Dear So and So---

Dear Grocery Patron--I am as uncomfortable with debit cards as you. But, for gosh sakes, if you're going to write a check in the grocery store line, you could fill out the store name and date sometime in those interminable hours minutes of waiting in the line. Something sooner than two minutes after your order has been scanned, price checked and bagged. Maybe master multi-tasking and learn to write and visit with the cashier at the same time. At least have located your checkbook and pen somewhere in your cavernous Vera Bradley tote. Aren't those things known for their incredible organizational pockets anyway? Use them.
And don't get me started on your sport of coupon diving in the depths of aforementioned Vera Bradley. I leave you with one word. Organize. ---Patiently Waiting Organized Person Behind You in Line

Dear Body--Yes, I know you are 50 now. But you seem to be forgetting who owns who. I am in charge and I would very much like you to remember it. Just give me a little break here and tow the line. I'm not kidding.---Thinking of Turning You in Under the Cash for Clunkers Program

Dear Grandson--While it is all about the fun and the learning and the teamwork and sportsmanship blah, blah, blah I expect you to kick some soccer butt this weekend at your tourney. Really. Granny is not sitting outside on a cold rainy day at 7:30 in the morning to see niceness. I want to see some serious soccer.---Love, Soccer G-Ma

Kat's got you covered for your own Dear So and So rambles...

A Woman in Her Fifties

Science be damned.

I've never understood the female practice of tottering around on sky high heels with pointy pinched toes. Or the lies we tell about how darn comfortable it is to walk around with your heel perched 4 inches above the ground while your 4 inch span of toes is compressed to 2 inches.

I spent 25 years working from my home. Working at home gives one a lot of dress code options. The freedom, for instance, to wear comfortable footwear. Since I hadn't gotten a job in the 18 months or so since moving here and the Drive-Thru Feed Barn doesn't have a dress code, my feet have lived in a seasonal rotation of croc sandals, sneakers and an occasional suede boot. No heels, nothing confining.

However, a princess does what she has to do when representing the royal throne in the public working world. Which means when a job possibility loomed, I dug out my funeral-holiday party-wedding heels from the depths of the closet.

They weren't too bad during the interview. I overlooked the fact that I probaly hadn't walked more than 50 yards and congratulated my feet on their adaptability.

Work Day One brought the realization that production layouts have to be logged out on a computer located in a far corner on the production floor then hand delivered to a desk at the opposite end of the building from my desk. Several times a day.

By Day Four the bulging blisters on the back of my foot had broken leaving a little more room for the growing callouses on my toes.

On Day Six I realized if there was a fire in the building I would probably fry as I scrounged under my deak to locate the shoes I had pried off swollen feet while working at my computer.

Somewhere between the oozing blisters and the burning sensation running up the back of my calves, I had an ephipany; a moment of clarity in the making since I was 12 years old and nagged my mother into buying my first pair of heels.

A woman in her fifties doesn't wince when she steps out of the car and into the work day. She doesn't hope the sheer agony of standing for 20 minutes while the boss tells a funny story in the hall isn't showing in her face. She doesn't sit in her favorite chair until she's within seconds of peeing her pants because it hurts too much to walk 20 feet to the bathroom.

A woman in her fifties wears comfortable shoes.

Dear So and So...

Dear Bird Singing Outside my Window at 5:30 AM last Saturday--I get it. You're hungry. And I've been out of feed for two days. I know I've made the commitment to keep those feeders full and I'll go to the Drive Thru Feed Store today. But listen to me, you perky crimson moron, it was five-freakin'-thirty. On a Saturday. It was still dark outside, for gosh sakes! Darkness on a Saturday morning means it's officially still night and I am officially still sleeping. Keep it up and I'll take away the black oil sunflower seed you love and fill those feeders with nothing but cracked corn. Sincerely--Mrs. Audobon

***

Dear Tiny Town--If you're going to close the two main roads in town, one leading through town to the east, the other leading out of town to the west--at least post an alternative route. Don't assume that everyone in town knows to go up two blocks, turn at Esther Mae's house, go three blocks to where the old cemetary was and turn left to get back on the highway.
And why are there so many one way streets in a town this size? Everyone in the county could drop in at the same time and there wouldn't be enough people to cause a congestion.
That said, sometimes you are terribly quaint and old-timey. Loved the tractor parade to kick off the Corn Festival. It was worth being trapped in town for an hour.
---A New(ish) Neighbor
***
Dear Person Who Drives 30 MPH for 17 miles each day at 4:30 in the afternoon. On the two lane state highway with a speed limit of 55---I know there are some tight curves on this road. And a few hills and very little shoulder. But, really, 30 MPH? The entire way? In dry weather on sunny days? I know the hulking power under the hood of the Kia may be intimidating but could you at least pull over every now and then to clear up the snaking line of traffic behind you?
Impatiently--The Leader of the Parade of Drivers in Your Rearview Mirror.
***
Dear Commuter Karma---What is it with you that has me stuck behind Super-Cautious-Driver for 17 miles and the only times oncoming traffic allows for passing SCD we are traveling in those tight curve no passing or blind hill zones? Why don't you give me a break and go kick around the civil engineer who planned that road?
--Commuter In Search of the Tao of Driving
***
Dear Civil Engineer--Listen, I keep looking at the rocks, trees, flowers, fences--anything--in the vicinity of those tight back to back curves along my commuter route and I don't see a single thing that indicates they couldn't have been plowed under in favor of a straight roadway. Nada. No burrowing owls, no rare field mice, not a single swamp rose or rare prairie grass. This isn't scenic, you goofball, it's annoyingly slow in good weather and outright dangerous in bad. And I figure all those twists and turns increase my commute distance by a good 8 miles. I've put in an appeal to Commuter Karma to have you punished. Expect to spend your eternity riding in a silver blue Kia at 30 MPH with two old ladies on a road that stretches forever into the horizon.
Helpfully---Driver Who Aims for the Straight Road

Visit Kat for more Dear So and So inspiration

She's Turning 50...

...it's getting closer. My quest to somehow mark these final days of my forties continues. Well, not so much that I care about marking my forties; more about the fact that I'll be fifty. Soon.

It's been a few days since you've had the benefit of my forty-nine, pushing fifty, year old wisdom. Tonight, I bring you this little nugget:

Sometimes the most charitable thing you can say is "No."

That's a big revelation from the woman who's spent close to 50 years trying to please as many of the people as much of the time as she possibly could. And increasingly resenting the hell out of it.
Father Dan presented the idea one day at Mass. Since I rarely agree with anything Father Dan has to say, the idea stuck with me so I could pick it apart later and prove him wrong and I spent some serious time thinking about it.

Father George clinched the deal a few weeks later with this treasure. "Make your 'yes' mean 'yes' and your 'no' mean 'no.' Then shut up and eat your soup." And there I was with two indicators that it might be ok to say "no" sometimes. More than ok. It might be the more right, the more honest thing to do.

This was a concept I could really get behind.

I'll admit I was an extreme yesser. No connection was far enough flung for me to be able to say "I just can't get that done..." I mean, I always knew I could get it done, I didn't want to get it done. But I could. So therefore, I should. Right?

No. There. I just said it. Say it with me. "No."

Don't want to handsew tiny glass beads on the neighbor's cousin's ex-husband's sister's daughter's prom dress? You can say "no." In fact, it's probably better to say "no" than to mutter under your breath that drawing attention to that butt with thousands of glittering beads is a fashion faux paus.

Don't want to bake 20 dozen cookies for the club bake sale? You can say "no" knowing that your 'no' is much more charitable than your freudian slip of adding salt in place of half the sugar in those freakin' cookies you didn't want to bake in the first place resentful 'yes.'

In honor of my recently found no-ability and my upcoming birthday, I've ordered this shirt for myself. Since I'm still not too confident with my "NOs" I'm thinking of buying the shirts by the case and just handing them in appropriate moments.

"I need you to volunteer to design a 20 x 40 print to illustrate my new business concept and I don't really have any idea what it should be but I like the color red and I need it by tonight....ok, then I can give you until tomorrow morning...and I'll need a logo and some business cards while you're at it..."

"Here's your shirt....."

So, God? Can We Talk?

Still Me. In case you've accidentally stumbled back on this line. Because I'm pretty certain you took another call in the midst of last week's gender inequity rant inquiry.

Not to worry. I haven't lost my place. We were talking about my new friends The Hormones and the absolute lack of turning-fifty crap which did not befall Mr. L. when he hit that happy milestone. Tonight I'm still dwelling a bit on The Hormones. Trying to decide why they've dropped in now like some never seen before cousin showing up at the beach house and staying for the whole summer.

You know I've been seriously job shopping since late December. Eight months of limited possibilities and even more limited near misses. I spent a lot of that time trying to decide if maybe I've been wrong and you do actively manipulate the day to day details.

As in, maybe you've been trying to tell me that I had a job already. One where the pay was haphazard and the hours long but the benefits were pretty good and the working environment great. Mr. L. was happy and well cared for, the Misses Lorri and the GrandTwoSomes knew where to locate me at almost any given moment which is no small thing when there are crucial stories to be shared. Or babysitting to be done.

Why am I thinking these thoughts, you ask? (Which is, obviously, a rhetorical question since we both know you already know...) Well, having landed, lost and re-captured an interview late last month, I suddenly found myself with a job. Temporary at first but within the second day of work I had a permanent offer.

Here's the thing; that annoying little surgery scheduled for some 3 weeks from now. The one brought on my new BFFs, The Hormones, and their happy sidekicks The Creepily Multiplying Cells.

It's not likely that my job will be held for the 4 to 6 weeks my doctor says I need to be out. Not even the 3 weeks she says I can't drive. Business is business and this is the busy time for the promotions business.

So, what's the deal? Where do I lay the blame for a job given and taken away in nearly the same breath?

Sometimes crap happens?
I forgot to forward some email chain letter to 15 of my best friends?
That damn meatloaf again?
YOU???

Is this your work? A not-so-subtle smack of a reminder that I need to concentrate on doing what I was doing before I sent in that last resume? You know I don't believe you manipulate the details. I really don't. Not that you couldn't. I've just never thought that you do. Seems to conflict with that entire free will thing.

I'm not saying you don't have A Plan. I got to almost 50 without A Plan so, believe me, I understand the need.

But, really, whattheheck IS the plan? And how am I supposed to know if you don't become a bit more obvious? I need more than hints and clues, God. If you could maybe just drop a word document into my 'in' box or leave a printed version on the dining room table. I would offer to shred it after I read it, but, well, you know what went down between me and the shredder.

You could make it out of chocolate, though. It would be consumed. Possibly before it's read. The Hormones would make sure of it.

Yours in Confused Faith---Lorri

Connect with A Mom On Spin for your own heavenly call

The Throbbing Thrill of Fifty...

One week until fifty.

In a true tribute to the way I've lived the past 49 years and 51 weeks, I didn't get around to the insightful daily tributes to turning 50 that I had planned for this month. At least I had a plan. That's a big improvement over the previous 49 years and 49 weeks.

The full impact of 50 is still creeping up on me. Today I was blindsided with another reminder of ownership of a half-century old body. I was excited that Dan Brown's newest book is being released with a large print version.

Large print? When did that happen? My ninety-seven year old grandmother reads those beach trash novels. The ones where a buxom English peasant girl is being ravished by the wealthy land owner until the true heir to the kingdom--disguised as the owner of the local pub--swoops in to save her virtue. Or at least claim it for himself. They're always full of delicate references to the hero's throbbing manliness and the tingling thrill of the virginal heroine. My granny churns through those things. In small print. The ones where the words look like thousands of tiny little ants crowded onto the page.

I had to give up beach novels ten years ago. Couldn't see to read them. Not even with the bi-focals that landed on my face some five years ago. I used to love to crawl into a warm bed on a winter evening and read a good trashy novel until late at night.

Now I tuck myself in at 9 PM with the large print version of Reader's Digest. It's not just the large type that appeals to me. It's those short articles and stories. Falling asleep by 9:15 makes it tough to get through anything classic. Or hot and trashy.

Dear So and So...

Dear September 11, Nine Eleven, Nine One One--You are many things to me. The lovely autumn day our family and friends gathered at an outdoor chapel to watch my sister and new brother-in-law exchange their wedding vows. Exactly six years later we gathered in another location as our oldest daughter was married. That same September 11th was the last birthday a dear sister-in-law celebrated with us. Just as you were about to arrive again she lost a battle with cancer, leaving behind a grieving family including her 3 young children. We gathered that September 11th to begin saying goodbye. I thought we had seen the full course for one date. Intense joy and unbelieveable sadness.
And the next year you arrived again. You were a glorious fall morning. Crisp, not cold, not hot. Brilliant blue sky, white clouds. Full of promise. 9/11/01. Our daughter was pregnant with our first grandchild. I remember our son-in-law phoning from Michigan. He was in a meeting with no access to TV. Could I turn on the TV and tell him what had happened? The children in the daycare were playing around the room and the older kids migrated toward the TV once it was on. I had to turn it off. Both for the kids and for myself. We went outside to play. I remember sitting on the swing with a little one on my lap and one on each side as we watched the other children play. I heard the giggles, the little arguments. The pretending and the planning. And I could not stop thinking about the children in New York, Washington, other places, who had lost parents that day. Who had kissed their moms, their dads, goodbye that morning for the last time. Who had no one coming to pick them up from daycare.
You've changed us, September 11th. Again and again. Some of us have become tougher, harder, because of you. Some of us have become more vulnerable, softer around the edges, because of you. You've brought us together and torn us apart.
I'm sorry you are forever aligned with the sadness and tragic moments that have come to be you in our minds. Because today you dawned again. Crisp and bright and full of promise.
Thank you. May we all work to be the fulfillment of that promise.

Thanks to Kat for writing a poignant letter that helped me put my list of petty pickiness into perspective this day.

THE PRINCESS AND THE JOB

The saga of Princess Working Stiff last saw our heroine as she negotiated the wilds of a Wednesday after work crowd at the grocery story. In a not so princessessly way. Since then, she has:

• received an offer to make the temp job a full time permanent gig
• negotiated said offer into a permanent part-time, 20 to 24 hours a week gig
• agreed to work full time through the month of September to get the department caught up
• dropped into an exhausted stupor every night after preparing the evening repast for the prince
• realized that, overall, she really--truly--isn't a huge fan of people
• rediscovered the pleasures of driving the royal carriage. alone. with her favorite music

Never Trust a Vegetable

Yeah, it creeped me out too.

Some sort of nasty bell pepper dwelling caterpillar was my first guess when I found it inside the pepper-formerly-destined for Kevin's stir fry.

It's something inanimate growing in the pepper. Probably harmless, maybe a seed that's sprouted. But who knows? Maybe it's some "harmless" growth spurred by a chemically induced misfire in bell pepper DNA. Possibly it's the vegetable equivalent of my over-abundant estrogen fueled cell rampage.

Whatever it is, the last time I saw something that creepy looking growing in what otherwise appeared to be a healthy happy place was two years ago when a doctor showed me photos of the tumor he had just found during Kev's colonoscopy.

And that happy epidsode resulted in major surgery for Kevin followed by almost a year's worth of radiation and chemotherapy.

The Misses Lorri have always blamed my meat loaf for that entire incident. I've suspected all along that it was the vegetables. They look all healthy and good for you but you never know what secrets they're hiding.

This is why I've avoided vegetables as much as possible throughout my adult life. You can't trust 'em.

Barbie and Me, BFF

I recently learned that my former BFF is also celebrating a significant birthday this year.
Yep, Barbie turned fifty, hit the half century mark.

I haven't purchased many Barbies since before the Misses Lorri reached their pre-teen years.

The massive box of Barbie (and her clothes, shoes, accessories, vehicles and friends) enjoyed an occasional visit during the days of owning the daycare. But Barbie and I have gradually followed different trails in life.

There were some similarities in the early years. We each got married.

And lived a neat and tidy life in the suburbs with our own Prince Charming.

We raised our families.

And, in my case, several other people's families as well.

Somewhere along the line our paths went in different directions. Barbie became a teacher, an astronaut, CEO of her own company; all while maintaining her fashion icon status.

I stayed at home in my garden when I wasn't bailing out supervising the Misses Lorri through potential arrests, expulsions and general mayheimyouthful indiscretions. Once the Misses Lorri became too old for the legal system to give a rat's ass what I had to say had left the family nest, I began to think about what I might do now that I was grown up even though I didn't do much about doing it. Turns out only Barbie has an entire staff devoted to changing her wardrobe--and, thus, her life--with a few sketches on the art board. The rest of us have to actually DO something. And I found I was immensely qualified for nothing.

Eventually I wondered if this was the only job I might get.

I don't begrudge Barbie her success, her Princess crown or her to-die-for shoe wardrobe. Not even the magic that lets her change her accessories and instantly become a firefighter, a doctor or a top chef.

But that perpetually perky smile is un-natural. Freaky. And nothing's gone south on that body. Doesn't gravity exert any force in her eternally blue-skyed world? I've never seen her mainlining Midol or rushing to the bathroom after a good joke resulted in near social disaster.

We've spent the same 50 years here during which Barbie has become a Cougar while I've become another zoo creature entirely. Something from the Large African Mammals section.

What I'm looking for is a little equity in nature, the passage of time. Fifty years old and I'm supposed to believe she hasn't had a little work done? That she doesn't slink into the bathroom from a darkened bedroom and hope Ken doesn't see her before she gets the bags compressed, the furrows filled, the eyelashes faked and the hair fluffed for daytime viewing?

Happy Birthday, Barbie. I'm sure you'll understand if we don't get together for a drink and dinner. It could take you another 50 years to decide which of your 1,000,000 pairs of shoes to wear and I can't wait. Father Time has not been as generous to me as he has to you. Listen, call me if you ever have a hot flash, bloat up for half the month, realize your bras are older than your office mates or forget where you put the keys to the Malibu Beach wagon only to find them clinched in your fist. We'll talk. That's what best friends do.

So, God? Can We Talk?

Hey, there, God. It's me. Again.

I know I've probably been bothering you a lot lately--and it may be particularly annoying since You know I don't subscribe to the belief that you manipulate the details. However, I'm attempting to fine tune my faith here; get it right, so to speak, so bear with me. Please.

And, if You are handling the details I want to make certain I'm reading the signs right. Like the whole Job (I'm talking employment here, Lord, not Job in the Bible. Although I am aware of the irony in the comparison.) versus Princess thing. And the cookies. You were never completely clear about the last chocolate cupcake, you know, although I chose to take the discovery of additional cookies as a good omen, if not an outright signal to indulge.

All of that, though, is for another day. Today I'm wondering about gender. Yours in particular. I've always been taught that You are genderless. Which worked well for me since for much of my non-makeup wearing, no hair fo-fooing, sensible, non PMS-ing life I've leaned a bit away from the typical gender things myself. What I mean to say, is that I've never needed to see You as sitting on one side or the other.

But lately I've been presented with some evidence that leads me to believe You are firmly male. And possibly biased creation favorably in that direction.

The worst thing visited upon Mr. L when he turned 50 was the AARP card which arrived in the mail. His body wasn't preprogrammed to turn on him after half a century of mainly peaceful co-existence. (We won't include that nasty butt occupying cancer that showed up two years ago. He was well past 50 by then and Shakespeare's Witches the Misses Lorri have always attributed that whole thing to my meatloaf anyway.)

What I'm talking about here, God, are my new life companions The Hormones. As in the ones who have recently awakened in the dark shadow of a fiftieth birthday this month. The ones that make me spit fire and speak in tongues (not in a Godly way either) in almost the same minute that I've teared up during a rerun of Married With Children.

As the Great Creator I think you have a little liability here for those bitches. And their evil intentions. At the very least I expect a free pass in the confessional for certain hormone driven transgressions. An absolute lack of tolerance for *&^$## idiots people. Moods that can go, within about 20 seconds, from Perfectly Content to Wants to Dismantle a Cute Furry Woodland Creature. With no obvious provocation.

I'm hoping you'll cut me a little slack on those or at least understand when I reach around the confessional screen and girl slap Father a few times when he assigns a stupid penance like trying to see the good in everyone or being more patient in the grocery store line.

Yours in Faith---Lorri


So, God? Can we talk?

Architecturally Unsound

Having agreed to the hysterectomy my doctor has been lobbying for this past year, I was annoyed beyond belief to learn that step one was yet another exam. This time to determine just what type of hysterectomy is called for.

"What do you mean you need to have another look to decide what kind of surgery is best? You've been there, what, 14 times in the last twelve months and you've never once thought, 'You know, if I was remodeling this place, I would....'? Really?? When I get invited to lunch at a new place I'm looking at the house as I pull up front and thinking 'What this place needs is a porch. I would knock out that...' While I'm sipping my lemonade I'm comtemplating how I would get more light in the room by enlarging the window and adding some supporting columns. And I'm not an architect. You ARE a surgeon. And you've never once in fourteen visits put mental pen to paper to plan this particular remodel?"

"Hey. I was busy trying to keep the place from falling down completely until you decided to let me take a serious shot at salvage. Think construction project instead of remodel."

Dear So and So---

Dear Person Who Decides What's On Sale--I know you follow me through the store--any store--to see what I have purchased this week just so you can put it on sale next week at deep, deep discount. And add that little **no price adjustments** disclaimer. It's so obvious. ---Observant Consumer
***
Dear Practically One of My Kids Mother of Miss Haylee--Sugar Free mints? Sugar free? Whose idea was this? Were you trying to kill me? I think I've explained there really are no substitutes for sugar or caffeine. Did you think I wouldn't notice? Yes, I know the bag is empty. We live in desperate times. ---Love, Ms. Lorri
PS When you give an enormous bag of M & Ms along with a bag of mints, Kevin can sometimes be confused and think the M & Ms are for him. In the future please make it crystal clear that the M & Ms are mine too. There appears to have been some confusion on this point and a hairy hand buried deep in the M&Ms may have been slapped.
PPSS or however that works....thank you and your lovely family for always thinking of ways to make us smile.
***
Dear Client--Your invective filled email concerning the artwork for your parent's 60th anniversary gift has been appropriately filed. My suggestion that you forward a picture of someone else's parents--since you are so obviously unhappy with the appearance of your own--was sincere. I am an artist, not a magician. ---Sincerely, Princess Working Stiff
***
Dear Prince Charming--I am not well suited for anything other than self-employment. I'm sure you knew this when I insisted it was time for me to have a grown-up job. If it helps at all, I'll put it in writing. You were right. I don't play well with others. Now dust off that white horse and rescue me from myself or resign yourself to mediocrity in the kitchen. And possibly the entire house. Don't make me explain. ---Love, The Girl Dead Tired Middle Aged Woman Standing Beside the Quickly Rotting Pumpkin Holding One Glass Slipper, a bag of cheetoes and a Wacom.

She's Turning 50...

...this month. Ten decades. Half a century.
I was going to post something about turning 50 each day this month. Something fitting, appropriate, for a woman firmly clinging to her forties turning fifty.
And then life intervened in that dark comic way it does, I found myself with a job and "HolyCrapI'mTurningFifty" took a backseat.
It's amazing how much less time there is for ruminating on the big moments in life when you're working through the minutes in each day.
In any case, I need to mark these final days in my forties. I considered running amok and blaming a mid-life crisis. I've noticed a person can get away with a lot of general dumbass-edness by invoking the midlife crisis clause.
But the truth is, I don't have the freakin' energy to run amok. Not enough to even jog amok.
I got a job, coincidentally--or not so coincidentally if you happen to be my friend Father John, who often reminds me "there are no coincidences in God's plan"--on the first day of my month of turning 50. The first job I've ever had where I'm not the owner of the business. Not even the a boss. Father John may be on to something. It's possible God thinks I need to learn that I'm not the boss. (I wish He was a little more clear on this one--I see a lot of situations that could use a good boss...)
So here I am with a significant birthday looming and a still-has-the-new-smell-on-it job and I'm still wondering 'what will I do when I grow up?' I haven't exactly had a firm goal in life. Even now I have trouble nailing the "what" part of what I would do with my life if I had a do-over granted.
Which isn't likely.
All of which leads to my almost fifty year old wisdom for today:
There won't be enough time to do all the things you think you would a) like to do. b) be good at doing. c) ought to do. So choose wisely.

Grocery Store Karma

In 8 months of getting a job being my job, I had forgotten that things like grocery shopping have to be done even though I am tired at the end of the work day. I pushed the August 31 expiration date on Sweeney's milk as far as I could this morning.

I also forgot that many other princesses are facing the same reality, making the grocery store something of a battlefield at 5:30 on a Wednesday evening.

It started in the parking lot when some fit young chick, with healthy knees, whipped her convertible into the parking place I had clearly marked as my own. Knowing full well that I'm not sure yet who is who from where in the new workplace, I refrained from flying the aged old gesture of contempt lest fit chick turn out to be the customer service rep in cubicle number one.

Then I had to stalk an old lady in the parking lot and offer to help with her bags in order to secure a cart.

Finally in the store, ready to shop, list in clenched fist, I hit the aisles with the efficiency of a drill sargeant. And the appetite of a starved recruit.

Note to self.....$167.20, that's why those who know tell us not to grocery shop when hungry.

The other princesses were shopping on the same budget plan--empty shelves greeted me when I went looking for the 10/$10 zippered baggies for my princess lunches. And the B1G1 smoked sausages were a waste without the 10/$10 buns. The place looked like a hoard of locusts had buzzed through in advance of a blizzard warning.

I managed to fill the cart anyway--Cheetos and string cheese are a perfectly acceptable lunch--and staggered toward the mile long check out lanes. Seven lanes open, six are on hiatus while Bagger Boy runs price checks. I contemplate my strategy. Go for the one moving lane or play the long shot that the short non-moving lane will kick into high gear as soon as Bagger Boy nabs a 128 ounce apple juice. As I mentally run the percentages I see fit chick cut off two old ladies and a pregnant mom in the 20 items and under lane. Still muzzled by her vague familiarity to CSR #1, I feel vindicated when I'm tapped on the shoulder by a cashier and told to move over to where she's opening a new lane.

YES! In a move more of vengeance than nice, I bring one of the old ladies and very preggy mom with me to the newly opened lane.

There's a pleasant glow of karma kicking ass as we walk past pushy fit chick impatiently smoothing cash which the under 20 items mechanical cashier repeatedly rejects.

The Princess Diaries continued...

Our princess was last seen joining the drone force as she headed off to punch a time clock, literally....for the first time in her life. Really, folks, a time clock. The princess is dismayed and wonders what happened to the concept of honesty. Really. A time clock!!

Coming home the first evening to no dinner was a total surprise. Princess Working Stiff was certain she had signed up for the meal plan. After all, hadn't Prince Charming nearly always returned to a full meal deal at the castle lo these many years?

As our princess peels potatoes, dices peppers and sautes onion, feeling a bit like Cinderella scrubbing the fireplace hearth while the stepsisters eat cake, she catches a whiff of something else in the air. Wait. Oh yeah, she recognizes that smell.

Enjoli.

I can bring home the bacon.
Fry it up in a pan.
blah blah blah

The princess wonders where she left her sequined gown and feathered boa.