“Yes, I put alcoholic drink recipes in all of my Roxy Belle books for children,” I quipped. I do not put mixed-drink recipes in my children’s books. “It’s important that my seven-year-old readers know how to make a mai tai.” It is not important.
She chuckled. “You’re faster than anyone I know. It’s like alcohol is magic in your hands.” She waved her hands at me as if casting a spell. “You’ll make extra Christmas money.”
“I don’t want the money.” Claws took a jump off the bed, paws out as if he wanted to fly. Sir Scott followed. Daredevils.
“Then buy toys for the kids with it.”
“I will.” I would. Kids should have new toys and clothes and coats at Christmas.
My mother started working when she was twelve and hasn’t stopped. Back then, she had her own babysitting business. She also made flavored frozen ice pops and sold them to other kids during summer. This was in addition to the work that she and her six sisters did out on their parents’ farm, about fifteen minutes from her country home now.
They milked cows, mucked out barn stalls, took care of horses, drove tractors, bailed hay, and learned how to can fruits and vegetables, bake bread, clean a home, and cook for their large family. They had enough to eat, they had a lot of love, but they did not have much money, so all The Sisters were very entrepreneur-ish. They still are.
Their parents also instilled in them a very important lesson: Help others.
Hence, the coat drive and the Christmas show to raise money for kids.
“I have decided what I’m going to title the Christmas show this year,” Mom said, settling back down. She adjusted her white robe. Even exhausted, her uterus stolen, she was stunning. Men years younger than her still ask her out.
“What’s the title?” I cringed. Lord, what would it be this year? Every year, there was a new title. Clever, risqué, and funny.
“Lady Whiskey’s T and A Christmas Burlesque Show.”
What?“Oh, for heaven’s sake. No, Mom. Please. A Christmas show called Tits and Ass?”
“Young lady!” Mom slapped my hand. “How could you think that? It’s T for Christmastinsel, and A is forAllI Want for Christmas Is Santa.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
“We’re going to call it T and A?”
“Yes. It’s very clever.”
“I’m not sure ‘clever’ is the word for it.” I closed my eyes for a sec and put my hand over my heart.Oh, dear heart, relax. “I only have a fuzzy understanding of what a burlesque show is.”
She explained it to me. Basically, it’s the usual singing, dancing, comedy show, along with magical acts with fancy costumes dripping with an abundance of feathers, boas, towering headdresses, sparkles, sequins, fishnet tights, 1920s-style shiny flapper dresses, high heels, and funny hats.
“You need to get right on T and A, honey. Make a sign-up poster for the bar. Make it pretty, with a Christmas tree, and tell everyone to start thinking about their Lady Whiskey’s T and A Christmas Burlesque Show performance.
“Email everyone, get your team together to help you organize and decorate. Other towns have boring pageants and choirs that put everyone to sleep. Not Lady Whiskey’s! We put people onstage dressed in full-on elaborate and outlandish Vegas-style costumes, and we make ’em sing, dance, play instruments, and tell bawdy jokes! All for the children of Kalulell!” She thrust her arms in the air. “Jingle Bells!” she declared. “The show must go on, even without my porcupine prickly uterus!”
I placed my palms together in front of me, closed my eyes, and breathed. Four breaths in, hold for a count of four, four breaths out. Repeat. I needed my serenity rocks. I needed my good-luck heart charms.
Mrs. Books climbed into my lap next to Petunia. She understands anxiety.
“In the name of Santa, dear girl, what on earth are you doing? Praying for a sleigh? Hoping a reindeer takes you for a midnight ride? Contacting an elf?”
“Very funny, Mother. I’m trying to retain my calm. I’m inviting peace in. I’m finding the tranquility within myself to withstand—”
“Oh please! Take all that psychobabble and toss it. Get ready for the best burlesque show this state has ever seen. Tell everyone to keep most of their clothes on. There should be little nudity. We are a family-centered business.”
“We own a rowdy bar. It’s not family centered. I will make sure there isnonudity. This will probably be the only burlesque show Montana has ever had, so I’m sure we’ll be the best.” I wanted to crawl under the covers and hide with my cats. “I’ll start making plans and lists. I have to or my nerves will take over, and I’ll get all jittery, and I’ll want to complain to Santa, and what good would that do?”
“That’s right,” my mother said, fists in the air. “There’s the Christmas spirit, baby! Santa does not want to hear drivel. He has enough to think about at this time of year. Have you been naughty or nice this year, Bellini? I hope it’s naughty!” She winked at me, then held out her arms for another hug. She smelled like vanilla and cinnamon and rose perfume.
I sighed and hugged her. I was now officially caught up in my mother’s Christmas whirlwind. I would need a lot of elves to help me.
