|Guess who won't be floating the gravy boat this year? That's right. Moi.|
|"The Pink Goes It Alone"|
It's hard to believe, but next week will bring yet another reason for misanthropes, depressives and the socially disenfranchised to feel bad about the world in which we are forced to live. That's right...Thanksgiving. That most quintessential of American holidays is only a week away, and if, like me, you can hardly bear the thought of being exposed for the loner and/or social or familial pariah that you are, you've probably been doing your best to shut out the reminders of its encroaching presence. Hard to walk around stores with blinders on, though. Even harder to avoid conversations with friends who are all hepped about the advent of the holiday season and insist on gushing about their plans as though they can't imagine anyone not sharing their enthusiasm for a holiday that deifies the concept of family and togetherness and, in doing so, marginalizes those who don't have the option of celebrating in that time-honored manner.
It's ten times worse when you're a woman. In fact, from what I can tell, for most people, the only thing more incomprehensible than being a woman alone on Thanksgiving is being a woman who would rather be alone on Thanksgiving than be the designated "outsider" seated in the "pity chair" at a family gathering. There's nothing worse than being the person in that chair; especially if, until recently, you were the hostess at your own holiday gatherings and are still smarting from the cessation of the familiar, cherished rituals. Somehow, though, it's almost impossible to explain that to the well-meaning friends who invite you to share their tables because they can't stand the thought of you sitting home alone. The ensuing discussion never seems to resolve anything and , invariably, ends with the well-meaning friend sighing and patting your arm and saying, "Well, the invitation stands, if you happen to change your mind."
I won't be changing my mind. When the holy turkey day rolls around next week, I won't be sitting among the fortunate members of a happy, intact, thriving family with a forced smile on my face as I try to pretend it makes me feel better to be included in their holiday festivities. I won't be dusting off my own gravy boat, either. I'm doing the only thing that I feel like doing under the circumstances. I'm going to ignore Thanksgiving and shun its accourtements like bubonic-carrying fleas on a Macy's Department Store basement rat. No mixed nuts, pumpkin pie or leftover turkey in a Tupperware bowl for this gal. No witty repartee over pre-dinner cocktails whilst trying to pretend that I really am glad that accepted the invitation, after all, and am, despite my previous misgivings, actually grateful for the chance to forget my sorrows for a few hours before going home and resuming my close relationship with them. Nope. Next week, I will be eschewing the classic eats and turning my back on the trappings of a holiday that seems to have been tailor made to torture people like me. Patti Smith sang it best, in her dark hymn to alienation: "Jesus died for your sins, but he didn't die for mine." I don't know about Jesus and my sins, but Smith was definitely on to something. To paraphrase: Tom Turkey died to feed your family, but that basted bastard didn't die for me. Not this time anyway.
And now, in an effort to show that I'm not a complete sad sack with a chip on my shoulder the size of one of those hideous inflatable pilgrims that have been decorating lawns for the past several weeks, I offer the following random images for your perusal, enjoyment and possible edification.
|Cry me a river....again.|
|She was very funny. (I think.) And dead now, too.|
|John Taylor of Duran Duran. That is one very lucky bass guitar.|
|Mermaids are very distracting, one must admit.|
| What's better than a Butterball? Greta|
in the long haul. His loss.
| Jimi Hendrix. Always appropriate. The wind cries|
|Our eerie-eyed blog mascot from "Wisconsin Death Trip." We take her everywhere.|
|Sister Sarah from Nuns With Big Guns. Best acted nunsexplotation film ever.|
This is no nude bimbo with a bad habit and a Saturday Night Special. It's
Sister Theresa meets Rambo in a cult classic fandango.