December 27, 1998.

The 6 words you never want to hear coming out of your grandfather's mouth in the middle of Christmas dinner:

"A man walks into a brothel..."

Actually, it wasn't that bad. Dinner conversations at my grandmother's are always interesting and only occasionally risqué...it's not an experience that will garner thousands of dollars for some lucky p-doc somewhere down the line. The joke wasn't even dirty. But all disclaimers aside...can you imagine??

*giggle*

Here's the joke. I'm changing the language slightly to fit my own speech.

A man walks into a brothel and says, 'I want a girl to do me Scottish style.' The madam says, 'Jeez, I know French and Greek, and that's a new one to me. But I'll ask the girls.'

She goes to the girls in the back & asks around, and finally one says, 'I know Scottish style.' So the madam takes her forward, and the girl's leading the man up the stairs and she says, 'Listen, man. I was just faking it. But if you'll tell me how you do it Scottish style, I'll do it half price.'

To which he says, 'That's it right there!'

"Use me when you wanna come,
I've bled just to have your touch..."

Thinking about Marilyn Manson certainly clears away the post-Christmas gloom. Even if he did try to kill me.

Had a very nice time at my grandmother's on Xmas day, brothel joke not excluded. For once my mom didn't give me a hard time about wearing my overalls out, so I was comfortable. I wore my York University baby-t - the one I've had since I was a baby; this delights & amuses me but leaves everyone else cold - and we started a betting pool in the car concerning who among my well-meaning small-talking relatives would ask if I attended York (I do not). The only fish was Bruce; but he stoutly maintains that he was tricked into saying anything. By the end of the night, he'd tricked my grandmother into asking as well, meaning that my brother got the laurels in that particular wager.

Presents were the typical run of practical things: socks and gloves and tights and a horrible shade of lipstick. Joy. The only really strange thing was that every time I talked to the Boy via telephone, I inevitably felt utterly rotten for no particular reason. I felt like I was going crazy for awhile, because it made no sense. Then I figured it out (see last entry), so I went to bed less concerned with prozac than during the day.

Which is always a plus.

Yesterday was also very nice, although it was spent with a whole other kit & cabal or relatives. The Boy's, to be exact. I met most of them at his sister Pixie Stix's wedding last September, which makes me feel much like a potential fixture. I really like them...they seem so much more well-adjusted than my family. Maybe it's perspective - the Boy seemed dubious when I shared my thought with him.

But I can't help it...they seem like a Christmas special, without the conflict. Everyone was happy & friendly and the kids were unannoying and adorable and I even had people my own age to talk to when the Boy was off doing other things. I really like his sister Pixie Stix and her husband Q, but it always feels a bit weird to talk to them...we have a few mutual friends, and I always feel like I know more about them than I rightly should. I'm a bit uneasy at the meshing of nightclubbing and family scenes yet.

I know, that's ridiculous. But when you hear about people through other people, they take on the tint of fictional characters; ones with only a single role to play as friends or whatever. And when they show up as sisters and brothers-in-laws of your Boy, it's...odd.

The culture shock makes me dizzy sometimes. But beer usually cures that.

Conversation as myself and Pixie Stix traveled to and from the fridge:

"How's married life?"
"It's the best decision I ever made"
"Better than getting that beer?"
"You know, it comes pretty close."