The little box was about the size of a stack of three or four steno pads. Hillary shook it, but it barely

gave a clue, that it's contents was some sort of paper media - hopefully, not some tax info, announcing and detailing how again, marrieds were to bend over, and take it, with no struggle, and with a smile.  Ugh!  If what Hillary had heard earlier in the day was, that widows and widowers might also be assuming the position.  Probably.  You know how it is: the responsible? pay th' eff up.

Poor Irene - at this rate the old woman will end up, having to take church charity.  I'd rather be f-bomb d.e.a.d., dead! Hillary muttered to herself.  Sad really.  Scuttlebutt she'd heard, was the old boomer had an unpleasant surprise, while at the drugstore.  Slimleys were no longer over the counter, and being not only thin, but old, no doctor would have it.  Anyway, the clownie behind the counter got all nutri-preachy at her.

Evidently, the old hop head, had a little  surprise of her own.  Probably strung out, the old broad, evidently, hauled off, and slapped clownie - hard enough to knock it down.  Hillary wondered if they let Irene out the tank yet.  Anyway, Chet, being the gem he is, had gone over to grocery store, bought a sizable gift card, and - paid their "nominal" processing fee - had them mail it to the old woman's address.

Meanwhile, back to the little box.  It was addressed to "Mr & Mrs ..." her husband's full legal name followed.  Considering the package's origin, some federal agency, of course she was relegated to namelessness.  Part of her wanted to open it, but nothing doing.  The electric bill, didn't have her name upon it either, but that was different, since she wrote out the bills.  Hillary parked the two items alongside the computer, in a small room, just off the dining room, which served as their office.  She'd deal with the bill in about an hour or two - finances were another two or three items down her itinerary.  

The house was it's usual spic n span. "Darn right," she spat, while giving a polish to the utility sink faucets - which weren't on today's (psyco-cope) list.  "Take away my job...effing b*tards will NOT take my work-ethic."  It just wasn't fair, she continued to ruminate.  Typically, she had everything done around, 1pm, if not before.  Supper, she served at around 6 - or kept it warm, if Chet was running late, which happened, but no worries there.  Tonight was a noodle casserole - with plenty of beef, which chummed alongside brussel sprouts, mushrooms and whatever other random vege or fruit that would go.  

The dryer buzzed, and she was on it - synthetics, being cut back ... well, atleast the freaking fundies had atleast some compassion for the environment.  But man, those people were scary.  Earlier, while wiping down the leather sofa cushions, some aged out loud-mouthed right-winged she-toady - Phyllis somebody was going on, how women need to...  Hillary had switched off the flatscreen; she had wanted to hurl the bottle of conditioner which sat, beckoning, upon the coffee table.

Next on the list was, the oblong area rug.  Most of yesterday's spill-stain had come out, but she wanted it gone : they had both paid - that was, of course, when she was a full contributing partner - good money for the thick 100% wool floor covering.  She glanced around the living room.  What they had, would have to last.  While the finances were as blue as a SixFaction sunday brunch, still, the only money coming in, was Chet's salary - one significantly less than her former earnings.

Nuts to the list.  Hillary's stomach was starting another one of its tantrums; she dropped the cleaning cloth and headed to their cramped office, to write out the electric bill.  She then went into the kitchen and retrieved two unsalted crackers that she kept in a glass bunny-faced apothecary jar - a Christmas gift she'd received several years ago.