St. Paddy’s Day is around the corner, and we’re so over the same tired traditions that get trotted out every year. Green beer, corned beef and cabbage, shamrock shakes, yadda-yadda-yadda. Where’s the originality?
This year, think outside the boozy box and delight your alcoholic friends with these epic Irish Car Bomb Jell-o shots. Treats worthy of St. Pat himself.
Move over, Bethenny Frankel, and take your Skinny Girl swill with you. There’s a tastier, stronger low-cal cocktail company in town. And P.S.: The makers are better-looking than you too.
The dudes at Miami Cocktail Company are now plying the 305 with their zero-sugar, zero-carb, 99.9 percent natural piña colada and old-time sweet tea concoctions. Dieting never tasted so good.
She was cold. Cold and she was tired. It was all his goddamn fault. He’d always kept the thermostat at an uncomfortable 55 degrees, and the chill in the air wasn’t helping keep her movements stealthy.
She padded along the wall, heading towards the kitchen where she knew he’d be propped up on a stool, sipping a beer at what was once “their” center island.
This moment was a long time coming. After all the bullshit; the money woes, the unsatisfying sex, the cowardice he displayed in dealing with her issues. The divorce filing was the last straw. How DARE he leave her in the lurch after her diagnosis? The deadbeat couldn’t provide for her in any other capacity, the least he could have done was stand firm for moral support. Was she supposed to suffer the humiliation of hospitalization without a husband by her side? She wouldn’t stand for it. He was the one who deserved to suffer. Not her.
If only she’d known he’d turn into such a loser, she would have blown the asshole off for that late-night cocktail by the bay and saved her youth for what would have surely been a better prospect. Young and stupid she’d been. At the time she’d found his quiet softness charming. Intriguing, even. Now she just saw weakness.
The pure, primal fury she’d felt at the news of the filing had been enough to fuel a wicked escape. The only casualties were the two first fingers on the right arm of a nurse’s aid and a ground floor windowpane. It was easier than she’d expected.
She snagged a golf club from the garage on her way in.
He sat silently in the kitchen, as he did most every night. She’d made his life a living hell – that much was true, but it wasn’t pleasure he was feeling, just an odd emptiness. It was certainly a more peaceful prospect than he was used to, he thought, and God knows he needed a little peace. But was this all he could expect? Was this what he’d been waiting for?
The past 13 years had been an endless stream of mood swings, broken dishes, raw scratches and bitter tears. Battered husband? HA. No one would believe such a thing. Besides, what kind of man can’t handle his own wife, they’d say? They would stare with squinty eyes, glaring at his bruises, whispering about his lateness, pitying his lack of backbone. But no one suspected she was capable of such things, and he’d been forced to struggle silently with her demons.
He’d tried at first, when the little hints turned to obvious alarms, but she was adamant about refusing help. She was fine, she claimed. Just a little moody, a little passionate. Nothing that couldn’t be handled. So he was the one who bore the brunt of her cataclysmic rages and despondent moods. He cleaned up her messes; fabricated her excuses – kept the outside world believing she was a-ok. And she could always fall back on the charm. People loved her. He had loved her. But lately, it had grown to a … even he couldn’t cover up. And then the hospital. And the cold hard truth that came with the diagnosis. She still refused to believe it, but he knew. He’d known all along, and finally, it wasn’t his secret to keep anymore.
He turned it over and over in his mind – the finality of what he’d done; the reality of moving on without her. Was there anything he’d miss? He alit upon the question, curious to ferret out his own thoughts and feelings – something he’d adeptly avoided for more than a decade.
A sad smile crossed his face as it struck him: He would miss her. Shit, he was just as crazy as she was. Did they share a twisted symbiosis? Would he wither and die without her?
But the moment was fleeting, and before he could delve deeper into this surprising chasm, the first blow came.
This was her moment. Eyes dark, she slid her fingers along the club after the first hit. Not the most graceful weapon, perhaps, but damned if it didn’t give her some primal pleasure swinging it at his head, she thought.
After the first major blow, there wasn’t much room for conscious thought in his addled brain. But shit, he thought as darkness overcame him, this will make one hell of a headline. And then thinking ceased altogether.
She stood over him, a puzzled look on her face. She supposed she had done the right thing. He was gone and she was free. No more nonsense or flaccidity to deal with. She’d shown him.
Funny though, she thought as she stared at the huddled mass, it was his softness that had won her over that first night. They’d sipped Manhattans and he’d peeked at her with that fleeting smile. And now what was left of him was that very softness, in a pile on the floor, ringed by red pools staining mottled tiles.
Watching the blood seep silently, the panic came upon her. Without his steady presence by her side, would she survive? What was she without him? The terror rolled in sharp and deadly, and she gasped at the immensity of her realization.
She stood wavering a moment, then slid quietly down beside him. They can fetch me here, she thought. She would welcome the drugs; the hospital bed; the quick forgetting. But for now, they would have a little rest. It’s been a long 13 years, after all.
Childhood should be a time of innocence, joy, and wonder. But for generations, toy-makers have tortured impressionable children with the likes of terrifying playthings that would strike fear into the heart of Chuck Norris himself.
One such toy, the Furby, is making a modern-day return to toy-store shelves. (We weep for children everywhere.)
In honor of the furry little freak’s plan to creep out a whole new generation of wee ones, we’ve procured a collection of the scariest toys from our childhoods that would make even Superman shudder.
Hurricane season is officially upon us. And just because we’ve lucked out every year since ’05 doesn’t mean we’ll escape 2012 unscathed. In fact, Mother Nature is probably jonesing to hit us with a little corporal punishment.
As a South Floridian, you’ve no doubt been inundated with how-tos on storm preparedness — so we won’t re-hash those details. You know how to stay alive by now. Instead, we’re here to advocate preparedness for another, equally important tempest task: the hurricane party.
The stated purpose of this (mostly) Southern tradition is in large part to consume all perishable goods. But that’s not the real reason people come together in scary storms. Is there any better reason to party than the prospect of impending doom? Frankly, there’s no better time to booze it up and bond with friends than during a disaster when no one has to work and the Internet is down.
JB Inc. believes in bucking the trends. The concept: Forget the status quo. “Best practices” is a tired cliche. Start fresh. Don’t follow the trends – create them. Use the incredible fluidity of the web to create new standards of excellence.
The result: A boutique agency with the sole purpose of mentoring organizations to build creative, intelligent and innovative web programs. Our mission is to educate and develop thought-leaders in an effort to better our economy, environment and create a better, more integrated world for the next generation.