Page 15 of Not About That Life
What’s even more disturbing is Elise is only a few months older than me. “Oh?”
“Dry-ass turkey with dry-ass stuffing to the dry-ass pumpkin pie…how in thehayledo you make dry-ass pumpkin pie?” Emma’s face scrunched up. “Yo, Domi…you know that song by Destiny’s Child? Bills, Bills, Bills? The shit last year was dry, dry, dry.” She channels her inner-Beyoncé. “I can’t believe it’s dry, ohmygod it’s so dry, why is this so fucking dry?”
“She’s triflin’, good-for-nothing type of mother,” the gay male cousin, Dalton, chimed in. He was Oscar’s rather flamboyant son. He had trimmed brown hair and light green eyes, and an air that whispered whatever act of pretentious his father had, Dalton truly lived it. He was Posh Spice. “Silly Tony, why hadn’t he found another?”
“Someone his own age, why can’t he get a woman his age? Why must she act like she barely passed the third grade?” Emma continued.
I covered my mouth to keep the laughter in. The extended Ferguson clan is a riot. “Oh dear,” was the only nice comment I could make.
“Em,” Dalton blinked at her, “I hear Step Mommy Dearest is trying to get pregnant.”
Emma whipped her head towards Elise and back at Dalton. “If that shit happens, I’m telling Gerald we’re redoing the prenup STAT!”
“Little does Step Mommy Dearest know, Anthony had that taken care of years ago,” another cousin, Hannah, chimes in. She’s a natural blonde with stunning blue eyes and a quiet demeanor. She’s the type of girl who probably has a bag full of weed, listens to nothing but trap music, and could tell you why Missy Elliott is the greatest rapper alive. She strangely smells like a combination of incense, weed, and Chanel. She’s Hipster Spice. “I overheard him talking to my mom about it.”
“Assuming Elise doesn’t know,” Dalton twirled a cocktail straw in his mouth, “she is the true boo-boo the fool.”
Suddenly the men came out carrying dishes upon dishes of delicious food. Not only did the turkey look like golden perfection, but the other dishes – cream cheese mashed potatoes, stuffing made with beef broth, and candied yams – were made to perfection.
My heart did small pitter-patters when I saw some Domi favorites such as collard greens, jambalaya, baked macaroni and cheese, andgasp!Are those oxtails I see?
Be still my heart! Ian definitely is getting a blow job tonight.
“All of this looks so amazing and interesting,” a cousin, Bianca, commented. She had an average build and average face, but there was nothing average about her. I later found out Bianca is a private sponsor of a BLM-type of group called Sisters United, led by Briana Gooding. She’s Woke Spice. “I can definitely tell this is Ian’s doing.”
“Don’t be a racist dick, BeeBee.” Dalton tsked.
“Fuck you, homo,” Bianca shot back and I gasped before they both turned to me. “We joke like that. He knows I’m far from racist and homophobic. We play with each other like that.”
“My sense of humor is twisted, Domi,” Dalton nodded, “I love everyone but I’ll make fun of a bitch, too. Any of them. All of them.”
I think that’s a slick reminder to always stay on Dalton’s good side. “Good to know.”
“Dalton’s bite is friendlier than his bark,” Ian chimes in as he sets down the side dishes, “The onlybitcheshe’s making fun of are the queens he follows on IG.”
“They arehorrendous!” Dalton shakes his head. “Pitiful, the lot of them. Who in the hell says green eye shadow is fierce? Who does that?”
“I thought red was in this year?” Emma folded a napkin in her lap. “What’s the color of the year now?”
“Hell, if I care,” Dalton feigned yawning, “I just like to go on IG and be messy.”
“What a surprise,” Gerald puts a couple of dishes down, “a rich gay male with nothing else better to do than to start drama. Someone alert Perez Hilton.”
Anthony finally comes through the kitchen carrying one of the biggest turkeys I’ve seen my entire life and sets it on a chopping block nearby. “Shall we begin?” He booms.
Ian and Gerald take their places next to Anthony, who proudly holds the carving knife. Other family member quickly snap photos as it’s the perfect photo op. Someone’s Instagram is about to be lit. “Thank you all for coming today. It’s been a while since all of us have gathered here for Thanksgiving. I want to thank my son, Gerald, for arranging everyone to visit. I also want to thank my other son, Ian, for preparing what looks like a wonderful meal for all of us to enjoy.”
“I can’t wait to try all of this delicious food!” Elise beams. “I never had ethnic food so I’m totes excited!”
“Bitch, what?” Adrienne murmurs under her breath before I kicked her chair and reminded her she briefly dropped her Caucasian voice. “Oh yes, it all looks great.” She eyeballs me and I gave a polite shrug.
“I’mtotesexcited as well,” I reply.
After the Ferguson men carve the turkey, everyone begins to pass the sides like an automated assembly line. I hear the curious gasps and quiet wonders about some of the more…ahem…ethnicdishes that Ian made. I don’t have to wonder if anyone other than me and Adrienne (and Blake as an extension) have ever had soul food. Their faces say it all.
“Ah, yes!” An uncle, Steven, beams. He’s tall and blond, with an unmistakable asshole charm that tells me he just might be racist but because he has a black wife, he won’t be considered as one. Nazi Spice. “Fish pie!”
“Fish pie?” I question. “What’s that?”
