I’ve had the good fortune of spending the past two Thanksgivings with two different American families. Both families were very warm, both cooked massive turkeys, and both had talkative older men named Robert and David. A friend last Thanksgiving happily picked at a plate overloaded with sweet potatoes, green beans, and compote while theorizing that every family has an Uncle Robert. I have two Uncle Roberts and no Davids, but I do have a Johan and a Poernama.
“You are Indonesian, so are you Muslim?” somebody’s mother asks. No. The family goes to a Presbyterian church, but we have Muslims on both sides, Roman Catholics on our mother’s side, and a Charismatic grandmother. Appreciative laughter. Family reunions must be sort of hell, then. I make a mental note of this line for a running gag in a movie I will never write.
“You have beautiful skin,” somebody’s beaming aunt tells me, pointing to the exposed flesh on my moderately low-cut top. “The quality of skin on your chest is wonderful.” How do I respond to this? It’s a nice thing to say, but it’s one of those strange nice things to say that would be better if they remain as thoughts and not spoken words, like “You would be a great model. Not a real model-model, but a plus-size model.”
Millions of Americans sat down with their families tonight to celebrate Thanksgiving, the way millions of Indonesians are going to sit down with family for Idul Adha. So much collective awkwardness and pain for people who find family reunions awkward and painful. To quote the venerable Nelson Muntz: ha ha!
Hello! I am officially bringing this trial separation to an abrupt, impassioned end!
What changed since we last spoke? Well. I’ve converted to pesco-vegetarianism. I’ve worked out religiously. I’ve learned that when they say feet in the Old Testament, what they mean is genitalia. I’ve been told by a professional I don’t “have” to do Political Science. This last point has rocked my world in an upper-middle class, impending quarter-life crisis kind of way, and I like it.
I need to go on a little blogbattical (ha ha see what I did there). Here, have a screencap of Vincent Price and Friends wishing me good luck as my life finally finds—what superficially appears to be, anyway—a sliver of direction.
E-mail me! E-mail me at antiguit @ gmail dot com, and tell me everything. Until then, seeya!
Argh, I left a tube of red lipstick in the washer! It was mercifully tucked into the right pocket of a black dress—I’ve chosen to be ambivalent rather than angry (my usual mode) about this, because I would rather be one tube of lipstick short to face the world with than spend two hours scrubbing lipstick stains off of a pile of laundered clothes.
When I become a proper woman, things like this will not happen, yes?
I live in constant fear of falling in love with and marrying an accountant.
Political Science majors have feelings too. Some of us feel a deep want to (sincerely) save the world, some of us want to rule the world, and the rest of us just want to party and go to law school.
I commandeer an empty table in the university centre for the purpose of harvesting productivity. A few minutes after I stake my claim on a table, a young man claims the empty table next to mine. For the next two hours we hem and haw and bend over textbooks together, but we are alone. We pack up and leave together, but we are alone.
We walk off in different directions. When I turn a corner, I almost smack into David Sedaris. He’s speaking tonight! In some parallel universe, I am well-fed and well-rested enough to see him speak. In some other parallel universe, the boy who sat next to me is the one who almost smacks into Sedaris, and I go home completely forgetting that the man is speaking at all tonight.
Basement Neighbour is watching That Darn Cat! at twelve in the morning. This somehow reminds me that it’s been a whole week since I last had a drink (yay!), and am contemplating whether or not to celebrate this milestone by getting a beer on campus at lunch tomorrow.
