Friday, November 28, 2008

Thanksgiving at Casa Dei Sogni 2008

Our guest list changed somewhat from last year. Aunt Kiki and her family were struck down by a stomach virus, so we told them to stay the hell home with that mess. The last thing we need is puking and diarrhea around here. We have enough of that from alcohol. Also this was good because we didn't want to worry about her murderous younger daughters trying to poison the cranberry sauce or slipping our credit cards out of our wallets when we're not looking.

My dad's best friend Howie Lipshitz and his one-eyed, mean mother didn't come either because Howie is having romantic troubles and his long distance girlfriend in New York gave him an ultimatum of the sort that made him hop the next Jet Blue to LaGuardia and leave his mom to eat Thanksgiving dinner at her condo's clubhouse.

Lord knows where Mini-T and his mother were this year, so our holiday was not as diverse as usual and it was distinctly lacking in Villa Jo Quinn's sweet potato pie.

But who did show up at the Lawns' home, you ask?

Well, of course we had Star the massage girl who talks openly about her love of the shower massager, but this year she has dumped The Environmentalist from Newfoundland in favor of a nineteen year old (she's 35 like me). Star showed up with several nineteen year olds who called themselves pagans and they came here from the Rainbow gathering raw vegan/ foraged potluck. I tried to be nice to them but one of them sneered at me and walked away. I think I heard him muttering something about me being a capitalist. This didn't stop any of them from eating our food which was about the opposite of raw vegan.

I can't win. Either people think I'm a stuck up, rich white girl (when I'm dressed up) or they think I'm my parents' Guatemalan housekeeper (when I'm dressed normally). My beloved hairdresser joined us and late in the evening he came up to me, put his arm around me and said:

"Sweetheart, it's been a good holiday hasn't it? I haven't seen a single person asking you to get them anything in loud, slow, broken Spanish."

The hairdresser has been embroiled in some intrigue lately as he may or may not have been at some point possibly romantically linked to an extemely famous athlete. Apparently it was in all the gossip rags and all over the Internet but I didn't check. It's too scandalous for me.

In addition to Star, the scandalous hairdresser, and a group of young moon goddess worshipers, one of my mom's old friends from Millpond rolled up in the biggest, reddest truck I've ever seen. My mom and Aunt Kiki have known Dutch Pickens since they were kids. He works construction when he feels like it and lives over in Cape Coral now and he decided to stop in on his way to the Keys, so my mom made him stay for Thanksgiving. I knew we were in trouble when I walked in and he said to me:


Which translates to "You don't remember me do you?"

Aunt Kiki kept in touch with Dutch because of their unique relationship. She drunk dials and he drunk answers. The man is pickled. He woke up yesterday morning and my dad asked him if he'd like a coffee and he answered that he'd just as soon have a 40. And he did. Then he busted out the Crown.

Dutch is such a bad alcoholic that he boasts how he has made a full set of pajamas, a set of drapes and a car cover out of Crown Royal bags. I wonder how many it takes to cover a twenty year old Firebird. While he was here I managed to score three for myself, which I'm thinking about maybe using to sew a small throw pillow or perhaps a lovely violet vest for Canela. If he'd have stayed a few more days I may have had enough for a nice scarf, since I'm going up North in two weeks. I'd have been the envy of Millpond in something like that.

As the day progressed Dutch got so tore up that when he spoke it all came out in a long line of consonants with maybe one long vowel at the end. At one point I turned to my husband and said I had no idea how I could ever write dialogue for this man. It would look like this:


Really. I don't think Dutch even bothers to open his mouth when he speaks, except periodically to breathe through it. He was so drunk that he didn't even notice when the hookers showed up. My third cousin twice removed/ free loader from Israel was all about them though.

Boaz showed up last week. Just like that. He just showed up. He's Uncle Ben Yusef 's grandson and he's 24 and as I commented to someone over dinner, Boaz looks like he dug himself up out of a grave; like he's a zombie. I expected one of his arms to fall off into the kosher turkey and I maintained a safe distance lest he bite me and then I too might turn into a zombie, which would be terrible since I just signed up for thesis hours and I really want to graduate.

Boaz comes from the bad side of my Israeli family. In Israel they have this very elaborate class system, which is kind of stupid and which I won't get into on here right now, but my grandparents come from the very privileged class. Uncle Ben-Yusef, who is a wack job, is my grandfather's youngest brother. He married someone from the lowest class. It would be like if an old money WASP married a girl from the rusted trailers of Appalachia. From then on, his side of the family has been trashy, like many of my Millpond relatives, except Israeli. Boaz is 24 and had this brilliant idea that he would come to America and work in a mall kiosk selling Dead Sea hand creams and salt scrubs at the largest outlets in the world, which are here. His grandmother told him that he could just show up and stay here at my parents' house and drive my parents' car and it would all be great. So he believed her and did just that. Except my parents didn't know about and weren't so keen on the idea and then once he got here he realized he didn't have a job after all. So for the past week he has slept all day and spent all night on my parents' computer, onto which he downloaded all kinds of bad stuff, including a Trojan Horse virus, which practically destroyed the whole computer. When my husband tried to fix it, and subsequently cut off his Internet access, Boaz threw a fit. Like it was his computer! Then he tried to act like he didn't have any money and tried to guilt my parents into giving him money. When that didn't work he got mad again. Then he decided that he was going to travel the world, going to techno shows, so I guess he really had some money after all. We made it so inhospitable here that he booked himself a ticket to Peru and left early this morning. But I think he really enjoyed his first American Thanksgiving. It was all about those hookers, but I'll get to them in a minute.

So Husband and I have this friend who we are convinced is gay, but who will not come out of the closet. We think he is in denial to himself and that he doesn't think it's ok to be gay, and that it is causing him much strife. We hatched a plot to get him over here and show him some good, gay role models, which is more subtle than my original plan to just come right out with it and be like:

"Dude, just admit it, you like the cock and that's totally ok."

We wanted to get him together with the hairdresser who is not a stereotypical, effeminate flamer, to show him that gay stereotypes weren't true and that you could be gay and still like sports and things that other men like. We wanted him to know that gayness comes in all packages, not just the sparkly pink kind. We think that's his problem ultimately - that he believes he isn't gay because he thinks all gay men are interior decorators who scream shrilly and listen to Madonna.

The plan went terribly awry in a most unexpected way.

Our closeted friend ended up really taking a liking not to the hairdresser, but to disgusting Boaz. They disappeared into a dark, upstairs room together, doing God knows what, then left together and spent the whole night out so that ultimately our friend ended up taking him to the airport to catch his flight to Peru. We certainly hadn't foreseen that coming because Boaz, in his vileness, didn't seem gay to us. He told us he had a girlfriend in Peru (do not ask me how he got a girlfriend in Peru). Maybe he's bi? Maybe he was lying?

In any case, we were really disappointed that our closeted gay friend turned out to have horrible taste in men.

But wait, Boaz was really into the hookers. I'm just as confused as you, readers.

I'm going to have to continue this in a little bit as my hand hurts and your brains probably hurt from all this information.

In our next installment - Abe and Gabby, Abe's daughter, the return of the fabulous Velva Haux, a Morroccan woman and how I couldn't remove the smell of hilba from my hands no matter what I did.


Pat said...

I'm feeling very special to have arrived the moment this post came up.

Who finds these people and where?

And why does a nasty recipe always include pineapple?

One friend (bless her heart) made a few things for our Thanksgiving table this year. One dish was a "congealed salad." She made a point of saying it was a salad and not a dessert, making sure it made it to the dinner table.

It was blueberries, drained pineapple tidbits and chopped walnuts suspended in raspberry jello. (there's that no- no again.)

Top that with a combo of cream cheese, sour cream and mayo.

Last but not least, ice the whole thing with Cool Whip. Yum!

I guess the addition of Mayo makes it a salad.

Green said...

Can Boaz get me a good deal on Ahava? Because that stuff is great, but normally pretty expensive.

Paige said...

I think you topped my holiday this year with your odd collection o' folks.

I did not have a single hooker at mine. at least not a currently practicing one

Anonymous said...

I will say that my family makes a black cherry jello concoction that I personally like better than cranberry sauce- it's whole black cherries, pecans, pineapple and black cherry jello- catch is instead of hot water in the jello you use hot Coke. It is really good and even my grown children like it--sort of a tart dish that goes well with turkey--what can I say? I am from Alabama!! :)

Anonymous said...

I know it's late to the party - but for your Crown Royal enjoyment:

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