High Heels and Holidays

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First off, Fred, you're probably wondering why I'm calling you Fred. It's a valid question, especially since I don't know anybody named Fred.

You see, I found Sterling's journal about our lives the other day and, although it's delightful and pretty close to the truth—Sterling is delightful, as well as dedicatedly honest, unfortunately—I began worrying what people might think if in four hundred years somebody found his journal still in one piece in some old box or something and read it, read about me, and figured I probably should set the record straight. Straighter. Something like that.

Okay, truth time, huh? Here's the deal, Fred. For some strange reason, I'm worried about future generations thinking I'm a few bricks shy of a full load. So just bear with me because you, Fred, have just been named the star witness for the defense (of me and my mind, that is).

Not that Sterling's sweetly naive account of what's happening in our lives wouldn't take the archeologist's mind off wondering about the societal implications of stuff like the concept of speed dating or the sex life of SpongeBob SquarePants.

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