Turkey Basting
Nearly 4 months after writing the letter outlining how I wouldn't/couldn't attend my father's 70th birthday charade, the dust settled. Exactly 2 flecks of it.
I learned somewhere that household dust is mostly comprised of sloughed off dried skin cells. A disgusting fact when first learned. Swirling farmed dust bunnies wrangled under beds, culminating over days and nights from a body vigorously recruiting another as an amorous cheese grater.
The most impressive fact (to me) about dust is a very small percentage is matter that has fallen from space. Space dust. Far more appealing than unconscious exfoliation.
Hey! You're epidermis is showing!
No, it's not!
A childhood favourite segue.
I went out for lunch with my mother last week. It was the first time since writing the letter that we'd made a date to go out. Mom and I used to regularly lunch. Things sort of halted after writing that letter. In the process of writing, I realised it wasn't just my father who had habitually wronged me. Say nothing and you're complicit. It had been systemic familial lynching. After careful reexamination, I realised that for years I'd let these hurts go unvoiced. Repressed.
What happens to those who have been unfairly treated is one of 2 things:
1. Join 'em.
2. Beat 'em.
Superhumans in colourful tights didn't speed-plummet out of the biosphere to save me. Not that I'd let them anyway. Why champion myself when there is a world to defend? In modest clothing, including holes in nearly every pair of socks I own, I defend a select sect of the Earth's inhabitants. Those who have no voice.
I would say that at least 80% of my friend base have immigrants as parents or are immigrants themselves. Perhaps it's part of the clumping theory Ack, the ex-husband/best friend told me about. It's an urban legend, as I learned today. But it does make sense.
Like finds like and is magnetically drawn to it.
The older I get, the more I find these little condom people creating my own reef.
What they share in common is they don't expect much from anybody. Had great difficulties growing up. Their lesson plan centered around the hope for nothing. It was pointless. You were always disappointed. Though, sometimes it helped.
Expect nothing and you can be pleasantly surprised.
Expect the worst and it's never as bad as you imagined.
But conversely, expect nothing and you can get just that.
And in the end you receive a gold star for the valuable lesson regurgitated.
You see? The world is shit.
You proved them right.
Sitting across a dim sum dotted formica table, I asked my mother about my letter's aftermath expecting a bomb to have dropped. Nothing. Even with toothpicks prying eyes open, it had hardly created a millisecond onscreen blip. The majority of my family had shoved it under the threadbare wall to wall carpeting, buttressing issue with matter that had accumulated over decades. That lump had to be drywalled in; the neighbours might have begun to suspect.
Random Neighbour: I didn't notice that pillar before. Is that new?
The Comrade: There was no discussion?
Mom: No. Hey, did I tell you we went to [So and So's] wedding?
Distract.
Misdirect.
So and So is the daughter of my parents' next door neighbour. The daughter from the first marriage. The bride met the groom, a native Cuban, on an all-inclusive holiday 2 years ago. So and So's wedding was being held at Toronto's exclusive Granite Club.
The Comrade: Did you know that not until very recently there wasn't a single black or Jewish member at that club? I have no idea why they'd join, but I think they now have one token representative from each ethnic camp just to keep self-interest groups at bay.
I told her that I'd been a guest there once. I was invited by my high school friend, Wendy. It was my introduction to unabashed, open mouthed gawking. Is that an Ornamental? I think she brought me, in part, to thumb old money and what it did to her mother. Her beautiful house, located at one of the best addresses, was scarcely decorated with crumbling antiques and ass-worn needlepoint upholstery. It was both messy and filthy. Not unlike Wendy's description of her mother, who presented herself to me only in whiny, cracking, disembodied voice. Pleading at Wendy.
Wendy's Mom: Did you go to the drugstore for me?
Wendy: Yes, Mummy.
Mom: Don't they mind all the Filipino ladies they have working there?
The Comrade: No, they love it.
Mom: So and So's father paid for the wedding.
The Comrade: Mm hm.
Mom: He's really rich.
The Comrade: [mentally jumping into a print full of winged goldfish] Uh huh.
Mom: The second husband has no money. Why would she marry him? It must be because he has a nice face.
The Comrade: [contemplating shoving Sambal Olek into my eye] I can think of no better reason to remarry.
Mom: Why would she give up her first husband?
The Comrade: What are you saying, Mom? That money alone is enough reason to stay? No matter how bad it could get?
Mom: How bad could it be if there is a lot of money?
How bad indeed?
My mother puts up with inordinate amounts of abusive crap and stands in line to receive no masochism pay for it.
Time for a topic change.
The Comrade: Mom, I've been thinking about Granny lately. This is what I know: she loved her pigs and cigarettes, had you after 12 prior unsuccessful attempts and hated my father. I really want to know more about her.
Another misdirection occurred.
After a second brief attempt to try to sway her back to more disclosure of a grandmother known only to me as an enigma, coupled with further distraction/misdirection, I desisted. And realised, quite painfully, that my mother never really knew my grandmother as a person.
And then I questioned how much I knew my own mother. How much had she disclosed to me? How much was there to her?
My mother's opinions are not her own. They are not cleaved from interacting with the world and making her own diagnoses. She was made fearful of the world. Hers are wholly learned from 2 sources: the news media and my father.
Mom: Did you get your flu shot yet?
The Comrade: I don't get flu shots.
Mom: I saw doctors on a commercial telling people to get the shot.
I'm not really a doctor. I just play one on TV.
Every year, specialists with a framed piece of paper come up with what they think is going to be the next seasonal flu scourge. They create a synthesized version of this, then shove it in millions of veins with the hopes that the battalions of 12 gallon Stetson hat wearing white blood cells will duke it out. But what often happens is a wholly separate flu strain enters and now the body has to try to fight off 2 alien infections.
The Comrade: I don't play roulette games.
In America, 20,000 accidental, unrelated to the initial illness, deaths occur in hospitals annually.
The Comrade: These people make life or death decisions being on call for 36 hours. My brain's fried after working 12 hours straight.
Fatty: Some guy went in to have his leg removed and they removed the wrong one.
This happens all the time.
On the bright side, it makes more beds available in hospitals and geriatric wards cross-continentally.
Your epidermis is showing!
Still my favourite segue.
Lately, I've been referring to Fatty, the love of my life, as the future father of my children.
Anyone Who Has Known Me for Over 5 Years: You said you were never having them.
I've lately come to realise the word never conceivably means missing out on things.
The Comrade: I think I never wanted one because the right person hadn't presented himself. He has now.
Fatty will be an extraordinary father. He is a bottomless pit of love. But, of course he would be. He learned from the best in their field.
His mother, Judy, is the best kindergarten teacher I've ever seen in action. And the most devoted mother.
His father, Peter, heads a specialized pediatrics clinic, but spends the bulk of his time researching cures for rare diseases. And kids, including this one, are magnetically drawn to him.
Both of these remarkable people share 2 things in common:
1. Both came from less than desirable, borderline or full on abusive familial circumstances.
2. Have risked endangering both their own personal and professional lives. As a subsequence, these heads of Fatty's clan are fierce fighters in their continued cause of What is Rightâ„¢.
Peter, who blew the whistle on a pharmaceutical debacle so major that he was issued death threats at his office and home.
And as for you, my pretty...
Scene: Black cab. 3 American tourists comprised the fare. Cab approaches a 4 way intersection without stopping. Cab hits the back tire of a cyclist. Accompanying friend of cyclist is narrowly missed.
Cab Driver: Siete ciechi, voi idiot?
Occupant #1: Cool! We get to see a real Italian fight.
Sometimes I'm a little slow to react to things that are completely dumbfounding. While I was still trying to work out how the cab driver could be calling the cyclist a blind idiot when the car clearly never stopped or even slowed down until Fatty, myself and a mess of golden locks owned by his mother stepped in front of the car. A dainty, pale, freckled hand slammed the hood of the black VW.
Occupant #2: This really doesn't concern us. And it's taking up our time.
Occupant #3: Lady, I don't know why you're concerning yourself with this.
She concerns herself with injustices. She knows how it feels to be powerless and have no one there for a rescue.
Occupant #2: Lady, it's none of our business.
Judy: None of my business? None of your business? Shame on you.
She shamed the men in the car, as only a kindergarten teacher could do. When they rolled up their window, she slapped it and lobbed a great big fuck you to the "fat cats", replete with matching middle finger. I believe the occupants left with quite a real sensation of snug dunce caps.
Judy does this all the time. She can't not do it.
It drives her kids crazy because they are afraid she's going to get hurt one day.
The Comrade: That will never happen. You mother is highly protected.
Judy: No, I'm not.
The Catholic church stripped away any possible spirituality she may have had.
The Comrade: Yes you are, darling. You're a truth speaker. Nothing bad will ever touch you.
Those days are over.
I told Peter and Judy about my familial circumstances. They never once expressed a single cliché, nor did they try to make me feel responsible for bridging the gap between me and my sordid family. They know how it feels to not be heard, to not be believed, to be ignored. They listened and understood and never once gave me advice. There was merely an empathetic exchange spoken only with our eyes.
Later on a walk to visit my Granny's grave, after trying to digest both lunch and my mother's supposition of good material living equating good marital living, I found myself a bit teary.
Over Granny's grave she asked me if I was Chinese.
The Comrade: Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. Most times, I have no idea who or where I came from.
She chose the moment while we were hovering over her mother's grave to tell me all things she thought were Chinese.
Mom: In Chinese culture the children are expected to take care of their parents when they are too old or infirm. And they should only marry once. Twice at the very most. That's the Chinese way. Other people don't look well upon it otherwise.
The Comrade: I see.
Of course, I've seen, saw and digested this matter over the entire course of my life.
The Comrade: Mom, I wanted to know about your mother because none of my immediate family makes any sense to me. I don't know where I come from. Where the hell do I come from?
Of course this went unheard. Or maybe she thought the question rhetorical.
Not to be an ingrate, but the thought of having to care for my elderly parents day in and day out sends a ripple of fear so intense I think I'd rather do a header into heavy industrial farm equipment. The mulching kind. As for the marriage(s) thing, I think I've got that covered.
As much as we are committed to each other, Fatty and I are not going to get married. We talked about it today.
The Comrade: As far as marriages go, I think I'm cursed.
He doesn't think I'm cursed, but he doesn't want to be the 3rd in a line of unsuccessful attempts.
I wouldn't either.
The Comrade: I want to give you a ring, though.
Fatty: You do? [he smiled]
The Comrade: It's not going to be gold or platinum. I don't want it to be too precious. I like the idea of stainless steel. It doesn't corrode. It scratches. It takes bumps well and it always shows where the rough bits happened. But it's durable. It will withstand everything.
At lunch last week, I talked about my plans for Christmas this year.
The Comrade: You know Mom, I've decided not to spend Christmas with you guys.
Mom: Okay.
No why. Just an okay.
The Comrade: I've decided that for the first time in a very long time I want to spend Christmas with people that don't make me feel bad.
Mom: So, what are you going to do?
The Comrade: Christmas Eve will be spent with Ack's family. I've told Fatty about the Traditional Czech Christmas Carp.
This not so pretty bottom feeder is usually bought live, placed in the bathtub for a day to swim around, orally cleaning the dirty foot matter heels smear onto basins. After a day or so it's bonked on the head, sliced into steaks, schnitzeled, fried and eaten with potato salad.
The Comrade: He's very excited. Then I'm spending Christmas Day with Fatty's family where I'm finally going to get some damned turkey.
Judy had promised me turkey on Thanksgiving, but found the preparation too mentally taxing as she and Peter were going to be taking off the following day for Italy, then Jerusalem. We had Indian food instead. Boy was I sore. To this day I note my disappointment with every ensuing email I send her. As I've finally decided to have children, I'm working on any applied guilt I can. It's a learned skill all mothers possess.
Sometimes I think about the potential of our unborn child. I wonder who he'll be. What his character will be like.
I think I'm drawn to Fatty's parents because they seem like the parents I should have had.
But if I was raised by them, would I have turned out the same way?
Looking at Fatty and his brother Tristan, they didn't turn out like their parents at all. Well, parts, sure, but not the freedom fighting sort. How they both turned out was carrying all the love in the world and liberally basting it on the ones who save others.
One Chinese custom I learned and liked was the practice of cleaning one's house of the previous year's dirt to make way for the new year. Clean slate. None of the previous year's baggage. I think I'll do that this year. But maybe a week earlier.
Christmas.
I'm really looking forward to it this year.
I learned somewhere that household dust is mostly comprised of sloughed off dried skin cells. A disgusting fact when first learned. Swirling farmed dust bunnies wrangled under beds, culminating over days and nights from a body vigorously recruiting another as an amorous cheese grater.
The most impressive fact (to me) about dust is a very small percentage is matter that has fallen from space. Space dust. Far more appealing than unconscious exfoliation.
Hey! You're epidermis is showing!
No, it's not!
A childhood favourite segue.
I went out for lunch with my mother last week. It was the first time since writing the letter that we'd made a date to go out. Mom and I used to regularly lunch. Things sort of halted after writing that letter. In the process of writing, I realised it wasn't just my father who had habitually wronged me. Say nothing and you're complicit. It had been systemic familial lynching. After careful reexamination, I realised that for years I'd let these hurts go unvoiced. Repressed.
What happens to those who have been unfairly treated is one of 2 things:
1. Join 'em.
2. Beat 'em.
Superhumans in colourful tights didn't speed-plummet out of the biosphere to save me. Not that I'd let them anyway. Why champion myself when there is a world to defend? In modest clothing, including holes in nearly every pair of socks I own, I defend a select sect of the Earth's inhabitants. Those who have no voice.
I would say that at least 80% of my friend base have immigrants as parents or are immigrants themselves. Perhaps it's part of the clumping theory Ack, the ex-husband/best friend told me about. It's an urban legend, as I learned today. But it does make sense.
Like finds like and is magnetically drawn to it.
The older I get, the more I find these little condom people creating my own reef.
What they share in common is they don't expect much from anybody. Had great difficulties growing up. Their lesson plan centered around the hope for nothing. It was pointless. You were always disappointed. Though, sometimes it helped.
Expect nothing and you can be pleasantly surprised.
Expect the worst and it's never as bad as you imagined.
But conversely, expect nothing and you can get just that.
And in the end you receive a gold star for the valuable lesson regurgitated.
You see? The world is shit.
You proved them right.
Sitting across a dim sum dotted formica table, I asked my mother about my letter's aftermath expecting a bomb to have dropped. Nothing. Even with toothpicks prying eyes open, it had hardly created a millisecond onscreen blip. The majority of my family had shoved it under the threadbare wall to wall carpeting, buttressing issue with matter that had accumulated over decades. That lump had to be drywalled in; the neighbours might have begun to suspect.
Random Neighbour: I didn't notice that pillar before. Is that new?
The Comrade: There was no discussion?
Mom: No. Hey, did I tell you we went to [So and So's] wedding?
Distract.
Misdirect.
So and So is the daughter of my parents' next door neighbour. The daughter from the first marriage. The bride met the groom, a native Cuban, on an all-inclusive holiday 2 years ago. So and So's wedding was being held at Toronto's exclusive Granite Club.
The Comrade: Did you know that not until very recently there wasn't a single black or Jewish member at that club? I have no idea why they'd join, but I think they now have one token representative from each ethnic camp just to keep self-interest groups at bay.
I told her that I'd been a guest there once. I was invited by my high school friend, Wendy. It was my introduction to unabashed, open mouthed gawking. Is that an Ornamental? I think she brought me, in part, to thumb old money and what it did to her mother. Her beautiful house, located at one of the best addresses, was scarcely decorated with crumbling antiques and ass-worn needlepoint upholstery. It was both messy and filthy. Not unlike Wendy's description of her mother, who presented herself to me only in whiny, cracking, disembodied voice. Pleading at Wendy.
Wendy's Mom: Did you go to the drugstore for me?
Wendy: Yes, Mummy.
Mom: Don't they mind all the Filipino ladies they have working there?
The Comrade: No, they love it.
Mom: So and So's father paid for the wedding.
The Comrade: Mm hm.
Mom: He's really rich.
The Comrade: [mentally jumping into a print full of winged goldfish] Uh huh.
Mom: The second husband has no money. Why would she marry him? It must be because he has a nice face.
The Comrade: [contemplating shoving Sambal Olek into my eye] I can think of no better reason to remarry.
Mom: Why would she give up her first husband?
The Comrade: What are you saying, Mom? That money alone is enough reason to stay? No matter how bad it could get?
Mom: How bad could it be if there is a lot of money?
How bad indeed?
My mother puts up with inordinate amounts of abusive crap and stands in line to receive no masochism pay for it.
Time for a topic change.
The Comrade: Mom, I've been thinking about Granny lately. This is what I know: she loved her pigs and cigarettes, had you after 12 prior unsuccessful attempts and hated my father. I really want to know more about her.
Another misdirection occurred.
After a second brief attempt to try to sway her back to more disclosure of a grandmother known only to me as an enigma, coupled with further distraction/misdirection, I desisted. And realised, quite painfully, that my mother never really knew my grandmother as a person.
And then I questioned how much I knew my own mother. How much had she disclosed to me? How much was there to her?
My mother's opinions are not her own. They are not cleaved from interacting with the world and making her own diagnoses. She was made fearful of the world. Hers are wholly learned from 2 sources: the news media and my father.
Mom: Did you get your flu shot yet?
The Comrade: I don't get flu shots.
Mom: I saw doctors on a commercial telling people to get the shot.
I'm not really a doctor. I just play one on TV.
Every year, specialists with a framed piece of paper come up with what they think is going to be the next seasonal flu scourge. They create a synthesized version of this, then shove it in millions of veins with the hopes that the battalions of 12 gallon Stetson hat wearing white blood cells will duke it out. But what often happens is a wholly separate flu strain enters and now the body has to try to fight off 2 alien infections.
The Comrade: I don't play roulette games.
In America, 20,000 accidental, unrelated to the initial illness, deaths occur in hospitals annually.
The Comrade: These people make life or death decisions being on call for 36 hours. My brain's fried after working 12 hours straight.
Fatty: Some guy went in to have his leg removed and they removed the wrong one.
This happens all the time.
On the bright side, it makes more beds available in hospitals and geriatric wards cross-continentally.
Your epidermis is showing!
Still my favourite segue.
Lately, I've been referring to Fatty, the love of my life, as the future father of my children.
Anyone Who Has Known Me for Over 5 Years: You said you were never having them.
I've lately come to realise the word never conceivably means missing out on things.
The Comrade: I think I never wanted one because the right person hadn't presented himself. He has now.
Fatty will be an extraordinary father. He is a bottomless pit of love. But, of course he would be. He learned from the best in their field.
His mother, Judy, is the best kindergarten teacher I've ever seen in action. And the most devoted mother.
His father, Peter, heads a specialized pediatrics clinic, but spends the bulk of his time researching cures for rare diseases. And kids, including this one, are magnetically drawn to him.
Both of these remarkable people share 2 things in common:
1. Both came from less than desirable, borderline or full on abusive familial circumstances.
2. Have risked endangering both their own personal and professional lives. As a subsequence, these heads of Fatty's clan are fierce fighters in their continued cause of What is Rightâ„¢.
Peter, who blew the whistle on a pharmaceutical debacle so major that he was issued death threats at his office and home.
And as for you, my pretty...
Scene: Black cab. 3 American tourists comprised the fare. Cab approaches a 4 way intersection without stopping. Cab hits the back tire of a cyclist. Accompanying friend of cyclist is narrowly missed.
Cab Driver: Siete ciechi, voi idiot?
Occupant #1: Cool! We get to see a real Italian fight.
Sometimes I'm a little slow to react to things that are completely dumbfounding. While I was still trying to work out how the cab driver could be calling the cyclist a blind idiot when the car clearly never stopped or even slowed down until Fatty, myself and a mess of golden locks owned by his mother stepped in front of the car. A dainty, pale, freckled hand slammed the hood of the black VW.
Occupant #2: This really doesn't concern us. And it's taking up our time.
Occupant #3: Lady, I don't know why you're concerning yourself with this.
She concerns herself with injustices. She knows how it feels to be powerless and have no one there for a rescue.
Occupant #2: Lady, it's none of our business.
Judy: None of my business? None of your business? Shame on you.
She shamed the men in the car, as only a kindergarten teacher could do. When they rolled up their window, she slapped it and lobbed a great big fuck you to the "fat cats", replete with matching middle finger. I believe the occupants left with quite a real sensation of snug dunce caps.
Judy does this all the time. She can't not do it.
It drives her kids crazy because they are afraid she's going to get hurt one day.
The Comrade: That will never happen. You mother is highly protected.
Judy: No, I'm not.
The Catholic church stripped away any possible spirituality she may have had.
The Comrade: Yes you are, darling. You're a truth speaker. Nothing bad will ever touch you.
Those days are over.
I told Peter and Judy about my familial circumstances. They never once expressed a single cliché, nor did they try to make me feel responsible for bridging the gap between me and my sordid family. They know how it feels to not be heard, to not be believed, to be ignored. They listened and understood and never once gave me advice. There was merely an empathetic exchange spoken only with our eyes.
Later on a walk to visit my Granny's grave, after trying to digest both lunch and my mother's supposition of good material living equating good marital living, I found myself a bit teary.
Over Granny's grave she asked me if I was Chinese.
The Comrade: Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. Most times, I have no idea who or where I came from.
She chose the moment while we were hovering over her mother's grave to tell me all things she thought were Chinese.
Mom: In Chinese culture the children are expected to take care of their parents when they are too old or infirm. And they should only marry once. Twice at the very most. That's the Chinese way. Other people don't look well upon it otherwise.
The Comrade: I see.
Of course, I've seen, saw and digested this matter over the entire course of my life.
The Comrade: Mom, I wanted to know about your mother because none of my immediate family makes any sense to me. I don't know where I come from. Where the hell do I come from?
Of course this went unheard. Or maybe she thought the question rhetorical.
Not to be an ingrate, but the thought of having to care for my elderly parents day in and day out sends a ripple of fear so intense I think I'd rather do a header into heavy industrial farm equipment. The mulching kind. As for the marriage(s) thing, I think I've got that covered.
As much as we are committed to each other, Fatty and I are not going to get married. We talked about it today.
The Comrade: As far as marriages go, I think I'm cursed.
He doesn't think I'm cursed, but he doesn't want to be the 3rd in a line of unsuccessful attempts.
I wouldn't either.
The Comrade: I want to give you a ring, though.
Fatty: You do? [he smiled]
The Comrade: It's not going to be gold or platinum. I don't want it to be too precious. I like the idea of stainless steel. It doesn't corrode. It scratches. It takes bumps well and it always shows where the rough bits happened. But it's durable. It will withstand everything.
At lunch last week, I talked about my plans for Christmas this year.
The Comrade: You know Mom, I've decided not to spend Christmas with you guys.
Mom: Okay.
No why. Just an okay.
The Comrade: I've decided that for the first time in a very long time I want to spend Christmas with people that don't make me feel bad.
Mom: So, what are you going to do?
The Comrade: Christmas Eve will be spent with Ack's family. I've told Fatty about the Traditional Czech Christmas Carp.
This not so pretty bottom feeder is usually bought live, placed in the bathtub for a day to swim around, orally cleaning the dirty foot matter heels smear onto basins. After a day or so it's bonked on the head, sliced into steaks, schnitzeled, fried and eaten with potato salad.
The Comrade: He's very excited. Then I'm spending Christmas Day with Fatty's family where I'm finally going to get some damned turkey.
Judy had promised me turkey on Thanksgiving, but found the preparation too mentally taxing as she and Peter were going to be taking off the following day for Italy, then Jerusalem. We had Indian food instead. Boy was I sore. To this day I note my disappointment with every ensuing email I send her. As I've finally decided to have children, I'm working on any applied guilt I can. It's a learned skill all mothers possess.
Sometimes I think about the potential of our unborn child. I wonder who he'll be. What his character will be like.
I think I'm drawn to Fatty's parents because they seem like the parents I should have had.
But if I was raised by them, would I have turned out the same way?
Looking at Fatty and his brother Tristan, they didn't turn out like their parents at all. Well, parts, sure, but not the freedom fighting sort. How they both turned out was carrying all the love in the world and liberally basting it on the ones who save others.
One Chinese custom I learned and liked was the practice of cleaning one's house of the previous year's dirt to make way for the new year. Clean slate. None of the previous year's baggage. I think I'll do that this year. But maybe a week earlier.
Christmas.
I'm really looking forward to it this year.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
4:32 p.m.
|
3 comments
