Thanksgiving

When I was little I liked to dip olives in apple juice. I think I remember the taste, and it wasn't that bad, but really, I think it was mostly about the olives. I like olives.

My grandfather was very overweight. My dad or maybe my aunt or maybe both of them would hassle him to try to get him to eat healthier, which didn't make a whole lot of sense to do specifically on the holiday. I know they tried to intervene at other times and had felt that they failed. Maybe they saw it as a chance to approach him together.

My aunt and my dad would usually argue. Sometimes it got bad enough that one of them would leave the dinner table. We kids eventually got our own table - me, my brother and my two cousins. I was the oldest of the bunch. I liked our card table. We didn't fight with each other at all. We even had a good time, joked around.

If my cousins weren't there, my brother and I would go hide in the spare room to avoid the issues of the adults. It was stocked with stuff, piles and piles of it, and none of it particularly exciting. Sure, there was a shoebox or two to rummage through, but they were invariably full of sewing equipment or old musty photos. But there was a TV in a far corner with a working VCR. We'd usually watch Miracle on 34th street or some other black and white classic.

If we weren't stowed back in the spare room, we'd be upstairs in one of the unused bedrooms. These had angled ceilings where the windows cut into the roof line. The entire second story had a sort of miniature quality to it. I remember noting that my grandparents slept in separate beds on the ground floor. Just like on TV.

My mom and dad split when I was five. The first I remember hearing of it was at a Thanksgiving. I was sitting on the stairs up to the second floor, and somebody, maybe my grandmother or my aunt, was asking me questions about it. I know I didn't really understand how significant the divorce would be, but I understood the concept. My dad was going to live somewhere else. "Yes," I said, when they asked me if I knew it wasn't my fault.

From that point on, we would have at least two Thanksgivings. The one I've already described was on my father's side and remained more or less the same through the years. I think that that Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving "A," was more remarkable because there were more people there, and because it was held at my grandmother's house and thus away from my home. But my mom hosted thanksgiving, too. As did my maternal grandmother, before she passed away when I was twelve. Those meals had a different vibe. There were just less people, so it couldn't be quite as festive. And when my mom hosted it was at our house. Sometimes she'd invite a friend in addition to the usual roster of me, my brother, my grandmother and my mother's sister. Sometimes, I think, our upstairs neighbors were involved. Two boys and their single mom. The older, Scott, was at least four or five years ahead of me. The younger, Nicholai, was one year behind. We were pretty tight.

I live now in a place hundreds and hundreds of miles from where any of this happened. None of the houses involved are still in the family. My grandfather has passed and my paternal grandmother now lives in upstate New York. My mom is in Florida. My father and stepmother live in Atlanta, GA. My wife and I have a son, and we've sort of stuck a flag down here in Kansas City. The flag says "home." Or maybe it's just a square of a bold color, like red.

We host Thanksgiving now. My father and stepmother and sister come, every year. My brother makes it when he can. We cook a wide range of vegetarian delights, which initially frightened my relatives, but which they have come to enjoy. They appreciate not being hit by such a hard food coma after the fact, and my wife is an excellent cook. We usually have at least two or three pies, a wide range of sides and my wife's incredible, made from scratch tofu turkey. It's nothing like a Tofurkey, if you've had one of those. Tofurkeys are terrible.

Whenever Thanksgiving approaches, I go through an emotional process. The steps are the same, but the order and timing vary from year to year. Step one is excitement. I more or less only see my dad, stepmom and sister once a year, at Thanksgiving, and so I look forward to it. I love my family.

The second step is less pleasant. At some point, I become painfully aware of how infrequently I see my family, and I start to do some pretty depressing math. I take my father's age, and I subtract it from 80, maybe 90 if I'm feeling generous. Then I multiply that by the number of days they usually spend out here, leading to an estimate of the number of days I will spend in my father's company in his lifetime. The number of days he'll spend playing with my son. That number isn't so large anymore.

Obviously, this is a horribly morbid thought. On its own, it would bear no merit. If I just sat in it and let it color the vibe of the visit, it would bring nothing but shadow to what could be a bright occasion. So last year, I took it upon myself to act. My brother was here, and we hosted a sort of intervention. We insisted that my dad and stepmom meet us for breakfast on the last day before they left, so that we could talk things out.

We had a conversation. We talked about wanting to be more tightly nit, about wanting to feel more like a real family. Basically, about wanting to make the effort to see each other more often. We conceded that nobody would be likely to move any time soon (there are powerful reasons), but we thought that maybe we could take a vacation once a year, together. Just that in itself would double the number I had been calculating in my head. My dad found the conversation difficult to deal with and actually left the table, but my stepmom was enthusiastic and touched. In the end, everyone agreed that this would be a great idea.

Unfortunately, it hasn't happened. The summer came and went. I made phone calls. I made proposals. But in the end, lacking a reciprocal amount of support on any side, I couldn't make it happen. Another year has passed.

So this year, I've already been through steps one and two, before anyone even arrives. I'm already trying to think about how to process my frustration, sadness and disappointment (maybe even resentment), at the distant way my family relates to one-another. I'm hoping, that by writing this, maybe I can move more quickly to step three, which is a sort of resignation and acceptance that allows me to finally enjoy the moment and the time that I have. When they go, I'm always glad they came, and I'm happy to have seen them.

I don't know where the wires got crossed, and when. I don't know how my family got to be the way it is, dispersed across the continent, limited in contact to a few days and phone calls. I've tried to unwind it, but I don't know how. I keep hoping that at some point somebody will be willing to make a sacrifice, that somebody will join us under this flag of ours, or that we'll decide to pick up the flag ourselves and re-plant it somewhere else. But no matter how I slice it up, there just doesn't seem to be an answer that makes sense. There's no solution to the puzzle of needs and requirements.

So we host the holiday and we bake the pies and we go bowling. You know, tradition. It's the best we can do.

Things I Lost In the Fire

I’m missing something. It’s a strange feeling to be missing a part of myself. I’m not missing any limbs or anything physical; I’m missing a feeling. I don’t know when it happened, but it’s a recent occurrence. Suddenly, it seems as if I’m constantly irritated, upset, and sad. I’m unsure if this feeling was love, happiness, or even contentedness—I only know the feeling was positive and, apparently, taken for granted.

I wake up in the morning with nothing to look forward to except the end of the day. I relax without actually relaxing. I spend my free-time laying in bed checking off a mental list of all the different emotions I feel, trying to figure out which feeling I’m missing by process of elimination. I spend the spare moments of my day trying to figure out what I could do which might bring back this feeling, but nothing ever helps.

I’ve tried to get a hobby, but I’m too busy. I’ve tried to exercise, but my excuses don’t stop. I’ve tried purchasing items I don’t need, but they end up disappearing in my unhappy oblivion. I’ve spent numerous evenings with my closest friends, but I only end up craving my bed and hating myself.

What, or Who, was responsible for this feeling? I recently went through a break up. It was mutual, though some days it feels more like I was the one who was dumped. I find the events proceeding the break up to be something like the Universe’s way of acknowledging my “mistake” and rewarding me one more chance but sending me back to Square One to ensure that I’ve learned a life lesson.

But I wasn’t terribly upset with the break up. It was something that I had been wishing for on and off for the previous year. The main reason why it didn’t end before was because I never could instigate a break up as it would be too much of a hassle to split our items and live separate lives in an area that was fit for only one life. I was fine with the split because I could feel free to roam any opportunities that had appeared.

This lost feeling only became apparent about a month ago. I think I know what possibly caused this feeling to disappear. Suddenly, about a month ago, I became aware that I have no possible relationship outlets. Before, I didn’t care if not a single other man found me attractive, granted, it was always nice to get a smile or wink while I was out (barring the drunks I’ve encountered in the liquor aisle at the grocery store). I was finally out of a relationship with the hopes of being a free person that never had to think about anybody else, when it hit me: I’m a strange breed only loved by a very small minority of people who are rarely out in public or alive.

I lost my only relationship potential for an unknown reason. Maybe I’m just the booty call girl, maybe I played it too coy—this debate could continue in my head all day without resolution. Since then, everything seems to be empty and boring. No more flirtations and no more imaginary scenarios that I would concoct to perfection in hopes that it would happen one day. Since this very blunt termination, almost all encounters with this person give me this strange sensation in my chest. I know what I think and feel is unhealthy and unwise, but I can’t stop. It gets to the point where I want to reach into whatever part of my body is creating this sensation (brain, heart, loins, etc.) and viciously rip it out. It is a cancer that lingers and stews until one day, I realize that I have allowed this sensation to resonate and affect my daily activities. I think the only reason why I have allowed it to settle deep in my skin is because my current lost emotion theory involves my lost relationship potential. I felt my nameless feeling before the explicit halt and the feeling left sometime after; if I worm my way back into that corner of the man that wanted to be with me, maybe that feeling will return and all will be well.

Could it be possible that this feeling I now feel is heartbreak? Can one be heartbroken without truly ever feeling “love”? I don’t think it’s fair for me to say that I’ve been heartbroken by one or even two men, but instead, I’ve been heartbroken by the world. The world has let me down. No more can my active imagination wander freely and lust after whomever. Wherever my mind goes, my heart will follow. The world has put up yellow tape around my universe, either to keep me in or keep others out Is it fair that I can wander around aimlessly without notice?

So this is why it seems as if this cancerous love/hate that brews in my veins has replaced this positive feeling. It’s hard for me to understand why I don’t have any control over my feelings. It’s hard for me to understand how I could lose track of a nameless emotion that apparently affects me so viciously. I just want to be back to where I was before. In the meantime, I don’t know what to do. I think it’s a matter of working through the pain and finding something that might distract from the feeling or recreate the lost feeling.

Chutes and Ladders

Once in the early days of the internet I made the mistake of using Yahoo Maps to find the Grog Shop in Cleveland, Ohio. Andy and I were driving to Cleveland from Pittsburgh on a Tuesday to see Cinerama, an obscure british band that I loved. It was a cool night in early spring and we watched the sun set on the road as we listened to Doolittle in the car. Andy was soft spoken and had long curly hair. We didn't talk a lot. He smoked a cigarette or two as he drove his old Civic north-west on 76. He was polite and always cracked the window.

The sun set, but we had a few hours yet until the show. As we neared the city, it became clear that our directions were gibberish. We were directed to route numbers instead of street names, and the numbers were not printed on any of the big green signs that we saw. I had been to the Grog Shop once before, but I hadn't driven and I didn't remember the way. We gave up after a while and pulled off past downtown, near the lake.

We pulled into a busy neighborhood street. There were a lot of people walking around. The cars were old and the radios were loud. We didn't recognize any street signs so we parked at the nearest gas station and got out to ask directions. The station was lit from within by bright, cold fluorescent lights. It wasn't part of a chain - not a Shell or an Exxon. I don't remember what it was called. Outside the convenience store, there was a stooped, older man by a pay phone wearing a dirty white hooded sweatshirt and holding a white plastic bag. He was talking to himself about something. We walked inside.

Inside the station there was a man in a black jacket facing the clerk. I couldn't really see the clerk, but I could see that he was behind a wall of bullet-proof glass. The man bellowed, as if the clerk hadn't heard him the first time, "EXCUSE ME, DO YOU HAVE ANY EX-LAX?" That caught my ear. Then I noticed the flies swarming across the ceiling, covering the lights. There were thousands of them, maybe tens of thousands. Somebody behind us said "mayflies." I shot Andy a look. We quickly walked out the door and got in the car and started to drive.

At the next intersection, there was a Target across from an abandoned store with a lot that was empty save for a cop car. Andy pulled in next to the cop with the cruiser on my side. I rolled down the window and asked for directions. Thankfully, the cop knew where we needed to go. He got out of his car and started to explain as the radio in the cruiser began to crackle. Just as he finished giving us instructions, his partner said something and he said "sorry guys, we gotta go. Somebody set something on fire in the Target." The cop got in the passenger side of the cruiser, and they lit up their lights and siren. Then they peeled out through the intersection, crossed the street and pulled into the Target that had been less than 100 yards away.

The directions we got were good. We ended up at the show without further complication and enjoyed our evening. But I couldn't help but feel that somehow, I had been playing Chutes and Ladders. I had rolled a one, hit a chute and ended up somewhere else, in a different world maybe. I tried to imagine what it would be like to live in that world, with the mayflies and loud radios and the fires at the Target. I'm sure if you lived there, it would all seem normal and fine - comfortable.

When I was a younger I would ride trains from time to time. Sometimes the trains would be elevated above street level. My favorite thing to do was to look down and out at the passing houses - wooden and brick, orange and green and blue or brown, all weathered and worn - and imagine time stopping. With time stopped, I would have explored each and every house, every apartment, every store. I imagined the people being gone, or being frozen in place. I would have looked out every window and in every drawer and read every slip of paper on every kitchen table. How many worlds were there, out there? How could there be so many lives, so many stories taking place at once, and how is it that we can possibly know so little of them all?

I drove home yesterday in a light rain. It was one of the first cold nights of fall after daylight savings time had ended. I wondered where all of the pairs of red tail lights were going. How many drivers were stressed, in a hurry to get home? How many had had bad days, how many good? Which songs were playing, and how many people were listening to Nada Surf, like me?

Later that night, my wife and I shared a bottle of red wine at dinner. By the time we left, I was sleepy. As we walked out to the street, the cars seemed to be moving too fast. I was momentarily taken aback by their speed. My pace had changed, and I couldn't keep up. I walked to the driver's side door and felt the rush of cool, moist air as the cars passed me by. I imagined standing at the mouth of an exit ramp on the highway, looking at the cars coming on at 50, 60, 80 miles an hour. Some whizzed past me, rocketing down the freeway. Others swerved to exit. I imagined how terrifying it would be, standing there at that fork. I would know that the cars would not hit me, that they would either turn off the road or pass, but as they came on at such tremendous speed, how could I not be afraid? It would only take one mistake, one slip, for a car to not turn quite enough and plow right into me.

Later in the evening, we went bowling at Pin-up bowl, a fancy bowling alley in a fancy outlet mall on the west side of town. The alley was empty save for one other couple seven or eight lanes down. The vacancy wasn't surprising on a cold, wet Monday night. Games were only $2, on special. The normal, non-fancy alley on Mission drive would have been packed tonight, and more expensive. It was league night, there. As I bowled, I thought again of how I was out of time and out of step simply because I was out on a Monday, rather than a Friday or Saturday. How much easier it all was, and how solitary. The TVs were playing cartoons from my childhood: Voltron and Batman. The animation was terrible. How could it have looked so good, so exciting to me, once?

On the lawn of the Nelson-Atkins, there is a large statue that sort of resembles a donut. You can walk through it. When I've been there with friends, walking at night, I always call it the dimensional portal. I stress, with urgency, the importance of all of us passing through it, or of none passing through it. We can't take different paths, or we'll be out of phase with each-other. We'll be in different dimensions, never to be reunited again. And if we all pass through the portal on our way to wherever we're going, we must also pass through it on the way back, lest we forever be lost from our original world. I don't really believe it all, but I do. One night, somebody didn't play along, and it made me uncomfortable. I do not think it's a coincidence that I can't remember who it was.

When I was a kid, the cartoon Dungeons and Dragons haunted and captivated me. In the show, a group of teenagers get sucked through a dimensional portal when they ride a roller coaster. They end up in a land of swords, wizards and dragons - exciting! - but they spend every episode trying to get home. Once, some of them managed to make it, but one of them didn't, or maybe he had the head of a boar or something and needed a wizard to cure him. In any case, they never made it back all at once, and they would never abandon each-other, which allowed the series to continue indefinitely. I always wondered what had happened to their parents, to their brothers and sisters, to their friends. Were they missed back in the real world? Had time stopped? What was happening, while they were stuck in this parallel world?

Andy recently found me on Facebook. Maybe that's what reminded me of the trip to Cleveland and the mayflies, though I had never forgotten them. I don't know yet where he's been, and what he's been doing. He lives in NYC now and is going to grad school at Columbia - a different world, twice removed from my midwestern life and corporate day job, and he's single - three times removed from my marriage and child. I suppose it's possible that we didn't both make it out of that neighborhood. Maybe when we both walked out of the car and went into that convenience store, one of us left the wrong way. Maybe we got out of phase. Maybe I compounded things some night when I went through the dimensional portal on the lawn of the Nelson one too many times.

But the trick is, I don't think the portals and the chutes are as obvious as a brightly lit gas station or a fire at the Target. I think sometimes they sneak up on you. Maybe you went a different way when you didn't make that elevator, when you chose to go out alone, when you decided to talk to that person out of the blue who caught your eye. Maybe the most we can hope for with anyone is a short amount of time when we're in synch, an episode or two when we're in the same plane, on the same page.

Election Day Advice!

Dear Greta,

I'm a first time voter and I'm bewildered by all of the political propaganda! McCain reminds me of oatmeal and I think Obama is hot and all, but is it really OK to vote for a socialist terrorist arab muslim crack-dealing half-breed? Personally, I'd like him to have more experience in professional sports, or acting! Greta, come Tuesday when you're in that cutey little changing booth, who are you going to vote for?

Readers,

Okay, whoa, hold those sweet little unicorns back here for just one second. Elections season is here already? Jesus, I was wondered why everyone was so concerned with Muslims again. So, hold up, let’s get our ducks straight. We have a choice between three candidates: Dean McCain, Brak Obama, and Olympia Dukakis. Personally, I don’t trust Dean McCain; after all, he did play Scott Peterson in that TV movie (but who could forget his memorable stint as TV’s Superman?). And it’s nice to see that Olympia Dukakis hasn’t given up her dream of becoming president but, really, who wants an old whore like that to be president? Not this old whore! So, I guess that leaves me with Mr. Brak Obama. I trust cartoon characters with my life (plus, his little friend Zorak makes me a little humid in the nether regions).

My name is Greta Derwinklestein and I support Brak Obama!

Greta's Great Grains of Guidance

Greetings and salutations, readers! I'm about ready to jump for some joy up in here! I can't believe that someone actually has given me a forum to discuss my vast knowledge of all things life-related. I was actually surprised it didn't happen sooner, but I guess that's what happens when every newspaper on earth hires dirty whores for columnists (take that, Dear Margo, whoever the fuck you are!) So, thank you Jesse and Laurie for allowing me to share! Here we go! Don't forget that if you want me to answer your problems write me here: http://www.lunarium.com/advice/contact_greta.html

Dear Greta,

Apparently, several years ago I impregnated a woman. I thought I killed her in a rage, but it turns out that she gave birth to not one child but two. Twins! My boss says I have to turn them to the dark side, but I'd rather cut them both in half with my laser sword. In today's economy, how much is job security worth? My boss made me what I am but his wrinkly ass is getting on my nerves and I'd like to make a change.


Want To Cleave Kids And Go But Worried By Wall Street

Dear WTCKAGBWBWS,

Holy Balls! Looks like you won the Fuck Up of the Year contest! First of all, I know how you feel; Wall Street is just a big, fat, puss-oozing third nipple on the map of America! I mean, don’t ya know, I was at the grocer’s the other day and I just had to use a coupon for my name brand Brillo Pads (they just work so much better than that generic shit!) and that bitch, Jennifer, behind the counter just looked at me like I was dirtier than Lindsey Lohan’s firecrotch! And then she said to me, to Greta VanWinklestein, “Um, this is expired, m’am,” Can you believe that shit? So you know what I said to her? I said, “Little Miss Hot Shit, I know your momma and if you heard the filth comin’ right out of that pretty little pucker of yours, she’d slap you all the way to China!” And you know what? I never got to use that damned coupon!

So, my advice to you, mister, is to march straight up to your wrinkly boss and tell him what’s what. If you want to cleave your children with your fancy laser sword then go ahead and do it! Shit can rain on your boss, for all I care; and if he gives you trouble, use that fancy laser sword on him!

Truthfully yours,

Greta

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Dear Greta,


I sure hope you can help me because I don’t think my friends would understand! If a man farts on your entrée, does that mean you shouldn’t go down on him on the first date? I’m so confused!

Does Entrée Farting Mean Love?

Dear DEFML,

Oh honey, honey, honey. I’m so glad someone finally grew some nards and came out and asked me this. Now, you won’t find this in Miss Manners-Emily Post’s diary, I can guaran-fucking-tee that! Now see back in 1973, one Mr. Richard Dreyfuss pulled a similar stint with me. We were out on a lovely date when he slipped me some good old fashioned angel dust and don’t ya know, I was trippin’ balls all evening! And I did what every good Christian girl is not supposed to do; I went down. I went downtown. Get it? I went down to his Chinatown. And what do ya know? It was amazing. I mean, we had all types of orgasms.

So, here’s my advice to you, sweetiekins. Just do it. If you like him, then why not? I mean unless it’ just a really rank fart—you know, the kind that resonates in the back of your throat causing you to dry heave for thirty minutes. Also, you need to be thinking, How would I feel about a Dutch Oven? Because you know that if you get near a man that farts on your entrée, he’s going to pin you under his comforter and let a real big one rip and let you stew in it.

Truthfully yours,

Greta

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OMG Greta! I’m so glad I’ve found you! When you said you would give me truth or I can shove it in my pooper I KNEW you were the advice writer for me! Greta let me tell you that I am obsessed with BON JOVI. I just discovered his new music video “Living Like a Prayer” and I simply must must MUST smell him. I am obsessed with this man and his smell! How do you think I can recreate it? I want to make teddles, my teddy bear, smell like BON JOVI so I can sleep in his scent all night long and dream about him. Can you help me?


MUST SMELL MUSK

Dear MSM,

OMG? What is this shit? I’m not a nurse, I don’t know your cutesy little shorthand. Now, I must admit, I didn’t know who Mr. Jovi was at first, then I realized, he’s that cute man from that show Ally McBeal! Whatever happened to that show, by the way? My neighbor Saundra and I would watch it with a big bowl of Newman’s Popcorn. That man knows his corn! *Editor’s Note: Ms. Derwinklestein sends her condolences to the Newmans.*

Well, with the help of my nephew KYLE, I searched through the Internets and found that Mr. Jovi is from New Jersey and Italy! Tres exotic! So let’s brainstorm here: Italians, pizza, mozzarella cheese, tomato sauce, boots, Lamborginis, lasagna, meatball subs. Okay, so for the Italian part of him, you’ll need to find some tomato sauce and leather. Let us move on to New Jersey: trash, wet dog, hypodermic needles, broken condoms, funnel cakes. So for the New Jersey side you should find some old, sweaty socks and latex and maybe a dash of cinnamon. Ok, mix that up with some water and pour that into your finest glass jar and let it sit under a heat lamp for a month. After that month, you can douse your precious Teddles in Eau de Jovi!
Or, you could go to Kenneth Cole’s website, because apparently, Mr. Jovi has already created his own fragrance R.S.V.P. (Per Entertainment Tonight http://www.etonline.com/fashion/news/2007/01/38577/ )

Truthfully yours,


Greta
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Greta,

I hope it feels good to be out there, telling everyone what's best (just like you always do.) But we who know you know what you're really about. We know how you take and take and take and never give in return. It's just not RIGHT, Greta. The world can be your oyster and you can still SHARE it with somebody. I want my charlie cactus and I would really like my Byrds LPs. Maybe we could meet somewhere to talk it over, perhaps over breakfast at the usual place? I miss you.

- Daryl

Daryl,

Jesus cheeses! Readers, let me explain, I HAVE to put this letter here because Daryl will not let me ignore him! Once, he sent me a UPS package and inside was a dead bird and a note attached that said, “Wanna trade?” Are you shitting me, Daryl? A dead bird, really? I don’t even wanna know what he would trade for his Charlie Cactus. So here is the long and dry of it, Daryl, I will meet you at the usual place and I will bring your Byrds LP but I will be bringing some protection, you hear?

Your big sister,

Greta

P.S. Charlie Cactus is dead.

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Greeting Greta,


I rahul "paul" delnabi from reublic quatar. I find you on internets. Send me the sexy pictures plz. With the peanut butters, hello?

I don’t really know where to start with this one. I’m not really very fluent in foreigner. But I did make out peanut butter, which reminds me of a picture my niece sent me of her baby! So adorable, this kid. And he’s smarter than a whip. Or so I think he will be. Enjoy!