I Just Want To Be Thanked For Making Your Goddamned Lunch

So you like that peanut butter and jelly sandwich I made you? Really? I wouldn't have been able to tell. You know why? Because you are an ungrateful little midget whore. I agreed to babysit your pink veloured hoodie little ass for a week while your mom jetted off to her useless sales seminar not because I thought it would have made me Aunt of the Year. I did it because I owed your mom a favor from when she caught me blowing your Uncle Andy's nut in your mom's Subaru while she was picking up "a few key items" at Jewel and left us in the car. She said she was going to be back in twenty minutes and she was gone for more like five! Regardless, she deemed a fitting punishment: looking after your smiling, cunty face for 168 consecutive hours.

And I had to make lunch too?? Okay. Fine. I agreed that the very least I could do was put aside my disdain for your bratty douchiness and utilize the most basic of culinary skills. After all, I am your godmother. And godmothers are supposed to be cool like that, right? Besides, the only thing easier than making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is eating one.

Well then your mom pissed on my Easy Street parade when she told me a few specifications about your ideal pb&j: a thin layer of Creamy Jif on one slice of Brownberry 12-grain bread, a thicker layer of Crunchy Skippy peanut butter (but not too much!) on another slice of Brownberry 12-grain bread, and only a teaspoon of Smuckers Organic Strawberry preserves. And don't even think of using the end pieces! Wrap it with two pieces of paper towel and place it snugly in the tupperware and NOT in just a fold-over baggie. Are you fucking kidding me?? What's she gonna do if I DON'T do it that way, huh? Weeell, she's known to put up a stink about it when she comes home. HA!!

Sickeningly and strangely enough, I was up to this twisted challenge. I got up early on Monday and whipped out my arsenal of Rachael Ray knives and measuring spoons. I made sure to pick out the thickest and grainiest slices of your beloved Brownberry bread.  I did it all perfectly. I KNOW I did. When you came home, you didn't put up the legendary "stink" that your mom was sure you'd have for me. Meaning my sandwich artistry rocked, right? Or so I thought. I asked you how your lunch was and you gave your gratingly terse, "Good." You're suddenly tight-lipped for a loud-mouthed 4th grader, huh?

Since I was supposed to set a good example of patience with your twaty self, I kept silent. Maybe you'll thank me tomorrow when I whip out your gourmet pb&j two days in a row. But on Tuesday when you came through that door carrying your pathetic Jonas Brothers backpack and did your homework on the table with me standing there making your dinner while you blared America's Funniest Home Videos, you didn't say a damn thing about it then too.

"So Madison. How was your lunch?" (Say "good" and you're dead, say "good" and you're dead...)

"Good."

Well then. La dee freakin' da.

I continued the rest of the week being a good sport, auntie, and godmother, making your damn sandwiches just the way you like them, all without you saying a word that sounded remotely like "grassyass." Today, Friday, is when I thought I'd put some special spice in your meal. Let's just say the cat's litter box was unusually clean this morning.

So you like that peanut butter and jelly sandwich I made you?

"Yes, Aunt Tina. Thank you for the sandwich."

Sweet cream and heaven. I don't know about you, girlie, but I'm going to be looking forward to the next time I make your gourmet PB&Js.