place glue

10..You get a threatening note made up of letters cut out of a magazine with pinking shears, and they’re all the same size, the same font, and precisely lined up in a razor-sharp rows.

9..That telltale lemon slice in the dog’s water bowl.

8..On her TV show she makes a gingerbread house that looks exactly like your split-level, right down to the fallen-over licorice downspout and the stuck half-open graham cracker garage door.

7..You find your pet bunny on the stove in a exquisite tarragon, rose pedal and saffron demi-glace’, with pecan-crusted hearts of palm and delicate mint-fennel sauce.

6..The unmistakable aroma of potpourri follows you even after you leave the bathroom.

5..You discover that every napkin in the entire house has been folded into a swan.

4..No matter where you eat, your place setting always includes an oyster fork.

3..Twice this week you’ve been a victim of a drive by doilying.

2..You wake up in the hospital with a concussion… and endive stuffing in every orifice.

..and the NUMBER 1 Sign You’re Being Stalked by Martha Stewart…..

1..You awaken one morning with a glue gun pointed squarely at your temple…

Part of my friend’s job as a technical writer is to help produce the company newsletter which goes to their clients. He was asked to come up with a list (ala Letterman’s Top Ten List) of funny things one can do with Thanksgiving leftovers. He applied my head-bone to the problem for an hour and we came up with this list.

Seal them in concrete and call it a time capsule. Send it to the Smithsonian with instructions to
open in 2096.

Mix some Elmer’s glue into the mashed potatoes and use as spackle.

Flatten stuffing with rolling pin and bake until hard. Sell to local lumber store as press/compound board.

Stick broccoli and celery sticks in potting soil and display as rare and exotic bonsai.

Liquefy leftovers according to colors. Sell as organic finger paints.

Mix whatever doesn’t sell and repackage as vitamin-rich energy juice.

Carefully separate bones, dry thoroughly. Practice making Indian bone necklaces.

Form mashed potatoes into replicas of ancient urns and vases. Use sweet potatoes for a dash of color and to create authentic aging marks.

Whittle turkey ribs into reusable toothpicks.

Refrigerate and save for when your least favorite relative comes for dinner. Serve a dazzling dinner, and afterwards offer to make a doggie bag for her/him. Stuff the thanksgiving leftovers in the doggie bag instead.

Pile them all on one large platter and sculpt into likenesses of famous performers.

Use as practice ammunition for that all-important Christmas food-fight at your brother’s house.

Freeze in little bags and save for Halloween next year. Hand them out as prizes for “least-tasteful costume” and “oldest trick-or-treater.”

Feed the turkey to your least-favorite neighbor’s dog. Sell gas masks to the neighbors at inflated prices.

Blend all leftovers thoroughly, pour into a plastic garbage bag. Put in a bus station locker. Call FBI with a tip on Jimmi Hoffa’s resting place.

Glue olives, celery sticks, etc. to create clever and whimsical figurines. Sell at local craft fairs as Christmas ornaments.

Estimate dollar value of leftovers and send to IRS as “payment-in-kind” like the fishermen do.

Secretly freeze selected leftovers. When needed, defrost and mix in a little water. Make gagging, hurling noises then display as evidence to your parents that you are too sick to go to school today. Won’t work if your name is Ferris Bueller.

Go for a long walk in forest with brother or sister. Drop little bits of leftovers as you go. When the witch in the candy house tries to cook you, follow your trail back home.

Put leftovers in boxes and wrap with festive holiday paper. Leave on the sidewalk for slow-witted, unsuspecting criminals.

Seal into foil bags and label them “Gourmet K-Rations.” Sell to the U.S. Army.

Place into cylindrical containers and sell to the Army as biological weapons.

Mix with water to make a broth. Serve as “Potluck Surprise” at local church dinner.

Stitch turkey skins together, stuff with sweet potatoes, sell as organically-created hackysacks.

Day 1.
Just celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary with not much to celebrate. When it came time to reenact our wedding night, he locked himself in the bathroom and cried. Wussy.

Day 2.
Today, he says he has a big secret to tell me. He’s impotent, he says, and he wants me to be the first to know. Why doesn’t he tell me something I don’t know! I mean, gimme a break. He’s been dysfunctional for so long that he even walks with a limp.

Day 3.
This marriage is in trouble. A woman has needs. Yesterday, I saw a picture of the Washington Monument and burst into tears.

Day 4.
A miracle has happened! There’s a new drug on the market that will fix his ‘problem.’ It’s called Viagra. I told him that if he takes Viagra, things will be just like they were on our wedding night. He said, this time, I’d rather not have your mother join us. I think this will work. I replaced his Prozac with the Viagra, hoping to lift something other than his mood.

Day 7.
This Viagra thing has gone to his head. No pun intended! Yesterday, at Burger King, the manager asked me if I’d like a Whopper. He thought they were talking about him. Get over yourself! Not everything is about you! But, have to admit . . . .

Day 8.
I think he took too many over the weekend. Yesterday, instead of mowing the lawn, he was using his new friend as a weed wacker. Sore as hell. . . .

Day 10.
Okay, I admit it. I’m hiding. I mean, a girl can only take so much. And to make matters worse, he’s washing the Viagra down with hard cider! The photo of Janet Reno isn’t working. What am I gonna do? I feel tacky all over . .

Day 11.
The side effects are starting to get to him. Everything is turning blue. The other day, we were watching Kenneth Branaugh in Hamlet and he thought it was “The Smurfs Do Denmark.” Even my armpits hurt. He’s a nasty man.

Day 12.
OK, I’m basically being drilled to death. It’s like going out with a Black and Decker power tool. I woke up this morning hot-glued to the bed.

Day 13.
I wish he was gay. I bought 400 Liza Minelli albums and I keep saying ‘fabulous,’ and still he keeps coming after me! Even yawning has become dangerous . . . .

Day 14.
Now I know how Saddam Hussein’s wife feels. Every time I shut my eyes, there’s a sneak attack! It’s like going to bed with a scud missile. Let’s hope he’s not like ex-President Bush and takes 100 days to pull out. . . I can hardly walk and if he tries that “Oops, sorry” butt-thing again, I’m gonna kill him.

Day 15.
I’ve done everything to turn him off. Nothing is working. I even started dressing like a nun. Now he tells me “Sister Wendy” makes “Father Woody” want to bark like a dog. Help me.

Day 16.
I think I will have to kill him. Then he’ll go out the way he wants to - stiff. With my luck, I won’t be able to close the casket. I’m starting to adhere to everything I sit on. The cats are afraid of him and the neighbors no longer come over. Last night I told him to fuck himself; he did. He must die.

My father was in the fertilised egg business when I was young. He had several hundred young layers, called pullets, and 8 or 10 roosters whose job was to fertilise the eggs. My uncle kept records and any rooster or pullet that didn’t perform well went into the pot and was replaced. Now this took an awful lot of time. So when my uncle saw a set of eight tiny bells that each rang a different tone he promptly bought them.

He glued a piece of foam rubber to each clapper shaft so the bell wouldn’t ring except when violently shaken. He hung a bell on each rooster’s neck and went and mixed a Mint Julep. Now he could sit on the porch and sip while filling out an efficiency report on the roosters by listening to the different tones of the bells and marking down each encounter. My uncle’s favourite rooster was old Brewster. Brewster was a fine specimen, but his bell didn’t ring all morning. Uncle went to investigate.

Several roosters were chasing pullets, bells a-ringing. Brewster had his bell in his beak so it couldn’t ring. He’d sneak up on a pullet, do his job and walk on to the next one. Chagrined at first, Uncle was soon so proud of Brewster he entered him in the county fair.

Brewster was an overnight sensation. They not only awarded him the No Bell prize but also the Pullet Surprise.