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gyzymNo, really, he does. True story.
Also, oh my god, you guys, I'm sorry, I am sorry, I am so sorry, I know I'm spamming you today, but I just. I cannot believe this just happened, I cannot even believe this is my family, I swear to god I'll go a couple hours without posting anything after this, dsfhsdkjfd.
Right, okay, so before I tell this story, I have to explain something, lest you all think I am a terrible person: in my life, an extremely intimate family gathering is 20 people. Thanksgiving, when it's on the small side, usually hovers somewhere between 40 and 65, and that's just one branch of the, like, ridiculous empire that is my various and sundry relations. Once you get further out than like first cousins, things get complicated; people are ranked by a complex and deeply inexplicable system based on shit that happened 30 years ago and family politics and who isn't speaking to whom this week. I have third cousins I call uncle and aunts I've never met--there's a large category of folks to whom my only technical connection is "well, they're also Jewish and their grandmother was once friends with my grandmother," but who are more important to me than any number of actual blood relations. And the thing is that when you've got a network of people this big to contend with, everyone just falls under the umbrella of "well, they're family," which translates loosely to, "we are allowed to say bad shit about them, but no one else is, EVER."
This leads to interactions like this one between me and my father before Passover last year (I have changed the name herein; I do not actually have even one cousin Ricky, let alone two...er, as far as I know):
Me: I'm going to order the brisket for Pesach.
My Father: Okay, but you gotta go to a different guy this year, we can't go to our guy anymore.
Me: What? Why?
My Father: Well, you know cousin Ricky?
Me: The one who works downtown?
My Father: No, the other one.
Me: There's another cousin Ricky?
My Father: Yeah, you've maybe never met him, he's--doesn't matter, look, the point is, his son and the brisket guy's son, they were supposed to start a business together, and this kid screwed Ricky's kid out of the deal, so we can't buy from his father anymore.
Me: ...
My Father: Don't look at me like that. It's family.
THE POINT OF THIS ENTIRE LONG WINDED TALE IS: IT'S NOT MY FAULT THAT SOMETIMES I RUN INTO PEOPLE WHO ARE RELATED TO ME AND DON'T RECOGNIZE THEM. "Family" is a really broad term for me, okay? JUDGE ME NOT.
Anyway, I told you that story to tell you this story: last week while I was leaving work I had my least favorite kind of interaction, which is one where the other person knows my name and I have NO IDEA WHO THE FUCK THEY ARE. Like, seriously, the woman walks up out of nowhere and is like "OH HELLO HOW HAVE YOU BEEN HOW IS YOUR MOTHER HOW IS YOUR FATHER ARE YOU STILL LIKING WORKING FOR YOUR FIRM" and I was like, "Um, it is...so lovely...to see you! And how are...those people we are mutually acquainted with? Doing well? Ahahahaha, yes, fantastic, buh-bye now!"
It was not smooth. I admit that it was not smooth. She was totally, totally onto me. I'm not even guessing about the fact that she was onto me: she called my grandmother, who called my aunt, who called my father, who called my mother, who called me.
My Mother: Heads up, apparently you're in trouble because you didn't recognize some relative on the street.
Me: Goddamn it, I knew that was going to come back to bite me in the ass.
My Mother: I guess she was at your Bat Mitzvah? I don't know, I'm at the ass-end of a game of telephone here, I don't even know her name.
Me: Wait, wait, we still don't even have the name?
My Mother: I think your father knows it.
He didn't. Neither did my aunt, although she claimed the woman in question is a third cousin and the name would come to her if I gave her enough time. I wasn't about to ask my grandmother and dig myself deeper into the hole, and the point of this is: after the botched interaction, three different phone calls, and getting yelled at by my grandmother, I STILL DON'T KNOW WHO THE HELL THIS WOMAN WAS.
Okay, all of that? I wrote most of it out last week when it happened, and then ended it with the sentence "This wouldn't be a concern, except for how it almost unquestionably means I'm going to run into her again tomorrow." But I didn't post it, because I decided I was being ridiculous and paranoid.
So fast forward to, uh, half an hour ago. Burro's just gotten home for spring break, and he comes to the coffeeshop where I'm writing to say hi, because we're going to dinner with everyone in a little bit and that's great, but sometimes it's nice to talk to him without being interrupted every twelve seconds. And so we're sitting here, right, and this woman walks through the door, and THIS HAPPENS:
Me: Oh my god, shit, it's her, don't let her see me!
Burro: Don't let her see you? That's the one who pulled my hair!
Me: I...wait, what?
Burro: Yeah, man, at somebody's shiva when I was like 16, I don't remember whose--
Me: At somebody's shiva, she pulled your hair?
Burro: I swear to god, we were just standing outside talking, and she walks up to me and goes, you've got such thick hair, it must be a wig! And then she grabbed it and fucking yanked on it, I couldn't make this up.
Me: Oh my fucking god. Where the hell was I?
Burro: I don't know, college? I don't think it was anybody we knew...who died, I mean. Courtesy call type thing, you know how it goes.
Me: Still, who pulls hair at a shiva?
Burro: Who pulls hair, period?
Me: Yeah, okay, point.
Burro: Anyway, what'd she do to you?
Me: Oh, god, nothing that bad, Jesus. I ran into her after work the other day and I didn't recognize--
Burro: Ahahahahaha oh my god that was her?
Me: You heard that story?!
Burro: Grandma was pretty pissed. I would have told her she was a hair-puller if I'd known.
Me: I...I just. What.
Burro: You wanna know the best part?
Me: I feel like you're going to tell me even if I don't.
Burro: I totally don't know her name either.
Me: Oh my god.
Burro: Quick, duck before she sees us!
DEAR EVERYONE: IF MY LIFE IS ACTUALLY A LARRY DAVID PRODUCED VERSION OF THE TRUMAN SHOW, PLEASE JUST TELL ME NOW. IT WOULD BE THE KIND THING TO DO, REALLY.
ETA: Okay, I have to go to dinner now, but somehow this turned into a giant thread about Arthur and Eames and Arthur's family, which you guys should TOTALLY ADD TO WHILE I'M GONE :D
Also, oh my god, you guys, I'm sorry, I am sorry, I am so sorry, I know I'm spamming you today, but I just. I cannot believe this just happened, I cannot even believe this is my family, I swear to god I'll go a couple hours without posting anything after this, dsfhsdkjfd.
Right, okay, so before I tell this story, I have to explain something, lest you all think I am a terrible person: in my life, an extremely intimate family gathering is 20 people. Thanksgiving, when it's on the small side, usually hovers somewhere between 40 and 65, and that's just one branch of the, like, ridiculous empire that is my various and sundry relations. Once you get further out than like first cousins, things get complicated; people are ranked by a complex and deeply inexplicable system based on shit that happened 30 years ago and family politics and who isn't speaking to whom this week. I have third cousins I call uncle and aunts I've never met--there's a large category of folks to whom my only technical connection is "well, they're also Jewish and their grandmother was once friends with my grandmother," but who are more important to me than any number of actual blood relations. And the thing is that when you've got a network of people this big to contend with, everyone just falls under the umbrella of "well, they're family," which translates loosely to, "we are allowed to say bad shit about them, but no one else is, EVER."
This leads to interactions like this one between me and my father before Passover last year (I have changed the name herein; I do not actually have even one cousin Ricky, let alone two...er, as far as I know):
Me: I'm going to order the brisket for Pesach.
My Father: Okay, but you gotta go to a different guy this year, we can't go to our guy anymore.
Me: What? Why?
My Father: Well, you know cousin Ricky?
Me: The one who works downtown?
My Father: No, the other one.
Me: There's another cousin Ricky?
My Father: Yeah, you've maybe never met him, he's--doesn't matter, look, the point is, his son and the brisket guy's son, they were supposed to start a business together, and this kid screwed Ricky's kid out of the deal, so we can't buy from his father anymore.
Me: ...
My Father: Don't look at me like that. It's family.
THE POINT OF THIS ENTIRE LONG WINDED TALE IS: IT'S NOT MY FAULT THAT SOMETIMES I RUN INTO PEOPLE WHO ARE RELATED TO ME AND DON'T RECOGNIZE THEM. "Family" is a really broad term for me, okay? JUDGE ME NOT.
Anyway, I told you that story to tell you this story: last week while I was leaving work I had my least favorite kind of interaction, which is one where the other person knows my name and I have NO IDEA WHO THE FUCK THEY ARE. Like, seriously, the woman walks up out of nowhere and is like "OH HELLO HOW HAVE YOU BEEN HOW IS YOUR MOTHER HOW IS YOUR FATHER ARE YOU STILL LIKING WORKING FOR YOUR FIRM" and I was like, "Um, it is...so lovely...to see you! And how are...those people we are mutually acquainted with? Doing well? Ahahahaha, yes, fantastic, buh-bye now!"
It was not smooth. I admit that it was not smooth. She was totally, totally onto me. I'm not even guessing about the fact that she was onto me: she called my grandmother, who called my aunt, who called my father, who called my mother, who called me.
My Mother: Heads up, apparently you're in trouble because you didn't recognize some relative on the street.
Me: Goddamn it, I knew that was going to come back to bite me in the ass.
My Mother: I guess she was at your Bat Mitzvah? I don't know, I'm at the ass-end of a game of telephone here, I don't even know her name.
Me: Wait, wait, we still don't even have the name?
My Mother: I think your father knows it.
He didn't. Neither did my aunt, although she claimed the woman in question is a third cousin and the name would come to her if I gave her enough time. I wasn't about to ask my grandmother and dig myself deeper into the hole, and the point of this is: after the botched interaction, three different phone calls, and getting yelled at by my grandmother, I STILL DON'T KNOW WHO THE HELL THIS WOMAN WAS.
Okay, all of that? I wrote most of it out last week when it happened, and then ended it with the sentence "This wouldn't be a concern, except for how it almost unquestionably means I'm going to run into her again tomorrow." But I didn't post it, because I decided I was being ridiculous and paranoid.
So fast forward to, uh, half an hour ago. Burro's just gotten home for spring break, and he comes to the coffeeshop where I'm writing to say hi, because we're going to dinner with everyone in a little bit and that's great, but sometimes it's nice to talk to him without being interrupted every twelve seconds. And so we're sitting here, right, and this woman walks through the door, and THIS HAPPENS:
Me: Oh my god, shit, it's her, don't let her see me!
Burro: Don't let her see you? That's the one who pulled my hair!
Me: I...wait, what?
Burro: Yeah, man, at somebody's shiva when I was like 16, I don't remember whose--
Me: At somebody's shiva, she pulled your hair?
Burro: I swear to god, we were just standing outside talking, and she walks up to me and goes, you've got such thick hair, it must be a wig! And then she grabbed it and fucking yanked on it, I couldn't make this up.
Me: Oh my fucking god. Where the hell was I?
Burro: I don't know, college? I don't think it was anybody we knew...who died, I mean. Courtesy call type thing, you know how it goes.
Me: Still, who pulls hair at a shiva?
Burro: Who pulls hair, period?
Me: Yeah, okay, point.
Burro: Anyway, what'd she do to you?
Me: Oh, god, nothing that bad, Jesus. I ran into her after work the other day and I didn't recognize--
Burro: Ahahahahaha oh my god that was her?
Me: You heard that story?!
Burro: Grandma was pretty pissed. I would have told her she was a hair-puller if I'd known.
Me: I...I just. What.
Burro: You wanna know the best part?
Me: I feel like you're going to tell me even if I don't.
Burro: I totally don't know her name either.
Me: Oh my god.
Burro: Quick, duck before she sees us!
DEAR EVERYONE: IF MY LIFE IS ACTUALLY A LARRY DAVID PRODUCED VERSION OF THE TRUMAN SHOW, PLEASE JUST TELL ME NOW. IT WOULD BE THE KIND THING TO DO, REALLY.
ETA: Okay, I have to go to dinner now, but somehow this turned into a giant thread about Arthur and Eames and Arthur's family, which you guys should TOTALLY ADD TO WHILE I'M GONE :D
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no subject
Date: 2011-03-17 10:03 pm (UTC)(at least the majority of my GIGANTIC crazy Irish family lives in California and the north west-ish area. And some in Alaska. I think I'm the only one this far east)
Seriously, my mother says 'so and so is ill' and I'm all 'who?' and she goes, (true story) 'oh you know, uncle John's (who is, I believe, the 3rd of my mother's TEN siblings) wife's cousin's fifth kid's son?' LIKE I SHOULD KNOW THIS OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD FROM THOUSANDS OF MILES AWAY. If I'd ever met them in the first place. Back when I was like, eight and going to California every year.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-17 10:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-17 10:15 pm (UTC)Not to say I dislike my family- it's a pretty cool and crazy family, but still. God.
SUPPORT GROUP FTW!