Dear God (Do you mind if I call you Hoser? Not in a disrespectful way, just in a Strange Brew way. In a “hey buddy, here’s your new nickname” way. It was the first thing that came to mind.),
I just wanted to drop you a line on this holiest of Thanksgivings and express my gratitude for all the blessings in my life, great and small, but most of all, for the hangover. No, I mean it. Thank you.
Every time my stomach lurches, I am reminded that last night, I was sitting at a table with HIM, sipping red wine. (I use the word “sipping” loosely. “Chugging” might be more apropos–he used the word “apropos,” did you know that? I don’t remember the context, but I can hear him saying it. “Apropos.” Just like that. And I thought, I always wanted to marry a man who tossed around words like “apropos.” Anyway, I digress.)
Every time my head pounds, I remember how he laughed when I said that thing about–what did I say? Fuck, I don’t remember a word I said. Oh god, did I babble? Wait. I remember one thing. I told him about Daddy finding Jesus in the back of the police car and moving me up on the mountain to be raised by wolves. Not really about the wolves. Just checking if you were listening. I did tell him about the police car though. Was that when he laughed? No, he was appropriately somber. Inquisitive. Wanted to know if Daddy did something really bad to end up in the back of that car. Which is reasonable. If I’m going to be the mother of his children, he should know if I have crazy genes. What? Well, no, he didn’t say he WANTED me to be the mother of his children, but I certainly think that question implied it.
Anyway, I don’t remember what I said to make him laugh, but it must have been clever. He chortled, remember, not unkindly, and holy shit, his teeth looked like little gods, every one of them, white and shiny and lined up for some parade. Gods in a parade. That’s what his teeth were.
And don’t even get me started on his ankles. Yes, I am well aware that lusting for ankles went out two centuries ago, but I guess I’m behind the times. Because when he propped his foot up on that chair, and I caught a glimpse of his ankle, wearing a white tube sock, no less, I thought things I probably shouldn’t write down in a letter to God, even a God that will let me call Him (Her) Hoser. But suffice to say, I am a big fan of your creation in all of its permutations, but mostly I am a fan of the permutation that has parade teeth and hot ankles.
I know you were there, and none of this is news to you, so bear with me. But did you know that he like Chilean Malbec? He does. It’s his favorite. Unless he was lying to impress me. Was he? Do you think him saying he loved Chilean Malbec was another way of saying he loved ME enough to try to impress me with his wine connoisseurship? Come again? No, I am not a lost cause!
How about this? He SPELLED the place where I was born. Spelled it. Like, out of nowhere. T-I-J-E-R-A-S. He wanted me to know he knows where I’m from. That’s something, right? Even you can’t argue with that. Hoser.
There was this one time he got drunk on red wine (not Chilean Malbec) and fell down a hill, and when he woke up, lyrics for a new song were in his head. No lie. I don’t think that one could be a lie. Why would he try to impress me by telling me a story of falling down a hill drunk? But wait. I AM impressed. I’m impressed, and I want to do him for days. Months. Years. Eternity. Is it a sin to say that I hope my heaven is doing him forever? Anyway, if he didn’t love me, I doubt very seriously that he would try to impress me by concocting a story about falling down a hill drunk.
And ok, then, there was that bit about drinking the best tequila in the world from a barrel in Mexico. Well, he didn’t actually drink it from the barrel. He drank it from a ladle which was dipped in the barrel. Pay attention. You were there. Didn’t you hear these stories? Anyway, this barrel tequila was made by the same people who make that Dia de los Muertos tequila. The one that comes in the bottles shaped like skulls. I told him I loved that tequila, mostly for the skulls, and THEN, he told me the barrel story. Oh, fuck a duck. He totally made that up to impress me. Don’t even start. He DID. What? No, I’m not saying he’s a pathological liar, I’m saying he LOVES me. Get with the program, Hoser.
Ok, and then, remember he asked me what I was doing for Thanksgiving, and I told him I was having a lesbian Thanksgiving? I could swear he looked a little dismayed until I explained that I wasn’t actually a lesbian, I was just having dinner with lesbians. And then, he told me a story about his lesbian soccer pals. It involved ham somehow. I was drunk by then, so I don’t remember the context. Anyway, it seemed to me he wanted me to know that he was ok with lesbians. And ham. And Malbec. And ME! He wanted me to know that I fit him perfectly. He is the best barrel tequila in the world. I am the skull shaped bottle. See? Together we are apropos.
Anyway, the point of all that is this. No man has ever made me feel the way I feel when I look at his ankles. And Hoser, between you and me, I’ve seen a few pairs of ankles in my day. Do you remember the Puerto Rican? Now, that boy had some sexy ankles. But even when I saw them without socks or shoes or anything, I did not feel one bit like I felt when I looked at Mr. Apropos’s ankle.
So, even though this is a day for giving thanks (THANKS, HOSER!), I would like tack a request on to my “thank you note.” Just a quickie. Let me be Mrs. Apropos, and I will give you our first born child. What? You know I have my tubes tied? What’s that got to do with it? Can you or can you not quicken dead wombs? You did it for Sarah in the Bible. And numerous other old ladies with very Jewish sounding names. Or did you just make all that stuff up to impress me, Hoser? No? Oh, that’s apropos. (I know that didn’t make sense. I just wanted to say “apropos” again.)
Speaking of which, I shouldn’t be the one to have to point this out, considering that you invented language and all, but I’ve been waiting, and clearly, you haven’t picked up on it. “Apropos,” when you’re drunk can sound a lot like,”I propose.” I’m just saying.
Burlesque Press 