Dixie: Mommy, how old are you going to be when you die?
Mommy: Very old. Probably 100.
Dixie, bringing me a calendar: On which day are you going to die? This one?
Mommy: Yes. January 10th.
Melody: Mommy, when you die, do I get a new mommy?
Mommy: Yes, maybe. But she'll be a stepmother, and probably wicked.
Melody: But then I can be Cinderella?
Mommy: Yes. Lots of cleaning and misery. And I feel that I should warn you that there is a severe shortage of fairy godmothers in the Central Texas Region. They aren't finding all that many handsome princes or glass slippers, either.
Melody: But why?
Mommy: It is like most of the other jobs--NAFTA moved them all south of the border. Between that and the unionization of sewing mice, well, I just wouldn't count on it working out for you like it did for her.