I just got done working 46 ½ hours in a 56 hour period and it is only Wednesday night.

You take lunch and commute out of that equation and it only left 3 ½ hours to rest or sleep, as the cool young kids call it.

I am working through Sunday night.

Work, work, work and all the whistling that accompanies it.

Money, money, money, and much more money.

Somehow I can not get this classic piece of Americana out of my head:

It is my new soundtrack and makes me think about how twisted the top drawers of Donna Reed’s dresser may have been.

Come home Chip, come home.

And yes, that 45 is how I feel these days, but money makes me smile like this song does.

Bobby’s girl indeed!

And who said stocking shelves 20 hours a day wasn’t fun?

Certainly not me or my wallet!

Godspeed …