THE CASE OF THE ABUSED ARTICHOKE, by Cynthia SabelhausI’m generally a laid-back woman, immune to road-ragers, line-cutters, and the angst of my teenage daughter. But on that hot, muggy Indiana evening at the checkout counter of Meadow Spring’s newest grocery store, I’d met my match. The young cashier bounced to the beat of some tune only she could hear. A wad of gum bulged in her jaw. I was mesmerized by her nametag, attached to the top of her skimpy red dress: MONICA. The tag seemed to vibrate even more rapidly than its wearer.
It had been a long day. I was beginning to have doubts about the promotion at United Indemnity that allowed me to move back to my hometown. I hadn’t counted on the twelve-hour workdays or the resistance from my daughter, Allison. She wasn’t happy about leaving her
