I hate you. I just want you to know that. It’s not enough that I can feel the eyes of an army of garden gnomes upon me as I take my morning constitutional;
Or that our home is a museum for every “Princess Diana: The Legend Lives On” commemorative collector plate the Franklin Mint ever sold;
Or that night after night, I curl up on the nicotine-scented plastic slipcovers and hope against hope that the evening’s entertainment will consist of something other than “Swingin’ Alive: Frank Sinatra Jr. Sings The Bee Gees.”
No. Every year, you drive me downtown, and make me do … this.
If looks could kill, Lori N.
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