March 21, 2003

  • They're rioting in the streets since we started attacking Iraq and Dad can't get away from work until tomorrow, so me and Mom have been home the last two nights quietly enjoying each other's company, watching TV, thumbing through magazines, hemming pants, and occasionally running to the front window to see where the ruckus is.  The news coverage sort of sickens me; I didn't expect the anchormen to have the same nonchalance and camaraderie as if covering the Thanksgiving Day parade.   People are being bombed.  People are being killed.  A huge close-up of an American bomber was shown tilting forty-five degrees, like a big vampire bat.  But I guess a 1940's war dog revival should be expected when old rock stars start singing swing.      


    Yesterday evening we made a kettle of minestrone to go with the surplus of twisted sourdough breadsticks Dad brought back the other night.  All my friends assume that, just cuz my father manages a four-star continental restaurant, we've always had tons of fancy food around, but the perks are far fewer than you'd think.  Not only is the owner frugal and trying to offer the best quality for the lowest price, but Dad always says, "it's a bad example for the employees to see management taking food home.  Next thing you know they'll be stealing us blind." 


    When he presented the breadsticks like a bundle of kindling, Mom cringed, saying, "Honey, you know how I feel about anything left on the tables with all those AIDS-positive homos sneezing all over everything."


    He kissed her.  "Now, would I give my own family leftovers from another man's plate?   These are from the staff dining room.  Don't worry; none of my workers have AIDS.   Are you kidding?"


    I miss Brett so much I can't stop touching myself.