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As had become traditional, the Smith family -- Fred, Karen and their teen-agers Junior and Sis -- went to Fred's parents' home to celebrate the newest national holiday, first proclaimed in 1989.
When they arrived, Grandpa was carving the crow while Grandma brought out a fresh-baked humble pie. As they took their seats, Grandpa poured bitters and raised his glass.
Here's to another Gripesgiving Day,
he announced.
I'll go first.
You always go first,
Fred complained, getting
into the holiday spirit. Here I work my tail off, and
most of my paycheck goes to pay taxes and Social Security
to keep you old coots going, just so you can march down
every election day and vote for any candidate that promises
more benefits to you parasites over 65. I sure wish I could
just vote myself a pay raise every time I wanted
one.
That's enough, Fred,
Grandma interjected. You
know full well that if I hadn't sacrificed for all those
years -- never getting a new mink, making do with an old
Mercedes -- we never could have put you through college,
and you'd be frying hamburgers today.
A third-rate college it was,
Fred lamented.
Karen interrupted him. It wouldn't matter anyway for
me. Men who just finish high school make more than most
women who finish college. What kind of country is this when
tree-trimmers get paid more than nurses?
Tree-trimmers work in the cold and wind. They risk
falling down or ripping themselves open with chainsaws,
Fred countered. Tell me nurses face risks like that
inside warm hospitals.
It's an outrage, no matter how you try to rationalize
it. What are we saying -- that taking care of trees is more
important than taking care of people?
How would you know, Mom?
teen-aged Sis
interrupted. The only time I ever remember you taking
care of me was when I was so sick that the day-care center
wouldn't take me. You thought taking care of people was so
important that you hired out it to some minimum-wage
drones.
How dare you insult me like that,
Mom spat. It
wasn't my idea to set up an economy where both parents have
to have careers just to buy a simple little house.
Some house,
Fred groaned. The gold plating is
wearing off the fixtures in the third-floor bathroom, the
hot tub leaks, the second microwave makes the lights
flicker sometimes, and there's not enough room in the
garage to fit my Porsche in with your Audi and the
Voyager.
Some career,
Karen sighed. Why the other day,
someone asked me about coffee.
Asked you to make coffee?
Junior wondered,
speaking for the first time.
No, but it was still utterly demeaning that a sexist
client visiting our office would even dare to think that I
might know where the coffee machine was.
You know more about coffee machines than you do about
what I need,
Sis interjected. I'll just die if I
don't get a portable CD player like my friends have. It's
mortifying when you just have a crummy VCR that won't do
stereo.
But you've got a Macintosh computer, too, don't
forget,
Karen responded. Just wait till I tell them
about this at the next meeting of the Support Group for
Parents of Gifted Children.
Fred broke in. He glared at Junior. What's with you,
son? Why are you so withdrawn? Do we need to call a
therapist?
No, Dad,
the boy apologized. In most of the
world, people don't have enough to eat and live in tarpaper
shacks, if that. No medical care, limited education, hardly
any opportunities. Sure, I suppose things could be better
here, but I really am having a hard time finding anything
that's really worth complaining about.
Both his parents began to sob. His father choked several
times before speaking. Where have we failed? Where did
we go wrong? Gripesgiving Day is 100 percent American. It's
so American that we used to celebrate it every day. What's
wrong with you, boy? Are you some kind of
subversive?
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