Thanksgiving in the Alternate Universe

Y’all, this was really the nicest Thanksgiving I’ve had since the recalcitrant brother got drunk and passed out in the bathtub. Nobody fought. No one cried. No one quietly prayed for death.

We sat around and watched a lot of football and ate and just hung out. It was really nice.

Maybe this is how normal families do it: they get together and enjoy each other’s company and they use things like holidays as a way to come together and check in with each other and make sure everyone’s okay. And then they just hang out and watch some football.

So, of course, now that we’ve seen what a nice time together might be like, this is the year they aren’t coming down for Christmas. Dad says it’s because he has to do two services Christmas Eve and two Christmas day and then I’m gone, as usual, the 26th through the 31st, and the Butcher is working and the recalcitrant brother is working and so they’re just going to stay home and send packages.

While I was at Kroger with Mom last night, she told me that the truth is that they’ve put so much money into my brothers recently they can’t afford to both come down here and buy everyone Christmas presents, but my dad is too proud to admit that.

At some point we may find ways to be open and honest with each other, instead of using our time in the soft drink aisle at Kroger as family therapy time, but until then, I’m going to just go ahead and pretend that it’s about church and not money. That can be my little gift to him.


"Why Did You Let Them Talk to the Parent with No Memory?"

So, if you’ve been following the gripping tale of Sarcastro’s Thanksgiving, either at his place or at the Boy Scout’s, you might be thinking of the Professor’s comments from the other day–“How’s it go? Alcohol just heightens whatever emotion(s) you are already experiencing.”

Well, America, if this is true, we can discern a few things about our favorite truck-driving libertarians.

1. Sarcastro will argue with anyone, even the girls in Playboy. He incredulously refused to believe that Miss December had a dog that weighs 150 pounds. Yes, folks, Sarcastro reads Playboy. I’m shocked, too.

2. Though I’m still not exactly sure what he was getting at, I think the Boy Scout was offering to do my laundry. At least, he really wanted me to mail him my laundry. If I may take a moment to address him directly– Darling Boy Scout, it’s very kind of you to offer to do that particular chore, but really, if you want to help out around my house, I’d much prefer you offer to do my dishes.

3. The women in my family must just love obnoxious men, because my mom was totally loving talking to them on the phone. I tried to bribe her with a cookie into giving me the phone back, which, folks, has never failed before, and she just smiled and turned her back on me and cooed, “Well, I just don’t know. Let me think for a minute if there’s anything B. would rather you not know about. Tee hee hee.”

Once she got off the phone, my dad was all “If they want to know stories about you, they should have asked me. Your mother doesn’t remember things; I do. Plus, I had the people in the church calling me all the time keeping me updated.”

“Yes, and that would be exactly why I didn’t put you on the phone.”

“Well, B., you know I like to talk to the guys who put up with you, just to thank them.”

“They suggested going out to lunch with you and Mom some time, so the opportunity is not lost.”

“Well, we could hang out here until lunch tomorrow.”

“Then, thank god they’re sitting in Georgia.”

Anyway, boy-oriented folks, I tried to convince them to make out and send me the video so that I could share it with y’all, but they didn’t seem interested. Our loss, I guess.

Brilliant Ideas, Not Mine

The recalcitrant brother had this brilliant idea that a person could create some kind of garbage disposal for showers, that would somehow chop hair into non-clumping bits.

The other brilliant idea came up over dinner the other night when I was over at the Professor’s eating meatloaf with some of her 57 lovers. There was her cute boy and her philosopher and awesome sweet potato fries. And wine, lots of wine.

Anyway, we were talking about how a philosopher might publish a book that would actually make money and her philosopher had this brilliant idea of doing a series of books explaining what various famous philosophers would think of sex toys–“Wittgenstein on Sex Toys,” “Heidegger on Sex Toys,” etc.

And then the Professor suggested that there might be a series of sex toys that went with the books, so that one could buy a dildo shaped like, say, Nietzsche or Dewey.

Sadly, I was unable to fully participate in the conversation, because I was distracted by the thought of a vibrator shaped like Einstein. Yes, even then, I knew he wasn’t a philosopher, and so I said nothing, but sat there quietly imagining.

Her cute boy gave me a ride home, which I thought was very nice. I’m starting to think that, as nice as having 57 lovers would be just in terms of feeling fabulous, the best side-effect has to be the fact that you always have a bunch of folks who can chauffeur you around.

I was feeling grouchy and antagonistic, though, so I don’t think I was very good company.

Anyway, going to the zoo seemed like a good idea, but it was so cold that we went to the Science Center instead. That was my personal hell. All these kids and bright flashing lights and noise and my parents yelling at the recalcitrant brother who was yelling at his kids who were just yelling about everything, I guess to be heard over the other kids who were also yelling.

It was chaos. I tried to hide upstairs, but my mom found me and piled all the coats on me. I guess that part, hot and tired, hidden under coats, wasn’t too bad.