Christmas

There are no words to describe how pathetic it feels to hear your mom say, "Put some of that Christmas gift on his commissary."  I didn't even know what commissary was until two weeks ago.  (For those of you fortunate enough to be oblivious to jail terminology - commissary is like an account that inmates can use to buy items like snacks, phone cards, etc. to have while their in jail.  Kind of like when parents put money on their kid's lunch account at school.)

The bad part is that I really don't even want to put any of the money on his commissary account.  He's wasted so much of our income on doctor visits, prescriptions, non-prescriptions.  I just want to go shopping.  I know that's selfish, but, good grief!  Mama needs a new pair of shoes.  Seriously - my tennis shoes are falling apart.  And a new pair of boots would be nice.

I know he can buy phone cards to call me with his commissary account, but I know he'll probably spend it all on junk food.  Especially if they have ramen noodles.  He loves those.  Yuck.  It's like those kids who blow all their lunch money on snacks, then they have to eat the gross ham sandwich.  They have a thing in the cafeteria where the lunch lady can restrict their snack buying privileges.  I wonder if I can do that in the jail.  "I'm sorry, sir, your wife said you can only buy phone cards with the money she sent."  I'm sure that would go over REAL well.