As Thanksgivings go, today was pretty unspectacular. When I was a kid, Thanksgiving always smacked of cold bare morning feet and needing to be quiet in the morning because my mother and her boyfriend (I always hate that term’ ‘boyfriend’ when referring to someone in their thirties or forties. As thought they were going steady. I hate ‘lover’ as well, particular when talking about my mother, thank you very much. ‘Live In Partner’ sounds so 90’s. There really isn’t a good thing to call that man, whoever he was at the time, so I usually called them by name. Ted. Bill. Andy. Paul. Vic. Larry. But in this case, depending upon which Thanksgiving you were talking about, it might have been any one of them that we were creeping around and trying not to waken) would usually be sleeping off the inevitable over indulgence from the night before. Today wasn’t any different, as Esteban went out and participated in a dart tournament with the Geek Continuum. I woke at seven thirty and went to the living room to play Buffy on the Xbox.
The Xbox keeps making me sick. We’ve actually owned the thing for a few months, but it’s been at Joel’s, enjoying the excitement of the 12x8million foot home theatre screen and Jason’s constant stroking. We had dinner at Joel’s on Halloween and that was the first time I actually laid eyes upon our Xbox. I played a tiny bit and instantly got motion sick, paling and needing to go out in the crisp night air until the world stopped tilting. I’d like to think that I’m a pretty tough girl, but for my hair trigger equilibrium. I’d kick someone’s ass in a fight, as long as it didn’t involve a ferocious game of Ring Around The Rosie. For instance, immediately after seeing The Blair Witch Project, I sent a glurpy stream of Diet Coke and popcorn into the toilet bowl of one of Milwaukee’s finest cinemas while KimVee was all concerned and motherly and I simply wanted to die. I went to the movie again once it came to Green Bay, not because it was such a great movie but rather because I refused to let it kick my ass. I am proud to report that there was no glurping the second time around’ although I specifically didn’t eat anything and sat quietly on the sofa for several hours with my mouth watering afterwards, not moving or talking to anyone.
Esteban brought the Xbox home this week, as Joel is attempting to shoot Bambi and Esteban’s theory is that our pathetically small television screen will not make me as sick. He’s right. I’ll play for half an hour’ ohhhhh. Stop, walk away. Play for another half hour’. Eeccckkkk. Stop’ go shopping. Each time, I swear that it’s a stupid game and a stupid thing for making me have vertigo, but then I get made at myself for being all flutterheaded and get right back on that horse’ or rather, in the recliner in front of the television. As though the Xbox were a mighty foe that needed to be taught a lesson. You will not kick Weetabix’s ass’ not while Buffy’s stuck in a sunken church fighting a slug vampire chick!
In case you’re wondering, Buffy apparently cannot swim. Not even a little. She sinks like a UPN sitcom on the Nielsen ratings. You would have thought there would have been a How To Do The Dog Paddle chapter of the Slayer Handbook but alas there was not.
After screwing around on the Xbox, Esteban and I changed into our nice clothes and went over to Ward and June’s house for Thanksgiving. Esteban wanted to watch football on their ginormous television. June was cooking the meal from scratch this time, after we only picked at the catered dinner she served last year. On the way over, we discussed the possibility of whether or not his grandmother Gen would be there. Gen, if you’ll recall, is evil. I bet Esteban five dollars that she would make some remark about fat people, which she considers a visible flaw in one’s character. When we walked in the door, we found that there were five places set at the immaculate table.
Gah.
I shouldn’t be so uncharitable, I suppose, it’s just that she’s evil. And of course, she brought up the genealogy book again, asking if I wanted it back. I wouldn’t take that thing again if she stuffed the pages with dollar bills, because she’ll simply be upset that I wouldn’t return it to her immediately after, since I have obviously nothing better to do than live by her priorities. But that’s Gen all around. Too self-righteous to argue with, too evil to die.
Oh, I’m going to hell. I am. At least I’ll have my mother-in-law to keep me company because she can’t stand her either. Esteban’s parents actually did not speak to Gen for fourteen years, finally breaking the estrangement at our wedding, simply because Gen is such an evil toxic woman. She told us of how she had been swimming at the University with someone anonymous ‘us’ (all of her stories are ‘we’ and ‘us’, but she never sees fit to distinguish who the ‘us’ or ‘we’ are. Either we should be well aware of her social circle, keeping notes on who still speaks to her, or she is egotistical enough to use the royal ‘we’. I strongly suspect the latter. Ok, yes, I am not being charitable and I will hate myself when I read this after she dies. Of course, I may be near death myself by then because I suspect that pure poison courses through her veins. She is Rappuchini’s Grandmother.) and someone, not someone in HER circle of ‘us’ because she would never associate with someone so stupid, dove into the shallow end of the pool and broke their neck. She added with some annoyance ‘She was completely paralyzed. Of course, where did that leave us? That pretty much ended our swimming. It was a fine thing to do. We had just started, got all in our swimsuits and everything too.’ Which pretty much sums up Genevieve’s view on life right there.
She also imperiously announced that ‘we’ weren’t buying Christmas presents for each other again this year. ‘They’ had decided that we would be doing the same trashy thing as last year, honoring Baby Jesus’s birthday by gambling. Esteban’s Aunt Teresita called while we were there and Gen took great delight in announcing this to her as well, which leads me to believe that Golden Son Uncle Rod and his mistress Tequila had decided this for the rest of the family and we were only informed as an afterthought. My only comment was ‘Oh, are we?’ with no mention of the gifts I had already purchased for the people in question. I’m just a little Gen-In-Training.
I countered by drinking Malibu and Diet Coke. Gen would pass judgment, I would pour some more Malibu into my glass. I did not take on the normal saucy bouncy hip hip giggle wiggle Malibu Weetabix persona, however. I just sat there quietly, politely looking at her when she talked, nodding. I started to envision myself the heroine of a Tennessee Williams play. My liver is still trembling.
We had dinner at my mother’s house today, with Mo, Jonathon, and Mom’s former boyfriend. I’m pretty sure although not completely positive that Mom was a little lubed.
She told us about how Tony Curtis flirted with her at the restaurant and called her by her full given name. ‘How did he find out your middle name?’ I said rather accusatorily. ‘Well, he asked my name, I told him.’ She answered, matter-of-factly. ‘How do you think he found out, Weetabix, with that special Tony Curtis extra-sensory perception?’ But leave it to my mother to tell the 78-year-old father of Jamie Lee Curtis her middle name. She wanders the world constantly surprised that she’s not the star of a soap opera. I suppose that’s where I get my overdramatic sense as well.
She then added conspiratorially that he grabbed her butt. Twice. I think I felt part of my soul die away at that moment. Because that’s all I need to know, right? That Tony Curtis grabbed my mom’s ass. She didn’t understand why I was grimacing. I replied ‘Twice?’ and she said ‘Well, what could I do? He did it so automatically. The first time I said ‘heee heee heee’ (and I swear, she giggled like a cheerleader here) and then the second time I said ‘ooooohhhhh.&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- Which I suppose was supposed to have been a warning noise, but to me it sounded like a woman in the throes of a rather powerful orgasm. I fear that I may have gained a psychological trigger from that and will throw up the next time I eat cranberry sauce.
Mo suggested that she call the National Enquirer, then I added that maybe they’d want to take a picture of her ass and put a circle around it with the legend ‘Tony Curtis Was Here’. Poor Mother. She desperately wants a cheering section for her exploits of sexual harassment by the rich and famous. And addle-brained. She countered ‘Tony Curtis is very distinguished.’ So I tried to be agreeable, ‘Yeah, I’d totally go on a date with him if I were single.’ And I swear I saw her do the math in her head: Who would Tony pick? Me or her? Gah. Remind me to never mention my romantic life in front of my mother.
Right now my tummy hurts. I know’ I should play more Xbox. Maybe I’ll get sick enough to Blair Witch. Culprit: Cranberries or Curtis’ it’s a coin toss.
