Thanksgiving has never been my favorite holiday. The tendency to eat too much, the propensity toward football, and the provenance of sweet potatoes do not strike me as ideal ways in which to spend an afternoon. I suppose it is a lush's prerogative to prefer the drinking holidays - i.e. St. Patrick's Day, Christmas, New Year's Eve, both of my birthdays (long story), and two to three days per week of my choosing.
Nonetheless, I have much for which to be grateful this year, and I flung myself freely and wholeheartedly into this day - with all the aplomb, grace, and culinary skill I could muster.
I am grateful for my friends -
Ova the Top and Daddy are preparing for a big move; their lease is up, the house is built, and most of what can be packed - not the Coyote, the Caddy, the big-dicked, baby-faced queen (tenant) nor the two cats - is packed. I have been part of the process all along, and it is only by the grace of my severe allergy to their current house that I am not lifting, toting, or otherwise helping out.
the Czarina, whom I have not seen much of of late, is one moment closer to being an empress of a certain age. His birthday was last week, and I hear tell that he celebrated at La Scala - dripping diamonds and decked in fur. And because one should never dine alone - or have to pick up a check on one's own birthday, the Czarina dined with the Duchess, a diva who also wore furs and a few tastefully overdone gems. It doesn't count as a ring if at least two waiters aren't blinded by it when it catches the light from the crystal chandelier.
the Frenemy is still fumbling toward ... uh, romance. I think it's something in the air these days that everyone starts coupling, or trying to, when the holidays strike. the Frenemy's latest infatuation - someone who actually thinks that he's "a treat" is a part-time drag queen who copy-edits porn. That he lives with his ex-boyfriend, with whom he still has sex - and with whom the Frenemy intends to have sex - seems to pose little trouble for anyone involved.
Of course, my photo shoot frenemy, Joan, is still around. Though we've been (casually) acquainted for years now, and have some friends in common, talk mostly turns to the photo shoot - the people we met there, and the men about whom Joan still has moist dreams.
Maybe it's just the 4 months of captivity talking - or that I have had very little sex this year, but some of those men hold a special place in my crotch as well.
I just speak of it less often.
I am grateful for my family -
I made my first turkey today - a slow-roasted thing, fall-off-the-bone tender, and rather spicy - as I tend to prefer things to be. As I was pulling peanut butter cookies out of the oven, and sliding in sugar cookies, my cousin called. This is the same cousin - now 70 - who wrote me while at the photo shoot, the same cousin who used to say - often - 'love the sinner, hate the sin ...' and who told me, seemingly a thousand years ago, to go away and never come back ... that I had shamed the family being gay.
She told me she was proud of me today - that my cooking, hosting a gathering, taking care of a friend, was proof that I had come a long way from my selfish hedonism, and that the (family) traditions of gathering together and eating too much would not die with her. I know - my father in his middle 80s, and my cousin just turned 70 - that in less time than I expect or desire, things are going to change 'round here. And suddenly, I am part of - or leader of - that next generation of people who take care of other people, who love and provide.
A year ago, that didn't matter to me at all; this year, post-photo shoot and hell, introspection and bull-shit, it means a lot.
The turkey came out fabulously, as did the rest of the meal proper. The cookies came out great, too ... although there was an incident.
In the midst of bending over for brown sugar - which I am sure is a porn title somewhere ... in the midst of bending over for brown sugar, I suffered a blow-out. My abundant thighs overpowered my tight, vintage polyester pants.
I knew they were tight, of course, too tight, really ... but, given that I got them on and was able to both breathe and walk, I did not anticipate that my pants - from crotch to knee - would simply give in (and up). That the suit - a 3-piece suit, with reversible vest, pants, and jacket - with blue and beige plaid print on all three was a bit much (I was one feather-topped hat away from being 'Huggy Bear' - the pimp) means that the blow-out perhaps saved me from myself.
Sometimes, the mirror is your friend; sometimes, it's your enemy ... and sometimes, the mirror says, "C'mon ... I double dog dare you ..."
And speaking of clothes, I am going back to Macy's tomorrow. It's just another day at the races, and it starts at 5AM. I am grateful for my job - short-lived though it may be, and as tomorrow fast approaches, I am counting the rest of my blessings under the sheets.