Twisted Spinster

In the interests of irritating the politically correct, here’s an old Polaroid of me and my sister (who was a Real Native American, by the way) dressed in costumes our grandmother made for us. The reason I looked so thrilled was: I hated dressing up for photos, I hated dressing up, I hated having my photo taken (for one thing, they always put us facing the sun so the light would hit our faces — I blame my future cataracts on the approximately 9,000 photographs taken of me in the horrible Florida sun).

(Click for larger.) The Indian headress was not made by my grandmother, but instead was acquired at a tourist trap in Cherokee, North Carolina, where we used to go whenever we would visit my grandparents at their summer home in Highlands. By November, though, they were back in Coconut Grove. This photograph looks like it was taken in their back yard — I can’t remember exactly, but most Thanksgivings we ate at their house. The date on the back of the photograph says “Thanksgiving 1971,” which means I was eight years old, and my sister was six. The years have not improved me.

Festivities update: despite my ailments I managed to tuck away two nice-sized chunks of excellent prime rib. No, my friends did not make turkey — however, there were baked sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie, as well as many other delightful edibles. That meal, and the dose of Nyquil I just took, have left me feeling like a semi-sentient floor pillow. I need to observe another Thanksgiving tradition: sitting in front of the tv in a catatonic state. BBL