Joe, whooooeeey. Good one.

Joe, me likey much!

Here's mine: Talisman.

It’s just a rock. A smooth, tan rock that fits comfortably in my palm. You’d think that it would leave marks from me clutching it so tightly, but it doesn’t. It feels cool. And solid. It grounds me to the earth. But more importantly, it connects me to the others. The men and women with wigs, hats and scarves covering their now-bald heads. I feel the good vibes they imbued into my rock. I need those good vibes while I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I thought about that, Joe. Not in the right mood, however.

Christmas appears to have put me into a rare mood of nostalgia:

Talisman II

He still has the same brown eyes, but his fur is worn off and his jeans have been patched and need more patching. There was a hat and a nametag, but they went by the wayside in 50 years of hard living.

A month before I was born, my parents bought their first television. The salesman, embarrassed to acknowledge my imminent arrival, looked at the floor and mumbled, "These come with the television, and if you don't need one now, you will," as he thrust the toy into my mother's hands. I couldn't say S's, so his name is Bokie.

Talisman drabble

I have always needed talismans. They mark events for me, as if to say, "Yes, this is real, this is yours." They are almost never something traditional, like a piece of jewelry, but instead something from that very moment that they represent.

The Cadillac hood ornament J. and I found on our first date, after his tire blew out on the highway and we walked 3 miles to a phone. The safety pin from running costumes for Brigadoon, which I kept pinned to my sweatshirt for years after the show was over.

If tangible proof exists, then I know that what it represents is real.

Until now. I've finally been able to turn my words into talismans; to say, unequivocally, "This is real, this is mine." The more I've been able to say it myself, to commit it to paper and ink, the less I've needed odds and ends to affirm my experiences.

I create talismans now.

These are all really good drabbles.

There's something telling that I'm ending my year chasing Andy Kaufman. I don't know what it's telling, but it's telling something

Will the Real Steve Rocco Please Stand Up?--Internet mystery surrounds Orange school trustee

I am so about breaking the rules today.

I am posting a not-drabble (way too long!) on an old drabble topic (holiday hell) because this beginning of a short story just appeared in my brain as I was working this afternoon and demanded to be written.

So...here you go.

Not!Drabble: Holiday Hell

Christmas Eve

It is warm outside, and snow isn’t even a question. The palm trees across the street are decked out with lights, oddly festive and evergreen. Sitting outside on the front step of her house in a t-shirt and jeans, she feels a reflexive chill—not that she is cold, but that she should be. Too many years in the Northeast. She still isn’t used to these California winters.

The sun is starting to set and cars are rushing by, last minute shopping trips and family dinners waiting. She imagines where each one is going: the Lexus, on its way to a fancy dress party with champagne and canapés, black velvet dresses and white lights. The Buick spurting toxins into the air is heading to a tiny apartment packed full of people, extended family ready to pinch cheeks and tear open gifts in patterned paper. The guy on the motorcycle is heading to a bar. He hates Christmas. She wants to climb on the bike with him and buy him a beer.

A few years ago, she would have been defrosting the goose for dinner right now. She would have checking the boxes with her name, teasing John about his wrapping abilities and trying to guess what might be inside. It would have been too cold to go outside without a coat, but she would have anyway when she ran up the driveway to the mailbox to check for last minute cards and gifts.

A muffled noise against the screen catches her attention. It’s Pikou, pawing the door and chirping for her to come inside. Who is she to argue with a cat? She pushes herself up, grabs the handle of the door. The movement used to be more fluid. Now she is starting to feel aches in joints she’s never felt before. Age. Still, she presses a hand against the whiptight muscle of her thigh as she moves into the house and smiles. Not everything has gotten worse in those years. Running every day since the divorce has honed her curves, and her, into something harder.

Pikou jumps up to rub against her calf as she walks through the foyer into the tiny living room. A small pile of red and green cards are still sitting on the coffee table, unopened. She wonders how many years it will take before they stop coming altogether if she keeps ignoring them.

The thing she hates the most about Christmas is that she can't escape it. If she could go out and distract herself tonight and tomorrow, it wouldn’t be so bad. The few places that aren’t closed, though, are resplendent in Christmas tackiness. Even the damn bartenders are wearing Santa hats or reindeer antlers. Deck the Halls my ass, she thinks darkly as she sinks onto the couch.

She picks up the tabby and buries her nose in his soft fur. Pikou’s raspy purr vibrates against her lips. It will all be over soon. Until then, she will follow her own holiday tradition. A final kiss and the cat is set aside, the frayed sneakers snagged from under the table.

Time to run.

Can I ask for some beta feedback, when everyone's back from Christmas?

I wrote the "My Turn" piece. It's 965 words, first pass, not edited, and I'd love some feedback.

I could look at it next week, Deb. Right now I'm a prisoner at my mother's and I'm on the World's Slowest Dialup.