The Family Dinner--page 1

The Family Dinner
By Soniah Kamal

"The housekeeper's been hired fulltime," I told Mike over dinner. My friend Noreen found out she was pregnant the day before and after five miscarriages she wasn't taking any chances.
"Good for them," Mike said swallowing his spaghetti and hushing me with a wave of his fork. Fox News was on, and of course even I concede that new developments in auto theft crimes are more crucial to our life than what I may have to say: I mean if we lose the car, we're screwed. But Mike doesn't like the tone of voice in which I tell him this, and I don't like it much either but that doesn't change the fact that we couldn't afford a housekeeper were I ever in the same predicament, and so I'm glad there was no chance of that.

When I met Mike I'd never really given kids much thought.
"You have four sisters, Paula," he said one evening twirling the ringlets of my hair around his forefinger, the silver ring with the garnet he wore flashing through my hair like a red eyed fish through honey glazed water.
"So what Sweetie?" In those days I was so soft spoken I'd surprise myself.
"Isn't being an Aunt supposed to be much more fun?"
"Yeah," I said. "Like being single." I leaned over to kiss him, but he sat up, his slim feet sliding in their thick white socks like planes on the runway of a vinyl coffee table.
"Seriously," Mike said, "all of the coo coo stuff without the shit smell or snot or other nasty solids or fluids."
"Don't you want children?" I sat up too.
He bought his feet down solidly on the beige carpet. "No".
"Okay, me too." I smiled and snuggled back down. That was that. No sleepless nights. No loss of figure. No scrimping our whole lives for a college education kids might not want after all. No kids.

My sisters have a hard time understanding this. I don't know why, considering they're always bitching and moaning about how they have no life, and how by the time they'll get time to have a life, it'll be time to let the kids live life. I swear thanksgivings are one long grumble. I'm the star at these family dinners though, fresh and chirpy, come as I do laden with gift baskets (an assortment of herbals teas, multi-vitamins, and lotions I purchase over the year as soon as they hit the sale bin at the health store I've been working at since high school).

I love my job. The employee discounts are great. I can afford organic produce at every meal and high quality food brands. We employees get to goof off when Ellen, the manager, isn't watching, and if she catches us we get to bitch her out, and that just makes for great camaraderie amongst us. There are three part time positions with an unbelievable turnover rate, no surprise to anyone who's ever wondered why we never remove our Help Wanted sign.

Julia and I work full time. We've both been at Wise Health well over ten years, not that we got a decade bonus or anything special. However Ellen did take us out to dinner which was very nice, even if we did end up at Hooters since they have the best chicken wings, although it did seem more because it was just across the street. (Ellen's got these gigantic bunions on all her toes which makes walking very tough. Nothing in store has helped much but she's got faith, and she's begun reading Deepak Chopra which, if we believe some customers, is the real deal).

The day Noreen applied for a job was one of the coldest in Boulder we'd had so far that year. It was snowing and windy and gray, and reminded me of the winter days in the Scrooge and Tiny Tim TV movie specials. Noreen walked through the glass doors, which I take special pride in keeping stain free, in a bright red coat, and I thought, shitty kitty she doesn't look cold at all while I'm standing in here freezing with the heater on. I quite expected her to anoint a cart and begin circling our four aisles without a nod in my direction, she seemed the type with her perfectly applied magenta lip pencil and chestnut scarf glinting against her gold dangly earrings. Instead she glided to the register counter, rubbed her gloved hands, and said,
"It's freezing out there. Can I please have a job application?"
Why, I thought, she's one of us. I beamed. She beamed right back. I almost told her to save the grin for Ellen's benefit, but then decided against: it felt good to be grinned at, and anyway, one day I'd make manager, for sure, so may as well practice being grinned at like a maniac.
"Hey," I said, "What do you think of this Deepuck Chop-ra Indian guy?"
I picked the book Ellen had tucked under the counter and flashed the chubby author photograph at Noreen.
"Don't know," she said. "I'm not Indian."
"Really?" I said. "You could have fooled me."
"I'm from Pakistan."
"Where's that at?"
She proceeded to explain in the kindest of ways (not that I got it, but I nodded anyway and thanked God that my existence did not depend on the knowledge of remote geography) and, since kindness is a quality I value in all peoples I was pretty pleased when Ellen hired her on the spot.

This is what I appreciate about a career in sales: I get to meet lots of people and since everyone in the world needs to buy something, sooner or later I'm going to meet the whole world. (We had one of those Nigerians walk in the other day, now that was an experience. Ellen and I could follow her without having to move on account of her headgear rearing over the aisles though she spent most of her time in the diabetic section. She smelled of hot cider and her teeth were so white, as if she took really good care of them- I told Mike it didn't look like her country was the one Fox News always featured in their Disastrous Regions, and Mike said it sounded like I was, for once, right).

The thing with meeting people from all over the world is that I have to be very tolerant, and that's not an easy thing especially when it comes to odors. To put it simply Noreen reeks. She's a human skunk. Ellen asked her to tone it down but Noreen said No, on account of that being discrimination. You'd think Ellen had asked her to remove her nose ring or wipe off her forehead dot (not that she ever wore one) or something when she'd simply requested her to use less perfume. Anyway the customers didn't really mind. At least one a day would ask, "What's that lovely fragrance?" with their eyes half shut and nostrils erect, but then they didn't have to spend all day with that expensive as all hell scent.

I know because Noreen corrected me over it not being of the drug store variety but a true to God vial costing an outrageous amount. (I went to the mall to check her tall tale, but she wasn't lying. I had a massive headache that night. Such a waste of good money, I told Mike, when you can buy a similar scent at Walgreens for one tenth the price. I did add though that I wouldn't mind getting the real deal myself once in a while, didn't I deserve as much, but Mike must have thought I was joking because, to date, I haven't received any such fragrance.)

Noreen by the way really goes all out when giving me birthday and Christmas presents. Thanks to these four years of friendship I've built up quite a handbag collection. My sisters are dolts for not recognizing the worth of what I'm carrying; I cringe to think pre Noreen I didn't have the foggiest either. Mike understands, he thinks the same of a guy who can't recognize a car from its coloring.

Mike doesn't like Noreen's husband much. Calls him Mr. Silk Socks and yeah, okay, he is a bit namby pamby with his crisp white cotton shirts, red wine when Mike would rather a chilled beer, and serving green tea in dragon painted cups so tiny, so delicate that Mike's joke about crunching them in his fist does not sit well at all in Noreen's drawing room, plastered as it is with the plushest rugs ever and biggest paintings which apparently they had shipped from back home. (I was talking to one of my sisters and referred to Pakistan as 'back home' and she said "Say what! You're spending too much time with that girl.")

But so what? Noreen's a riot, she got these super eye lashes, thick as gumbo, as long as a colt's tail and as black as the devil's privates; I can stare at her for hours. I couldn't for the life of me be Noreen nor she me, though sometimes when I'm lying awake next to Mike, not that he knows because he's fast asleep, I think, why would she ever want to be me, and that's not a nice thought because part of being satisfied with one's life is having others wanting to live it.

The only thing Noreen wished she had of my life, and I know because she says it constantly (which used to make me wonder about how envious she really was because you'll never catch me voicing jealousy) was the desire to not have kids.
"You American women are so lucky," she said. "You don't have a biological need to be mothers. You have evolved so far that you are fulfilled by yourselves completely."
I didn't bother to correct her. For one she'd never believe me, and second she'd meet my sisters sooner or later and figure out how wrong she was.

continue to page 2


home about contact policies submissions feature archives audio visual writing reviews forums art film & television food literature music society & culture elsewhere desilit parabaas sasialit sawnet upper stall	The Family Dinner By Soniah Kamal "The housekeeper's been hired fulltime," I told Mike over dinner. My friend Noreen found out she was pregnant the day before and after five miscarriages she wasn't taking any chances. "Good for them," Mike said swallowing his spaghetti and hushing me with a wave of his fork. Fox News was on, and of course even I concede that new developments in auto theft crimes are more crucial to our life than what I may have to say: I mean if we lose the car, we're screwed. But Mike doesn't like the tone of voice in which I tell him this, and I don't like it much either but that doesn't change the fact that we couldn't afford a housekeeper were I ever in the same predicament, and so I'm glad there was no chance of that. When I met Mike I'd never really given kids much thought. "You have four sisters, Paula," he said one evening twirling the ringlets of my hair around his forefinger, the silver ring with the garnet he wore flashing through my hair like a red eyed fish through honey glazed water. "So what Sweetie?" In those days I was so soft spoken I'd surprise myself. "Isn't being an Aunt supposed to be much more fun?" "Yeah," I said. "Like being single." I leaned over to kiss him, but he sat up, his slim feet sliding in their thick white socks like planes on the runway of a vinyl coffee table. "Seriously," Mike said, "all of the coo coo stuff without the shit smell or snot or other nasty solids or fluids." "Don't you want children?" I sat up too. He bought his feet down solidly on the beige carpet. "No". "Okay, me too." I smiled and snuggled back down. That was that. No sleepless nights. No loss of figure. No scrimping our whole lives for a college education kids might not want after all. No kids. My sisters have a hard time understanding this. I don't know why, considering they're always bitching and moaning about how they have no life, and how by the time they'll get time to have a life, it'll be time to let the kids live life. I swear thanksgivings are one long grumble. I'm the star at these family dinners though, fresh and chirpy, come as I do laden with gift baskets (an assortment of herbals teas, multi-vitamins, and lotions I purchase over the year as soon as they hit the sale bin at the health store I've been working at since high school). I love my job. The employee discounts are great. I can afford organic produce at every meal and high quality food brands. We employees get to goof off when Ellen, the manager, isn't watching, and if she catches us we get to bitch her out, and that just makes for great camaraderie amongst us. There are three part time positions with an unbelievable turnover rate, no surprise to anyone who's ever wondered why we never remove our Help Wanted sign. Julia and I work full time. We've both been at Wise Health well over ten years, not that we got a decade bonus or anything special. However Ellen did take us out to dinner which was very nice, even if we did end up at Hooters since they have the best chicken wings, although it did seem more because it was just across the street. (Ellen's got these gigantic bunions on all her toes which makes walking very tough. Nothing in store has helped much but she's got faith, and she's begun reading Deepak Chopra which, if we believe some customers, is the real deal). The day Noreen applied for a job was one of the coldest in Boulder we'd had so far that year. It was snowing and windy and gray, and reminded me of the winter days in the Scrooge and Tiny Tim TV movie specials. Noreen walked through the glass doors, which I take special pride in keeping stain free, in a bright red coat, and I thought, shitty kitty she doesn't look cold at all while I'm standing in here freezing with the heater on. I quite expected her to anoint a cart and begin circling our four aisles without a nod in my direction, she seemed the type with her perfectly applied magenta lip pencil and chestnut scarf glinting against her gold dangly earrings. Instead she glided to the register counter, rubbed her gloved hands, and said, "It's freezing out there. Can I please have a job application?" Why, I thought, she's one of us. I beamed. She beamed right back. I almost told her to save the grin for Ellen's benefit, but then decided against: it felt good to be grinned at, and anyway, one day I'd make manager, for sure, so may as well practice being grinned at like a maniac. "Hey," I said, "What do you think of this Deepuck Chop-ra Indian guy?" I picked the book Ellen had tucked under the counter and flashed the chubby author photograph at Noreen. "Don't know," she said. "I'm not Indian." "Really?" I said. "You could have fooled me." "I'm from Pakistan." "Where's that at?" She proceeded to explain in the kindest of ways (not that I got it, but I nodded anyway and thanked God that my existence did not depend on the knowledge of remote geography) and, since kindness is a quality I value in all peoples I was pretty pleased when Ellen hired her on the spot. This is what I appreciate about a career in sales: I get to meet lots of people and since everyone in the world needs to buy something, sooner or later I'm going to meet the whole world. (We had one of those Nigerians walk in the other day, now that was an experience. Ellen and I could follow her without having to move on account of her headgear rearing over the aisles though she spent most of her time in the diabetic section. She smelled of hot cider and her teeth were so white, as if she took really good care of them- I told Mike it didn't look like her country was the one Fox News always featured in their Disastrous Regions, and Mike said it sounded like I was, for once, right). The thing with meeting people from all over the world is that I have to be very tolerant, and that's not an easy thing especially when it comes to odors. To put it simply Noreen reeks. She's a human skunk. Ellen asked her to tone it down but Noreen said No, on account of that being discrimination. You'd think Ellen had asked her to remove her nose ring or wipe off her forehead dot (not that she ever wore one) or something when she'd simply requested her to use less perfume. Anyway the customers didn't really mind. At least one a day would ask, "What's that lovely fragrance?" with their eyes half shut and nostrils erect, but then they didn't have to spend all day with that expensive as all hell scent. I know because Noreen corrected me over it not being of the drug store variety but a true to God vial costing an outrageous amount. (I went to the mall to check her tall tale, but she wasn't lying. I had a massive headache that night. Such a waste of good money, I told Mike, when you can buy a similar scent at Walgreens for one tenth the price. I did add though that I wouldn't mind getting the real deal myself once in a while, didn't I deserve as much, but Mike must have thought I was joking because, to date, I haven't received any such fragrance.) Noreen by the way really goes all out when giving me birthday and Christmas presents. Thanks to these four years of friendship I've built up quite a handbag collection. My sisters are dolts for not recognizing the worth of what I'm carrying; I cringe to think pre Noreen I didn't have the foggiest either. Mike understands, he thinks the same of a guy who can't recognize a car from its coloring. Mike doesn't like Noreen's husband much. Calls him Mr. Silk Socks and yeah, okay, he is a bit namby pamby with his crisp white cotton shirts, red wine when Mike would rather a chilled beer, and serving green tea in dragon painted cups so tiny, so delicate that Mike's joke about crunching them in his fist does not sit well at all in Noreen's drawing room, plastered as it is with the plushest rugs ever and biggest paintings which apparently they had shipped from back home. (I was talking to one of my sisters and referred to Pakistan as 'back home' and she said "Say what! You're spending too much time with that girl.") But so what? Noreen's a riot, she got these super eye lashes, thick as gumbo, as long as a colt's tail and as black as the devil's privates; I can stare at her for hours. I couldn't for the life of me be Noreen nor she me, though sometimes when I'm lying awake next to Mike, not that he knows because he's fast asleep, I think, why would she ever want to be me, and that's not a nice thought because part of being satisfied with one's life is having others wanting to live it. The only thing Noreen wished she had of my life, and I know because she says it constantly (which used to make me wonder about how envious she really was because you'll never catch me voicing jealousy) was the desire to not have kids. "You American women are so lucky," she said. "You don't have a biological need to be mothers. You have evolved so far that you are fulfilled by yourselves completely." I didn't bother to correct her. For one she'd never believe me, and second she'd meet my sisters sooner or later and figure out how wrong she was. continue to page 2