my father calls my mother marilyn munster because she lives amongst the madness

[gyzym]

No, 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

Comments

what is this I dont even know make me stop i've never written wings before sorry but not really

[samsamtastic.livejournal.com]

I'M SUPPOSED TO BE WRITING A PHILOSOPHY PAPER. THIS IS MUCH BETTER.

At first Eames doesn't share his plan with Arthur. It's just after Leora's third birthday when Yusuf calls with the news that Formula Junior is safe and tested on a few neighborhood kids back in Mombasa. He knows Arthur will tell him it's too early, that they need to wait until she's got a solid sense of ethics.

Eames knows with fathers like them, it'll be impossible, but he'll let Arthur keep his delusions.

He decides to do it the next time Arthur and Leora fall asleep watching a movie, curled up together as they usually do on their lazy sunday mornings. Eames rubs in the numbing lotion Yusuf promised would completely avoid the sting of the needle, pressing a kiss to each of their wrists before pressing in the metal tip and taping it down. He plugs himself in and hesitates a moment, wondering how upset Arthur is going to be, before pressing the plunger and sending somacin racing through their veins.

"I can't believe you did this," Arthur sighs, like he really can believe it. Knowing Arthur, he was probably expecting it. Eames locks their fingers together as they walk across the field, trailing after Leora as she chases butterflies the size of dinner plates. The sky is the piercing blue that Arthur created for her the night Eames first got the idea, the clouds like massive cotton balls drifting around up there.

"Think you can get her to forge the wings?" Eames asks. He knows Arthur remembers, that he has already put together this with the stories he tells their little girl every night before bed. Arthur drops his hand and crouches down, calling to Leora. She abandons her butterflies and runs to him, laughing bright pink bubbles of joy. Eames has only ever seen a child's dream once before, and he knows now he will never see anything more completely crafted of imagination.

Arthur is whispering to her, cradling her in his arms the best he can, now that she's hit another growth spurt. Her little face, so delicate without it's padding of baby fat, is wide open with wonder as he talks, running soothing fingers down her spine. Leora laughs so suddenly that Eames jumps. He hadn't realized that his attention had strayed until he turns back to see his daughter has grown a set of wings - white and shimmering, like they've been coated in the pixie dust Aunt Linda had sent her a crate-full of.

The feathers flutter in the wind before the wings twitch and stretch, like a yawn just after waking up. Arthur's still talking but Eames can't focus on the words. Leora lifts gently off the ground with the first gentle flap. His first instinct is to hold her to the ground, tight in his arms where she can't get away. He can't see her hurt even if it is just a dream. But he clenches his fist tight into the fabric of Arthur's shirt and lets the feeling pass. She's safe here, it's why he wanted to do this. To let his daughter explore the depths of her mind without real consequence. To let Arthur share with her his knowledge. As much as Eames is the best forger money can buy, Arthur helped create this world. He knows the true limits of creation.

She flys like Eames knew she would; the precise movements of Arthur but with his own on the spot decisions to change direction. The combination brings a new, wonderful ache to Eames's heart. He may not have created her being with Arthur, but they've created her life, made her a combination of the best and worst of the both of them. And there isn't enough of anything in the world, except possibly an infinity of this creation with his Arthur and his Leora, that would convince him to change it.

so i haven't written anything in like a month i'm sorry eames is so weird. but the idea of their little girl flying wouldn't get out of my head.

Re: what is this I dont even know make me stop i've never written wings before sorry but not really

[mad-musing.livejournal.com]

NOOO, DON'T STOP, DON'T BE SORRY! OH MY GOD. This is so beautiful, bb, I am in RAPTURES. My dog is looking at me like I'm touched in the head because I'm grinning and making these strangled little squee-ing noises. haha
Also, good luck with your paper!


Eames and Arthur wake at the same time. Arthur sits up, slides their IVs out, dabs at Leora's wrist with a disinfectant wipe as she blinks awake.

"Daddy," Leora whispers, "Papa. I - I flew." Her voice is alight with wonder, her expression one of fierce joy. Arthur knows that feeling, sees his past reflected in her eyes, the marvel of discovery, of pure creation.

"Did you like it, sweetheart?" Eames asks. She nods fervently and crawls into Arthur's lap, curls into him but faces Eames. "Did you like it?" He brushes a stray lock of hair out of her face, traces the side of her face with his hand. She sighs, closes her eyes and he can almost see the city of light as she thinks of it.

"Can we do it again?" she asks in lieu of a reply. Arthur throws Eames a glance that clearly says 'She picked that up from you' as he smooths her hair.

"Why don't you learn to dream on your own first," he says, smiling gently. She starts to protest, her face scrunching in consternation, but he taps her on the face, his eyebrows raised.

"Why not?" she asks, the barest hint of a whine in her question. She's trying hard to control herself and, really, Arthur is the luckiest man in the world because his three year old resists whining.

"Trust me," he replies. "You'll see why when you're older."

She looks confused but shrugs, accepts it, lets it go. And he can't help but pull her into a hug, kiss the top of her head because he just loves her so much.

For the rest of the day, Leora draws. With her small hands wrapped around the large crayons that she loves so much, she draws sweeping landscapes and cities brighter than the sun. Arthur reads a book and Eames works on a forgery, and it's a quiet and perfect afternoon.

Later that night, after Eames has tucked her into bed with her favorite teddy bear, as she hovers on the edge of sleep, Arthur tells her another story. She'll dream of her adventures in the City of Light, she'll dream of wings and wind, of cotton-candy clouds and laughter that rises like bubbles before her. She'll dream of mermaids with jeweled tails and bats with butterfly wings, of marvelous things.

"Can I fly again?" she asks, more asleep than awake.

"You can do anything you want," he tells her. "In your dreams, you can do whatever you want."

"That's good," she sighs. "I'm going to..."

Oh god, stop me. Stop me now. I'm going to get cavities. Also, not happy with how I ended that. Sigh.

We're going backwards

[samsamtastic.livejournal.com]

as requested by my mighty overlord tourdefierce, how Eames accidentally adopted a little girl from China

Eames honestly doesn’t mean to do it. He’s working for fucks sake, deep into a top side con, posing as some important Chinese businessman’s translator to steal back a painting for his ex-wife. They’re out doing some PR work, buffing the company’s public image after a deal fell through in a nasty sort of death threats type way. Eames doesn’t even know how he got roped into going along, considering that all the people who work at the orphanage are Chinese and he’s only around to help the guy understand French. But there he is anyway, walking sedately behind his mark as they enter the nursery. Eames knows a bit to do with the ridiculous one child policy in China. He’s worked in the country often enough to hear what it’s like. But he’s never been faced with the reality of it before. Dozens of little ones look up at him with their wide brown eyes as they shuffle past.

He stops cold as he looks down into one of the cribs. There are three little girls laying together, but one of them looks so tiny Eames knows he could hold her in one hand. No matter how many cribs the businessman donats, no matter how many new rooms he funds, there will never be enough to be done to rebuild the life of the little thing he is looking at. Eames impulsively reaches down and picks her up, cradling her head like that documentary he watched at 3 AM taught him. She’s so fucking small and it makes Eames wants to bundle her up in one of those little pouches right up against his chest so that she never has to feel alone again. He remembers what it’s like to feel so fucking alone that you want to evaporate. Because if you don’t exist, you can’t hurt anymore.

“Sir, you really can‘t be doing that,” one woman says. Eames turns to look at her, appalled that she would suggest such a thing.

“I’m adopting her, immediately,” he says, already listing out all the things he need to buy. The little girl yawns so wide that he is afraid her jaw will break. Exactly like Arthur does.

“There are procedures-”

“I don‘t care what it costs for you to overlook the process, I‘m taking her home with me,” and it really doesn’t matter in the slightest. He’ll forge a birth certificate, knows a doctor who will sign off on faked charts and file them away in a small town hospital in the middle of Arkansas. The woman nods and disappears into a back room. Eames signs a few papers with his most upstanding alias and rips open the lining of his briefcase to hand over something like a fifty thousand dollars.

And so Eames accidentally gets a daughter.

We're going backwards part 2/3

[samsamtastic.livejournal.com]

Arthur is staring at Eames like he has walked into the house with a bomb strapped to his chest, not a sleeping child. Eames tries not to breathe, afraid it will set Arthur off and she only just fell asleep even though it’s four in the morning. The plane they took from Beijing was noisy and she whimpered the whole way. Eames sets down the duffle bag he’s stuffed with all the baby supplies he could find at the 24 hour supermarket. The thunk seems to jar Arthur out of his stupor.

“Why didn‘t you tell me you were part of a kidnapping?” Arthur asks, getting out of the bed and circling the room towards Eames.

“She hasn‘t been kidnapped,” Eames replies, slipping her out of the carrier and entrapping it from around his shoulder. She fits perfectly into the crook of his arm.

“Then why is she here?”

“I couldn‘t just leave her there,” Eames explains, tracing his finger over tiny, tiny cheeks. “She‘s just so small, Arthur. The place was terrible, even with all the money he was going to throw at it. She would have been so alone, so tiny and alone and wishing she weren‘t there.” Eames knows he isn’t talking just about his daughter now, but he ignores it.

“Eames, why did you - how the fuck are we supposed to work with her here?,” Arthur snaps, looking positively furious.

“I‘m not sure you should say fuck in front of my accidental daughter,” is all Eames says, taking a half step back to protect her from Arthur being a loud twit.

“You just said it,” Arthur replies petulantly. “And what does that even mean, she‘s obviously not an accident.”

“I didn‘t even mean to look at the babies. We were just passing through the room and there she was, needing me without even being awake. I had to, Arthur, I had to,” Eames whispers.

“Did you buy things for her besides that ridiculous harness thing?” Arthur asks. Eames makes a noise of assent and gestures with his foot to the bag. Arthur unzips it and immediately scoffs.

“You can‘t feed her this shit, Eames. It‘ll give her digestive problems. And these diapers leak. Are there any clothes in here? The pacifiers are too thin, she‘ll gum them to death in a week,” Arthur continues his tirade about every single thing that Eames bought while Eames just stares at him in wonder.

“Why do you know all of this?” He asks.

“I um,” Arthur straightens up and scowls at him. “I read things Eames, try it once in a while. We‘ll have to go as soon as the stores open. I can‘t believe you didn’t buy her any clothes, you idiot.”

“Well they didn‘t have any at the grocer-” Eames stops talking because Arthur is gently taking her from Eames’s arms and cradling her against his own body. And isn’t that the most perfect sight ever?

“Eames you are an idiot!”

“I am not! I‘ll have you know I‘ve already called John and he‘s going to create a whole line for children inspired by her!” So maybe bringing up Galliano while Arthur was already obviously pissed off about Eames bringing home a baby wasn’t the best idea, considering the fiasco that had occured last time Arthur and John had been in the same room, but Eames didn’t expect Arthur to get that upset, constipated look on his face that he sometimes got back when Cobb was still running and Arthur wanted to shoot his friend in the head rather than keep helping him.

We're going backwards part 3/3

[samsamtastic.livejournal.com]

“ABSOLUTELY NOT, EAMES, I WILL NOT HAVE MY DAUGHTER LOOKING LIKE SHE STEPPED OUT OF A TRAVELING CIRCUS!” Arthur thundered. Okay, Eames hadn’t been expecting that, either. He stared at Arthur, slack jawed and possibly drooling a little bit. He had called her his daughter. Eames wasn’t sure his heart was made for so many good things falling into place so close together. It skipped several beats and clenched painfully in his chest like it might give out as he watched Arthur efficiently calm her sudden screams from being woken up. Oh god, Arthur actually wanted to be a part of whatever Eames had decided to do when he saw her in that crib. Arthur wanted them to be a family.

“You- she, I mean, what?”

“You don‘t expect me to let you raise her on your own, do you? Jesus Eames I thought you knew I was in in this for the long haul. You do some incredibly crazy shit sometimes, yeah, but I‘m not going to leave,” Arthur gently rocked her back and forth, fixing Eames with a glare.

“By this you mean what exactly?”

“This relationship, you ass. I told my grandmother about you and I‘d sooner kill myself than disappoint her by not letting you make an honest man out of me.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so there‘s that.”

“Arthur,” Eames began, but Arthur just held up his free hand to push against Eames’s chest as he moved closer.

“Don‘t use that tone while I‘ve got a baby in my arms. You‘ve brought her home, now you have to deal with the weeks sexless and sleepless nights until she can sleep through the night by herself.”

And okay, Eames hadn’t thought about that aspect of things. He’d just needed to get her out of there so badly. He and Arthur have never gone more than fourty-eight hours without sex, much less entire weeks, but if he gets to see Arthur holding his - their - precious daughter in his arms, dressed in his flannel sleep pants and one of Eames’s old tee-shirts every night while they get her back to sleep, maybe maybe he can deal with it.

“Doe she have a name?” Arthur asks softly. Eames shakes his head.

“I guess I wanted to wait, hoped you‘d, well hoped you‘d do this mostly,” he says, reaching up to brush at a pillow crease still lingering in Arthur’s cheek.

“I‘ve always liked the name Leora,” Arthur murmurs, pressing into Eames’s hand.

“But that‘s so stupidly American,” Eames frowns. He’d wanted to give her a name to fit with her history. Well her country’s history, considering she was only a few months old. “I wanted something more exotic.”

“No, it‘s not. It‘s a traditional Jewish name.”

“You‘re Jewish?”

“Incredibly so,” it’s Arthur’s turn to frown, but the expressions usual severity is mitigated by the fact that he’s sending it over the head of a sleeping child. Their child. “I‘ve told you this before, when I had to go home for Rosh Hashana two years ago to meet my second cousin‘s new baby in the middle of that job.”

“I thought you were joking. You don‘t wear one of those hats things, and I‘m pretty sure you‘ve never gone to service.”

“It‘s a good thing you‘ve yet to meet my family,” Arthur sighs. “They‘d be so insulted.” Eames looks down at their little girl between them, in Arthur’s arms. The ‘yet’ held a promise that Eames was almost scared to admit to. Even Cobb has yet to meet Arthur’s family and they’ve known each other for nearly a decade. They’re official, or whatever, now. He’ll need to take Arthur to see his parents at the graveyard. His great aunt, the one that saved him from that home when he was four, will demand a visit. But first, Eames is going to meet Arthur’s massive, overbearing family.

“Leora is perfect. It means light, hmm?” Eames feels his heart swell again at the smile that spreads across Arthur’s face. He presses a kiss to it, leaning in carefully because their daughter is caught up between them. And maybe he can convince Arthur to give her an interesting middle name, but right now, the lights of his life, his only reasons for getting up and doing anything, are right in front of him and nothing else could really matter.

Re: We're going backwards part 3/3

[tourdefierce.livejournal.com]

SAM. SAMSAMSAM. I just got this comment notification, proving that LJ is totally and completely against me and wants me to SUFFER because my life is not complete without this lovely nonsensical fabulousness.

♥ She’s so fucking small and it makes Eames wants to bundle her up in one of those little pouches right up against his chest so that she never has to feel alone again.: OH MY LITTLE HEART.

♥ Because if you don’t exist, you can’t hurt anymore.: Oh his inner lesbian rage is so fucking adorable I just want to put his face in my breasts. MY BREASTS.

♥ This makes me want kidnapping!fic. Where Arthur is all like, DO I FUCKING HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF and is all waving a gun around and Eames is like, WAT. I'M FUCKING CARRYING THE BAG FOR HIS HEAD, BABY. DON'T BE MAD. And the person being kidnapped is like, whoa. you guys have so many issues, please don't accidentally shoot me.

♥ "I read things Eames, try it once in a while.": THIS TURNS ME ON.

♥ "Don‘t use that tone while I‘ve got a baby in my arms.": DUH. OF COURSE ARTHUR HAS RULES ABOUT SEXY-TIMES AND BABIES. DUH. HE DOES THIS SHIT ALL THE TIME. HE'S JUST THE JEWISH JENNY FROM THE BLOCK, YO. DON'T KNOCK THE ROCKS THAT HE'S GOT. HE USED TO HAVE A LITTLE... BUT NOW HE'S GOT A LOT.

♥ “Yeah, so there‘s that.”: OMG THEY'RE SO STUPID IN LOVE.

You're perfect. Never stop.

Re: We're going backwards part 3/3

[samsamtastic.livejournal.com]

I'M SORRY BB I COULD HAVE SWORN I COMMENTED ON ONE OF YOUR ENTRIES WITH THE LINK. THE ONE WITH THE SCREAMING MAN? LJ Y U SO FUCKING STUPID? Next time I'll make sure to stalk you on gmailchat next time and ambush you with the cuteness.

+ I didn't expect Eames to have so many feelings and then all of a sudden I was pouring everything onto the screen. MY EAMES AND YOUR ARTHUR ARE JUST MADE FOR EACH OTHER WITH THEIR INNER LESBIAN RAGE FEELINGS OF SUCH ENORMOUS MAGNITUDES.

+ Ohmygod kidnapping!fic in which their fighting about getting the job done devolves into them arguing over domestic problems like who didn't take out the trash and Eames leaving his socks everywhere.

+ I need Arthur/Eames/Bookshop porn. Now. They're shopping and there is a rare first edition in a case or something and Arthur inappropriately turned on, much to Eames' delight.

+ ARTHUR IS SO JEWISH. SO INCREDIBLY JEWISH. I'M CONSULTING MY FRIEND WHO IS A JEW ABOUT THINGS FOR THIS.

+ There is no stopping. There is a shared googledoc that we are writing more in.

+ ALL OF THIS MAKES ME SO HAPPY. I HAVE INFINITE AMOUNTS OF HAPPINESS IN MY HEART BECAUSE OF YOU RIGHT NOW.

Re: We're going backwards part 2/3

[mad-musing.livejournal.com]

And what does that even mean, she's obviously not an accident.

YES. Just. Yes. That is a beautiful, beautiful line.

Re: We're going backwards part 2/3

[samsamtastic.livejournal.com]

=D Glad you like it!

I'm rather a fan of:

“You‘re Jewish?”

“Incredibly so,”