2015

A Suburban Soliloquy
EXTENSION TWO ENGLISH MAJOR WORK
 Tuna-potato chip casserole steamed on Raymond’s plate as his flustered

wife, Lois, found solace in twisting a loose thread on her apron. He stared offensively

at the plate as though a tortured rodent was strewn there. Not surprisingly, the initial

intake of his dinner fuelled an enthusiastic monologue about the booming Chevrolet

Corvette business.

Abstractedly he rambled about the American dream, telling Lois, “You

probably couldn’t understand,” whilst shuffling through the usual talk of Pennant Blue

Corvettes as opposed to the Polo White ones. She smiled, nodded. Raymond

thought very highly of the jingle by Dinah Shore, ‘See the USA in your Chevrolet,”

although, his rendition was well off-key. He looked at Lois wide eyed, bouncing his

head in affirmation of his own statements. Then he looked away, trailed off into the

jingle again and verbalised mental notes about speaking to Frank at work tomorrow

about the business.

Lois interrupted, sweet and nervous, while Raymond steadied, his casserole

balancing on a fork. She put her hand on the table, inviting her husband to place his

hand in hers. He did not. Nevertheless, she informed him of the pregnancy that

Doctor Cowan had just that morning confirmed. His hand confronted hers on the

table and he looked genuinely excited beneath his usual façade of austerity. To the

unfamiliar eye, that delight could be hard to detect.

The prattle continued; this time about taking the boy (or perhaps a girl) to

town in the new ‘Chevy.’ He spoke about Lois dolling up a little and smirked,

congratulating himself on his new idea. Lois was instructed to call the Anderson’s

over for a barbecue tomorrow and her spiralled hair bobbed on her shoulders as she

acquiesced. A hybrid feeling of surprise and relief spun her to the rotary telephone
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and she began tugging the dial. Raymond nonchalantly swung on the back two legs

of his chair and lit another cigarette... hungrily puffing, he mumbled something

inaudibly…

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 I tried to pry a clue from his stiff posture about what he had just requested. I

couldn’t ask, his fleeting excitement and courtesy had been stifled with the next

cigarette. The intuition that comes with my gender, or maybe with my wedding band,

told me he wanted the hot chiffon pie to wash down the casserole and the ephemeral

thrill of his wife becoming more domesticated. I saw right through his fleeting

pleasure. But he couldn’t see through me. I suffer with no moan, just with a bitter

taste in my mouth, a cemented smile and a Betty Crocker cook book.

“Hello? Margaret! Yes, it’s Lois. Yes, he’s doing fine. Now Marge, we want

you two over tomorrow, you and Robert? We’ll have a backyard barbecue. We

have…news, actually” The soprano squeak pinged in my ear. I ignored it. “So if you’ll

bring a dish? Yes, green salad is great. Thanks Margaret, see you and Robert

tomorrow. Yes, ciao for now.”

I imagined a giddy Margaret fumbling with the phone before it settled back on

its hook. I pulled a TV tray from the bench, slapped a slice of pie on for him and put it

on his lap with a touch of levity. I skulked into the cavernous chair that exudes

splendour when Ray sits in it, but feels agoraphobic to me.

“Look, baby is growing already. I see it!”

Ignorant! That’s my casserole, not our child.

He stared at my stomach a little longer. He looked through my apron, through

my skin, and into something his face appeared to love more than it ever has me. I

was the dowdy vessel, merely a tool, allowing him to thrive in the American dream.

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 “But, doll, I have to say. I hope she can cook a better casserole than you,

tonight wasn’t your best work. I think chicken pot pie is your expertise. But hey, if it’s

a boy, I hope he’s not as outspoken as me!” He laughed from his stomach and

settled into a minor fit of coughing.

How is it that he is, so invulnerable and chock full of power? My casserole was fine.

…maybe it was a bit dry.

Cold water stung my face and rollers attacked my white scalp. Spray peppered my

hair and stung my nostrils. I lifted my blouse over my head. The glimmer of pale skin

looked smooth, like the brass cup of a trophy. I tugged a nightie down over my head

and switched out the light.

***

I slithered out of the linen, stumbled into the ensuite and I gently brushed out

each curl to channel Doris Day. Then I pulled on the boxy top and queerly cut skirt

Margaret had coerced me to buy when we went into town last month. Baby blue

matched my eyes; Raymond told me when we first started dating how they danced

when I smiled. Today, I would remind him of that. I whipped up some scrambled

eggs with bacon, sliced up a peach and served toast with marmalade on the side.

It was rather royal the way Raymond walked out into the dining room that

morning. Freshly shaved and smelling of Orange Spice Creed, he kissed me on the

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forehead and then again on my apron. He patted my stomach and whispered “hello

little fella.” He then sat down to eat.

“Do you think the Anderson’s would like fruit punch, Ray? I haven’t made that

in a while.”

“You tell me doll, I’ll just be in charge of the portable Big Boy. He’s in the shed

isn’t he? Do you think we should set him up on the patio or on the lawn? I’ll say the

patio. I can’t wait to put a fire in the grill, it’s been too long since we’ve had a

backyard barbecue Lo!”

“Yes, the patio is fine. I was thinking corn on the cob, some patties… or

maybe charcoal grilled chicken! Instead of burgers?”

“Definitely the chicken. Leave it to me, you just do the simple stuff with Marge

will you? Are they coming at 11?”

“They should be.”

“Excellent. We haven’t got a lot of time, we had a bit of a sleep in! A lazy

Sunday it really is, the doctor’s holiday, hey!”

I suppose it was a sleep in for you. It wasn’t long before he chewed a

cigarette on the back lawn as he tried to remember how to assemble the barbecue,

of course without the instructions. I wiped the benches, peeled the corn husks,

washed the potatoes, cleared breakfast and hardly stopped to notice that my own

nervous palms had tattered my apron’s hem. Two essential hours reduced to

minutes before I heard an automobile door shutting and a yappy voice chew at

Robert’s ear up the driveway.

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 Margaret wore her hair in tighter curls than mine and had a brighter dress

than I. She was very attractive except for an unpardoning large nose and an even

larger voice. She was a real prize. Ray’s mother was exactly like her, so vivacious

yet proper. Robert is the laugh to every poor joke, a people pleaser. He was the only

one who could talk for hours with Ray about the wonder that is ‘Chevrolet Corvettes,’

and still be content with his humble Austin A40. “You can have any colour you want,

as long as it’s black” he always laughs with Raymond. Ray sneers, nearly every

time.

Very quickly, Marge looked natural and familiar in the kitchen. She looked in

place, exactly like the enviable scene you would find on the front of a Lifestyle

magazine. Robert was out on the patio with Ray seconds after greeting me. Guffaws

rolled through the house from the backyard and mindless chatter buzzed in the

kitchen.

“You know Lois. I really didn’t know when you guys were going to, you

know…conceive! You two have been married for nearly a year now, am I right?

Everyone is having babies, my neighbours, my cousins, Donald and his wife from the

corner shop, hell, even my aunties are getting old and having the babies they

previously couldn’t afford! The economy has never been better. Which kind of led me

to think, you might be, well…you know…”

Barren! Shocking, isn’t it? That a young, married woman with a house in the suburbs

might not have a child 9 months from her wedding day!

“Margaret, I didn’t say I was pregnant, you do realise.” I looked out the kitchen

window and onto the green front lawn. The living doll from across the road was

planting seedlings with her four year old daughter.

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I hate gardening.

“I know you didn’t Lo, but logic tells me that you are. Come on! Tell me I’m

right?” She gleamed with cheeks the size of her cockiness. “You had to get clucky

sooner or later, it is only natural for us women! A little secret, if you’d like…Robert

and I are trying for a baby! No such success yet, but we haven’t been married as

long as you two, so nothing to fear! Right?”

I can always count on Margaret to remind me that I am shamelessly struggling

behind the cycle most women worship. Just the same, I can count on her to give me

more information than I even hinted a desire for.

I gave her an ingenuous smile and awkwardly twisted my embarrassingly

tortured apron.

“Let’s get out to our husbands, they’ll be hungry. If you could bring the plate

with the potatoes and corn, oh – and the green salad, then I’ll bring out the punch

and cutlery.” Never phased was Margaret. She didn’t care I had not confirmed my

pregnancy to her, she had done her bit, reminding me that I am supposed to have a

child. So if I’m not pregnant, I should be. Thank you, Margaret!

The punch was O.K, perhaps a bit too sweet. I had cans of Tang in the fridge I

brought out to create a diversion as I took the punch bowl inside and tipped it down

the basin. Ray led the conversation, talking about the usual Chevrolet business and

his suspicion about the local mechanic, Harold, and his wife being ‘Reds.’ Robert

nodded and tactfully fed Ray’s ideas with a spoon of gentle caution about the

severity of such an accusation. Although, Rob was so diffident that Ray presumed

anything he said must be indirectly complimentary to his own words. Margaret

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chimed in sometimes, expressive and bubbly. I remained reserved, wandering if it

would be Raymond or I who would share the news.

I don’t know why I wondered. Of course it would be him!

“Well, you fine people, we have an announcement.” He pulled me to his side

with an obligatory arm around my waist. “I cannot tell you a time I have been

happier.” He paused. “Maybe when the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima just 9

years ago-“

“Ray! Please…be sensitive.” Counterfeit courage made me bold and he was

taken aback. A stern glance rolled down his nose and cast a silence over me. He

had the noxious power of a basilisk!

“Honey, it was completely justified. Our government had the foresight, the

courage, the wisdom and ability to…Anyway, enough of that! He sighed, rolled back

his shoulders, and then smiled, “Alright, maybe, I was last happiest when I made my

wife’s eyes dance for the first time. We were at the dance in town, and I made her

laugh. What was it about Lo?”

“Something about a Bloody Mary…right?”

“Ahh that’s it.” He looked into the distance of the backyard with his hand

around my delicate waist, basking in his American Dream. “Well, this news has

made me just as happy, if not happier than I’ve ever been. Lois is going to have a

baby.”

We, are going to have a baby. I wanted to correct him but I knew the point

was mute.

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 The squawk of a parrot slipped through Margaret’s lips and she threw her

hands in the air. Robert congratulated us both, a handshake for Ray and a kiss on

the cheek for me. Marge let the rest of the neighbourhood know something exciting

was happening on our block through a shriek that could curdle milk. Although, I’m

fairly certain I heard Heather across the road scream like that when her husband

bought her a new Mix Master, so maybe it didn’t brand itself as a “you’re pregnant”

squeal. Margaret followed through with her overly audacious comments as per usual.

“So, do you want a boy or a girl?”

“Well, a healthy child is a good child…” he paused. “And so is a quiet one that

works hard and presents well…” Ray winked at Robert and gave him a playful punch

to solidify the joke. “I will be blunt – I’d love a boy.” I should be shocked. But I wasn’t.

It still hurts. I could almost feel the foetus bury its subjectively loved head in a crevice

of my womb. Ray gave his glamorous grin. “Like I said, in all honestly, this time, a

healthy child is a good child!”

“Yes, well you would want a boy wouldn’t you Ray! Imagine, like father like

son! He’d probably work in the automobile business, just like his father, hey?”

Margaret sparkled when she spoke, knowing that she was saying exactly what his

selective male ear wanted to hear.

“You’re spot on the money Margaret. But, only the Chevrolet business, none

of that Austin rubbish…” he winked at Robert and a comfortable Rob bobbed his

shoulders as he laughed without volume.

“It’s natural to want a child of your own gender, I’m sure! I’d love a girl, fingers

crossed! To teach her to cook and sew, just like my mother taught me. And you’re

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mother would have taught you, right Lo? She was the doyenne of quilting! Rob would

love a boy though I’m sure, to take into town to teach him the tricks of the trade!”

I felt like the eye of a tornado. I was the emptiness from which this egotistic

conversation gyrated. That is the trouble, the eye of the tornado is never applauded

for its stability in the storm. Yet, the ostentatious outer wind is celebrated for its

perfectly performed pirouette.

The bed felt colder and harder than usual. The lace on my nightie felt prickly,

like small cockroach legs fringing my nightgown. I lay awake as alert as the disquiet

in my chest. Tomorrow wouldn’t bring any new notes to this deathless requiem.

Tomorrow demands the routine that polishes my brass bodice and cements the

plaque of ownership to my husband at my base. I’ll get up, powder my face, pull a

sash around my dress and cover it all with a fraying apron. I’ll slice some peaches

and toast some bread. I’ll smile and nod a few times. I’ll clear away the plates and

kiss him goodbye. Then I’ll date the duster for an hour, flirt with the cleaning

cupboard. I’ll wash my hair and make the bed. Just like I am sure Ray’s own mother

did, it would confuse and infuriate him to anything different. Curse the Oedipus

complex.

I will mirror the actions of the day before, as stripped of choices as a thrall in

the Soviet. Is there a point? A meaning? A purpose? Surely, I shouldn’t dare ask

myself these questions, however silently. I must be delusional. My ennui was the

tempting serpent, and I ate the forbidden fruit as I let my neuroses cultivate in

virginal imagination.

I liken this imprisonment to a caged painter, with a canvas in view, but not

within arm’s reach. Will I give birth, possibly to a daughter, in this very same cage?

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The very same damned cage that is cold and uncomfortable and suffocating and

claustrophobic? Or will it be a son, who will have a royal palette in his right hand with

canvases of unimaginable at his fingertips?

“Raymond?” I whispered. I needed to reach out. I waited. He grunted. “I, I’m

not feeling well.”

“It’s just the pregnancy Lois, it happens. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, go to

sleep now.” He cradled himself in the quilt and his eyes fluttered in the final moments

before entering his very satisfied sleep.

We won’t talk about it tomorrow. I know we won’t…maybe it is the pregnancy…

Like most mornings, a maze of hot capillaries spread through my cheeks like

beet juice on a napkin. I wouldn’t enter the living room until powder concealed my

facial woes and my posture upheld the sweet manner of decorum. I extracted

strength from the air and faced yet another day of the life that women from other

lands could only dream of. Yet, I burned with a pervasive discontent for superficial

remedies, confinement, and regularity.

This morning’s meal was waffles with cream and chilled grapefruit. Raymond

always scrunched his nose at the sour grapefruit pith but refused to make a

comment that could be interpreted as a weakness. That was the right thing to do, he

figured. It appears to be a tacit understanding among men to not show any

vulnerability; even if it was only to forfeit his stern facade to a fruit. His own father’s

shoulders never shook, even when his own wife contracted polio and died. It had

given me a shameful dose of pleasure, to observe a slight fragmenting in the

enviable maintenance of Raymond’s own exterior.

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 He marched into the living room, straightening his tie as he glanced around at

the bright décor. Each item of our living and dining room was as modern as we could

afford. Our ottoman chair set combined a royal red leather for Raymond’s and a

sandy yellow for mine. The coffee table was a queer shape but Margaret had

assured me it was in vogue to have awkward thin table legs protruding from the

timber top. I always tried to have a perky bundle of gerberas on the coffee table from

the garden. Our whole living room colour scheme was a fraudulent reflection of our

marriage.

He inhaled the waffles and all that remained was a battered napkin on his

plate. I sulked around in the kitchen as he ate and didn’t immediately sweep his plate

to the basin like I usually would. He stiffened, astonished. Ray saw my eyes set on

the front lawn and he watched my thoughts dripping from my ears into nothingness. I

was unwillingly ensnared by his presence as he asked through obligation with a

vague dash of insolence,

“What is the matter?”

“Nothing, Ray. I’m only tired.” His nostrils flared as a hot exhale escaped. My

only movement was a gentle tugging at the unravelling threads of my apron. I don’t

even know for sure that my heart continued to beat.

“Then I suggest that you polish up your act, Lois. You’re not making this

pregnancy pleasant in the slightest for me.” Then he left. The rubber soles of his

patent leather shoes primly clicked as he walked to the car. He looked smart in his

suit, with small but stylish buttons on the points of his collar.

***
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 Steam moistened the mirror cabinet in the bathroom. I performed a pathetic

striptease in an attempt to make myself laugh.

Nothing.

I was not at all erotic, or humorous. A reflection of a forlorn body stood across

from me. My appearance was undesiring and my movements were artless. The

foggy mirror was the only element stopping even closer scrutiny. I slid into the

shower and the hot water seemed to rob me of the dwindling energy I had reserved

for washing my hair and body. I slipped down the shower wall, the bumps of my

spine grated on the tiles and grout. I collected my limbs in a small bundle on the

shower floor and cradled myself.

The hot droplets turned to relentless cold darts after so long. I shamelessly

slept on the shower floor. It could have been for half an hour, or closer to three

hours. Time seems senseless when one’s mind is as tempered as Lucifer’s furnace.

The most pitiful part, was that the only thing that bothered me enough to get up and

dress was that I couldn’t bear to look at my stomach any longer. I was repulsed by

the warm little home I had made for a child who I did not know that I could love.

***

I couldn’t sleep. Anxiety slowly unstitched the careful fabric of my dignity. My

sweat felt as thick as honey. My heart burned for the hatred I had for my son. Then

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my bones ached for the sorrow I had for my daughter. I peeled myself from the

frumpy mattress and silently shuffled into the living room.

I needed to write down everything for Raymond…or at least someone, to

read. I craved to be understood. No, that’s not so. To be heard. I yearned for an

organ to hail my words. Not even a heart, just an ear, however deaf. It would be

unprecedented. I Imagined, I might even suffer a heart attack, and choke on my own

shock collapsing to the ground in a frail mound. Who’d know I was gone? No one!

That’s the joke! The bitter, hilarious scenario! I smirked wickedly and clawed at the

notepad. I choked a pen with my whole fist and took it to the weak, thin page.

I was a megalomaniac for a moment, a Minotaur for a minute.

I loved it.

“Dear, I DON’T CARE WHO – whoever!

How do I begin to describe this eternal lullaby? I’m feeling malicious tonight. I

don’t often. I mean, I usually feel rancorous, but now I feel absolutely murderous. You see,

my attentive reader, I’m pregnant. Great news!

I’m laughing!

My finite imagination fails to think of worse news for little Lois to receive! You see,

there is the chance that I could have a boy. A little privileged boy, my very superior

Raymond would love that! He was the oldest child of three. All boys! We could create a

perfect modern replica of his own family. But having a boy, is just another shark to add to

the pond, when you look through my lens. The fish will parade around the tank, flashing

each of their scales, showing their domesticity, their cooking skills and their ability to be a

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submissive lover. My son will viciously circle the tank until he expertly picks his favourite,

heroically whisks her to the suburbs and watches her dehydrate.

Do you see, my dear reader? That I’m going to give birth to a monster? I am

unwillingly fostering a perpetuation of this patriarchy. I abhor him.

I need feed him nothing.

How do I go about such destruction? How can I use the same hands that have sewn

quilts and massaged dough, to terminate the cycle of my gender’s subjection? It would mar

these delicate fingers, stain them with defiance for propriety. I couldn’t just do it to him,

I’d have to take myself too. How do I fetter the jumping pulse under my skin?

I have once or twice contemplated killing myself.

Killing.

Myself.

But why would I go through with that? I am not worth such a masterful plan!

Such creativity should not be wasted on stupid, little, Lois. Poisoning a page with such

rebellion is insolent enough.

How do I use this position? I’m screaming through my fingers. I feel like a deranged

opium addict, shamefully seeking a euphoria this cage doesn’t offer. How do you propose I

break from this cage, dearest Ray? Can you help me, my darling husband?

But why would you?

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 You threw the key away.

I can barely breathe, I’m being choked by Freudian worship.

Where do I go from here?

Brilliant light burned the sleep from my eyes. It felt like my skull had melted to

a comfortable shape on the timber table top.

Ten minutes until Raymond wakes up.

I battled to the pantry to pull down my apron and splashed water on my face

over the basin. I boiled water for coffee and quickly wiped down the benches.

Scrambled eggs seemed like the best option; their name was a reflection of the

current situation and my mental state. Then the usual occurred. He hadn’t even

noticed that his wife was not asleep next to him, or at the least, he didn’t care

enough to mention it. He went off to work after kissing my stomach and reminding

me how excited he was that I was going to have his baby.

I tidied unnecessarily to distract myself from the fervent night that was. I had a

short lived romance with the Singer vacuum before it nearly ate the only passion I

had shown in a very long time. The victimised page had landed under the table

during my disgruntled sleep. Fortunately, it had hidden itself from Ray. I would have

been mortified! Although, I am not sure why, whether it was the idea of Raymond

reading the contents, or if he had seen the childish cursive script. I’d already begun

not to care.

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 My eyes darted around the alphabet soup. When read, it was only just more

than a string of unintelligible syllables. Cries for an ear had definitely gone

unheeded.

“Where do I go from here?”

The last words knelled like great brass bells at a funeral. I wanted to crawl

between the hasty black lines of ink until I found the answer hidden in the question. I

imagined myself slinking through the illegible lettering until I reached “here,” curling

myself around the full stop, lingering for an answer.

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 Lois propped the mattress onto her knee. Her blinded hand felt around over

the wooden slats until she gripped the thin photo album. The mattress fell with a

simultaneous thump and expulsion of dust. With a robotic poise Lois walked to the

dresser and grimly reviewed the records of past fatalistic depressions. Each page

detailed numberless miseries. Lois’ posture did not succumb to the page’s terror.

She maintained equanimity as she punctiliously pasted the letter of the previous

night on one of the few pages not already sullied with gloom. Meticulously, she

printed the date: 26th of March 1954. Flipping through the pages, focused eyes settled

on random sections of her historical miseries, like a frog’s tongue would survey

insect larvae.

“Should I be concealing my grades? Some of the girls talk glamorously of Wellesley College.

I don’t deem it fair to harbour such brave dreams, when trends show that I will find a husband to

take care of me.”

“Mother has been spending more time on the weekends with

community ‘do-good -work.’ I don’t know where she goes.”

“Catherine asked mother to hurry up in the shower.

She walked out, trying to conceal tears. The envelopes

of sadness under her eyes gave her away. Catherine said

nothing. I am the most observant sister.”

“I met a man. His name is Raymond. He’s very handsome.

At the dance tonight, he put his hand on my waist and guided

me to the dance floor. We danced to swing music.”

“The murky hues of Saturn’s rings show on mother’s arms.”

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 “The more I observe my parent’s relationship in retrospect,

I realise that it was far more her that took on a masculine role,

she just veiled it with femininity. She was strong.

Father rather just paid the bills.”

“Raymond proposed. I’m thrilled.”

“Ray’s sisters in law helped pick my dress. It is

lacier than a doily. But they tell me that Ray’s

mother wore similar, and that my husband would

love me even more when he saw me in it.

“I’m noticing far less romance in our

marriage than I had anticipated.”

“Raymond enjoys sex with me. It’s without

bother or trouble for him. I feel like an

abandoned, empty vessel after we make love.”

“This is just a comfortable concentration camp.”

“Malaise is mixing itself into all of my recipes.”

“I’m battling with an iron ball and chain every tedious day.”

“I approached Raymond about wanting a child.

He said “I agree, I’d love a son.”

“There’s not a lot of love in making love.”

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“I spent the day on the settee. Ray gave me a stern word.

Internally, I feel toxic. Outwardly, I must look proper.”

“When I end it, bury me alongside my

enemies, Freud and Submission.”

“Where Do I go from here?”

Lois carefully closed the album and slid it under the mattress. The room

smelled of a disturbing distance. She adjusted her posture and prompted her

dimples with a smile. She left the room behind her.

The kitchen light shone vitality onto the dining table where Lois comfortably

pushed and pulled a thin sewing needle through the cotton of her loyal apron. The

petite rose petals that detailed the fabric’s print slowly began to look less as if they

had been trampled by boots near the hem, and more like a nurtured garden. The

delicate science of sewing her apron was a reconciliation process. Lois’ hands

loosened as she sewed, like her fingers were moving with the ebb and flow.

The apron looked proper and proud, gathering at the waist marvellously. It

boasted of indulgence, ostentatiously showing the new shiny satin ribbon tied around

her back. Lois danced around the kitchen with a sweet smile that met no eyes.

“Martha Deane’s Cooking for Compliments” lay open on the bench as Raymond’s

wife spun through the kitchen cooking noodles and grating cheese.

At six o’clock predictably, Raymond pulled into the drive way. With a desirable

nonchalance, he alighted from the maiden voyage of his Red Chevrolet Corvette. He

simultaneously supported his quiff with his left hand as he admired the shining paint

on his car. Lois bounced out of the house with an eager smile and joined the scene

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of an evening television advertisement. She congratulated her husband on the

spontaneity of his purchase and warned him not to wait long outside because dinner

was steaming on the counter. Before he had the chance to light an impatient

cigarette, his fork was shovelling dinner into his talkative mouth. Raymond

nostalgically recalled when his mother cooked casserole and surprisingly

commended his wife on its crunchy perfection. As though she had the mouth of a

ventriloquist’s dummy, her face obediently quirked into a smile. Lois ate dinner, not

hidden by her apron, but supported by it. And hence, another day came to an end

and another tuna-potato chip casserole was consumed at the altar of the American

Dream.

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