So I went to Moms’s house for Christmas. And I had a fine time. Not swell, but it was fine. I feel I need to say this, after what I posted yesterday, a post that was full of headaches and woes and self-pity and ten-pound ovarian tumors that have teeth and hair in them. The food was okay. It was a little weird, but okay. Someone brought over ribs, which seemed strange, but whatever. I guess she heard about the grocery store prime rib, too, and was hedging her bets, because Christmastime is the time for ribs? But the prime rib was edible. A little cold and a little fatty, but edible. I didn’t have a rib. I probably should have out of politeness, but I didn’t feel like it and you can’t make me. I didn’t have any of the other lady’s raisin cake, either, because that shit looked ill to me. Fuck a raisin cake. Fuck it!
And the people were just fine. Three ladies my mom’s age (in their mid-sixties–fuck, I want to be retired so fucking badly I can taste that shit) and one of their sons, who was a good dinner guest. Some people are enthusiastic and unrestrained about most everything, including dinner at a friend of their middle-aged mother’s house. This man was one of those people. He was interesting enough and inoffensive. He also wished I lived closer, so apparently I was inoffensive and interesting enough. I was not his type, so this was not a sexytime connection. He also has a dog named Luther Vandross. This I highly approve of. (Luther was not at dinner.)
I had taken the wrong pills the night before. I couldn’t sleep, and thought I was just anxious, but at four in the morning realized I had taken my morning pills instead of my night dose, so I took my night dose on top of it. This morning, I was fucked up and expecting the worse. I put on my reticulated pants, the ones that remind me of a giraffe, and expected my mother to hate on them as soon as I got there. Sometimes she does that, hates on my clothes, and then gets really strange when I stand up for myself. “You’re always criticizing me!” she’ll say, crying, when I’ll tell her it’s not cool to say mean things about what I’m wearing. Or she’ll make a dismissive gesture and change the subject. I was so far into a negative future that I was having a conversation with her out loud in my apartment while I was getting dressed. In this conversation, I was at her door, telling her that I should just leave now, because I wasn’t in a good mood, and it wasn’t going to be a good time, so I should just leave, and Merry Christmas! Then I was going to get right back into my car and drive the three to five hours back home. Because I was convinced she was going to say something mean to me about my pants.
She complimented me on them as soon as she saw me. That’s how my Christmas went. I expected everything to be awful, and it was just fine. I’m such a worrywart. She didn’t trip on the presents I got her. In fact, she was happy to get the new Jonathan Franzen. I’m all doom and gloom and it just worked out. School never fell out of my mouth by accident. Everything was copacetic. I remembered to call Pops. Really, there’s nothing more I could hope from today. Just a nice long nap.
I just needed to rectify the situation in your minds. Everything is not terrible at my Moms’s house. Sometimes things work out just fine. I don’t always get a good pie, but I didn’t bring one, now did I? So that’s on me.
OH. And tomorrow: hopefully there will be dancing! I don’t expect to meet somebody who really loves me. I also don’t go and stand on my own and leave on my own. I go with my friends and leave with them, too. I expect to shake a tail feather with my friends and make funny faces for them, which always makes them laugh. I expect to do the HwhirlHwind™, my signature move, and some stanky legg, and just have a good fucking time. And I expect to be tired as fuck at work on Monday! What WHAT.