Flash 500 Day 7 – Writing Prompts:
Driver of an ice-cream truck
*Warning: This is not a gratitude post.
Mazie’s Thanksgiving Day Tirade
I’m a Southern girl, dammit, and I deserve a little credit. All year long I put up with a life of people night-shopping Walmart in pajama bottoms and fuzzy slippers, eating fried everything, and having everyone call me sugar pie. Today was supposed to be the day that we were different. Classy. It was supposed to be the day that I get credit and praise for working so hard to put on a formal do, pull out all the stops, and design and present a meal that Paula Deen and Martha Stewart would both applaud.
And I think THEY would have appreciated all my hard work. Great Aunt Steele’s tablecloth fit Memo’s old oak table so perfectly, and Grandma Dee Dee’s china and crystal sparkled laid out with Mama Jones’ beautiful silver. When I placed your Grandmamma Fenton’s antique candelabra in the center, lit the candles and laid out the food in our best serving dishes . . . well, It took my breath away.
Finally, a table set for a formal dinner. I was so proud. Still am, actually. Never mind the table sits in a rickety 1970’s trailer because you insist we have to live out in the woods as far from people as possible, “to get close to nature.” It’s more like get closer to your dang still that you thought I didn’t know about. Why I tried to create a formal dinner for someone who can’t even hold down a job as Ice cream truck driver is beyond me.
But I did it so that for one stupid day out of our pitiful lives we could pretend to be something better. And did you appreciate any of it? The perfectly roasted and garnished turkey, the family recipe stuffing, or the perfectly browned marshmallows on the sweet potato casserole? Did you comment on the tastiness of the green bean casserole, the fluffiness of the hand-mashed potatoes or the perfect smoothness of the gravy? No.
As usual, you refused to carve the bird, like the man of the house should, ate like a prisoner at the county jail, and then hauled your lazy ass up from the table, belched and wandered off to the den to watch football and scratch your crotch. All that was a disappointment, to be sure, but then you just had to go and do it. You just had to top my miserable work cleaning up the mess you made of that lovely tablecloth by hollering, “Bring me a beer, sugar pie.”
What? Maybe that grunt I just heard was you being thankful and appreciative for all my hard work. Well, it’s a little late to start trying to thank me now. It just wouldn’t seem sincere now, would it?
I do hope you’re comfortable, settled in on Memo’s old table. I tucked your favorite sofa pillow under your head so you don’t get a crick in your neck. And don’t worry about that beer. It’s taped to your hand, with the good duct tape, so you can always find it. I think we’re going to save this day after all. I have to admit I was pretty pissed off about you not carving our holiday bird. But I’ve decided that’s okay. I’ve gotten really good at carving.