Holiday to do list:

Holiday Eating Tips (I don't know who wrote this but I think its good advice!)

1. Avoid carrot sticks. Anyone who puts carrots on a holiday buffet table knows nothing of the Christmas spirit. In fact, if you see carrots, leave immediately. Go next door, where they're serving rum balls.

2. Drink as much eggnog as you can. And quickly. Like fine single-malt scotch, it's rare. In fact, it's even rarer than single-malt scotch. You can't find it any other time of year but now. So drink up! Who cares that it has 10,000 calories in every sip? It's not as if you're going to turn into an 'eggnog-aholic' or something. It's a treat. Enjoy it!!!! Have one for me. Have two. It's later than you think. It's Christmas!

3. If something comes with gravy, use it. That's the whole point of gravy. Gravy does not stand alone. Pour it on. Make a volcano out of your mashed potatoes. Fill it with gravy. Eat the volcano. Repeat.

4. As for mashed potatoes, always ask if they're made with skim milk or whole milk. If it's skim, pass. Why bother? It's like buying a sports car with an automatic transmission.

5. Do not have a snack before going to a party in an effort to control your eating. The whole point of going to a Christmas party is to eat other people's food for free. Lots of it. Hello?

6. Under no circumstances should you exercise between now and New Year's. You can do that in January when you have nothing else to do. This is the time for long naps, which you'll need after circling the buffet table while carrying a 10-pound plate of food and that vat of eggnog.

7. If you come across something really good at a buffet table, like frosted Christmas cookies in the shape and size of Santa, position yourself near them and don't budge. Have as many as you can before becoming the center of attention. They're like a beautiful pair of shoes. If you leave them behind, you're never going to see them again.

8. Same for pies. Apple. Pumpkin. Mincemeat. Have a slice of each. Or, if you don't like mincemeat, have two apples and one pumpkin. Always have three. When else do you get to have more than one dessert? Labor Day?

9. Did someone mention fruitcake? Granted, it's loaded with the mandatory celebratory calories, but avoid it at all cost. I mean, have some standards.

10. One final tip: If you don't feel terrible when you leave the party or get up from the table, you haven't been paying attention. Re-read tips: start over, but hurry, January is just around the corner.

Remember this motto to live by:

'Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming 'WOO- HOO what a ride!

~Happy Holidays~

A Short Story to Nowhere

In Pigwell, time is not measured by days or weeks but by the number of eighteen wheelers that drive past my house. When I was five I thought they were kind of neat, like big dinosaurs that would roar past at all hours of the day or night. At ten I found them annoying. They were noisy, imposing giants that encroached upon the peacefulness of our small yard while I sat in the garden reading. By the time I was sixteen I longed to travel with them. I’d stare at them from the front porch and wonder what it would be like to see any place that wasn’t Pigwell.
I was on the front porch that hot July night trying to read as another truck roared past. I sat up to watch, pulling my wilted cotton blouse away from the sweat that covered my chest. New Jersey in August was as close to Hades as anyone could ever get.
The eighteen wheeler was white with long teal stripes down the sides. The word ESCAPE was written in bold pink letters. It looked neat, cool, and in control. Contrary to this hot, putrid sweat box I called home. Here there was no capacity for control or even the illusion of anything cool and neat. Home was a war zone and everyone looked out for themselves. Regardless.
I watched that pristine truck roll past on its mission from heaven. Going to see places that were far away from this pigpen of a town. Away from the bruises and pain that lived in Pigwell.
ESCAPE.
“You Bastard!”
“Stop, just stop.” That was my father. My mother was the one screaming profanities.
ESCAPE.
“It’s after seven. Have you been screwing around on me again?”
“Rosie, no. You know, I never—“
ESCAPE.
“You think I’m stupid?” Mom asked, right before she started throwing things. She broke the sugar bowl last week when I was too slow to do the dishes, she flung the ketchup bottle at daddy when he left his shoes in the living room two nights ago and we were down to three plates and two bowls. What ever she was throwing in there might just be the last of our dishes. I could imagine eating straight out of the pots for the rest of my days.
“Son of a Bitch!” More breaking glass.
ESCAPE.
I looked to the sky, then my gaze drifted to the woods beside our shack. The shadows were already filling in between the trees casting ghosts in their wake. I didn't like the woods at night, but it was my usual hidey place when my folks went at it. Especially when the night was as hot as this one. Sweat rolled off your back like drool off a Rottweiler. The woods had a cool dirt floor with trees to absorb the August heat. Usually I’d find a bower of leaves and lay out with my book until the house noise quieted and it was safe to return. But at night…
Another series of crashes from the kitchen and I thought of the white truck with the teal stripe.
ESCAPE.
“Rosie, stop—“ My father was a small, mousey man and not one to stand up to my mother. His voice was more of a plea then an order. Even though he was my favorite parent, most of the time I hated him for not having a spine. He never defended himself or me from the monster. A definite wimp, but the lesser evil in our home and I knew he loved me. Daddy was the one who tucked me in when I was little and made sure I was well taken care of. He was more of a mother then the woman who gave birth to me.
My mother was strong in every way. Language, body and temper. Most of her days were spent downing bottles of beer and she was usually half in the bag when Daddy got home. The woman struck first and asked questions later. She never apologized as no matter whose fault it could have been, she was never wrong.
Suddenly, it was quiet. The screaming stopped and all I could hear was some soft shuffling from somewhere in the house. I went back to hide in my book. Just another night in the land of pigs.
“Darla?”
I chose not to answer. Maybe she didn’t know I was out here. I looked to the woods again and regretted not going when I had the chance. When it was ghosts verses monsters, I’d take the ghosts every time.
“DARLA!”
I counted. If I got over thirty there was a good chance she had forgotten about me or passed out.
“DARLA, DAMN IT!”
With a heavy sigh I closed my book and looked to the road. I thought again about those eighteen wheelers and wondered where they were going. As I got to my feet, I thought, I had to get out of this place.
ESCAPE.
“Get me another beer, will ya?” My mother was sprawled on the couch, remote in hand.
ESCAPE.
My heart stopped as I entered the kitchen. The refrigerator door stood open and every glass jar inside was smashed on the floor, but that wasn’t what scared me. Olives, pickles and artichokes were smooshed in the broken glass along with streaks of dark red...blood? That stretch of crimson trailed across the kitchen floor. A smear, a drag.
“Daddy?”
The beer bottles stood untouched on the bottom shelf. Carefully I tiptoed over the mess and peered out the back door. The yard was empty. I came back and snagged a bottle of beer when I passed.
“Mom? Where’s Daddy?” I approached the couch with caution handing over the beer.
“Bastard! Do you know what he did?”
The image of mess and blood glared bright in my mind’s eye, a vivid picture of food and gore, “Is he okay? I can’t find him.”
My mother’s dark eyes lifted to stare at me. “Your father is a lying cheating bastard and that’s all you have to know.”
Her black eyes held no emotion and immediately I knew it didn’t matter if my father was hurt. All that mattered was what she thought he did to her. They had a name for this kind of crazy.
When I headed out to hide on the front porch again, she called me back.
“Clean up that mess, will ya? Your father is useless.” She cackled, a hysterical laugh that ended in a belch.
At the door I tried again, “Do you know where Daddy went?”
Another cackle as she stared at the TV. I wasn’t sure if she was laughing at my question or the show.
After cleaning up the mess I was sure it was blood. The color, consistency, it had to be blood. I looked all over the house without finding my father. His car was still in the driveway and I seriously doubted he was at the neighbor’s. After all the screaming and violence that went on in our house most of the neighbors kept far away. A short nod and half hearted wave was all we could hope for. I went back into the kitchen with cold dread clutching at my stomach. Sinking into a chair I noticed more blood on the other side of the table, toward the door leading to the basement.
“Daddy?” A nervous descent into the bowels of the house showed nothing. Although the basement was a jumble of boxes and old furniture, there was no sign of my father.
“It wasn’t that much blood.” I whispered as I prowled the basement. “It just looked like a lot because of the juice from the olives and stuff, right?”
I was on my way back up the stairs when I spotted him. Curled up in a ball beneath the stairs.
“Daddy?”
Moving closer to the stairs I knelt down and put a hand on his shoulder. I shook him and his head lagged, flopping off his arm onto the cold concrete with a damp thud.
“Daddy?”
A cold shadow fell over me as my mother came down the stairs, beer in hand, sneer creasing her lips.
“Get the shovel, Darla.”
I was afraid to look up. My eyes were locked on my father, taking in his bloodied head and ashen features. The word “dead” hanging in my brain as my voice cracked. “Daddy…”

At midnight I dug the grave out behind the shed. Daddy was wrapped in the shower curtain, lying just a few feet away. Mom said that all the neighbors should have been in bed by then so it was a good time.
“Make it deep,” she sipped her beer as she sat in a lawn chair just off to the side.
“Is this good?” The muscles across my back ached, one shoulder felt like it was going to pull out of the socket if I lifted one more shovelful of dirt. And my father was dead. That wimpy, spineless man that I loved more then anyone else in the world was but a cold lump under that plastic shroud. We should have run, gotten away from the monster before it came to this.
, Daddy. Why didn't you take us away while there was still a chance?
Mom stood and peered into the hole. She drained her beer and tossed the bottle in beside me. “No.”
More digging. And when I finally climbed out of the hole Mom was smiling. She had another beer in her hand and her words were slurred as she staggered over to the hole to inspect it.
“Well, I guess dissh is a fitting end for the bash-tard.”
As I sagged back into the lawn chair, rubbing my sore hands together there was a rustle off to my side. Turning I watched my father stagger to his feet. Stunned, his name caught in my throat and I couldn’t move.
“Maybe we need another foot.” My mother swayed drunkenly over the hole.
Daddy blinked, taking in the shovel, the hole and my mother standing over it. One hand went to his head, coming away sticky with blood and rage flared in his eyes. Suddenly, he grabbed my mother by the hair and wretched her backwards. Drunk as she was, my mother had the insanity to bring her beer bottle up over her head and down over Daddy’s right eye. The end broke off leaving ragged red rips across his face. Together they crashed to the ground, mom on top. She flipped over and, straddling my father, she used the broken bottle to slice his throat.
I didn’t think, didn’t know I was moving until my shoulder screamed as I lifted the shovel above my head and brought it down as hard as I could across the back of my mother’s skull.
ESCAPE.
The road out of Pigwell had no streetlights, but dawn was breaking when I finally saw the first eighteen wheeler heading my way. I stood on the shoulder, one hand raised into the glaring headlights.
“Where ya heading?” The meek looking man was small of statue and reminded me of my father.
“Out of Pigwell.”
ESCAPE.
THE END.

STRESS & Therapy Season

I'm in clay pot heaven!
Stress! Work! Shopping! (which makes me sooo dizzy!) Cooking! Baking! Pain & PT! Shipping packages! God save me from the post office!
I really needed therapy.... so I started painting. First it was just to make a pretty little pot as part of my mil's gift. Then I figured I'd just do another...and another...and another... and I'm still going. Painting has lifted my mood so much that the stress is easing and now there might just be a possiblity that I'll survive this season.
What do you do for stress relief?

This ever happen to you?

You're tooling along. The writing is flowing, words are beautiful and then the dog jumps up and lays her head on your keyboard. You try to push it off before she types a row of skdfhjdxzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, but you never make it in time. Or worse yet she depressed the "Page up" button and suddenly you have no idea where you are.
You shove the dog off...repeatedly....until she finally leaves and then the other dog, awoken by the confusion comes over. This one decides its time to load the dishwasher. (Yes, she loves checking out all the dirty dishes at eye level) Its like her job. So she sits and barks at you. You get up to see if she wants to go out, needs a cookie, check the water dish--turn around she's standing in front of the dishwasher---waiting.
"I'M NOT DOING THE DISHES NOW!" Sheesh!
Get back to your writing, try and find the flow again and-- "YAP! YAP! YAP!"
"NO, GO AWAY!"
Reread the last paragraph...where was I? "YAP! YAP! YAP!"
"NO!"
Words, where are the words? They were here a minute ago.
"YAP! YAP! YAP! YAP! YAP! YAP! YAP!" Paw rakes down the leg.
"OUCH! NO! GO LAY DOWN!"
Get three words down. Hit the delete button, that stinks...where are those beautiful words that were here five minutes ago? I had it. Knew exactly where it was going...
"YAP!"
The dog is deaf. The paw is poised and ready to strike. I have no choice but to go finish the dishes now.
Dishes done, deaf dog happily sleeping at my feet while I play a few very important games of Spider Solitare...