TGIF, whatever that means

Letters From the Home Front

I was in the grocery store on Friday when I overheard the man chatting on his cell phone: "Boy, am I glad it’s Friday." Stopping just short of whacking him upside the head with my 10-pound bag of kitty litter, I instead chose to silently loathe him. Friday. I wish I could get me one of those things.

Everything about my chosen profession is just so difficult these days. First, there are the longer market times. Time is money, and not only is my overburdened Decade at a Glance threatening to file bankruptcy, but never have I had to throw my checkbook in so many directions for such prolonged periods as I do these days.