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: ( Cut for ridiculous nonsense about my family take 37438942 )

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

Right, so, in order for me to tell you this story, there are three things you need to know about me.

1) I wear sunglasses constantly, large ones that cover the top of my face. Jackie-O sunglasses, if you will. The size of them is half a fashion choice and half because I'm prone to migraines that are triggered by side-light exposure; the fact that I wear them constantly is a tic I inherited from my father. It does not have to be sunny for me to be wearing sunglasses. It doesn't even have to be threatening sunshine. Sun does not factor in the equation at all. As a general rule, I am in sunglasses if (a) I am outdoors and (b) it is day. I CAN'T HELP IT, GUYS. I NEED THEM TO LIVE.

2) The house that I live in at the moment has a number of fabulous amenities, but the driveway is not one of them. It is long. It is thin. It is raised about an inch off the beds of soft grass that surround it. This would be entirely acceptable if I lived somewhere like Arizona, or Florida, or even Kentucky--warm or warmish places, places where the sky does not open up and spit down ridiculous amounts of snow every two days or so. In Cleveland, where the average yearly snowfall is FIFTY SIX INCHES, this driveway is not acceptable. It is, in fact, unacceptable. Whoever made the executive decision to build it in this way should, in my humble and admittedly biased opinion, be taken out back and shot.

3) I am sure, somewhere out there in the wide wide world, there are women who weep daintily into their handkerchiefs at entirely appropriate moments, retaining both their dignity and class while doing so. I am equally sure that there are women who, while they might not be dainty about it, cry only when acceptable circumstance demands it--when they are sad, for example, or perhaps deeply and unutterably horrified. I, because I've never found a convention I couldn't merrily if accidentally flout, cry only in one circumstance: when I am hideously, furiously, stab-someone-in-the-face pissed off.

SO, NOW THAT YOU KNOW THESE THINGS ABOUT ME, ALLOW ME TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY AFTERNOON.

I made the cardinal error of deciding to leave my home--I know, I know, what was I thinking, how dare I tempt the universe in such a way, I'M SO TERRIBLE--to run a quick errand. I pulled on my boots and my jacket and my little scarf, I slid my trusty sunglasses onto my face (state of sunshine: non-existent), and I went out to my car.

Me: Okay, car, hello, lovely to see you, let's just back down the driveway nice and easy to get to the road, yes?
Car: WHERE WE'RE GOING, WE DON'T NEED ROADS.
Me: But we're going to...the gas station...
Car: NO, WE'RE GOING TO THE EDGE OF THE DRIVEWAY AND SLIDING INTO THE SNOW.
Me: I'm sorry, car, but *I* am in control of the vehicle, so I think that in fact we are going to just back down nice and easy and...slip on the ice and...GODDAMN IT CAR I HATE WHEN YOU ARE RIGHT.
Car: Well, maybe next time you should appreciate my Back to the Future references, I am just saying.

At this point I decided that my car was not worth listening to, and began the process of trying to rock it back and forth out of the snowbank. Which, generally, works. THIS IS NOT THE FIRST TIME I HAVE BEEN STUCK IN THE SNOW, because I've been driving for five years and living in Cleveland for most of that. I am, by and large, pretty skilled as a snow driver.

However, some days are just motherfuckers.

Me: C'mon, baby, please, please, please, please--
Car: What is this, one of your ridiculous fanfictions? TALKING DIRTY TO ME WILL GET YOU NOWHERE.
Me: It's been half a fucking hour, there's only so long I can fucking do this--
Car: That's what your mother said last night!
Me: FUCK YOU YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF FILTHY FUCKING SHIT FUCK YOU AND FUCK THE FACTORY YOU WERE BUILT IN AND FUCK EVERY ROAD YOU'VE EVER DRIVEN ON AND EVERY TIRE YOU'VE EVER TOUCHED YOU EVIL GUS-GUZZLING MOTHERFUCKING WHORE.

Please note, while most of this dialogue between me and my car has been fabricated for obvious reasons (this just in: cars don't talk), that last thing actually came out of my mouth. At a volume decidedly higher than was acceptable. Additionally, by this point I was so angry that I had, in fact, started crying, which only exacerbated my rage, and as such only increased my volume, and as I was screaming and revving the engine uselessly and pounding on the steering wheel like a crazy person...

...a kind stranger willing to help me out knocked on my window.

NOW, LIVEJOURNAL, UPSETTINGLY ENOUGH, THIS IS NOT THE MOST EMBARRASSING THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME IN MY DRIVEWAY. That award still goes to the time my neighbor caught me outside at 3 in the afternoon on a Sunday, wearing a robe and tie-dye pants tucked into white Ugg boots, smoking a cigarette and drinking cranberry juice out of a wine glass because the dishwasher contained all my other drinkware. In an attempt to assure her that I was not so much of a lush as I seemed, I hastily said "Oh, no, it's totally okay, this was just the biggest cup I could find!" This...did not endear her to my cause.

However, despite it being only the second-most embarrassing thing to ever have occurred in my driveway, it was still HIDEOUSLY OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK MORTIFYING. By all right this guy should have taken one look at me, said "EGADS, WHAT ON EARTH IS THAT, WITH HER PUFFY FACE AND HER INAPPROPRIATE-FOR-THE-WEATHER GIANT SUNGLASSES AND HER FOULLY SHRIEKING MOUTH," and headed directly for the hills. But this stranger--who didn't give me his name, just flitted in and out of my day to assist me and was gone before I could thank him--this stranger did not do that. Instead he spent fifteen minutes of his time pushing my car out of the rut and setting me free.

SO, today's tales of my tragically ridiculous life are brought to you by the letter A, the number 2, and the concept of paying it forward. BE KIND UNTO STRANGERS, GUYS, EVEN CRAZY ONES. Because sometimes, sometimes, crazy people are just girls like me, who can't help that their car is a gas-guzzling whore.

Or, if you're not willing to do that, then at very least consider looking into upgrading your plow service.

♥