Ring...Ring...My Normal Dealings On This Holiday.

Dear Ethers,

I hate Thanksgiving.  Yes.  I’m the original Scrooge of this holiday.  I’ve always been grateful to be out of the country whenever November rolls around.  Thrilled to make a quick phone call to my folks, say a half-hearted festive I love you, and then hang-up happy to be freezing in my flat eating Indian food while they munch on turkey.  

Though I do love pumpkin pie.

Why do I dislike this beloved Thursday?  I don’t like the food, (oh god, cranberry mold jiggling on the table next to the gravy with giblets—blechh). I’m not a fan of the forced family get together with relatives gathering asking me questions I DON’T want to answer and the false sense of gratefulness for what, exactly?  I mean, I tend to have more complaints than thanks (I know, I’m a jerk–but you guys know I’m a total pessimist).  Oh, and the hot breath of my dog on my thigh with his eyes bugging out of his head desperate for something, just SOMETHING, is SO pleasant whilst eating.  And he always chooses ME as his bosom buddy.

And I think cornucopia’s are ugly floral display’s, don’t you?

I’m sure you are all “cluck clucking” me about my terrible attitude, but I have to be honest.  

My Mom cooks for two days straight killing herself in the kitchen and dead at night from her toils.  She then becomes mean as hell to everyone around her.  Very festive.  My father, Mr. Perfect, panics if anything is out of place and I begin to worry he might keel over from stress about the few people arriving for dinner. Again, incredibly cheerful. My crazy Aunt S., who has chosen to humiliate me since I’ve been conscious, asks me out loud what bra size I’m sporting these days and then, without permission, lifts up my top and tries to look.  My brother, a total attitude problem at 31, just sits at the piano and is anti-social and rude.  Besides giving me a “noogie” and acting like he’s a frat brother from “Animal House,” there’s really not much else he contributes.  English gent might as well don tails and a bow-tie and put on a heavy Edwardian accent because he ends up being everyone’s bitch.  Need I go on?

Oh, and just this morning The Big Apple Beauty, in town for this “grand event,” took a rolling tumble down our steps.  We all thought she might be dead as she made no noise.  After lying crumpled on the floor for 30 seconds, she got up.  Her perfectly streaked hair looked like she stuck her finger in a socket. She winced and limped outside.  There she remains lying on a chaise lounge moaning with hideous scrapes on her arms.  I’m sure the bruising will start to show any time now.

I detest any meat on the bone and seeing a turkey carcass haunts me.  I hate dark meat and everyone in my family is selfish and takes all the white first.   And yes, my dad might, just might, put on Neil bloody Sedaka in the background.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone–especially to the poor Indians whose land we stole–thank you even more for giving us this holiday.  But hey, at least you guys are gonna have fun tonight at the casinos.  Whose having the last laugh now?

Anyone for roulette?  In my case, I wish it was Russian…….

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

As the world spins around and people live their lives, I wonder, where do I fit in? Where do I belong? I've been a nomad--a bit of a gypsy my whole life. So tell me Ethers, where AM I from?

Dear Ether,

People often ask me where I’m from. It’s so hard to say. If I say London, they’ll cock an eyebrow, wonder why I don’t have an accent, and when I explain I only lived there 8 years, think I’m affected. If I say I’m from Los Angeles, I almost have to cough it out. I find it difficult to believe. Half my life I don’t even remember spending in California, and the last 8 were when I was a teenager and didn’t really have freedom to see the city. I spent 3 years in CT and 1 year in NYC. So I guess I have to technically say I was BORN in Los Angeles….but really, where am I from?

When I close my eyes and ask this question, I picture myself with my face plastered against the grimy plexiglass of the last row on the tube being jerked to sleep by its stops and lurches on my way home from an exhausting days work. I see myself in a magnificent coat with a full scarf and a sugar-free vanilla skinny venti latte from Starbucks. I imagine great jeans, my All Saints boots and a fag in Camden heading to a freelance job walking to the beat of my own heart amongst the throng of other colorful people, all while seeing the florist set up her hut diagonal from the tube station. I visualize English gent and I on a night bus when we first met laughing before we cared about money and being adults, heading into the depths of ugly New Cross. The feeling of a cup of tea to soothe you after a bitter day and watching the rain pour down and just being so grateful to be indoors. And what about fingering the wares at a market stall and being called ”love,” or walking through the Sussex countryside and passing the same river Virgina Woolf drowned herself in all those years ago?

And what of Los Angeles? Again, I slam my eyes shut, feeling my lashes against the tips off my cheekbones, and I see memories too—just in different hues. Bright blue skies with sun that warmed your skin and made you golden after a day at the beach. Nights when my brother and I would be bundled into the back of our old station wagon and my mom and dad would take us to drive-in move theaters (relics now) in our pajamas. Every year on my birthday being taken to the same Mexican restaurant that had been around since 1927 and having mariachi’s sing to me and have my picture taking wearing a sombrero so big that it covered my whole face. Looking down at my feet and seeing the heavy tan line my flip-flops left on my feet. The smell of the gardeners laying down fertilizer in October for seed to grow for fresh grass. Pumpkin pie and gravy for Thanksgiving and catching my dog on the table while we were all in the other room having hour d’oeuvres. The overwhelming beauty of fuchsia bougainvillea growing wildly all over neighbor’s gardens. My darling standard poodle whom I used to lay out in the backyard with and talk to for hours until it got too chilly and then we’d go inside and we’d talk for even longer debating issues of the heart!

I now reside in Los Angeles, but in my soul I know it is temporary. I know I am bound for somewhere else. This place and I, it never had a connection. And being here, I remember that now. And I pine for London. But boy did she and I have our problems too. Where’s next? Where will I end up being from? I don’t know. I feel just because you’re born somewhere doesn’t make you from there. It just makes that the place you were issued your birth certificate. Like I’ve said before, I feel like more of a Londoner than a Los Angelino—but not according to my records or when I’m issued jury duty.

I always thought it was so funny that I was considered an immigrant. Me. A white, upper-middle class girl, with a Master’s degree and some cash in her pocket. Terrible. I know. That I should feel like I shouldn’t be looked at as the same as someone from Africa or Mexico. I’ll never forget sitting in East Croydon in the Home Office waiting for my papers. I was very nervous. I didn’t know if my visa was going to get reissued. A guy about my age from Nigeria spoke to me. He saw my passport in its clear folder. “You’ll have no problems” he smiled. “I don’t know, I’m really worried this time. I’m applying for residency.” He grinned and said, “You are white, American and a woman. Me, I’m black, a man and from Nigeria. I have been here 6 times. If I get rejected this time, I am out of chances.” I looked down to the floor and didn’t know what to say. He said cheerfully, “Don’t feel bad. Remember, you have a good home to go back to. I have a good family too. I just want a better life. Just remember, it’s all about where you’re from.” We chatted a bit more and his number was called. I wished him well. Then it was my turn to go to the desk.  I was shaky but determined. Within ten seconds I was approved. They were most concerned about how I was going to pay. I still wonder if 7 was that man’s lucky number and if he really meant what he said about remembering where you were from—that no matter where you are in the world—you can always go home again—wherever that may be.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365