On Strike for Christmas

Chapter 1 Glen Fredericks slapped the back of his last departing Thanksgiving dinner guest. "Good to see ya. Thanks for coming." "Hey man, great time," said the mooch. "Thanks for having me." "No problem. We'll do it all again at Christmas," Glen promised. Behind him, Glen's wife, Laura, suddenly envisioned herself going after her husband with the electric carving knife he'd used earlier on the turkey. "In your dreams," she growled. She stepped around Glen and shoved the front door shut. Having made contact with a hefty male hind end, it didn't shut easily, especially for a woman who was five feet two and a hundred and nineteen pounds, but she managed. "Hey," Glen protested. "What was that all about?" "You need to ask?" Laura gave her overchewed gum an angry snap. He did this to her every year, and every year he promised that next year things would be different. But they never were. "Mama, Tyler's in the frigerator," called five-year-old Amy. Laura marched toward the kitchen, Glen trotting after her. "Today might have been your idea of fun, but it sure wasn't mine." No woman in her right mind would volunteer to have her house turned into the city dump by the invasion of family, friends, and Thanksgiving freeloaders her husband had invited into their home. Before the invasion, this room had looked great, decorated with little gourds, cute ceramic pumpkins, and her two prettiest vases filled with mums. Now everywhere she looked she saw a mess. CDs lay scattered on the floor in front of the entertainment center. Her new leather couch was littered with a plastic football, Glen's socks, magazines, and an open can of nuts (half-spilled). Glasses and bottles were strewn every which way across her coffee table. The little hand-painted, wooden Pilgrim couple that she'd set out on the sofa table now lay on their sides as if taking a nap, not that you could really see them anyway in the litter of napkins and appetizer plates and other party leftovers. And it was hard to ignore the towel on the carpet, evidence of an earlier wine spill mop-up. People said you shouldn't have cream-colored carpet when you had little kids. Well, people were wrong. She managed to keep the carpet clean just fine with two kids. It was Glen's moocher co-worker who was the problem. And, of course, Glen had been too busy yucking it up to tell her about the spill. She discovered it only when she stepped on it in her stockinged feet. "Come on, babe," he protested. "It's the holidays, and it only comes once a year." "It's a good thing because it takes me a whole year to recover. In case you didn't notice, Glen, we've got two children, a big house that I clean, and I work thirty hours a week." Before Glen could reply they heard the distinctive crash of a dish breaking followed by a startled cry. "Oh, great. Now what?" Laura muttered, and picked up speed. She found Amy hovering near the doorway, a golden-haired cherub. "I told him not to," Amy said, already the bossy older sister. Behind her, by the fridge, stood two-and-a-half-year-old Tylernickname, Tyler the Terriblewhimpering. At his feet lay a fluffy pile of whipped cream fruit salad, broken shards of ceramic bowl sticking up through it like mountain peaks through the clouds. Laura walked over to where her son stooRoberts, Sheila is the author of 'On Strike for Christmas ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780312370220 and ISBN 0312370229.