The escapist

I'm still a bit high from my 28 hours of non-carnage Thanksgiving with my family. That's not to say there were pa-lenty of times that I mentally rolled my eyed and called my brother an asshole under my breath. And I'm still giving myself props for not losing my shit in a monstrous way when I heard my brother say the exact same thing verbatim that I did to my mom last Christmas that caused her to unhinge her jaws and swallow me whole and treating me like a leper with weeping sores for an entire week saying no much more than go to hell and please pass the gravy.

Somehow I managed to stay breezy the whole time and didn't let any stomach acid of stress boil over or be reactive in any way. I just let it go, which for me is not an easy task. Telling myself that my mom treats me different and always will and it doesn't make me any better or more importantly, worse than my brother or niece or anyone else so fuck it. I'm not getting my ass hair in a knot over it.

Look at me, all healthy and shit.

Dinner was fabulous but as I've been fighting the stupid tummy troubles I didn't eat too much so I wasn't rolling around like a beached whale moaning about being stuffed like everyone else was. And frankly, my mother's inventive style of passive-aggressive cooking always leaves me a little leery. There are plenty of things she's does well but she has this subconscious hangup about putting a twist on food that sets you up for failure.

The stuffing was from a Trader Joe's box that I've made myself before and tastes great on its own if you follow the simple directions. My mother gets the bright idea of adding to it but you end up with a few moist bread crumbs amidst 4 thousand pieces of celery, which I'm allergic to. And I did my best to encourage her not to eat the pumpkin pie that inexplicably grew a colorful and thick layer of mold over night but she wouldn't hear of it and I watched as she scraped a little off with a knife then cut herself a nice, big slice.

Dear Mother - DO NOT EAT MOLDY FOOD. We have a WHOLE NOTHER PIE.

At least we've gotten her to stop putting the turkey guts in the gravy. It's impossible to pick out specks of pulverized spleen from your mashed potatoes, I'll have you know. Plus my dad can't keep his hands off the boiling gizzard, neck, bunghole or whatever disgusting bird organ he so desperately loves so there's nothing left over to make gravy with except the beautiful, beautiful juices.

Things almost took a turn as I was being dropped off at the platform to make my way home. There was a 20 minute debate on where I should be standing (granted, it was a bit confusing with 2 tracks with matching platforms and misleading signs) and my brother's inner grizzly bear was starting to show his fangs, but thankfully my train approached (as my father stood in the middle of the tracks to watch it for fuckssake!) and was stopped long enough for me to ask a porter if it was the right one. I was relieved beyond measure.

My train rides to and from my brother's house were a mini adventure, to say the least. I saw many walks of life and restrained from pounding the cranky old lady who tapped me on the head to tell me to move my suitcase to give another passenger a seat on the crowded train leaving San Diego. Apparently the 10 seconds it was taking me to get situation was a lifetime to wait.

I upgraded to business class on my last train home and was given a complimentary glass of wine that I gladly accepted. It helped alleviate the desire to break the ankles of the woman fucking around with the foot rest on the back of my seat the whole way. Seriously, there were 50 plus fucking empty seats and she sits right behind my stupid ass. Naturally. But I was not murdered in Union Station during my layover in Los Angles so I'd call that also a success.

Best thing of the whole deal? Making this gingerbread trailer with my niece and mom. It was hysterical. A total mess but hysterical. I highly recommend making one. Hope you all had a great turkey day and thank gawd Nabloblahblah is almost over!