Day 13: Commissary

I SO do not want to be in jail. I've told my family to make sure they don't tell anyone where I am. I wake up every morning KNOWING that this is the day the court realizes the mistake and lets me go home. Unfortunately, that hasn't happened yet. I am allowed to make phone calls daily if we have time out of our cells. I call home at every chance, and beg my husband to get me home.

I refuse to write letters with the envelopes that can be purchased at the Commissary because the return address is stamped on it as being a letter from someone in jail. There's NO WAY my children will ever receive a letter from their mother with a jail return address. Actually, I have refused so far to order anything from the commissary. They sell candy, lemonade mix, cookies, other foods, and personal products. We aren't allowed to have our families send us anything other than letters. I feel proud that my drinking cup is my only real possession, and if monks can live with only the basics, so can I. Besides, in my mind, I can't plan to be here permanently since I will be going home any day now. Right?

Oh, hell, who am I kidding.

I finally broke down and put in an order for commissary. It takes three or four days for the products to be delivered. My roommate has been kind enough to lend me shampoo, but I decided I'd better order my own, seeing how I am still here and haven't gone home yet. I also ordered numerous packs of peanut butter crackers since I am unable to eat the 'food' they serve. And some candy. And cookies. And crackers. My reasoning? Even though I will only be here temporarily--VERY temporarily since I'm sure my husband and attorney will get me out soon, I may as well enjoy the 'finer' things of life while here. (See, that's sarcasm. Companies only donate their expired and old and dried-up products to a jail's commissary.)