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

water bath as soon as I got home. That way it would cook faster and have more time to defrost. He recommended I cook the stuffing separately, and I didn’t argue.
    I stood in line, watching the glazed expression of the other veal as we waited for the financial slaughter. I have a knack for picking the wrong line and, as usual, I waited behind a woman who bore a startling resemblance to that girl from Flash Dance and was trying to pay by check.
    “I’m sorry, ma’am.” The pockmarked cashier didn’t look the tiniest bit sorry, more like bored. “You need to have your driver’s license with you in order to write a check.”
    “But it’s out in the car; can’t you make an exception, just this once?” The pretty brunette in the sky blue spandex and cut-up sweatshirt fluttered her mascaraed lashes at the checkout guy, and I snorted. Like that was going to work. The kid had already ‘ma’am-ed’ her, for Pete’s sake.
    “It’s a store policy, ma’am.” The clerk scratched at an especially deep crater, and I winced in sympathy. If he had nails he was gonna need a blood transfusion.
    The woman worked her wiles a few moments longer, but Crater Face held his ground. Finally, the complaints from the people behind me sent Jennifer Beals out to get her driver’s license.
    Crater Face took his sweet time checking me out and had to call a price check on my parsley. At that point, I was ready to tell him to stuff the parsley where the sun didn’t shine, but the price check came in, and I pushed my cart around the back of the store where I’d left my transportation.
    It wasn’t there.
    I left the cart and searched along the brick wall and around the other corner too.
    Someone had swiped my freaking wheelbarrow!
    I pulled out my cell phone and called the house. Kenny picked up on the second ring. “Mom, where are you? Grandma’s been calling and she sounds real angry.”
    “Kenny, is your Uncle Marty there? Or Dad by any chance?”
    “Dad’s not, but Uncle Marty’s around someplace. Hang on.”
    There was some scuffling and a bit of silence before Marty came on the line.
    “’Lo?”
    “Hey, Sprout, I need you to come pick me up.”
    “You back in the slammer?”
    “No,” I ground out between clenched teeth. I swore I’d never tell him anything again. “My van was dead, and I don’t want to steal a shopping cart, so could you come get me?”
    Marty agreed to pick me up, and I ran through a list of things I had to do once I got home. The pies had to be made as well as the dressing and dip. Laura had sent me a recipe for a cheese filled puff pastry and stuffed mushrooms which I would try as appetizers along with the standard cheese and crackers and veggie platter because I knew the kids and my brother wouldn’t touch the other fare.
    I saw the cloud of exhaust and heard the rumble of an ancient Chevy before I saw Marty careen into the lot. I waved him down, and he pulled in next to me. He rolled down the window, and Marilyn Manson blared as he informed us we’re all stars in the dope show.
    “Damn, Maggs, how many people did you say were coming?”
    “I didn’t want to have to go out again.”
    “You get beer?” Marty didn’t leave the car as I loaded my bags into his trunk.
    “No, it’s Thanksgiving.” I slammed the trunk and rounded to get in.
    “Exactly. Turkey, football games and beer; the mighty trinity of an American holiday.”
    “Neil’s parents are bringing a few of their clients, and I’m striving for a classy dinner.”
    “Fancy-shmansy.” Marty snorted some phlegm and then spat at the window. The now closed window. It left a slimy trail as gravity worked it into the door frame. “What fun is classy anyways?”
    “You are so vile. If Mom and Dad could only see you now—”
    “I know, I’m a worthless scum-bum, but at least I’m not trying to be something I’m not.”
    I didn’t like his tone. “What are you talking about?”
    “You get all uptight around your in-laws and you’re so obsessed with impressing them that you become a total prig.”
    I sucked in a breath. “I am not a prig!”
    “Yes, you are. You’re usually lots of fun, but whenever Neil’s parents are around you walk like you’ve got a two-by-four lodged in your sphincter.”
    “Better a two-by-four than my head,” I retorted.
    “Laundry Hag.”
    “Dork-Nut.”
    “Toilet Scrubber.”
    “Shiftless layabout.”
    “That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” Marty was smug as he turned