OK, we’re back from Thanksgiving. We spent it with my family in Kentucky. Bear with me for a couple of minutes now while I think about what I can say and what I can’t….

This Thanksgiving started with a brunch. I’m pretty confident that I can say that without pissing anyone off.

My sister and her boyfriend decided that it was time for their two families to meet. As both families already had plans for Thanksgiving dinner, it was decided that we’d share a pre-Thanksgiving dinner meal at my parents’ house. Linette and I were in charge of waffles. (My mom called a week before to enlist our services.) We drove the five hours to Kentucky straddling a bucket of sloshing waffle batter and a sack of roasted pecans. It was fortunate that we did too. The waffles were the big hit of the morning, even though there was quite a bit to choose from, like quiche, country ham, biscuits, fruit salad, and lots more.

Brian, my sister’s boyfriend, is a nice guy. I’m not terribly social, but he and I get along. We talk about business. He owns a company in Indiana.

Brian was joined by his sister, his mother and his 91 year old uncle. The uncle, a great story teller, filled us in on the criminal past of the family.

This is one of the areas I probably shouldn’t spent too much time on. In fact. Let’s just stop there.

Anyway, the families met and things seemed to go well. They ate, toured my parent’s home, saw some of my old paintings on the wall and then felt obliged to tell me how “interesting” my stuff was, which made me want to curl up and die. I hate talking about my stuff, especially this stuff, that I very much dislike. Every time one of them approaches me to talk about my artwork, I look down at the floor like a mental patient and change the subject. The part of my mind that whispers “these could be patrons” doesn’t whisper loud enough. I just want them to go away and leave me alone. Compliments on the waffles I can deal with. Compliments on my near-retarded drawings is something else altogether.

My sister tells me that her boyfriend might want to commission me to paint something for the entrance to his factory. The thought horrifies me. I know he’s not really interested. He only wants to do this so that I’ll like him. If I weren’t such a jackass, I’d jump at the opportunity and milk it for all it’s worth. Once they get married, I will have missed my chance.

(Let’s all imagine a gigantic wall at a manufacturing plant in Indiana and think what I could do with it… Send me your suggestions. I’m thinking about a giant image of a child choking to death on a small part from one of their household products.)

Oh, speaking of art… Linette and me, my mother and sister, all went shopping on Friday. (Yes, I do realize that it was “Buy Nothing Day,” but my mother made us go out with her.) In one store, I noticed that they were selling something called the “Andy Warhol Pop Box.” It was this little box full of pieces of paper, photographs, artifacts, etc from Warhol’s life. I fished around in the box for a minute and came up with a piece of onion-skin typing paper. It was a letter from the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art rejecting one of Andy’s early shoe drawings. He’d apparently submitted it, asking if they would place it in their permanent collection. It must have been around 1956. I loved the idea that this letter of rejection had not only been preserved, but duplicated and distributed (and sold). Some day, I want to pull together a box of rejections and photographs to be sold in upscale furniture stores.

There’s a lump on the side of my head that’s been there for probably about six months now. Since it’s kind of like a pimple, I haven’t let myself get too excited about it, but it’s sore today. I think it might be time to call the doctor in.

I’m sitting here in front of a roaring fire, listening to Linette upstairs, yelling at the television. She’s watching the “Anna Nicole Smith” TV show. She probably doesn’t want for me to tell you that.

“Ankle-deep in beer and blood.” That was my favorite quote from today’s episode of the Simpsons.

I made yeasty rolls for dinner tonight. I got the recipe from our Babe, Pig in the City vegetarian cookbook. I guess it’s kind of ironic in a way. I was looking for something to accompany pork chops. Maybe that’s why I gravitated toward the Babe cookbook. It’s got a photo of the happy pig from the film on the cover.

The recipe was for “feather rolls” and they turned out really well. If you bug me, I’ll print the recipe here.

Oh, can someone also please remind me that the Diane Sawyer interview with Whitney Houston airs at 9:00 on Wednesday night on ABC? It’s imperative that I see it.

Today was good in that we finally got started on our holiday cards. We designed them and went to Kinko’s to get them printed up. If you’re on the list, you’ll get one before Christmas.

This was the first holiday since my uncle, Thom, passed away. Everyone was sad, but it went well. It’s weird without him.

Thanksgiving highlight: I heard my aunt explaining that she had seen “a woman give birth to a worm” on the Animal Planet channel. She said it was on a show called “Animal Rescue” and she was adamant that the woman had “given birth” to a worm. She was clear about that. She said that the worm didn’t just come out of her ass or something, but that the woman actually had to “give birth” to it.

My uncle, Thom, would have loved that.

Ok, I have to go to be now. I’m sorry that today’s post was so scattered, but I have a huge lump on the right side of my head and it’s effecting my editorial style.

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