Her lair lies deep within a canyon of San Francisco's East Bay. Where only a recent murder and her despised current husband lay.
At this magical alcohol-fueled time of the year, she blows into town on a cloud of vodka vapor, with family members running away from her in fear.
Behind the wheel of her over-priced Toyota Prius, she exceeds the speed limit weaving in and out of traffic, as if she were fleeing a Whole Foods going-out-of-business panic.
Screeching to a stop in our driveway, the Wicked Witch of the West, pounds on our front door, and yells out, "Hellooooooo, it's meeee."
Carrying her Trader Joe's eco-friendly cloth bag, she stomps the mud off of her Birkenstocks in my entry hallway. She shares back-handed compliments and passive aggressive taunts for all. And exasperatingly exclaims, "This house is just way too small."
Bringing bright shiny gifts that she dug out of the bottom of her kitchen junk drawer. She hands her teenaged grandchildren prizes that aren't appropriate for any child over the age of four.
Her rudeness knows no bounds, as she then rifles through my pantry and complains that a good organic spinach fettuccine cannot be found.
Regaling us with her adventure stories of Alaskan Cruises, Irish Pubs and middle-aged yoga instructors named Miguel. I can't help but think I'm in the inner circle of Dante's Hell.
Yes, she is the Wicked Witch of the West. And as she leaves, she turns to me, her only daughter-in-law, with a twisted boozy smirk across her lips, declares, "I'll get you my little pretty, I'll get you yet!" Hahahahahahaha!
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