The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag 00 - Skeletons in the Closet

to indicate the beast was even trying. “She’s dead, Jim,” I muttered in my best Bones McCoy imitation. Murphy and his confounded law had struck again.
    I bashed the dashboard with all my anger at the vehicle’s impotence. My mother used to say we should thank God for small favors and be happy something worse didn’t happen, but I was too behind, and my coma from the night before hadn’t replenished my reserves. A little creative cussing was in order as I gave up on the van and didn’t attempt to pop the hood, because what I knew about cars would fit in Greg the Gym Rat’s jock strap and was just as useless.
    Mrs. Kline didn’t think it was useless. That rotten inner voice was always up for an argument.
    “Shut-up, Self,” I muttered as I looked around for another option. I could walk to the store, but my grocery list was the size of a Chinese restaurant’s menu, and I didn’t think I’d be able to carry everything back. None of my neighbors seemed to be home, and I doubted I would’ve asked for a ride even if they were. I wasn’t ready to cement my reputation as the neighborhood nut case yet.
    Kenny and Josh had abandoned their bikes by the porch, and I eyed them for a moment before dismissing them, due to the carrying problem. I could call Neil and ask him to come and pick me up, but I knew he had an uphill battle with his weenie manager and he may not be able to get the time off. I could call my mother-in-law and cancel the whole shebang.
    I shuddered. No, that wasn’t an option. Okay, what would the pilgrims and Native Americans have done?
    Shopped early.
    I spied the wheelbarrow propped against the side of the house. “Yes!” I cried as my inner voice shrieked No! You can’t push the wheelbarrow all the way into town. What if someone sees you? You’ll look completely unhinged.
    I was starting to think I was completely unhinged as I plopped my purse in the barrow and started off. According to Map Quest, the nearest supermarket was 2.7 miles from my address, but pushing a wheelbarrow that far was no easy task. I saw more than one motorist along the road, eyes like beach balls, nose pressed to the glass. The wheelbarrow was a fight every step of the way—one wheel didn’t for good navigation make—and I had to struggle to keep it on the road. I made sure to stay with traffic, since I didn’t want to get a ticket. No more time in the slammer for Maggie Phillips.
    I huffed along; sure I experienced some of that adrenaline-charged superhuman strength that Neil referred to on occasion. I remembered a story he’d told me about a grandmother lifting the back end of a Cadillac to rescue a trapped child. I wonder what she would have done if her first Thanksgiving with the in-laws was at stake.
    My hands were chafed and raw from the mid-grade wooden handles by the time I reached the market. I parked the barrow around the back of the store and sauntered inside the way a normal person would. I barely suppressed a wince as my hands gripped the shopping cart. A shopping cart would be much easier to push home, I mused, but I had no idea what the penalty for shopping cart theft was, so I released a sigh and dug in my purse.
    It took me a moment to comprehend what had happened. My shopping list was tucked neatly into my cook book, at home, right where it could be the least functional. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to keep myself from imploding on the spot. I was the recipient of more curious glances, but if these people only knew my mother-in-law….
    Standing sentinel in the supermarket wouldn’t get Thanksgiving dinner under way, so I began in produce. A dozen Macintosh apples for homemade apple sauce, fresh thyme and rosemary for the turkey, white and sweet potatoes, onions, turnip, and I was off to the canned aisle. Everything was much more picked over here, and I cringed at grocery store prices for canned pumpkin this close to the holiday. Cranberry, evaporated milk, flour, sugar, brown sugar, I probably had some of this stuff at home, but better safe than sorry.
    My normal efficiency was gone without my list, and I was transported back to my early days of shopping willy-nilly. I was putting off the turkey, since that was a dilemma all of its own.
    A normal person buys her turkey a few days ahead so it has plenty of time to defrost. Maggie Phillips didn’t have that luxury, so I chatted up the meat manager, and he told me how to brine a turkey. I was to set the bird in a salt