The good news was, the little package wasn't a long-winded tax rationale, it was a

book, of about 180 pages, of quality paper, and hardcover too.  But the protesters weren't brandishing slogans, and swinging fists over the materials.  Hillary leafed through the little volume, wondering how much extra tax dollars went into it's construction and distribution.  While she, in some certain areas, sympathized with the frowning clown crowd, there was something for-real about the book's subject matter.  The cover basically summarized it.  She couldn't help but to wonder, who was the federal gubment employee who had designed the cover?  While Hillary was no art expert, neither could she help, but to conclude, probably "CR" was some middleaged, overtasked GS-9er, trying to hold his or her household together.  Hillary's grandmother had been a fed, but Grams had been a GS-12, for about ten years, before comfortably retiring at the age of sixty.

The subject of the painting was the dining room, per the furnishings and other details, of a working class family of four.  A little boy, wearing a crisp checkered shirt was reaching for a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes.  On his plate, was a few slices of what looked like plain old meatloaf.  Hmmph, po-food.  Across the table, sat a little girl, perhaps two or three years older; she wore a lovely pink, but faded crinoline dress.  At the table's head, the family's Head, had obviously pulled rank.  He wore a green work shirt with some logo embroidered upon it, underneath was his name.  His plate piled, he was obviously hungry.  Behind him, upon the scarf covered sideboard, sat a vase of daisies, placed in the middle of two plain brass candlesticks.  Toward the front, and off to the side of the daisies, was a round iced layer cake.

Lastly, was his wife.  She was wearing one of those overly volumous prairie dresses; her waist-length hair was tied back in a red ribbon.  Upon her plate was one slice of the meatloaf, a modest serving of potatoes.  She held a bowl of fruit in one hand, in the other she had just delivered to her plate, a second spoonful.  Per the small mound of her midsection, soon there would be a highchair in the picture.

The ceremic dishes, bowls, the glassware, and stainless steel utensils, upon the white cloth did not all match, but the variations reflected each individual, seated around the table.

She glanced over at her husband, who was finishing the last of the dessert she had made during the previous afternoon.  Shoo-fly pie.  Pound-putting po' food, but he liked that kind of stuff - she preferred things like organic strawberries with just a dollop of shebert.  She set her teacup upon the saucer, which sat upon the coffee table.  Chet reached for the remote; it was coming upon 8:30, when a certain weekly local news - if you lived in Ohio - commentary would air live from, someone who went by the name of NewsGuy.  

Anyway, NewsGuy started off with a rant.  Nothing unusual.  But this one?  Evidently, he was in rare form about a hit-and-run.  Yeah, Hillary listened up, because she had been there about a year previous.  When he started going on about the premium increase for uninsured drivers, it was time to break from that.  After all, what can you do?  Not pay it?  Then three days later, somebody plows into you, and takes off.  No thanks!  She arose from the sofa, went into the kitchen to put away the remaining dishes, which sat upon the drying rack.  

By the way, their dishwasher was about on its last legs - Chet had gotten it second hand, not long after they'd married - but the Asher's condition wasn't a problem for Hillary.  Contrary to the ads, prewashing the dishes is a must, even for the 3K models.  Well, shoot, unless you're giving a dinner party, might as well wash and rinse in the sink, and let them dry on the rack.  

"Would jua bring me a glass of milk, please." Oh, here we again, she grimmaced, while reaching into the frig.  Not at her Husband's request, but at NewsGuy's latest flag-waving rant.  Ugh!   Churchians...going on about depopulation, what a crock!  If the stats were such an issue to the gildedites-in-power, you'd think they'd open the borders a bit.  Sub-saharan Africa's pop was like three times replacement.  Sometimes, she couldn't help but want to laugh, aloud in Churchian faces; over the past decade or two sub-saharans had grown brains - leaving, en mass, that theocratic women-diceling reign of terror.  Her KJB uncle was a missionary over there; she'd read several of his letters.  Christian churches were popping up, like 7AM toast over at the BreakFast.