My first Thanksgiving with Comrade's side of the family was a blast.

It did reach the point where people had imbibed just enough wine to say "So, are we allowed to talk about politics?" And the conversation was an entirely agreeable discussion about trying to be optimistic in this era of powerful people with no sense of empathy. There was no shouting, no awkward silences, I don't even think anyone cursed. And then one of Matt's cousins turned it into discussion about how at their school, instead of doing a mock election, they do a project where each class has to come up with an amendment to the constitution and present it to the ret of the school.

​There was a body autonomy amendment, one that returned voting rights to felons depending on the severity of their crimes, extending voting rights to people over eighteen, regardless of their citizenship, 50% millionaire tax, mandatory solar power for public buildings, mandatory police oversight, and lots of cool ideas.

In a discussion where I mentioned that my family had a dog when I was very young but my mother was allergic to it, I mentioned that I didn't know whether the dog died or was given away. I only knew that I was told it "went to live on a farm".

​Comrade: "The dead dog farm?"

Me: "It's more of a dead dog petting zoo. All the dogs are really well behaved. There's, like, no barking at all. I know some people like to go apple picking at orchards in the fall, but my family always used to take our trips to the dead dog petting zoo. I think that's where we should adopt our next pet from. Think you can remember to take it out for a drag twice a day?"

Comrade: "What is wrong with you?"

My dad is a Veteran so he wanted to show off a shirt he'd bought to wear to the Veterans' Day Ceremony. I expected a hideous American Flag with Make America Great Again or some nonsense. But he was wearing a Native American shirt that said "Real Americans have been fighting terrorists since 1492."
​
I mean. Yea. Sure.

​I have lightly ribbed my father over his embrace of Pandemic Socialism (he gets his food from the local high school. instead of buying his own groceries). But, for the most part we don't discuss his politics because they've decayed to terrible in recent years.

Today, he called, telling me about how his friends and neighbors hadn't received their stimulus checks, and he hadn't received his, and how he didn't understand what was taking so long. And, lo, last Friday a stimulus check arrived in his PO box, and he bragged to all of his more liberal neighbors about how Fecalface Sucksatgolf was making sure the people who supported him got their stimulus checks first (as if he could somehow now).

You, Dear Reader, may have figured out that it was Not his stimulus check, but was in fact, My finger-on-nose, Clinton-voting stimulus check that arrived because that was the address I filed my 2018 taxes from last year.

A few of his neighbors have since received theirs. His has not yet arrived.

My dad listens to talk radio in the car, on our way back from the Portguese American club, where he goes on a regular basis, despite not being of Portugese descent.

Racist White Lady: I want to thank you and ICE for your service protecting our fine country from terrorists. The illegals keep killing people. And there are no reprecussions for them. They just go to to sanctuary cities, and hide, like cowards.

Me: That's not the way sanctuary cities work. If you commit a crime: murder, embezzlement, drunk driving, illegal gambling, you still go to jail, or get deported. You just don't get arrested for existing.

My Dad: I want to hear what she has to say.

RWL: All our money goes to paying for illegals to get health insurance and drivers licenses. Meanwhile, all our homeless veterans are freezing to death on the streets.

Me: This lady should start volunterring at homeless shelters. Maybe donate some money to some veterans' institutions. No one is stopping her from supporting our homeless veterans but herself.

Dad: But our money keeps going to help illegals.

Me: No. Our money keeps going to Jeff Bezos and Zuckerberg, and Trump, and all of those other people who don't pay their employees health insurance or a living wage. Who stiff the people like you and me, who actually work for a living, so that they can afford to play golf on one of the courses attached to one of the dozen hotels they own.

Dad: That's captalism.

Me: IT DOESN'T WORK. I work thirty-five hours a week for a guy that doesn't pay my health insurance, and who owes me seven and a half months of back pay. Capitalism sucks.

Dad: Why don't you work 40 hours a week?

Me: Because the people who own businesses schedule people so that they don't have to pay their health care, because they're greedy shitheads who can't actually afford to support their business while also living the lifestyle they think they've earned.

Dad: But why should my money --

Me: NO ONE WANTS YOUR MONEY. You're not wealthy. Trump has never climbed a telephone pole to restore electricity. Rush Limbaugh has never spent an hour trying to help a depressed mom find a cheap graphic novel to help her son learn to love reading. Tucker fucken Carlson has never volunteered his time for Big Brothers/ Big Sisters Of America. They SUCK. They don't care about you or your money unless it's going to them, personally. They hate you. They hate me. They even hate my boss. Why do you keep listening to a bunch of White Nationalist Assholes who want you dead?

Dad: We can agree to disagree.

Me: No. You are protecting the people who steal from you, and redirecting your anger at people that they are trying to murder. This isn't "which type of music do you like?" The people you're listening to for life lessons are actively starting a class and race war against the people who would actually help you if you were in trouble. If you're tied to a railroad track, and a train is coming, who do you think is going to help you? A person who, like your great-grandparents, came over to this counyry to escape terrorists and poverty, or a smug, shitbag in a bowtie who tells you all Mexicans are drug dealing rapists?

Dad: Why do we argue about this every time we get in the car?

Me: Because you don't listen to music anymore, you listen to wealthy white guys who've never worked a day in their lives, who try to tell you that people who work 40-60 hours a week for a non-liveable wage are somehow the enemy just because they didn't wait twenty years to get a bunch of paperwork signed by the same people exploiting them for work by not paying them enough!

Dad: Can we agree that religion is our enemy?

Me: YES. But note how all those Christians that you don't like are supporting the media and President that you support. Isn't that, like A Giant Red Flag to you that these people are full of shit?

​My dad turn the radio to the oldies station.

My dad asked me what I was listening to on my headphones last night while he and my stepbrother were watching Hogan's Heroes.

"Oh, I'm editing some Prince albums."

"I never liked Prince," my dad, who doesn't listen to many artists whose careers started after the early 1970s, says. "He didn't look right .. too many hats ... too much purple ... flamboyant. He was too flamboyant looking."

"But he's an amazing musician."

My dad makes a stink face.

"Have you seen his guitar solo for 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps' at the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame?"

He had not.

Now he has.

Verdict? "Ho shit. Does he always play like that?"

​Me: "Not always. But often. And when he did, it was magic."

My mom: I can tell you're on the ferry. I can hear the seagulls.

​Me: Those are people. I'm sitting inside the boat in the non-seabird section.

Mom: Your suitcase is too heavy. You'll have to pay extra.

Me: I don't think so.

Mom: I'll get the scale. You take the books out.

I take the books out.

Me: See, it's only thirty pounds.

Mom: It feels heavier.

Me: I don't have twenty pounds of books in this pile, so I'm going to put them back in.

Mom: I don't know. How heavy is that one?

I take my copy of The Working Girls' Bible and put it on the scale.

Me: Seven pounds! Still, the rest of the pile is probably about four pounds.

Mom: Weigh it.

Me: Three pounds. That's a total of forty, which is still ten pounds under the limit.

Mom: Don't forget you still have to put in your bathing suit.

​Me: Yes. My twelve pound concrete bathing suit is what's going to push it over the limit.

Mom: Victoria is coming after seven with some fresh baked brownies for you.

Me: That's very nice of her. Is this going to be like the orange bread that Sue made that I never got a chance to try because you and your husband ate it all?

​Mom: You are not ever allowed to tell Sue that.

With all the badness of this month, so far, I need to give credit to the people my dad forgot were looking after his mom.

When he got to the house, he said there was paperwork everywhere, and several personal items were missing.

When her husband died thirteen years ago, the people who were supposed to be taking care of him had pilfered some paintings and books (none of them actually valuable), so my dad was heartbroken that they had taken precisely the things my grandmother valued: her old radio, her favorite clothes, her record player, etc.

But they weren't stolen. My grandmother was in a nursing home for less than a day, but for that day, the wonderful people looking after her made sure she was surrounded with as many familiar things as possible.

And that paperwork? All the bills they helped her keep track of and pay for the last several months when she couldn't keep track of her own thoughts.

​I'm really grateful to those people, only one of whom I even know, for making her last few months as comfortable as possible.