was inside. I reached for my phone to summon aid, but the lack of smoke, crackle, cackle, roar, shrieking, and screaming suggested it was simply really hot in there. Climate controlled, my ass.

During those few days, the highest temperature we recorded inside was 101, which, just for y'all's reference, is the rectal temperature of a goat. But, that just goats to show ya, see.

Oh well...let's just get it over with. May it pass quickly and go smoothly.

Mr. Foodrooster #2133
Into the non-burning penitentiary for junk I went. #2133. OK, there's 2125, 2126, 27, 28, 29, 30, 04.

What?!? 04? Nawwwww. WTF? Where the shit is 2133? The sweaty, foul language-laden wandering began. Backtracking and beyond, I finally found 2133 at the opposite corner. In another near-miracle, the key fit the lock, but I couldn't get the lock to pull out. Feeling more sick by the second, my mind flashed back to the big, green freak-inducing tire tool mishap from my beloved childhood TV rendition of The Incredible Hulk.

Damn. Good thing I've existed free of anger since January, 2018.

I was about ready to keel over before even seeing any of the stuff yet. A most inauspicous start, indeed. Yep, I don't much care for these storage place things. That's fer DAMN sure.

Finally, I got the lousy, miserable, rotten door open.

Wow.

Innumerable neurons fired like mad as Life v1.x crashed into v2.x. I could clearly smell Tasha. There sat all the silver from that ruined Xmas. Good ol' Mr. Foodrooster, a fowl made of edibles, longtime semi-member of the family, and prominent 4th party in the jaw-dropping Neila's Silly Ass video, stared at me from the back of the unit.

Even though the gravity of the situation weighed very heavily on me, I'd not realized how profoundly sad and fascinating the experience would be, seeing and smelling lives once very dear to me boxed and heaved into a forlorn metal-walled prison with the excess goods of hundreds of largely-irresponsible strangers.

There was the deer mount tiny I recognized Dad for bagging by emblazoning it with a permanent marker. I thought I'd done good. Dad didn't quite see it that way. Along the wall was the first flat screen HDTV Dad ever got, a big day for him bizarrely ruined by Mom when she retreated to the bedroom, claiming - get this - the widescreen aspect ratio made her sick to look at. My mind wandered back to the purchase of his first new car, also Mom-ruined by an incident a trillion times more bizarre then 16:9 Mom Syndrome.

My head was spinning. Thankfully, there was a ravaged, discarded office chair in the hall.

I checked out the second unit, #2377, a couple cell blocks over. Again, the access code and key actually worked, and it was not as hot. The unit was even in reasonable numeric order. There was Dad's garage stuff, dozens of big, empty boxes from his attic, and the mold-loving kitchen trash can, unemptied. Yes, unemptied. Like, as in containing trash.

The unit smelled like Dad's garage, his only hideaway. It's amazing how an aroma can lodge in one's mind, be out of pocket for 44 months, and explode back into center stage in a split second.

The sorting through hundreds of boxes began, with most activity in the first unit, which was often hotter than outside.

My primary interests were the family china, our tremendous collection of classic literature, and, well, anything else much worth having. Dad wanted Lisa to have the china, for he adored her and she was the lone lass in the clan who could cook worth a shit. And I'm no slouch myself. Oh...and, I'm his namesake and only child and it's family china, so there's that.

Hopefully it was well-tended-to, somewhere amid dozens and dozens of banker's boxes, which I consider among the worst ways to move valuables.

We found it scattered across several boxes, much of it packed well, much packed terribly, with the headline act dinner plates among the latter with zero padding other than a paper towel by the bowls and a huge, ruthless monster of a crystal bowl sitting atop them. During a break, we wondered what proportions of idiocy, laziness, and malice had fueled such a lackluster showing. Lisa figured about equal parts each. Me...hell, I just don't know.

To top it all off, the above china was in a banker's box marked "DINNING [sic] ROOM" in what I'm pretty sure is Reagan's handwriting. What did Reagan do for a living back when he actually worked?

He was a house-flipper! I swear, some things ya just can't make up.

I'm unaware of a single English word using a long "i" followed by "nn." Such a thing just doesn't exist. Yeah, it's a small detail, but it perfectly exemplifies the obliviousness of these people.

Condition: Surreal
On the final Friday of this affair, August 12, 2022, we staggered home from another day at the Public Storage salt mine to find this gem in an email from Kimmy:

It was our understanding that you would be moving all of the contents out of the Units [sic] and nothing would be left in the Units [sic] afterward except the 2 folding tables.

It appears you are sorting through the contents in the Units [sic] onsite and that you may not be taking all of the contents offsite which will result in additional costs for cleaning out the remainders from the Units [sic]. Seems you would be much more comfortable sorting in the comfort of your home at your leisure. We never intended that you would do so in the Units [sic].

OK, then...where do I start? How about here - Kimmy claims to have sent me this on May 26:

Regarding the personal property that is being distributed to you, can you choose a day from May 27th - May 29th that you would like to meet at the Xxxxxxx residence to pick up items that you would like from the Estates [sic].

Whatever you leave behind will be your consent and agreement that such property will either be taken by Neila, donated or disposed of.

"Picking up items I would like" is used to distinguish from not picking up items I would not like. It's just that simple.

The leaving of things behind, plus the taking, donation, or disposal of things requires that there be things. It's just that simple.

June 30th's version was the same except for new July 12-16 dates and the residence became Public Storage. The issue was not further addressed and the above instructions were not modified.

I was not given the slightest indication that I was expected to leave two empty units in my wake and had I been targeted with such an absurd request, I would have donkey punched it into the stone age in a half-second flat. It didn't even occur to me that such a thing would be expected.

Hell, while sorting through the stuff, I actually said to Lisa, "Kudos to 'em for not being TOTAL dicks and tryin' to make us haul all this shit home." Is that a knee-slapper, or what, exactly?

Condition: Surrealer
Among the items Kimmy scolded me for not moving to my already-full, much-smaller-than-Dad's crib were a bunch of long, rectangular, empty boxes from Dad's attic and the infamous funk-loving trash can seen in "...SUCKED."

The damn thing had not even been emptied. Somehow, even after over 3.5 years, it reeked abundantly of the notably awful brown phlegm from Dad's chronic, bizarre respiratory infection. I actually considered leaving it in the Flozberks' driveway that night, but I didn't want to touch the thing, much less transport it.

Condition: Even More Surrealer
I sent Kimmy a dismantling of her position and asked her what in the hell was going wrong to make such a pooch-screwin' possible, but the only reply was "Thank you for your message." I guess that's how lawyers do stuff. I'm not very litigious, preferring to handle my affairs via other avenues, so I'm not very dialed into that whole scene.

I do know that if I done up an' had a honeymoon with a poodle and gave someone a hard time like that absent cause, I'd be decidedly mortified and even more apologetic. The thought of screwing up like that and not promptly and earnestly fessin' up is surreal to me.

Inarguably, a Most Curious Find
Um, speaking of surreal, in one of the many boxes we moved home, I found a douche nozzle. Never did I think I'd utter, "Awww, LOOK! Mom's old douche nozzle," but alas, it came to pass.

Said douche nozzle was in a well-packed box protectively wrapped in paper towels! In the same box was a huge syringe that I don't think was related, but now they's soulmates sitting atop my right FoH speaker with that infernal cervical collar from earlier this year as a sort of vase.

We call it Flozberk Peak.

Understand that I categorically reject my oppressors' fuck the china/protect the douche nozzle platform. The pictured Imperial Stormtrooper helmet meets Scream mask, then fucked hard by a douche-unicorn lookin' thing embodies that spirit. The STAGGERINGLY fitting Pig's Ass and Bitch Creek bottles looking down on majestic Flozberk Peak is icing on the cake.

Seriously, In dim light the Stormtrooper/Scream thing really pops out.

Let us partially summarize:

In a dreadfully-botched process guided by an executor who couldn't communicate with me after loving me for almost 50 years, a former house flipper who failed to write "dining room" properly, and an estate attorney who made multiple errors in writing the word "estate," I was baffled to find our precious family china unprotected in a shabby banker's box while Mom's old douche nozzle was carefully shielded from harm.

I understand and appreciate the hard work that went into the operation, but still, whoever packed that stuff is a fucking loon.

Ladies, Please Stop Your Fiascoes!
There was room for one last fiasco. To close the personal property phase of this circus, Kimmy instructed us that:

We will have one other box of a few items for you that Ms. Flozberk felt were too precious to leave in the Units [sic]. It will be in our office Monday, August 15th after 9:00 a.m. for you.

Lisa arrived shortly after 0900. Of course, no box. They got on the phone and Kimmy announced that Neila would be there soon. About 20 minutes later a broken-looking Reagan arrived, carrying a large storage tub. Miserable, he said he'd been in bed the last 5 days with a bad back. He was, as always, pleasant. That is, as always, appreciated.

I guess Neila wasn't feeling all that helpful that morning. Perhaps Dr. Phil was on.

Even to the end, my partner was still backing me up while The Istanbul Bunch still was putting even more boot prints on their poor old sods. The more that things change, the more they stay the same.

Lisa, disabled, put her cane atop the storage tub and carried it as she and Reagan rode the elevator back down in what may be the last in-person contact between my camp and Camp Flozberk after a wild ride of 54 years and 1.58 months (or, 19,771 days).

Life v2.x inched closer to gleefully-awaited Life v3.0. Still, it was sad.

Bonus Mini-Fiascoes
We'll have to rewind a tad. Before Lisa left Kimmy's office, she asked for a receipt for the morning's business. Kimmy rolled her eyes and was distinctly unprofessional before producing a hard copy. On it, in an almost-poignant cherry on top, Mom's very distinctive and memorable first name was botched even though it was enunciated very clearly as the receipt was produced AND my parents were central in a years-long legal matter involving Kimmy.

About an hour later, for reasons I'm unsure of, Kimmy emailed me a copy of that receipt I already had. I guess she just wanted to be really thorough. Jolly good show - It's about fucking time, Counselor ;)

A few days before, as we wrestled with the tons of Dad's possessions, my great buddy Shec came from out of town to help. Needing a hard exit at 1220h for the long drive home to an appointment at his son's school, he was unable to get out of Public Storage. The only way out was blocked by a cherry picker truck doing a sign job. Shec was very late and it messed up his day.

We call this "The Neila Effect" or "Neila's Aura." If she so much as breathes on something, the odds of a poor outcome seem to go way, way, WAY up.  This mysterious phenomenon seems to often work independently of her intent - her involvement is a sufficient condition for activation. I mean, it's not like she sent the cherry picker to thwart poor Shec.

Or, did she? LOL!

In Fairness to Kimmy 
I suspect Neila's Aura got on Kimmy, causing her to punch way below her weight in this affair. Evidence indicates she's a far better professional than the hot mess I dealt with and her firm is well-reviewed with a good reputation. But, throw Neila in the mix, and things become woefully likely to go to hell in a handbasket. That's just how things roll with her.

In a way, the unsuspecting Kimmy has turned out to be yet another victim of The Flozberks.

Legacy
A proper outcome for this very important matter would have been an orderly, gradual, cooperative sale + thoughtful free distribution of unwanted house contents over the 3+ years one had to tend to it. We gladly would have handled it and halved the substantial proceeds with The Flozzers. You don't even need to type to sell things, just take a photo and talk into the damn phone.

The outcome we did suffer, this sad clusterfuck, was yet another pissing on Dad's memory and wishes. Dad hated waste and chaos, and his possessions mattered. I often wonder how much of his stuff too good for the landfill ended up there. Neila and the Flozwads could have guided matters to an outcome that would have made Dad happy.

Instead, they managed to make everyone more sore, less wealthy, and actually made themselves somehow look YET . . . EVEN . . . WORSE. And it all could have been avoided by sending me just one text.

But noooo - that would have been too...human. Instead, they added to their trophy case of needless woe and we all ended up worse off. And yes, you're goddamn right that includes Dad, too. Over 3 years after he was killed, he was further degraded.

Idiots!

To boot, they're trying to screw me on about a quarter of Dad's hou$e, bringing Dad's specific worst fear in life - that I was gonna get screwed on the house - into being.

Douchebags (minus nozzle)!

A Not-So-Bad Epilogue
Even though Kimmy's complaint that I should have emptied the units was absurd, I still felt bad about the poor outcome. So, I shuffled my schedule and heaved up some Craigslist ads, unloading hundreds of pounds and many cubic feet of unwieldy stuff while making a few bucks.

Dad's old workhorse air compressor, his favorite tool ever, lives on in a cool guy's garage after a refurbishing. It's almost like a little bit of him is still around. His Sony 1080p that sickened Mom helped another cool guy finish an over-budget man cave that needed a break. The gas-powered, trench-digging old-school lawn edger went to yet another cool guy, saving him a bundle and enabling a gift purchase for his little girl.

Yowza!

The story rolls on, and know that we boast at least 50% more douche nozzle and corn log than the competition. That matters.

To be continued......

View correspondence between me and Kimmy

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