Twas The Night Before Christmas

A woman's perspective

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the kitchen;
I was cooking and baking and moanin' and b.......

I've been here for hours, I can't stop to rest.
This rooms a disaster, just look at this mess!

Tomorrow I've got thirty people to feed.
They expect all the trimmings who cares what I need!

My feet are both blistered; I've got cramps in my legs.
The cat just knocked over a bowl full of eggs.

There's a knock at the door and the telephone's ringing;
Frosting drips on the counter as the microwave's dinging.

Two pies in the oven, dessert's almost done;
My cookbook is soiled with butter and crumbs.

I've had all I can stand, I can't take anymore;
Then in walks my husband, spilling rum on the floor.

He weaves and he wobbles, his balance unsteady;
Then grins as he chuckles "The eggnog is ready!"

He looks all around and with total regret,
Says"What's taking so long.... aren't you through in here yet??"

As quick as a flash I reach for a knife;
He loses an earlobe; I wanted his life!

He flees from the room in terror and pain
And screams "MY GOD WOMAN, YOU'RE GOING INSANE!!"

Now what was I doing, and what is that smell?
Oh darn it's the pies!! They're burned all to h***!!

I hate to admit when I make a mistake,
But I put them on BROIL instead of on BAKE

What else can go wrong?? Is there still more ahead?
If this is good living, I'd rather be dead.

Lord, don't get me wrong, I love holidays;
It just leaves me exhausted, all shaky and dazed.

But I promise you one thing, if I live till next year,
You won't find me pulling my hair out in here.

I'll hire a maid, a cook, and a waiter
And if that doesn't work, I'LL HAVE IT ALL CATERED !!!

Author Unknown

Sent by Santa

Italian Cookies

An elderly Italian man lay dying in his bed.
While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favourite Italian anisette sprinkle cookies wafting up the stairs.

Gathering his remaining strength, he lifted himself from the bed.

Leaning against the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom and with even greater effort, gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs.

With laboured breath. he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen.

Where if not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table were literally hundreds of his favourite anisette sprinkled cookies.

Was it heaven?
Or was it one final act of heroic love from his devoted Italian wife of 60 years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?

Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in a crumpled posture.

His parched lips parted, the wondrous taste of the cookie was already in his mouth, seemingly bringing him back to life.

The aged and withered hand trembled on its way to a cookie at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked with a spatula by his wife......."Back off!" she said,
"They're for the funeral."

Sent by Peter