saint-louise's Diaryland Diary

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Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes.

OH, Taylor and I are leaving for Philadelphia tomorrow morning, where we’ll be spending the Thanksgiving holiday with OH’s family.

The idea of this trip has been causing me stress in a way that is as debilitating as it is inexplicable.

I could fall back on the usual excuse of, “Well, I don’t know his family that well, and I would be thrilled if they liked and admired me, so of course I’m stressed out.” But the fact of the matter is that I don’t really base my happiness, or that of OH and me as a couple, on whether his family likes or admires me, or even if they deem me vaguely satisfactory. Hence the inexplicable portion of my travel-related trauma.

As for the “debilitation”: I guess it has really done nothing more than drive me to the pantry where I can be found hovering over a rapidly-emptying can of Almond Roca. And let’s face it. I’m driven to that state when my favorite television programs are pre-empted, when the cat chokes up her twenty-sixth hairball of the day, and when I pine for hair that can be dyed bright, adorable and utterly ridiculous colors without breaking off and making me look like a Barbie doll who has been abused by an under-stimulated child.

I’ll definitely say this much: Thanksgiving was, is, and will always be MY HOLIDAY. I make food that is as high in fat and caloric content as I can get them without resorting to serving bowls of sugar stirred into bacon fat. Then I eat those foods until I feel like I could easily toss it all up like a supermodel before a photoshoot. Then I sleep. No doing dishes. No football. No entertaining family members that I only see once a year. Well, two to three times, if they can manage to drug me into a coma, tie me up, force my limp body into something other than jeans, and prop me up in church. FOR THREE HOURS.

You’d think they’d learn, those wily relatives of mine, to give up after all these years. I got wise to them trying to slip the drugs into my food or drink, and after the one time that they jumped out of a linen closet and brained me with a jar of bath salts, I couldn’t be fooled that way either. Besides, forcing my legs into pantyhose has to be more difficult than the payoff of rescuing my eternal soul. And I can’t be seen in a house of the Lord without pantyhose.

This all makes sense to someone.

I think.

Anyway, I suppose my stress regarding traveling to Philly for Thanksgiving really comes down to the fact that I don’t want to give up my low-maintenance holiday. Then again, do I need to do so? Am I truly unaffected by the idea that OH’s family might find it off-putting that I insist on gorging myself grotesquely? Do I honestly not care that they could look with a disapproving eye on my bloating, unconscious body oozing on their couch immediately after the meal?

Or am I just deluding myself, considering my immediate family ancestry, and how they have genetically maimed me with the predisposition for curling into the fetal position over the slightest perceived imperfections?

Sounds like it’s time to apply the scientific method! How else can I liven up a trip that would otherwise be lousy with my usual clenched teeth and hum-drum anxiety?

3:29 p.m. - 2004-11-23

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