(no subject)
The Schwartz Family Thanksgiving will be, for the first time in several years, held somewhere other than our home. It always worked well that way, being halfway between the Twin Cities members and the Rochester members. And (although only one person has admitted it, we're sure the rest feel the same way) my mother's employ of our gay gourmet, Roger, that she pays $200 an hour to do all the work both the day before and the day proper. That and giving her own gay son her platinum card and carte blanche to go to décor stores and create a fabulous table setting, thank you very much.
She doesn't even have to pay me- a trip to a flower shop with a $500 budget is payment enough for most gay men. Especially me.
So when it was announced that Thanksgiving was going to be held at the Rochester Schwartzes, she released a small gasp and said, quite hurt, "So it won't be at our house this year?"
To which her sister-in-law Anne replied dulcetly, "We thought we'd give you a year off." What was really going through her head is unknown, but I feel it may have concluded with calling my mother a naughty word. What was really going through my mother's head was made clear soon after:
"That bitch took this one away from me," she huffed on the way to the tapas restaurant (across from my frequented gay bar, no less).
The 'bitch' being my father's brother's wife, my father's eyes widened. "Why?"
"I- I don't think she can cook all that well."
"Well, that's true."
"Do you think we can bring Roger?"
My father's eyes widened again. "You want to bring the chef to Mark and Anne's house?"
"He... could help her."
She proceeded to discuss paying his mileage, upping his hourly wage even more, and then if he wanted to stick around and have dinner with us, she'd be fine with that. With a bit of strong wording and common decency, my father and I convince her to grin and bear it. What really drove the point home was when my father said, "Plus, if you let her do it this year, everyone will secretly be wishing you'd have done it."
Briefly looking at her reflection in the passenger side mirror, I swear I see a malicious smile form between her Botoxed jowls.
Moments later, we're reconvened at the restaurant with the other Schwartzes, I order an Appletini. I notice my mother glaring at my aunt. I excuse myself to the bathroom and catch the hunky bartender before he makes our table's orders, slip him a twenty and tell him, "I'm going to be ordering more of these. Make them strong, babe."
He slaps his hand down on the bill and grins. "Family?"
I wear a look of incredulity. He bears his slightly cigarette-stained teeth in an abrupt laugh and says before returning to the pileup of customers: "Can do."
When the waitress comes back, she gives me my Appletini and a quick wink. I take the first sip and wince a little.
She places my mother's Cosmopolitan on the table.
And gives her the same fucking wink.
She doesn't even have to pay me- a trip to a flower shop with a $500 budget is payment enough for most gay men. Especially me.
So when it was announced that Thanksgiving was going to be held at the Rochester Schwartzes, she released a small gasp and said, quite hurt, "So it won't be at our house this year?"
To which her sister-in-law Anne replied dulcetly, "We thought we'd give you a year off." What was really going through her head is unknown, but I feel it may have concluded with calling my mother a naughty word. What was really going through my mother's head was made clear soon after:
"That bitch took this one away from me," she huffed on the way to the tapas restaurant (across from my frequented gay bar, no less).
The 'bitch' being my father's brother's wife, my father's eyes widened. "Why?"
"I- I don't think she can cook all that well."
"Well, that's true."
"Do you think we can bring Roger?"
My father's eyes widened again. "You want to bring the chef to Mark and Anne's house?"
"He... could help her."
She proceeded to discuss paying his mileage, upping his hourly wage even more, and then if he wanted to stick around and have dinner with us, she'd be fine with that. With a bit of strong wording and common decency, my father and I convince her to grin and bear it. What really drove the point home was when my father said, "Plus, if you let her do it this year, everyone will secretly be wishing you'd have done it."
Briefly looking at her reflection in the passenger side mirror, I swear I see a malicious smile form between her Botoxed jowls.
Moments later, we're reconvened at the restaurant with the other Schwartzes, I order an Appletini. I notice my mother glaring at my aunt. I excuse myself to the bathroom and catch the hunky bartender before he makes our table's orders, slip him a twenty and tell him, "I'm going to be ordering more of these. Make them strong, babe."
He slaps his hand down on the bill and grins. "Family?"
I wear a look of incredulity. He bears his slightly cigarette-stained teeth in an abrupt laugh and says before returning to the pileup of customers: "Can do."
When the waitress comes back, she gives me my Appletini and a quick wink. I take the first sip and wince a little.
She places my mother's Cosmopolitan on the table.
And gives her the same fucking wink.