The home country

The home country was getting comfortable on the couch.

After the commercials, it switched to the recliner because of the end table for its drink. 

“What’s for dinner?,” the home country wanted to know. 

“Sauerbraten mit Bratkartoffeln,” I said, wearing my irritable checked apron. 

There was no acknowledgement. The home country gets pretty wrapped up in its shows. 

“I’m thinking of taking tomorrow off,” it yelled into the kitchen. “Or maybe just calling in and pretending to be sick. Whaddya think?”

Groan, I intoned into the oven. 

The home country had no concept of “fair warning.” It just blurted out decisions and ideas and expected the world to be happy about it.