My weekend was partially spent in not-so-subtle, psychological warfare. In either vindication of my lovely sense of humor or painful proof of my unsuitableness as a partner the target of my warfare was the generally lovely, but sometimes not, M. In retaliation for grumpy fighting I mixed up some Streisand, you don’t bring me flowers, boohoohooofuckinghooboohoo, mens are means iPod goodness for driving around town.

By the fucking way, by drive around town, you must picture my sky blue convertible all topless and shit. Yeah, we still got some sun here in sunny San Jose.

The damnednest thing about trying to torture M. with love duets and broken hearted down and out sappiness is his always frighteningly revealing true life adventure “how I spent the 80s.” The man knows, like intimately, the song book of the Bee Gees. Sure, it got him mad Malaysian ass in his tender high school years, but still and all, I gets nervous about “the past.”

Right when I pulled out all stops with the Karen Carpenter medley, he revelled in the teenage joy of “For all we know.”

Meanwhile, we’re gearing up for a little home for the holidays. I started a little flour flinging of home-made white bread and pie crust to be refrigerated until the big day. Checking in with the brothers back home, it looks like I’m not invited to a couple of different dinners. (By not invited, that’s the story I”m sticking to as far as why I’m not holiday-ing in New England. Yeah, I would have come home if only I was invited, poor me, miles away and forgotten.)

Interesting conversation with the biggest bro about the home for the holidays, not, paradigm I look to be rocking in my new Cali world. I’m sure it’s the fodder for thoughts and pondering on family and what constitutes “home.” But, come on, I’m just fucking too lazy to make all the arrangements to get there.

And, coup de fucking grace on my laziness and all, a big old storm is being predicted to slam the east coast by the big day. I ain’t fucking dreaming of no white Thanksgiving, I tell you what.

Speaking of a white Thanksgiving (and trust me, that is a kickass segue for this paragraph), my racist core has been giggling for days at the Thanksgiving I refused this weekend. Here’s an excerpt from the Ranch 99 local market.

Yeah, whatever, M. You can force me into your psychedelic, hippie, West Coast, multi-culti, Bay Area, melting pot, peace, love and happiness nirvana. You can oppress me with words like caring and family and love. Whatever.

But, I ain’t eating no pork fried rice as part of my Thanksgiving feast.