The Turkeys Will Fly!

I wish I were in NYC today to take pictures of the giant balloon floats blowing away.  I don't often watch the parade, but I may today.  What else do I have to do?  Mom and I will try to cross the street to eat with the neighbors and their family and friends at four.  I think Thanksgiving "dinner" should not be "supper," but whatever.  At least I don't have to cook or clean.  For my part, I am taking over two bottles of Veuve Cliquot.  That will be my giving thanks.  

I got out for a minute yesterday.  It made me anxious all day.  I was to meet up with Red at three at the Italian place in my own hometown.  I don't "meet up" with people anymore, so I wasn't sure how to get ready, what to do.  

"Are you fucking serious?"

Yes I am.  All I have are memories and fantasies now living with my mother.  And she was guilting me when I left.  

"I don't have anything to do.  I can't go anywhere.  I just sit here all day."

I had an internal collapse.  The floor just fell out.  

"I'll leave you the car.  I'll call an Uber.  I'll leave the keys on the side table."

It must piss her off that I am not quite as miserable as she.  

"Why in the fuck aren't you dying, too?"

"I am."

So. . . I left the house on a sour note heading to the gym for which I was in no mood.  

When I left the gym, I had to drive to a pharmacy in an adjacent city to pick up some meds.  They weren't ready.  When I got back to my house, it was two.  Red texted and said she was leaving soon.  My mind was set on three, and that is when I showed up.  She was already there.  

I guess I'd forgotten that the Wednesday before Thanksgiving is kind of a holiday.  We sat at the bar with the big open windows overlooking the street, and let me tell you, it was a parade of people passing by.  And you know what I mean by "people."

My "favorite" bartender was serving us. . . the one who apparently hates me.  She is just surly to me about everything.  But she is beautiful, so there's that.  Red didn't notice, I think.  She ordered an espresso martini, I a beer.  

"I need to hydrate," I said.  

It had been nearly a year since I last saw her, so we caught up.  Kinda.  All I had to report were my mother's various hospital stays and operations.  And, of course, the cooking of meals and the. . . whatever.  Her life, however, has turned for the good.  Her stem cell company is taking off.  There is gold in them hills.  She has a new "boo."  She had brought a book he had written on the meaning of the cosmos or something.  You know how I am about the mystical, so I was quite dismissive of it all.  I shouldn't be that way.  I think I know it all.  That is what my republican friend calls me sometimes--"Mr. Knowitall."  

She wants to put me on some of their enzymes.  I don't think that is what they are called.  But they are hugely expensive.  

"I don't want you to die," she said when I told her I was sure I would beat my mother to the grave.  "I'm going to send you a couple vials. . . ."

"Wa. . wa. . . wa. .  .wait a minute!"

"If this shit would make people's dicks bigger, you'd blow through the roof," I said.

"They do!"

She had to be putting me on.  

And it went like that, she telling me about her exciting life, me trying to kibitz while turkey necking the "people" passing by.  

"Squirrel, squirrel. . . !"

She made a photo of us at the bar.  I thought I looked like shit, so I decided to turn it into an illustration. Fuck.  I look even worse.  I complained to Chat--why do you always make me look OLDER?  That is worse than the photo!  

Its reply was complicated.  

Whatever.  As I always complain, "How can I look so good in the mirror and so bad in photographs?"

It was closing in on five when I called for the bill.  Red had downed a couple martinis and a glass of red wine.  Now she was meeting her mother to go shopping. 

"You'll need some more rocket fuel for that," I said.  

"Why?"

She's a banger, that girl. 

Not as bad as it looks, really.  I used my new 2% cash back credit card.  It was more like $97.90!  I'm fucking getting rich with that thing!

Morning is flowing by.  I've sent texts with illustrations to my friends for this Thanksgiving holiday.  Now I will fix breakfast for my mother.  I'm wanting to open one of the bottles of champagne already.  It would sure help the day go by.  

Still. . . I can't figure out why Chat makes me look so old and Red so fucking young.  It hates me, I'm sure.  But just to reinforce the whole fucking thing, Red just texted, "Happy Tday! You’ll never be too old for me!"

Fuck.  But she knows the flip side of that, too.  

Ha!