The Kitchen-Table Confrontation

I didn't even have time to take my coat off before the tribunal of bourgie b*%#tches started in on me, attacking me for not properly taking care of my 88-year-old Great Aunt.

Betty Boop, the least concerned for Great Aunt's well-being, was the first to attack. You see, 11 days earlier, I had committed an unforgivable sin. I had escorted Great Aunt to Mrs. Battleaxe's New Year's Eve party looking absolutely stunning. Better than Betty Boop, if her reaction was any indication. She had pursed her lips.

Now she simpered, "I didn't like your attitude yesterday."

"Her attitude toward you?" Mr. Sweet Talker asked.

"No, she was fine toward us. Her attitude toward Great Aunt." And Betty Boop began to rattle on about how "mean-spirited" I was.

It didn't take long – probably less than five minutes – for me to completely lose my temper.

"I was asked to come here to look after Great Aunt!" I shouted.

Great Aunt suddenly showered her stubborn, ill-tempered side. "Then go home!" she croaked.

"I will gladly do so," I spat. I glared at Mrs. Battleaxe and Betty Boop and said, "Y'all can deal with this sh*t on your own."

I stormed into my room, with about 10 gallons of steam coming out of my ears.

I could hear Neighborhood Watch signifying from the kitchen. "I always knew she had it in her!" Mr. Sweet Talker remarked that he'd never seen me like this, while Betty Boop kept adding logs to the fire with her catty comments.

When I calmed down enough, I re-entered the kitchen, ready to do battle: "All the sh#t you've been saying behind my back, you can now say to my face!"

I started with Betty Boop. "There are three people in this room who take care of Great Aunt: me, Neighborhood Watch and Mr. Sweet Talker. You and Mrs. Battleaxe are nothing but invisible friends."

Did they think I enjoyed pulling Great Aunt off of bloody floors in the middle of the night? As far as I was concerned, I hadn't received an ounce of appreciation or support from anybody but Mr. Sweet Talker, and I had sacrificed months of my life for nothing.

That's when Neighborhood Watch decided to open his big, loud mouth.

"God, forgive me in my heart if I'm wrong," he began dramatically. "But I believe you slapped the sh*t out of Great Aunt. I don't believe she fell on no flo'! She been drinkin' fo' yeahs, an' she ain' neveh fell till you come around."

I was stunned, furious, upset.

Neighborhood Watch rested his case. "See, you mad now! An' you know what I think that is? 'The truth hurts.'"

I looked Neighborhood Watch dead in the face. "F*ck you."

And since he wanted to talk about the truth, I added, "The truth is, you know in your heart that Great Aunt needs to stop drinking, but you're not going to let her stop drinking, because as long as she drinks, you drink free."

I told them that if this was the thanks I got, I was leaving. And when I left, there wasn't going to be anybody there to notice when Great Aunt left the gas on or put metal pots in the microwave.

Neighborhood Watch grudgingly admitted, "Yeah, Great Aunt do leave the gas on."

Great Aunt responded, "I don't do it every day, do I?"

The bourgie little kangaroo court was beginning to worry that I might pack up immediately, leaving Great Aunt completely unsupervised and a danger to herself.

So on their way out, Mrs. Battleaxe and Betty Boop made a big deal of hugging and kissing me and saying they were so sorry I was so unhappy.

Mr. Sweet Talker whispered in my ear, "They won't even be back, so don't pay them any attention because Great Aunt needs you."

I no longer cared what Great Aunt needed. I needed to move out. Soon.

(Semi-Homeless Diaries Part 4 of 12: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 | Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)

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