Last night Belle stole away my British lover.

Well, actually she drove home in my red Cutlass Supreme with the black leather interior and the fairly new cd player, that I PRETENDED was my British lover.

Colin Firth has left me and moved in with my daughter. How shall I survive.

He was so reluctant to leave me that at first he refused to go into reverse gear. I had to come out and persuade him to kick into gear. It didn’t take much, I must confess: only a few well-aimed ‘taps’ with my clenched fist, a declaration of eternal love and sacrifice, and he surrendered to the inevitable and moved.

He was singing to her, too. One of my songs. I heard him singing to her as she drove around the house and down to the road. I guess she can have the cd’s that were in there, too.

How soon they forget. Sigh.

Now, if I can just find the title, he will be all hers.

Although how anyone could find ANYTHING in this messy house, is beyond my comprehension.

I supposed an analogy about how she’s living in sin with him until I sign the papers that officially release him, would be a bit over the top, huh.

Momy don’t DO dat about her daughter.

Take good care of him, SaraBelle the Baby Girl. Or I’ll tell everybody what I used to call you when you were little.

Whoops.

Well, at least I didn’t spill the beans about “Poopie-Face.”