Putting things for a pretty is something I used to do with my older sister, Mabel, every chance we got when we were a little girls. All you needed was a cute jacket button or a knick-knack or a carved porcelain figurine of some kind and you just set it on the mantelpiece and suddenly, you had the prettiest little pretty in the world!

But those little pretties couldn’t compare to me when I was in my hey-day. Let me tell you, I was the cat’s meow in my time and I never let anyone forget it!

The whole city would crawl out of their windows when I strutted through Town Square to buy a package of penny-loaf cinnamon roll biscuit cakes. Boy, did everyone know that I was the moo of the cow in that place!

But being the big dog’s bone on campus had its disadvantages, too. If I could count on my fingers the number of young men that asked for my hand in courtship, I might do it, but counting is something I’ve never been able to do well, especially with my fingers all sticky with creamy sugar buns icing.

The was one thing I learned as the head cock of the rooster’s walk, and that is that if someone asks you to sit on their mantelpiece without any of your clothes on, it is not the same as being put for a pretty. As a matter of fact, there is nothing pretty about that sort of thing.

In other words which might make me sound like the hussy that I’m not, never let ol’ Gilbert Champsmith sweet-talk you with his fluffy pillows and melted sugar cubes, or else you might find your photograph in a dirty magazine later on when you’re digging through your husband’s dirty magazine collection.

Now if you don’t believe that I have things I regret in my life, then you must not realize that I was once the big fat Christmas rat’s belly pat! The nurses don’t like me to use language like that, but I’ll yell whatever I want whenever I want, I don’t care whose funeral I’m at! Diary, the nurse’s footsteps are at the door-