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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 10:18 pm (UTC)But his family doesn't know that, doesn't know Eames is just having them on, and they eat it up with a spoon. His mother is practically buying them baby clothes by the time they leave, and Arthur hisses "You know we can't," because it's irritating, it's false hope they're giving here, it's not right.
Eames looks at him askance from the other side of the rental car, his hands playing over the edge of the seatbelt, and sighs. "Maybe not," he says, "but it's nice to think about, hmmm?" and oh, shit, maybe this is something he wants after all.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-17 10:22 pm (UTC)There is no way you can be allowed to leave this like this, it must be expanded!!!
LITTLE BABY ARTHUR-EAMES. AND S/HIS CRAZY YET ADORING EXTENDED FAMILY.
*dies*
no subject
Date: 2011-03-17 10:23 pm (UTC)SOMEONE ELSE!!! SOMEONE ELSE!!! FILL THIS INNNNN IT'S KIDFIC MADLIBS DJSFHJKSD
no subject
Date: 2011-03-17 10:27 pm (UTC)AUGH
I NEED THIS
no subject
Date: 2011-03-18 02:19 am (UTC)Now I'm thinking of Arthur and Eames as fathers and god, the plot bunnies are fuzzier than my dog!
♥♥♥
no subject
Date: 2011-03-17 10:47 pm (UTC)Which is fine until Aunt Carol's cousin's daughter gets herself knocked up in the 12th grade - I mean, who does that, don't they teach sex ed anymore - Arthur wonders. And she doesn't take the quiet abortion and two weeks off school route, and everyone knows but doesn't say that she can't because of the little sister that died of SIDS. So then there's this baby being born that's going to need a family, a baby IN Arthur's family, and it gets talked about at supper and Eames just gets quieter and quieter and Arthur doesn't know what to do.
He thinks of Cobb and all those stupid, desperate months on the run and the way Cobb had risked them all just to get back to his kids.
He thinks about holiday suppers at his grandmother's, with his mother washing dishes while her brother and sister and a couple of nephews dried; because it took four people to keep up with her.
Arthur thinks about family, and he can't sleep. He rolls over and turns on the light, shakes Eames awake. "We, if we do this" Arthur says. And Eames is not quite awake yet, squinting in the light, his hair tousled up on one side flattened down on the other. His tattoos roll across his shoulders and spill across his chest and remind Arthur that Eames knows about permanence.
"If we do this" Arthur says "If you want this, you need to tell me. Not make me guess." And Eames sits up, wide awake now, hand reaching for Arthur.
"Yes" Eames replies, pulling Arthur to him, speaking into his shoulder. "Yes, I fucking want to have a kid with you. You and your crazy family, let's add to it, yeah?"
And so they do. She's so small, Eames can hold her in one hand when they bring her home. Arthur doesn't wear any of his suits for two months after she spits up on one. Arthur's mother comes over on Saturday afternoons to take the baby out in the stroller, and Arthur collapses against Eames on the couch, shoves a receiving blanket onto the floor and this. This is his family.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-17 10:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-17 10:56 pm (UTC)Omigod.
I want to bundle myself around this ficlet and fall asleep with it ;_;
no subject
Date: 2011-03-17 11:59 pm (UTC)What is his life, Arthur wonders, that this little girl - this beautiful little girl - could have him so wrapped around her finger? What is his life that he has a fridge full of baby formula and a house full of toys? Or that he spends most of his waking hours trying to figure out what his daughter - his daughter - is trying to tell him with her wailing?
He told his mother, "I have no idea what I'm doing." And "I am doing everything wrong." He said, "What did I get myself into?" and "I just want to do right by her." She had listened to him, quietly for once, and put a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes, when he met her gaze, were misty with tears and there was a proud smile curving her lips.
"That's how you know you're doing it right," she'd said, putting a hand on his cheek. "You'll learn. It'll get easier."
Maybe it has and maybe it hasn't, he thinks, half-exasperated and all-affectionate, as he places the sleeping baby into the crib. She looks so peaceful, wrapped in her blanket with her fists curled by her face, that he almost finds it hard to believe that she has a voice that could rival his mother's. She sighs, then, settling deeper into her blankets, and he traces the swell of her smooth, beautiful little cheek with a finger.
"Hey," Eames says, walking into the dimly-lit room. "You finally got her to sleep."
"Shh," Arthur replies absently. "Took me forever to get her down. If you wake her up, I swear to god, I will end you."
Eames chuckles. He wraps an arm around Arthur's waist, places his chin on Arthur's shoulder.
"She has your temper, that's for sure," he tells Arthur.
"And your never-ending ability to make trouble."
The baby smiles in her sleep and both of them smile with her.
And Arthur wonders what is his life that he spends it in a house that he calls home with a man he will love until he dies and a baby who fills him with such joy.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-18 01:00 am (UTC)You have no idea how happy this makes me.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-22 12:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-18 12:14 am (UTC)