I celebrated my Thanksgiving as I prefer—in quiet solitude, with a trans cat named Greer: age unknown. She and I were accompanied by a diabetic salad of a dog, Bixby. I use salad because he is comprised of so many breeds, he’s practically a hybrid. He’ll be 13 in January, and although an old man & insulin dependent (ten units, twice a day, every day) he’s doing well. It’s truly been my privilege keeping him alive for the past two and a half years.
Make no mistake, I adore them both, but Greer is a cat and all that that implies. She loves me, on her terms and is only demonstrative of this when it’s cold outside; she can’t get close enough. But Bixby is the love of my life and oddly, the single most relevant relationship I’ve ever had with the male of any species.
This was our 12th Thanksgiving, and in a month, we’ll spend our 12th Christmas together. Yesterday, Turkey Day itself, I watched a lot of TV. The screen was rife with Christmas programming and commercials. The inundation is always ridiculous but I seemed to notice it more. And it’ll only get worse.
Ads for this & for ads for that. Buy this, buy that. And even though I don’t watch programs targeted for or at kids, an add for a toy or kid friendly destinations will somehow, make its way to whatever I’m watching.
You’d think Pornhub would be more select.
But now until the afternoon of Christmas Eve, it’ll be non stop. Ads night and day for
jingtinglers, floofloovers and the tartinka. That’ll be followed by endless commercials for whohoopers, slooslunkas, gardookas, a game called zoozittacarzay and last but not least, trumptookas which are apparently, trying one more time to make American toys great again.
