Thankful to be Free
© The Author, 2005

Thanksgiving is boring. Excruciatingly, mind numbingly, irrevocably boring. So boring is this stagnant excuse for a holiday that even seriously dull activities provide more of a thrill than Turkey Day. Callus picking, watching The View, linear equations—even waiting for the doctor in the examination room wearing a scratchy paper gown, with nothing but a gigantic poster of the various stages of melanoma to entertain you gives you more of a kick than the gigantic snore that is Thanksgiving day.

I am the Thanksgiving Grinch.

Even though Turkey Day is the dumbest, most culturally insensitive holiday on the planet, it has always been a point of turmoil for me growing up. Am I spending it with my mom or my dad? No matter what my decision was, it was sure to prompt disappointment and guilt. In adulthood, the dilemma has only worsened: will I eat turkey with my mom, my dad, my ex-step dad, or my in-laws? If we spend Turkey Day with the in-laws, will we dine with Shaun’s mom or Shaun’s dad? In my adulthood, there are so many more people to disappoint, and so many more people to feel guilty for not seeing. The whole thing is far too much effort for such a putrid excuse for a holiday. At least Christmas generally makes the effort worthwhile.

Not only is Thanksgiving boring, but also my childhood memories of it are pretty dismal. When I was really small, and still invited to my step mom’s parents for Thanksgiving, I would resort to building card houses, as there were no kids to play with and no one who knew me well enough to talk to me. After dinner, everyone would nap, and the house would moan and creek weirdly in the quiet.

At my now ex-step dad’s family Thanksgiving, things were loud and Italian and as a girl I would seek refuge from the noise and the newness of the family in the basement. I would spend hours looking at the 70′s era toys left over from the six kids who grew up in that house; a Sesame Street doll house, a Barbie with a thick coat of black paint lining her top eyelid, tattered decks of Uno with half the cards missing. Whenever I went upstairs I was overwhelmed and lost in the noise, ignored in the shuffle. It was better to stay hidden.

I have loose, disjointed memories of my dad’s family Thanksgiving, where my cousin, ripe with eating disorders as far back as elementary school would throw up the mass amounts of butter biscuits that she consumed while I waited in the creepy room outside the bathroom, afraid for what was happening on the other side of the bathroom door and afraid of the room I was in, for we were (are) convinced that it is haunted.

I have few memories of Thanksgiving with my mom’s family, as they moved away when I was still really little. There is a picture of my grandpa carving the turkey while the man who is now my ex-step dad and was then my mom’s boyfriend holds me close to him. I remember that happening: the excitement of the electric carver punctuating the scary thrill of this new dad holding me tight.

In recent years, Shaun and I have decided to skip the whole dreary, dull shebang altogether. We have our own tradition on November 24. In our house, November 24 involves no real cooking. Instead, we pig out with a deli spread and watch movies. We do not associate with family. We do not watch football. In essence, we ignore the holiday all together. It is grand.

This November 24, our plan is to go to see the movie Bee Season (a movie based of the lovely, lovely, perfectly lovely novel by Myla Goldberg) and to dine from the following menu:

• Turkey Sandwiches made with yummy bread from Red Hen Bakery & yummy cheese from the Swedish deli on Clark
• Good olives & pickles from the Mediterranean Grocer on Winamac & Clark
• The Vegetarian Cookbook’s Asparagus and Red Pepper Salad
• Rachel Ray’s Crab Salad in Lettuce Tacos
• Rachel Ray’s Everything Seasoned nuts
• Vegetarian Express’ Banana Chocolate Maple Ice

This November 24, my mom is coming from Michigan to join us in our reinvented celebration. At first, I think she was disappointed to hear that we refuse to cook on November 24, but once she is here, I think she will be pleased. She’s introduced a new element to anti-Thanksgiving: a Turkey Trot. So now our newly invented holiday will include participation in an 8K run to raise food and money for Chicago shelters as well.

The 8 k run and my mom are both fantastic additions to the day’s events if I do say so myself.

________________________________________________________________________

What are your plans for November 24?

::Random Tangent::
I hate Christmas shopping for grown ups. It is thoughtless and it makes me feel like a zombie. Homemade gifts mean much more to me to give, but I wonder if people like getting them. Last year, Shaun and I co-wrote a cookbook for our adult family and friends (kids, of course got toys, games, or books, which are fun to shop for) and had it nicely and cost effectively spirally bound. Some loved it, but some expressed lightly veiled disappointment.

What are your thoughts on homemade gifts? For or Against?

Timshead tagged me to post this. I hope you all have a jolly laugh at my expense.

Five Bizarre-o Facts About Chicago Art Girl 23

1. I frequently tell the very naughty Aristocrats joke exclusively using the plucky characters from the show Seventh Heaven

2. I have dreams in which I am Buffy the Vampire Slayer, played by Sarah Michelle Gellar. I slay everything and save everyone.

3. When disaster strikes, I will be the leader of the New Free World. For this reason, I am stockpiling food. So far I’ve got a box of couscous, leftover Halloween Baby Ruth’s, old trail mix, and thirty-seven dollars. Join me!

4. When people first meet me they say at least one of three things:

a.) “What’s the story behind your name?”
b.) “I bet you play basketball!”
c.) “Are you a model?”

I answer differently depending on my mood and my first impression of the person asking/if I’ll ever see them again.

5. When at the beach when I was a little girl, my cousin and I had a particularly innovative way of relieving our full bladders. We knew that peeing in the water was bad (we called the warm spots of water “decaffeinated”), but who has time to trek all the way to the bathrooms? We simply raced to the sand, sat down, and buried our pelvises beneath it, creating a lovely utilitarian sculpture we liked to call the Sand Diaper. We pissed into the sand diaper and then stood up, leaving crusts of wet, pissy sand in our wake.

Don’t worry. We don’t do it anymore. But it’s still funny.

Consider anyone reading this tagged. Leave your weirdness in my comment box.

Jim Crow Goes To Hollywood
© The Author, 2005

The problems with makeover television shows are almost too numerous to count. On top of the fact that makeover shows define beauty by white, upper-class standards and successfully drive hordes of women into debt as they try to shop away how horrible the most recent episode of What Not to Wear made them feel about their appearance, makeover shows also make paramount a character that I positively loathe: bitchy gay guys.

Now I know that you, my very cool and liberal readership, are collectively gasping in horror thinking, “that horrible little Chicago Art Twat is a gay hating bigot! The rise of gay visibility in the media is wondrous evidence of society’s growing acceptance of queer lifestyle!” But think of my dissent this way: would Fredrick Douglass consider Sambo or Pickaninnies a move in the right direction for black acceptance?

My guess is no.

The fact is, that although Six Feet Under is able to accurately portray the queer lifestyle as it actually is (aka: normal, everyday life), there are an overwhelming number of reality based programs—most of them involving makeovers—that rely heavily on the gay equivalent to Aunt Jamima for good ratings.

Straight America is wildly entertained by the gay man. It’s just so quaint how he thinks his way is better than our way; look how he “pooh-poohs” our interior design—it’s so adorable! I just love his witty remarks! Look how he cringes at our fashion choices! Go ahead—let him into your closet to scorn your clothes; after all, he likes it in there!

Dance, gay man, dance.

And yet when gay men abandon the parodies of themselves for one fucking minute to ask for something as simple as civil rights, America’s canned laugh track comes to a screeching halt.

It makes me sick.

There is something so wrong and so deeply ruined about a country that pulls this sort of crap time and time again; we are a disgrace.

Those SUV driving, flag waving Americans who say that we are free are obviously not gay. They are obviously not poor. They are obviously not anything but white and privileged. Freedom is just a trophy for those who are rich enough to buy it or those who hate themselves enough to pay for it in other ways. Just ask the bitchy gay man. He is free to “be himself” on television, just as long as it sells.
_______________________________________________________________________

So, what are we going to do to stop this horrible cycle?

::Random Tangent::

December 9, go see Broke Back Mountain. The gay characters in it are not subservient to a larger plot about straight people. The gay characters are not bitchy mannequins, but actual people, with actual pulses and actual sweat and actual tears. This movie matters; make America recognize that with your spending power.

The Bell Tolls for Me, Biotch
© The Author, 2005

Vacations are bliss. Especially when they don’t involve cuddling up with mutant dust bunnies on a friend’s decrepit apartment floor or sponging room and board off relatives even though you suspect you may be getting a bit too old to be pulling that kind of crap. It’s nice every once in a while to simply be like Jake, bite the bullet, and pay whatever bill your search for happiness may rack up. (Jake lives in Hemmingway’s The Sun Also Rises and he is immensely cool. Even though he is impotent. Intrigued? Of course you are. Read it. Live it. Love it. Back to my point…)

I’ve only been privy to a few samples of a grown up vacation, but every time I get a nibble it tastes like rich chocolate and Pez candies; vacations turn me into a hopped up, maniacally happy little toddler. I get so giddy that I nearly piss myself just thinking about vacation plans. I definitely drool a little.

Real grown up, eh?

Regardless of whatever retardation vacationing may bring me, I am unequivocally excited over every stage in vacation going. The researching, the booking, the planning, the packing, the red eye, the strange food encounters, the subsequent bowel issues—its all a rush to me. Even lugging suitcases and heaving overstuffed carry-on bags on the subway to O’Hare makes me feel like a superstar. I like looking at all the ordinary people riding on their way to work, school, or some other boring place to rot and thinking, “I’m outta here, suckers!” I like figuring out how to manage once our plane has landed somewhere new. I like the noise of different dialects and languages clicking in my ears. I like uncorking our hotel room for the first time and peeking under the bed cheekily to check for dead bodies; I like pretending that the place is probably haunted. I like getting dizzy from seeing fresh everythings. I like feeling full from new foods and drunk from new drinks. I like talking to other travelers, even those who say things like, “Chicago, eh? I’ve got a cousin that lives in Illinois Do you know her?” (Note: Pronounce the “S” in Illinois for full effect.) When it comes to vacationing, I dig it all.

With that said, there is one stage in the vacation process that I like to spaz out over best: The Count Down.

The count down begins after the travel has been researched, booked, and the purchaser has made a conscious decision not to be bothered by the horrifyingly imposing numbers that are soon to appear on their credit card. The count down starts in earnest with a cute little drawing on the purchaser’s calendar on the dates of travel—a smiley face or perhaps something of geographic or cultural significance to the place soon visited. As time progresses, the doodles around the travel itinerary grow. Plans are traced and re-traced until they become bold, crazy balloons more fitting for declarations of love on a sixth-grader’s Trapper Keeper than in the calendar of an adult. If stickers are in close proximity, they are added to the pages.

Once the pages of the purchaser’s calendar are thoroughly embarrassing, the purchaser moves on to nicknaming the trip. The nickname has a loose association with the actual trip—the type of free association only acquired through complete slap happiness—and it serves as a sort of bond between the travelers, setting the tone for the immense fun to commence. When nicknaming the trip, anything goes; a camping trip with strictly platonic friends could morph into a trip entitled “Sexxy Camping,” while a romantic honeymoon in Spain may suddenly be dubbed, “The Bell Tolls for Me, Biotch.”

Once the expedition has been adequately dubbed, and all those participating in the trip are in on the joke, it is time for the count down to evolve into numbers. Depending on how impatient you are, you can either count down by weeks (it makes it seem like less time because it is a smaller number) or days. The participants email each other with updates on the official countdown, their excitement punctuated by little factoids or pictures about their vacation destination scavenged during lunch breaks. The numerical portion of the count down can be grueling: philosophical questions must be answered like, “how am I supposed to live through 14 days until I get to feel the surf gurgle between my toes?” and the ever popular, “Why hasn’t time travel been invented yet?” However trying the numerical count down may be, the explosive release that such anticipation building entices is always worth the struggle.

The explosive release happens once you are in the seat of your vehicle of transport on the first day of your excursion. You buckle your safety belt, tear into a fresh pack of mint gum, and squeeze your travel companion’s hand tight. The smile that plasters itself on your face at that moment will stay glued on until one of you becomes dehydrated, lost, or in need of a bathroom when no such facilities are present. At that time, the smile evaporates and the issue is immediately the other person’s fault on some level. But alas, so strong are the powers of the smile of the explosive release, that once the crabby traveler has been watered, found, or waters, the smile finds its way back where it belongs with ease.

So what has me so jazzed? Californication 05/06. The day after spending X-Mas with family in Michigan, my husband and I are off to spend thee nights of romance and hiking in Sequoia National Park . After that, we are going to hop in our rented Ford Escort or Similar Model and cruise down to LA to meet up with our good friend Allyson. (Psst! Click on her link and see what an incredible artist she is. You will be floored. I promise. I owe her a full blog later, but seriously, click on the link to see how she rocks. Hire her! She does freelance illustration and graphic design.) Our friend Beth, currently stationed in Baltimore while pursuing her masters, is also meeting us in LA. Together, we will all party like its 2006, because it will be, seeing as how New Years Eve is an integral portion of this vacation and all.

We booked our tickets last weekend and I am undoubtedly in the Count Down phase right now. Check it out:

________________________________________________________________________
Where is this crazy, beautiful world taking you this winter?

*

::Random Tangent::

Why are there so many haters of the serial comma? I’m not just talking about the British who live by Fowler’s Modern English Usage guide (on page 588 Fowler calls the serial comma “otiose,” or for those of us who speak plain English, “pointless”).

As an admirer of the Chicago Manual of Style (14th Edition, see page 173, 5.57 for details), “I went to the store to get eggs, diapers, and syringes,” has more merit to me than the un-serial comma-ed, “I went to the store to get eggs, diapers and syringes.”

Serial Comma: For or Against? Discuss!