It's not like in the movies where a room full of gasping relatives gather at the lawyer's office for a dramatic reading of the will. No, being executor of my father's will has been mostly a gauntlet of phone menu options, press 1 for condolences.

As I go in an endless fast forward loop through the stages of grief, the "Oh Daddy!" to the "ooooh daddy..." to the "What were you thinking, Daddy?" and back again, I have to do paperwork. Paperwork is not my strong suit. I'm all about words, please don't make me do math. Furthermore I'm not comfortable being the "doler outer" of my father's meager but complicated estate.

My dad's death is so different than my mother's almost 30 years ago, not just in the amount of time passed. Death in the age of social media makes an almost-celebrity out of the deceased. My father grumbled at the idea of Facebook but his passing trended on his church's site. And yet the big turnout at his funeral was created from years of face to face interactions rather than likes on a page.

If only the duties of executing the estate were so easy. I can take and share a high resolution photo with all the world in a matter of seconds, yet people who administrate the business of dead people require me to FAX paperwork from one of those bulky, ivory but-not-quite beige machines. I'm getting to know the guys down at the UPS store on the corner where I regularly haul out the power of attorney and death certificate then listen for the warble and chirp that signifies my FAX has landed in a tray of other faxes, hoping my catchy cover statement snares the attention of said business.

Otherwise it's all over the phone. Most awkward is that moment when I have finally reached the party's extension that I have no clue of, and have the supreme honor of speaking with a customer service representative (these people are not paid near enough) who upon hearing my situation offers me the company or institution's sincerest condolences. I picture them reading it off a post it note stuck at the edge of their screen. Occasionally I get one that sounds truly sincere. And an "Awww." Like when I had to cancel my father's 60-year Triple AAA membership.

He lived like a church mouse and kept meticulous records of all his financial transactions and correspondence. Like many people from his generation, he printed all his emails. Still he left a few mysteries and like many I'm left with the "should'ves". Come spring I will head to Florida as many adult children before me have done, to clean out the house and decide the awful decisions of what to keep and what to let go. I don't know when I will sort through the 400lbs of photos I shipped home via FedEx.

I read recently about the Victorian's intricate mourning clothing rituals. While in this day and age of antibiotics lots of it seems silly, one thing occurred to me as so sensible. People wore black so that others might approach them in a kindly and understanding manner. They were to be treated gently since the concerns of everyday life would seem so trivial or too much to bear in the face of such sadness. There have been a few times in public when I was oddly struck with the finality of my father's death, with tears suddenly streaming down my face, when at least a black armband would have been handy.