As mentioned in my last blog entry, I was a good Bear Thanksgiving morning. Threw on my T-shirt and shorts (it was unseasonably warm that day), did a full walk on the track with a book (tried out my new booklight Tuesday night and discovered that although I was able to read, I couldn't see the side of the track and was veering all over causing a potential hazard to other nightwalkers), went to the gym for a full upper body circuit, and stepped on the scale. Still on the plateau: 333 pounds. I was happy not to have gained any weight and went home to feed my familiars some turkey-flavored treats and tuna (it's Thanksgiving for the little ones too, and Gods know I'm thankful for all the warmth and unconditional love they give me every day) before getting ready and picking up my uncle to go to my parents' house for our feast.
While helping my mom in the kitchen, she asked if I exercised that day; I told her I had and there was no change on the scale. But then my mind turned into an abacus for a moment. I thought back to the most I'd lost this time around (324) and that I'd gained 11 pounds since then. But 333 -324 was only 9 pounds, and since I weighed 335 the week before, I realized (as you may have after reading the first paragraph here, O faithful but few blog followers) that I'd actually lost two pounds. Cool!
Then, keeping in mind that Thanksgiving was sacrosanct in celebrating the holidays, I proceeded to thoroughly enjoy two heaping platefuls of turkey, stuffing, sweet and mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits and a delicacy in our house, cauliflower and cheese casserole. I even had a few string beans as garnish (my family accuses me of despising vegetables, but the truth is I enjoy all the iron-rich vegetables kids hate, such as broccoli, Brussels sprouts, cabbage and cauliflower). Since my mother is an excellent cook and my skills in the kitchen aren't too shabby either,dinner was delicious.
It was the company that left something to be desired. My mother invited two of her brothers to join us, and just as I'd developed a begrudging respect for one uncle who has taken more than he's given over the years but recently found himself a job, she reached out her helping hands to another brother who perhaps should have remained persona non grata. He showed up with nothing but a six pack of beer to support his alcoholism, provided the perfect foil for my father as they tag teamed my mother making misogynistic remarks toward her about how inept women are (and when she tried to defend herself, I made it clear to both of them that was in fact what she was doing), and although my mother wants the TV off during family meals, he declared he would sit in a certain chair to watch the game while we ate because he had money riding on it. Later, when the course of conversation veered to the concerts that Beyonce' and Paul McCartney were giving that evening on TV and my father wondered what Paul needed the money for, Uncle Schmucky barked, "Yeah, or Elton John. FAGGOT!" So, besides the six pack, he also brought homophobia to the Thanksgiving table.
There was a short pause as the rest of my family, who are aware that I'm gay, took this in and kinda waited to see how I would react. Mind you, I hadn't talked to Schmucky beyond shaking his hand and saying hello while I was busy in the kitchen because I don't like him or the way he treats my mother who charitably invited him over because his former wife and children want nothing more to do with him. While I continued to enjoy my meal, I processed Schmucky's outburst. I wasn't shocked or mortally offended by his outburst because a) Schmucky does as Schmucky is; b) he has nothing useful to say anyway; c) I'm sure Sir Elton has been called a faggot many times in his life to his face and behind his back and we weren't expecting him to drop by; d) it wasn't directed towards me; e) as a homosexual, I choose how I label myself and which terms I do and do not find personally offensive; and f) Schmucky is not worth my time, effort, energy, breath, or any more space in this blog except as a charming anecdote.
When everyone started playing poker after dinner, I went to the computer room to read my current digital issue of "A Bear's Life" magazine (I'm a Tarot reader, not a card player). My mother came in to chat with me later and said, "I didn't know how you were going to react. I thought you might just say to him, "I'm gay, you know." I told her that her brother is an idiot, I didn't want to ruin dinner with an argument and couldn't be bothered trying to educate that drunk anyway, don't appreciate him commandeering the TV when he comes over and didn't know why she invited him in the first place (although I do understand her heart's in the right place, but with the wrong people). He was still there when I left and my mother foisted her other brother on me for a ride home, but I was thankful to return home to my babies who are much better company.
It's getting late, so until tomorrow night's weigh-in, good night, woof, and blessed be.
While helping my mom in the kitchen, she asked if I exercised that day; I told her I had and there was no change on the scale. But then my mind turned into an abacus for a moment. I thought back to the most I'd lost this time around (324) and that I'd gained 11 pounds since then. But 333 -324 was only 9 pounds, and since I weighed 335 the week before, I realized (as you may have after reading the first paragraph here, O faithful but few blog followers) that I'd actually lost two pounds. Cool!
Then, keeping in mind that Thanksgiving was sacrosanct in celebrating the holidays, I proceeded to thoroughly enjoy two heaping platefuls of turkey, stuffing, sweet and mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits and a delicacy in our house, cauliflower and cheese casserole. I even had a few string beans as garnish (my family accuses me of despising vegetables, but the truth is I enjoy all the iron-rich vegetables kids hate, such as broccoli, Brussels sprouts, cabbage and cauliflower). Since my mother is an excellent cook and my skills in the kitchen aren't too shabby either,dinner was delicious.
It was the company that left something to be desired. My mother invited two of her brothers to join us, and just as I'd developed a begrudging respect for one uncle who has taken more than he's given over the years but recently found himself a job, she reached out her helping hands to another brother who perhaps should have remained persona non grata. He showed up with nothing but a six pack of beer to support his alcoholism, provided the perfect foil for my father as they tag teamed my mother making misogynistic remarks toward her about how inept women are (and when she tried to defend herself, I made it clear to both of them that was in fact what she was doing), and although my mother wants the TV off during family meals, he declared he would sit in a certain chair to watch the game while we ate because he had money riding on it. Later, when the course of conversation veered to the concerts that Beyonce' and Paul McCartney were giving that evening on TV and my father wondered what Paul needed the money for, Uncle Schmucky barked, "Yeah, or Elton John. FAGGOT!" So, besides the six pack, he also brought homophobia to the Thanksgiving table.
There was a short pause as the rest of my family, who are aware that I'm gay, took this in and kinda waited to see how I would react. Mind you, I hadn't talked to Schmucky beyond shaking his hand and saying hello while I was busy in the kitchen because I don't like him or the way he treats my mother who charitably invited him over because his former wife and children want nothing more to do with him. While I continued to enjoy my meal, I processed Schmucky's outburst. I wasn't shocked or mortally offended by his outburst because a) Schmucky does as Schmucky is; b) he has nothing useful to say anyway; c) I'm sure Sir Elton has been called a faggot many times in his life to his face and behind his back and we weren't expecting him to drop by; d) it wasn't directed towards me; e) as a homosexual, I choose how I label myself and which terms I do and do not find personally offensive; and f) Schmucky is not worth my time, effort, energy, breath, or any more space in this blog except as a charming anecdote.
When everyone started playing poker after dinner, I went to the computer room to read my current digital issue of "A Bear's Life" magazine (I'm a Tarot reader, not a card player). My mother came in to chat with me later and said, "I didn't know how you were going to react. I thought you might just say to him, "I'm gay, you know." I told her that her brother is an idiot, I didn't want to ruin dinner with an argument and couldn't be bothered trying to educate that drunk anyway, don't appreciate him commandeering the TV when he comes over and didn't know why she invited him in the first place (although I do understand her heart's in the right place, but with the wrong people). He was still there when I left and my mother foisted her other brother on me for a ride home, but I was thankful to return home to my babies who are much better company.
It's getting late, so until tomorrow night's weigh-in, good night, woof, and blessed be.
Ugh, is your uncle's name Bob, by any chance? It seems like everyone has a drunk "uncle Bob." Mine is similar to yours, although not nearly as misogynistic (at least toward my mom).
ReplyDeleteHe's constantly drunk, and on the few occasions he does come over, his eyes are covered with heavy, drooped lids, struggling to stay awake. My stepfather will ask the obligatory, "do you want a beer, Bob?" to which Bobby will pretend to mull it over before making some stupid redneck joke and then accepting the beer.
A few years ago, shortly before winning the "Willie Nelson lookalike contest" at the Nelson concert in Portland (for which he was actually mentioned in the local paper!), he went missing for a few days. My mom was worried sick (for some reason, she has fond feelings for this man) because no one had heard from him. Turns out he was facedown in his trailer, which was located deep in the woods; he'd passed out cold for a good 24 hours from drinking.
Once he was ready to go to the Nelson concert, he called us and asked to speak to me (!), during which time he kept saying, "you're my wildflower. You're a wildflower, aren't ya?"
He was drunk again.
God help us all.
Actually, "Uncle Bob" is my dad, but he's not a drinker! Schmucky's real name is Jimmy, and just because my mom has a good heart doesn't mean I have to. He's just taking up space at the table, and I'll listen to the radio station in my head until I can excuse myself (to blog about it!) So he won for looking like Willie Nelson, huh? Now there's something to be proud of and possibly worth a couple free drinks at the bar (unless he drinks alone). Just let him know you're your own wildflower if you choose to identify as one at all, give him another beer and RUN!
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