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| de sade, overtime pay, drunk naked, hush!| sons and mothers, marquis de sade, pissed about, journalblog journalspace, video, mom fucking son, great names, family, showbiz, safety hazards, | I ask. We continue opening cabinets, pulling out drawers, finding sorry excuses for side dish presentation. No one has seen Jean. I am trying to arrange slices of butter inside a coffee mug. "Use this," my mother thrusts a tea saucer in my brutal direction. "Wait a minute . . ." My mother brutal gets the look. It's the same look I've seen in her eye many, many times, including the day years ago when she chased Jean around brutal the living room with my baton. She crosses the kitchen and opens the back door; she must have seen them through the window. "Jean Marie! Do you mean to tell me that you have the gall to hide out here smoking while we all rummage around your kitchen trying to put Thanksgiving dinner on your table!" She is standing on the back porch along with my nephew, Jason, and Zack. They look confused. "Ma. We're not doing anything WRONG! Sorry if I wanted to smoke a cigarette after cooking that whole dinner all morning." |
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| . . These are the treasures!" She holds out a cardboard box full of earth-covered rocks. "Well, I know what you're getting for Christmas this year, Lindsay," Greg chimes in. "It's coming journalblog journalspace straight outta the backyard." The man of the house, journalblog journalspace my brother-in-law Lee, is shouting things like "Bird's good and dead!" and "Hey, Bird, didn't you play for the journalblog journalspace Celtics?" which inevitable turns into "He shoots, He SCORES!" We take it as a sign that the turkey is ready to go on the table. In the kitchen my mother, my sister Peggy, and Lee's sister Laura are all looking for serving dishes to put the potatoes in, the stuffing in, the squash in, the turnips in, the creamed onions in. I have been given table-setting duties. No one can find anything she needs. "Uh, hey. Does anyone know where Jean keeps her wine glasses?" |
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