2006-04-24
sandwiches for dinner
Mama was making sandwiches for dinner. I watched her pull a loaf of Butter Bread out of the freezer. She stores everything in the freezer, including our ant-ridden baked goods, in case they spoiled and we caught a flesh-eating virus or mad cookie disease.
"I hate sandwiches," I told her.
"Make something yourself," she said.
"What about this leftover pot pie?" I asked.
"Fine. Put it in the microwave for two minutes. Push 'cook control' on the left," she told me.
I said, "Cook control is on the right." (Mama always gets her lefts and rights mixed up. It's actually kind of funny).
She stomped past me and pressed temp control, which was (just like I'd said) on the left. I giggled and she started yelling.
"You think everything is a joke. Are we done with this?"
"Done with what?" I asked.
"Go to your room."
I said, "Fine."
I wanted to tell her, "I did nothing all weekend and school is tomorrow and I hate eating sandwiches for dinner."
She was always mad at me for the most pathetic reasons.
She was always complaining about how tired she felt.
Later, I came out and saw Mama emptying the dishwasher, sliding every knife and fork into the proper slot in the drawer, which was divided by a stupid plastic tray.
I asked her, "What day is your birthday?"
She said, "I don't know." I asked again, thinking she was joking, and she said the same thing. So I laughed and said, "Everybody knows when their birthday is."
Mama flipped the tray upside-down, dumping all the utensils on the counter. The clatter made my teeth ache.
She made me clean up the mess.
f-i-n at 12:28 p.m.