Mr. President, I Don't Love You1
Cool It, Or I'll Go Nuts
Rolling into town for the holidays, distant relatives start hounding me about tying the knot, popping out kids, and pitching in around the house.
The working stiff in me fires back, "Why the rush? Might as well have the Grim Reaper nag you too."
What's this? A wife's gotta be a saint, and a girl needs to be a docile workhorse.
I don't give a damn.
With a few sharp words, I zipped every gossip's lips and pushed them back by miles.
Dropping the pretense, I've been living on cloud nine.
——
"Jessie, can't you see all the ladies busy in the kitchen? Such a blind spot will keep you single forever."
Just as I opened my mouth, Mom subtly squeezed my hand.
Choking back my reply, it's the same circus every Thanksgiving.
Guys loafing around, puffing cigars, guzzling beer, boasting about peanuts, all armchair quarterbacks for national affairs.
While the ladies tirelessly keep the wheels turning in the kitchen, all to preserve the men's pride.
Grandma in the kitchen grumbles, "Marrying off to a woman who can't pop out a boy, my son must've walked under a ladder, stuck with a dud."
Mom reminds me we only come here once a year, no need for drama.