What Am I Doing For Thanksgiving?

Everyone here [IRL] wants to know what I’ll be doing for Thanksgiving. In past years I volunteered at homeless shelters or whatnot, this year I’m going to cook.


I’m sure it’ll go smoothly.

Just a matter of beating them pots and pans…

I’m going to be just like Betty Crochette.
So, dear readers please have a wonderful holiday no matter what your plans are. Be safe if you’re travelling, and don’t talk about religion and politics with your family. Oh and don’t kill anyone for playing christmas music. You know they’re going to….

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Republican Jesus Is A Homo

Meet our good friend Wes Goodman.

He’s a “family values” GOP oppressor who had to resign recently because he was having sex with a man in his office. Now I know he’s just one of scores. Google “family values politician or minister humping the pool boy” and see what you get.

What I don’t understand for the life of me is the code of silence around these assholes among the queer community. Back in the day, if I discovered one of my trysts was a professional homophobe there would have been a parade the next day at his office with glitter, assless chaps, and fabulosity by the bucketfull. They don’t deserve the safety of a closet much less hold positions of public trust.

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Some Assembly Required

I remember our first TV. It was a huge appliance built into a scrolled ranch oak cabinet. The front had horizontal roll top doors. Two burly men grunted and heaved their way to the sitting room and set it down along the far wall where the christmas tree usually sat during the holidays. I found it endlessly fascinating. I crawled in behind and peeked in the air vents to watch the vacuum tubes glow and pop as they heated up. They gave off a dusty ionic effluence I’d never encountered before. It smelled just like rocket science and lemon Pledge.

[Scroll forward half a century]

I bought a new tv on the dubya dubya. Fedex delivered it today, it’s fortunate I was home, because the driver knocked on the door and by the time I stood up and answered the door all I could see was the back of a van covered in road grit making the corner down the street. I guess Usain Bolt’s got a new job. On the stoop was a box that reminded me of a small zipperless suitcase with a convenient plastic carrying handle on top. It was sealed up with a clear adhesive tape that resisted my box cutter with unexpected passion. Everything about the packaging was escaping Stalag 13 less the dogs and barbed wire of course.

At last the tv free of styrofoam corners and layers of protective plastic. Well except for the seven or eight packages of parts. And screws. And things I don’t immediately recognize as belonging to a tv.
I’d read the instructions, but there’s not one word of English on them. Not to worry, I speak some French and Spanish. There’s ALWAYS Spanish on instructions these days. Not today. Gonna have to Rosetta Stone me some Chinese pretty soon.

[Scroll forward what feels like a half century]

Finally. Got the GD thing together. Now all I have to do is get the wrapping out to the dumpster. And figure out how to set it up as soon as I find the remote. Where’s the GD remote?

This isn’t smelling like Lemon Pledge and rocket science. It is smelling like flop sweat and desperation.

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Tuesdays: On Wednesday

Dear. Lord. Jaysus.

I’m still a little Auntie and a lot of church fan. It’s important to me that I portray Will as sympathetic and deserving of dignity and respect. Having said that, there’s much about Will most won’t find likable. If I write that, I’ll come off as an asshole, and I AM an asshole, I just don’t want to be an asshole about that. Pick your battles, I guess.

So I need to clear some stuff up. I’m not fond of Will. He’s not who I’d call in an emergency. I’ve earned his trust to a degree and he may consider me to be a friend, but I’m not sure he’s capable of experiencing friendship in the same way I do. He may have been born that way or come to it as a result of how life is for him. I don’t know. He is very intelligent, articulate, in his own way. He has a keen sense of history and can recite chapter and verse about things he’s interested in. I know way more now than I ever wanted to about WW1 and 2. It’s one of his few “happy places”.

He loves art. He loves classic music. He loves antiques. Let’s see, hunting and fishing, big yes! He hates homos. Well not just homos, there’s everything else that isn’t him or the things he does like. Mexicans, Blacks, Jews, Arabs, the Italians, Chinese, Vietnamese, Koreans, all of greater Asia really, have I left anyone out? So you might imagine things get occasionally awkward when he gets on about queers. I’m out to him and he refuses to accept it. He pretends like I’m simply mistaken about that whole thing. Yesterday was hating on people in the medical profession, and fags. Not a likely immediate association, I know, but there’s doctors and nurses who he’s convinced are “that way”. I don’t know how he figured it out, perhaps he checks their shoes. I’m told that’s a sure sign. The upshot is, that’s a reason to distrust someone, especially if they’re going to provide him with healthcare.

I listened quietly for a few minutes and then spoke some truth to some ignorance. It didn’t go well.

He struggles with having to be reliant on a gay man for support. He certainly can’t have anyone “knowing” because the only thing worse than “the cancer” is “the gay”. The alternative is being completely alone in a prison he built largely for himself. He has no family who cares for him or that will do the right thing in spite of it.

I look at him and I see myself. I know what its like to not have family. I know what it’s like to be ostracized for being different. Someone has to do the right thing, and if I pay it forward someday someone might do the same for me.

We’ll see.

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Tuesdays: I Can’t Even

Will is one of the most aggravating motherhubbards I know. If I write about him today it’s going to sound like Countess Elizabeth Báthory de Ecsed meets Dear Abbey meets Dear Diary. It’d be like Nathan Lane and Leona Helmsley had an accidental conception while drunk on bathtub gin. It’d be like serving anchovy and pistachio flavored ice cream.

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