| Bah Humbug, Thank God, Dammit, and Awwww |
[Nov. 28th, 2009|03:28 pm] |
I survived my first Thanksgiving with my mother in thirteen years, thanks in no small part to the presence of one of the red-necked angels, whom my mother had invited. Angel the Elder is a font of stories, and his constant stream of gossip kept my mother from criticizing everything from my hair to my clothes to the fact that Mother Nature had made me smell like an anchovy's cunt and me from sniping and loudly declaring her an overbearing, insufferable control freak bitch. PC kept her from ruining the food with her penchant for overcooking. It wasn't a happy time, but no one left in tears, so I'm willing to call it a win.
Predictably, she's already making noises about Christmas. She wants me to come to Florida with her for eight days of family togetherness. I'd rather have my anus torn out with a rusty pair of pliers. My family means well, but they treat me like a child, and the constant benevolent condescension and infantilization is an affront to my negligible sense of personal dignity. After hours of being patted on the head and lectured about everything from the importance of bowel regularity to making sure my pipes don't freeze in the cold, and being interrogated about my finances, my sex life, and my menstrual cycle, I transform into that hateful, bitchy, bitter cripple bogey that everyone envisions when they imagine life with a disability. I don't want to undergo such a terrible metamorphosis, but polite attempts to protect my privacy, that secret place to which every "healthy" human being is naturally and absolutely entitled by dint of grunting intelligently, are met with dewy-eyed butthurt and wounded accusations of ingratitude. How dare I not be fawningly grateful for their interest in my sad, uninteresting life? The only effective defense against such encroachment and emotional blackmail is to be as venomous as possible to discourage any meaningful interaction. Unfortunately, this tactic also perpetuates the bitter cripple stereotype that so often undermines my social discourse with the rest of the world. It's an ugly, no-win situation that fills me with guilt, but if I don't roundly rebuff these psychological predations, then I'm left sans dignity and filled with a helpless sense of shame.
So, I'm staying here with Roomie this Christmas. We've already ordered a handful of gifts from Amazon, and as soon as I pay the doctor's bill next week, we might order a few more. We decided that Amazon would be a safer proposition than battling the viciously single-minded and territorial crowds at Wal-mart and Best Buy. Why should I endanger myself for the meager and fleeting chance to save twenty bucks on Fringe DVDs when I can--and did, oh, yes, I did--order Fringe S1 for eighteen dollars and have it shipped to my door, where no one will be waiting to shove me aside or trample me underfoot because I'm blocking their path to the eighty-seven-inch LCD TV with handy pocket rocket attachment and free HDMI component cable? We'll buy some cheap wrapping paper at the dollar store and have a quiet holiday at home, free of the stress inherent in dealing with family.
Besides, the next week is going to be ridiculously busy. My mother decided I needed a new roof, after all, and so, the red-necked angels will be coming to replace the roof. In addition, PC will be coming to remodel and re-plumb the upstairs bathroom and fit it will an accessible shower. I'm not looking forward to such concommittant upheaval, but both projects need to be done, and since PC is donating his skills for free, I can't piss and moan about when he chooses to donate that time. I just hope he wasn't being optimistic when he said it would only take a few days.
I finally saw an episode of Friends with Eddie Cahill as Tag Jones. He was so cute and looked frighteningly young. I just wanted to hug him and floof his seventies hair and pinch his baby-smooth cheeks. He's matured so much since then, physically and as an actor. It'll be interesting to see how he changes over the next ten years. |
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