Ella has bigger things to worry about than choosing a lunchbox, like wooing her one true love.

Listen, lady. Michelle is it? I'll just call you "Mom." Anyway, I don't know how things were done way back in olden times when you were at daycare, but no one, I repeat no one gives a rip about what lunchbox they carry to daycare, or even what they carry in their lunchbox for that matter. As soon as the teacher turns her head, we're all going to trade juice boxes and fruit snacks anyway.

So if you want me to carry the one with the frogs, great. If you think the whale is much more my speed, stupendous. I could even get down with the groovy pink one or the one with the guitar and peace sign. Why? Because I really couldn't care less. While you're off at work patting yourself on the back for the gourmet crustless PB&J you packed in my blue monster or one-eyed Easter-egg-looking-thing lunchbox and matching bag, I'll be sitting cross-legged in the story corner, cozying up to the new kid.

That's right. Bruce Tucker. 3-feet 2-inches of boyish good looks. With eyes like the Caspian Sea and raven hair as black as a … well … a rav … you know what, let's just move on. The point is, he's a super cutie and I plan to make him mine.

I've got it all worked out. He's really into those wooden blocks. So I'm going to wait until he stacks them real high, and then I'm going to smack them all down. Might even bop him over the head with one. I haven't decided yet. Either way, I think he'll get the point. I'll probably be engaged by the end of the week. So do us all a favor and don't spend too much money on that octopus pirate or racecar bag and lunchbox combo. You and Tim, I mean Dad, are gonna have a big wedding to pay for.

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