Apologies (1999)

by goatgirl

The Turkey Back Meat Frozen Spinach Special

by Mamaspitfire

Shreds of greasy cold meat hung from my fingertips. I sat perched at the kitchen table, scrounging dinner from a leftover Thanksgiving turkey, all it's golden glaze stripped from it as the holiday feeling slouched forgotten into the background. Knobby bits of bone jutted out, stark white under the hanging lightbulb. Yuck. The meat was cold, practically frozen, and my fingertips ached from the cold and scrape of flesh against bone. Scraps of turkey meat were jammed under my fingers, and the scent of poultry fading fast hit me in the nose. Totally fucking gross.

“What's for dinner,” my oldest daughter chirped, weaseling her way under my arm. My youngest daughter closed in just as quick, echoing, “Yeah, what's for dinner?”

I sighed. “Turkey Casserole.” I paused, looking at the frozen green block dripping in a colander in the sink, bracing myself for the worst. “With Spinach.”

“EEEWWWW!!!” Both girls scrambled from my arms and ran shrieking into the living room. Typical.

I heard the side door open. My husband struggled to get in past the veritable wall of small children and jumping dog blocking his way into the kitchen. He gave around hugs and kisses and made his way over to the kitchen table where I was sitting. “Hey sweetie, how was your day?” he asked, falling exhausted into the torn vinyl chair across from mine.

“Well, you know,” I paused to flip the turkey over so I could get to the back meat, “work, work, work, kids, kids, kids. The usual.” I grimaced as I hit a pocket of oozing yellow fat. The kids rode past on wooden stick horses, yelling something about having to get to the castle in time for the ball. “How was yours?”

“Don't ask.” He bent down, tugging impatiently at his shoelaces.

“That good, huh?” I wiped my hands on the dishcloth next to me. “Did you get a figure on the car repairs at the garage?”

He rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket. He handed me a folded up piece of yellow receipt from the garage. I read the scrawled handwriting and started to feel faint. “Sixteen hundred dollars! You gotta be fucking kidding me?! It might as well be sixteen million!” I tore back into the turkey with a vengeance. “We're totally fucked!”

He took the paper back. “I told you not to ask.”

My eldest popped her head into the kitchen doorway. “I heard you say a bad word,” she sang sweetly.

“Sorry,” I said, as I plopped a handful of turkey carcass into a white tupperware bowl.

My husband snickered. “Hah hah, you got in trouble.” He slid his shoes off. “Hey, what's for dinner anyway?” he said, eyeing the turkey bones skeptically.

“Turkey Casserole. With Spinach.” He grimaced.

“Don't even start,” I admonished, “It'll be fine.” Our eyes met over the table, and we busted out laughing. “Well, shit,” I said, “there ain't nothing left in the house anyways, and the food stamps don't come in 'til next week. If you're too proud to eat turkey back meat, you can starve while we eat this delicious meal I have so generously prepared for you ingrates.” He doubled over, cracking up. I swatted him with the dirty dishtowel.

The girls danced into the room in pink tulle raided from the dress up box. “When's dinner gonna be ready, we're hungry!” they chanted in unison.

“In just a few minutes--jeez, didn't I just give you a snack?” I retorted impatiently as I began to mix the turkey and spinach together in a casserole dish.

My husband pulled a pack of Camels out of his pocket. “You got time for a cigarette while that--er--magnificent meal cooks.”

I shot him a look. “Yeah, maybe if you were helpin' instead of flapping your mouth, being all useless and shit.”

He came up behind me and kissed my neck, rubbing my shoulders with firm strokes. “What,” he whispered, “I am being useful.” He slipped his hands under my shirt, slid his fingers under my bra. I shooed him away and looked back at him, trying to be stern.

“The children have to eat, mister man.” I set the oven temperature to 325 and put the casserole dish inside. He came in close, and nibbled on my ear.

“I know something we can eat,” he said, rubbing up against me like a cat with an empty food dish. I sniggered.

“That's real hot talk there buddy,” I laughed, “That's how you get all the ladies and the big bucks too, huh.” He persisted, sliding a calloused hand over the seat of my jeans. I slapped at it, and sighed.

“Alright, just hold on a second.” I checked the kitchen clock. The casserole would be done in twenty minutes. I walked into the living room. The girls were curled up on the floor, playing Legos, whisked away to some magic land where moms cook steak every night and never swear. They were so engrossed in their play they didn't see me, watching their matching brown heads bent close together, listening to their little girl murmurings of imaginary places far beyond the reach of the adult world.

“Hey, ladies,” I interrupted, “Dinner should be ready in about fifteen minutes. Daddy and I have some things to…talk about…do you want me to put in a movie while you wait?”

“No,” they said in stereo, barely looking up. It must be very exciting in Kidland today, I thought. I walked back into the kitchen, where my husband sat, eyeing me from across the room.

“Okay stud,” I said smiling, “but it's going to have to be a quickie.” He jumped up and grabbed my hand, pulling towards the bedroom. I giggled. We flung ourselves onto the bed, rolling around, fumbling with our clothes. He kissed the hollow of my throat, and then pulled away laughing.

“What?” I said exasperated, “You know, we don't have much time--”

“I know,” he said, “But--”

I pursed my lips. “But what?”

He paused. “You smell like turkey!” We both started howling with laughter, clutching at our bellies. When we had calmed down I glanced over, and saw sixteen peer out of the eyes of the man I had been with for ten years. I climbed on top of him over a tangle of faded sheets and brought my face close to his.

“You’re gonna pay for that, mister,” I murmured as our lips touched. In a flurry of rumpled bedcovers and sweaty skin, I came so hard I almost didn't hear the oven timer going off.

All the Other Little Girls

by Branded

The rain poured down as Ruby tried to light a cigarette under the cover of the umbrella, failing miserably as big grey plunks of raindrop covered the cigarette, disintegrating it into flakes of mush in her hand. Damn. The bus was late. Again. The teachers always frowned disapprovingly every time she hustled little Alex through the peeling green doors of the nursery school at half past nine, a half hour later than the approved drop off time. Every morning, she would put on her best mom voice and try to get her and her little girl into suitable clothes, which meant both weather appropriate and clean—a virtually impossible task. After much tearful argument about wearing skirts in the winter, Ruby would make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, and then debate with her five year old over the breakfast choices of toast or cereal with milk. And every morning, no matter how successfully she accomplished this magic act and got them to the bus stop at half past eight, the city bus would be unfailingly late, particularly on the coldest and dampest of winter days.

Well, she thought, at least Alex is keeping herself occupied. For once. The little girl danced in the rain, in a banana yellow slicker and shiny red galoshes. She could hear the sound of the street grit crunching underneath Alex’s heels as the little girl sang, off key, of course, sailing, sailing, over the ocean blue… Damp blonde curls struggled to escape the confines of the plastic yellow hood, and the hems of her little corduroys were wicking the wet up from the cracked sidewalk, spreading dampness up to her knees. What are they going to think of me sending my child off to school like this, she wondered, craning her neck out to see if she could see the face of the bus coming up the street. No such luck. The November sky seemed to be laughing at them, pissing down great buckets of wetness down from its cloudy face.

Ruby turned back to her child to see that Alex was now engrossed with a particular puddle, running her tiny pink fingers back and forth through the brown water and murmuring something under her breath. “What are you doing!” she snapped impatiently, “you’re getting filthy!” She paused. “Well…filthier than you are already.”

“But moommmeee,” Alex whined, “I was talking to the other little girl. She’s on a big boat in the water. She said hi and…”

“No buts,” she said. Jesus, did I just fucking say that? What a classic momism… “Why don’t you come and get under the umbrella until the bus gets here?”

“But the little girl, she’s gonna sail away without me, we were playing!” Alex turned her back on her mother and directed her attention back to the puddle. “Look there she is!” She pointed a grimy finger down to the mud puddle. The ripples of murky water bounced back Alex’s wan face, stretched to carnival proportions, its reflection shaking with each angry plunk of a raindrop.

She sighed. When the fuck is the bus going to get here, I don’t have the patience for tantrums this morning. “Sweetheart, that’s just your own reflection. Why don’t you stand here with mommy under the umbrella where’s it’s nice and dry? I’m sure the bus will be here any minute.”

“You’re lying! She’s real! I heard her talking!” Alex burst into tears, and stood there, weeping under the bus stop sign.

Poor thing, she must be freezing. Ruby put an arm around Alex’s shoulders. “It’s okay sweetie, I believe you, I just don’t want you to get any wetter—oh look honey, the bus is here, let’s get your backpack ready—oh shit, where did I put my pass…” She fumbled around in her coat pockets, pulling out pennies covered in mushy pocket lint as the bus screeched in front of them, the darkened windows flashing slower and slower past them until the bus came to a complete halt.

Alex looked up at the bus, tears forgotten, her face beaming up at the row of square windows. Ruby smiled down at her and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “See, I told you it would be here any minute, now come on, it’s our turn to get on…”

“Look mommy!” Alex pointed her hand at the bus’ huge glass windows, each casting dim grey reflections in the morning light. She bounced up and down in her little red boots. “Look at all the other little girls!”

Ruby peered up at the dirty white bus and its rows of mud caked windows. The sun began to elbow its way through the dim sky, and rays of light glinted off of the few clean spots in the glass. She caught a glimpse of herself and Alex in one of them. They were unkempt, rain soaked, with Ruby’s tall reflection wavering next to Alex’s smaller one, the light bouncing off of her shiny yellow slicker. Alex was grinning and humming under her breath, and she looked up at her mom expectantly. “Do you see them do you see them!” she squealed.

Ruby bent down and kissed Alex’s forehead. “Yeah,” she said, “I do.” She smiled. “They’re beautiful.” She squeezed Alex’s hand. “Now come on, let’s get on the bus, we don’t want to be late for school.” She paused. “Well… later than we are already.” They disappeared into the bus, taking their reflections with them.

Some communities, you say, ‘Hey, American dream,’ and they go, ‘What does that mean?’

Source: FDCH Political Transcripts, “George W. Bush Participates in Manchester, New Hampshire Welcome,” Oct. 5, 2002

First, let me make it very clear, poor people aren't necessarily killers. Just because you happen to be not rich doesn't mean you're willing to kill.

—President Bush, speaking about terrorism and poverty

Source: Public Papers of the Presidents, “The President's News Conference With President Macapagal-Arroyo of the Philippines,” May 26, 2003

We've got pockets of persistent poverty in our society, which I refuse to declare defeat—I mean, I refuse to allow them to continue on. And so one of the things that we're trying to do is to encourage a faith-based initiative to spread its wings all across America, to be able to capture this great compassionate spirit.

Source: Federal News Service, “Remarks by President George W. Bush Re: Small Businesses Location,” March 18, 2002

The more money they have in their more pockets — in their pockets, the more likely it is that somebody will find work.

Source: Federal Document Clearing House, “George W. Bush Delivers Remarks to the GOP Resort from the Greenbriar Resort,” Feb. 9, 2003