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Her father isn't helping matters. Like most parents, it hurts his heart to see his little girl upset. So, she shrieks, and he jumps to her command, forgetting that he only has to hear the shrieking on weekends and for a couple of hours each evening while for me, it's a lifestyle.

Today, we had the kind of shrieking that follows a three-day lovefest with her daddy and grandparents, when she realizes she's once again stuck with me - The Mean One, the one person who won't jump and grant her every wish with every shriek. The one who won't carry her through the store, instead of subjecting her to the horrors of riding in the shopping cart. The one who forces her to sit in a chair at a restaurant - who straps her down and imprisions her!!!, instead of taking her on a little constitutional while The Mean One sits alone at the table, waiting for brunch.

And my brain is officially custard.

Shrieking Day is really bad when it happens to coincide with The Mean One's catering day and we have to go get supplies. Clara "Siouxsie Sioux" Jane shrieked through both stores. She shrieked through each leg of the car ride. At one point she became so overcome with anger that she threw her water bottle, her binky, her hat and every book within her reach (she travels with a small personal library). When she had exhausted all of her flinging materials, she did what anyone who is raging against the machine would do - she removed both of her shoes and flung them. She got some of my brain custard on one of them when it whipped past a little too close to my ear.

Thank God one of our stops was Trader Joe's, where the people are nice. Oh so nice. And they never shriek or throw their shoes.

When we arrived at the check-out lane, Siouxsie Sioux was in full Cities in Dust" warbling shrieking meltdown mode. "Sorry," I told the clerk as he gave me a sympathetic look. "We're cranky today. And my 'we' I'm not being cute. I mean, we're both cranky," I said, removing Siouxsie Sioux from the cart before the seat could eat through the flesh of her legs!!! He smiled and continued to look sympathetic as he rang up my purchases.

When he got to my bottle of Three Buck Chuck - if you lived with The Shrieking, you'd thank God for decent cheap wine, too - he asked to see my I.D.

"You're just saying that because I told you I'm cranky and you're trying to put me in a good mood."

He no longer looked friendly and sympathetic. He looked very, very serious. "No, I'm asking for your I.D. because you don't look like you're 21."

I'm 32.5, exhausted, massive dark circles under my six hours of sleep eyes, wearing no makeup aside from a little mascara and tinted lip balm.

You know, he can blow sunshine up my skirt and tell me I don't look like I'm 21 all day, and I won't care because sometimes, that sun feels damn good on my ass.

That's true love, my friend.