I will start this blog off by listing the things I am thankful for on this day after Christmas.
1. That I do not have a hangover.
2. That I can have pie for breakfast.
3. That I have the day off and have been writing a good two hours so far. (Not at this.)
4. That my video store is downstairs and one door away, so I can treat myself to "The Best of Youth" later.
5. That I have great family and friends that know me well enough to know that this list is not made in order of importance. Well, except, perhaps for #1.
6. That I have a computer. I love my computer.
7. That I have two of the sweetest and silliest cats in history. Who also know me well enough to know that this list is not made in order of importance.
8. That I have taught myself to type without looking.
9. That I have the choice to not go to an orphan Christmas ever again.
10. Hand lotion
There, I put down ten things I am thankful for.
There are more. But ten is enough to balance out the negative tirade about to come forth.
Commence carping now.
I start my trek to my friend's orphan Christmas dinner. It is a rainy, rocky, nut and bolty laden 9 block walk to my friend's place.
I am pushing a granny cart filled with gifts, cookies, two pies, cranberry sauce, crudites and dip. The pies are having epileptic seizures along the bumpy path, and are perched at an uncorrectable slant.
I arrive. I unload.
The apple pie is now lopsided and lost some of its juice. I shift the center.
11. Thank God for crumb topping!
My friend's roommate, Mason, and his friend Darla greet me. Then my friend, Shelly, greets me. Our mutual friend, Diana, is doing the cooking even though she doesn't live there. She waves a mitted hand and follows through with a hug.
12. Thank God for aliases.
Mason is a nice enough prick of a prince, who has an artsy commercial job that affords him his superior air and a upscale boho chic lifestyle. His voice is also appropriately colored with the pinched nasality of the United Kingdom's more proper foothold in the Southern hemisphere -- the one that doesn't export extra large canned beer.
Darla is a doe-eyed doll, but with blue peepers. She is dressed a bit like a Carol Burnett sketch: gloved and glamorous; edged in farce. She smiles more often than not. Except when Mason barks at her to do her job and decorate the tree. She breaks two ornaments.
Diana is a multitalented up and coming star, whose new album made the charts. She keeps it real and is a great friend.
Shelly is a powerhouse and taking more and more successful steps in her career behind the camera. She is also a dear friend, but I am sometimes jealous of the attention she pays on her blackberry.
Diana, and I as her sous, prepare the meal while more guests arrive and the hosts shower. Mason says he blow waved his hair. I ask if that means the same as blow dry? An honest question served up honestly. But he answers with the defense of a thousand porcupine quills and an icy stare. And soon 'blow wave' will pop up in conversation throughout the night to remind me of my quaintness.
Eighteen, my lucky number, people arrive. We need another place setting! We make room. Whew!
One of the arrivals who is Jewish, atheist and gay, we'll call him Jag, enters with a saute pan in hand. It contains some pale sausages and even paler (green not white) asparagus stalks no tips. He takes a burner. He then heaps four ladlesful of rice pilaf into his pan -- he did ask nicely for the rice.
I am squeezing limes, lemons and oranges to make a citrus sauce for the scallops.
Jag seeing the scallops, has pushed his way into the job of flouring and panfrying them. He sporadically asks if he is doing it correctly.
Jag is a scary Rumplestiltskin of a man. I was repulsed and annoyed by him, mostly. I also pitied him. He has to push or he will get run over. Still, he annoyed me, at times, to a point where I wanted to do just that with my granny cart!
Dinner was great.
Dessert was devoured.
Jag had to cut his own piece of pie even though there were precut slices all over the place.
13. Thank God for granny carts and the insanity defense.
14. Thank God for yogic breathing.
Diana and I straightened up the kitchen, while Mason sincerely piped in "You shouldn't be cleaning up, you have done too much already." & "Thank You," in alternating repetitions.
My stomach was overfilled with food and the pumped out pomposity and self promotion that filled this loft.
Charles the cat kept his distance from the pretenders, and held a flirtatious gaze on me.
15. Thank God for the silent knowing of old friends and cats.
Then I hit the road.
Glad to get out of there.
Glad to get home to my two furry sillies.
Glad to drift off to a dream of leftover turkey sandwiches, and a simpler, whiter Christmas next year.
