To continue with my vacation with the People from Planet Polyester, here are more of the notes I took while being held hostage for Thanksgiving.
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We went shopping all day! What fun!
At six in the morning, one of the smallish inhabitants of the planet woke me up. Do you want to wake up quickly? Well, try waking – no clue where you are – with a midget wearing a snot-and-oatmeal facial two inches from your face. The midget is poking you (again with the poking) in the chest, and snuffling. I can almost guarantee that you will pop out of bed so fast you give yourself jet lag.
“Auntie Boo sez you gotta get up NOW.” The midget tried to pet BuKi, but she scrambled deeper under the covers. I’ve raised one smart dog.
“Auntie Boo is mad as a March hare, and should…” I stopped. The smallish one might be wired. “Tell her I’m coming right down, okay, sweetie?”
And, so, I was told that, like it or not, we were going shopping in NYC today. You better believe I took two xanax today to prepare.
I’d forgotten a few things.
I’d forgotten that I like the station at Hoboken even though it is dirty and noisy. I’d forgotten how scary the subways in NYC are. I’d forgotten that you never, EVER light a cigarette on the street unless you want to be surrounded by two dozen people with their hand out chanting, “Hey, can you spare a smoke?” I have a few – 3 t0 5 – cigarettes a day (hush it – I like to smoke, dammit!), but I threw my pack at one of them, and fled.
I’d forgotten how very bad NYC cabs smell, and that – by transference – will YOU if you spend any time in them at all. I’d forgotten that most cabbies hate you, have always hated you, and will hate you even more if you say something stupid like, “Oh, Jesus! Are we near Harlem? You’ve got the doors locked, don’t you?” as my Aunt Boo did. (Boo lives with the certainty that every black male alive exists for no other reason than to rip the girdle off her aging, flabby thighs and rape her. Oh, I suppose everyone can dream, though, can’t they!).
I’d forgotten that making eye contact with the man yelling, “Hey! Hey, mami! Ya wanna ride my salami?” will only encourage him to grab his crotch, and make the O Face. This happened – with creative variations – throughout the day.
And I’d forgotten that I can’t go anywhere with these people without wanting to find a nice, quiet bathroom where I can eat a handful of barbituates before opening a few of my major arteries…but NYC bathrooms are even more frightening than the subways.
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Thank god something good happened!
The only person I love arrived. My cousin, Abbie. Like me, she fled the nest as soon as it was financially feasible (only she went north to Vermont where she lives with her wonderfully peculiar lover, Jack). As soon as she came in the door, I wanted to squeal and launch myself at her like a child. Even better, she has to share the guest room with me.
As soon as we could, we snuck out to behind the garage to share a blunt and commiserate. She asked me how bad it’s been, and I said it’s a new circle in Dantes’ Hell. I told her how, the night before, I’d bent over in front of Uncle Pink to help a little one who’d fallen on her diapered butt, and he’d grabbed me and pantomimes sodomizing me while yelling, “Tell Santa what you want for Christmas, baby!” (I defy any of you to keep even a shred of dignity when your uncle is dry-humping you in front of everyone.) She shuddered. “He did the same thing to me a few years ago. Jack calls him ‘Uncle Kinky’. You should have whacked him over the head like I did.”
I’m so glad she’s here.
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Giving BuKi her insulin is a spectator event. As soon as I get the vial of insulin out of the ‘fridge, someone will announce it so that everyone crowds around to watch. BuKi might be blind, but her instinct for self-preservation is spot-on, and she began to tremble so badly I had to support her with one hand while injecting her with the other. The only thing I said was to the midget. “Watch carefully. You’re going to need this skill by the time you’re in sixth grade, and the nice man beside the playground wants to be your bestest friend.” This earned me a dirty look from her mother, Gwen, as I’d forgotten she recently left rehab for a meth addiction. My bad…
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Three more days. It will be easier with Abbie here. She knows how to handle the natives better than I do. When they began their poking, pinching, patting and pawing, she snapped, “Quit fucking touching me, dammit.” This seems to be a magical incantation they respond to. I’ll have to remember it.
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(I’m sure you think I’m making it sound worse than what it was, but I don’t even get close to describing these people. This is a hint: Two of them were on the Jerry Springer Show, and they show the video each year because they are PROUD of it. I refuse to tell you what episode it was.)