Saturday, July 21, 2007
Once upon a time, in a land not far away, in a place the the locals like to call LA (lower Alabama), a little girl named Itcould bit into a juicy sourdough burger from Hardees. She was only seven years old, but already she knew what love was--beef and cheese, spooning together on a salty sourdough mattress. Yum, yum.
When not needling her grandmother to take her back to the fast food hit shop, she asked to go to the bread store where she could dine on honey buns, ho hos, and other heavenly confections filled with icing or topped with sprinkles.
Life was good, not only because it was summer and there was no evil teacher to slam rulers on desks, but because there were no evil parents to slam broccoli or other green goblins called vegetables before her. Instead, there was the fairy grandmother, Margorie. This good fair grandmother fulfilled all of Itcould's wishes: chocolate milk, juice before bed, and candy in a bowl right on the nightstand (for the midnight munchies).
Alas, when the little girl's parents came to pick her up from Grandma, they didn't recognize the little chubby girl wearing their daughter's clothes. (Side note: not to mention that Margorie had put a greasy, greasy Jerri Curl in the poor child's hair, but that's another unrelated slippery subject.)
So, that's how it started. One summer I became best friends with Little Debbie and her aunts: Betty Crocker and the Hostess with the mostest. I learned to trust them with every joy, every pleasure, and every pain. We shared a relationship of trust and support.
But recently, my girls have been much less helpful. They've become sticky fingered leeches always asking to have another 25 cent or dollar, and you didn't hear it from me, but I think they've been taking my clothes because the ones in my closet don't fit!
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