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29 Things I Did Not Do Last Weekend

Feet up relaxing

Screw the To Do List.


That’s my motto, or it would be if I made To Do Lists. Because guess what:


To Do Lists are not legally binding.


However, they are enforceable.


Just ask any woman who has another adult living under her roof. Especially a life partner. Non-performance may result in evil stares, passive aggressive grunts or under-the-breath invective spewing.


Should her other head-of-household remain out of compliance with To Do obligations- obligations which are literally spelled out in black and white –his or her personal property is at risk of destruction, and divorce becomes a distinct possibility.


That my friends, is why living alone is the best.


The B.E.S.T best.

Santa Envy or What the Reindeer Know about Holiday Parties

Christmas Cocktails

Sweetside Productions Presents:

How to Put the Ho Ho Ho

in the Holidays

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Chapter 1:

Santa Envy or

What the Reindeer Know About Holiday Parties

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Laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose…


Do you have Santa Envy?   I do.   Now, nobody can begrudge the man his elves; he needs the help.   Plus, Clausco must pay premium wages; how else to explain voluntarily living on the North Pole, even in this economy?



Certainly, Moms, PANKs* and women the world over have no need to be jealous of Santa’s massive toy-making operation.   We are Christmas alchemists; we turn wish lists into memories.


Perhaps with the right boots, tailoring and attitude, rocking the vintage red-velvet pantsuit could be fun.   Still, it’s more likely to raise eyebrows than awaken the green eyed monster.


The merry dimples and Santa’s cheeks like roses would save thousands on make-up over a lifetime—a lifetime that, by all accounts is,  enviably long.   Yet, none of that is what I covet for Christmas from the chubby guy.


I want his power to dash away, dash away from all.

What To Do If Jessica Lange Is One of the Voices in Your Head

My Imaginary American Horror Story.

I survived torment not unlike Coven and Asylum- an all-girl Catholic High School filled with nuns and teenaged witches. My curse as an adult is an imagination capable of magnifying a glimmer of light into a disembodied eyeball peering through a second story window.

I am afraid of the dark. Things that go bump in the night terrify me.

Jessica Lange is one of the voices in my head.

What’s a scaredy cat to do?

Get a dog.

I haven’t had a pooch-free day since the 80’s. As a result, unless my insomnia attacks me, my mind rests rather easily most of the time.

One dark and stormy night, (because every horror story, imaginary, American or otherwise, needs thunder and lightning), an explosion of glass blasted me and both dogs out of our collective snoring and dreaming. We froze, three huddled masses beneath a make-shift shield of sheets and blankets.

“Go see. Go, go see.” I whispered vehemently, trying to rile Samantha and George, my Boxers, into storming the front-door.

Go see yourself, their faces said back, without so much as a muscle twitch. We all stopped breathing as well, to listen for clues about the intrusion.

I didn’t hear anything. More to the point, I didn’t hear anyone. If a prowler was in the house, I reasoned, the dogs would go crazy. They would bark incessantly and viciously at a strange person, I was convinced.

At that moment, as they hid under the comforter, I had to wonder if my certainty was misplaced.

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