November 27, 2001
  too much honesty

I have this theory that there's a massive conspiracy going on, one of which I am not a part, in which the wide majority of people receive special x-ray vision that can see a certain type of indelible ink not visible to the rest of the population. I think that at some point during my childhood, a member of this vast conspiracy snuck into the high security of my bedroom window, usually open, and used that special secret society ink with a little rubber stamp to mark me as one of those happy few that you can say anything to without worrying about, you know, feelings.

It must have been pretty early on in childhood, because for as long as I can remember, the vast majority of people I know haven't felt the need to hold back on personal comments in the interests of not inflicting deep, arterial psychic wounds. I'd like to state here and now that if I did happen to be a bit of a feral, vicious destroyer bitch from the abyss of hell while growing up, it is entirely due to the thick scarring that made it difficult for me to flex my moral muscle of conscience.

Until this Thanksgiving weekend, I used to think that it was a flaw in my personality growing up, that I was just a black-hearted shadow of Damien before I hit my twenties. However, I'm not unreasonable, and the cries for justice raised by my younger self have not been in vain. I have seen the light.

My aunt, married to an Irishman by the name of Murray, somehow managed to raise five healthy and scarily charming sons, handsome men who came to my father's funeral dressed in black suits. They lined up on the stage during the memorial service, looking like Hollywood's incarnation of the genteel hit man; my sister's then-boyfriend leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I didn't know you were related to the Mafia."

Despite the fact that her sons obviously didn't starve, it never occurred to either my sister or me that the woman could actually cook. When we gave it any thought at all, we rather imagined that our cousins' lives were spent in an endless scrounging for canned goods in the kitchen, and that good fairies occasionally popped out of the woodwork to restock their pantries. Needless to say, we were both somewhat chagrined when Mom informed us we were going to the Aunt's for Thanksgiving dinner.

"Does she even know how to cook?" my sister hissed on the phone from her boyfriend's place, covering the mouthpiece so he wouldn't hear and take alarm. It was going to be his first chance to meet the rest of the family, and he was nervous.

If we'd realized they were all Republicans, we wouldn't have chanced it at all.

We were the first ones there, and the aunt and uncle greeted us with open arms.

"You're so handsome!" they declared to the sister's boyfriend. "We like you! Come in! Take off your shoes and have some wine!"

"You look so good!" they saluted the sister, giving her mighty hugs. "We heard you went to Bolivia! You're so adventuresome and brave! We admire you!"

"You brought us food!" they greeted my mother, accepting her gift of pumpkin pies and decorative rice with gratitude. "You cook so well! You've dressed so nicely! Please, sit down and have some of this Irish cheese! Would you like some wine?"

Out of all of my family, I'm the one who's spent the most time with the aunt and uncle. They were both my piano teachers at one point or another during my life, during the brief plateaus when they weren't in the middle of some vicious familial battle with my dad. They haven't seen me in years. "It's so great to see you!" my aunt enthused, offering me a hug.

And then she gave me another, except this one wasn't really a hug. This was sort of a -- how to put this -- a measuring. She squeezed my arm thoughtfully. "You've gotten fatter," she said, thoughtfully. "I would have thought you would get thinner, but you got fatter. What happened?"

The woman hasn't walked a mile within the last three decades. It's possible that a single bad cold could take her out. There are people featured on Richard Simmons shows who have a better pulse than she does. And yet, she told my mother later that my weight gain was unhealthy. "I'm worried about her," she told her, apparently. "It looks dangerous, all that fat. Normally she gets pudgier bit by bit, but this time it looks like it's unnatural. You should tell her to be more careful."

"You should watch your diet and exercise," my mother told me later, earnestly recounting the story. "If you don't do something about it now, it will get out of control and then it'll be too late."

Me, I was still stuck on the 'pudgier bit by bit' part. "She said what?"

See what I mean?

Dinner was fine, incidentally.