gyzym: (Sky glasses)
Okay, know it's been awhile since I did a post about the lunatics to whom I am related, but this could not be held back. So! This weekend Burro was in town, and at one point we were hanging out and he noticed that I was knitting something.

Burro: Hey, whatcha making?
Me: A laptop case.
Burro: Why do you need a laptop case?
Me: Because mine's been missing for like six months and I figured it was time to bite the bullet, but I didn't want to buy another one, because they're expensive.
Burro: Huh. I can't imagine needing another laptop case; I have two.
Me: You...have two.
Burro: Yeah, the second one just sort of showed up one...oh.
Me: YOU ASSHOLE, YOU STOLE MY LAPTOP CASE.

He admitted that that is probably what happened, and agreed to bring it when he comes back into town THIS weekend for Mother's Day. Today, he sends me a photo of both laptop cases sitting on his coffee table, and we have the following conversation via text:

Burro: Haha I have 2 computer cases! I'm holding the one for ransom so if you're gonna want it back I expect something for it
Me: BITE ME
Burro: Guess someone's not gonna get a computer case back with that snarky of language
Me: You a thief, yo, I don't have to listen to you
Burro: I prefer the term expert borrower yo
Me: Well, I don't negotiate with expert borrowers, I'm just saying
Burro: Well then...NO COMPUTER CASE FOR YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: I am laughing so hard I am choking rn, just fyi
Burro: That's unfortunate for you but if you think that's gonna elict me to give you back the computer case because I feel sorry for ya then you're sadly mistaken...don't hate me cuz you ain't me

ON THE ONE HAND, BEST EVER. ON THE OTHER HAND I WANT MY LAPTOP CASE BACK D:
gyzym: (Doggy headphones)
DUDES. FELLOW DEADHEADS ON MY FLIST. MY FATHER SHOWED UP JUST NOW, FRESH FROM GOING TO FLORIDA TO SEE THE LAST TWO SHOWS IN FURTHUR'S SPRING TOUR (I know I know I'm bitterly jealous too, I can't even talk about it), UNABLE TO WAIT FOR BREAKFAST TOMORROW BECAUSE HE WAS SO EXCITED ABOUT THIS THING HE GOT ME, AND HE GAVE ME THE COOLEST SWEATSHIRT IN THE HISTORY OF EVER.

Cut because those of you who don't know the Grateful Dead will not understand the SHEER UNENDING AWESOME OF THIS PRESENT. )

For those of you who are don't care about the Grateful Dead (and THAT IS SAD FOR YOU, BY THE WAY, I SHED A TEAR FOR THE LOSS OF AWESOME IN YOUR LIFE, THEY ARE AMAZING), here is a picture of my dog...whose name is Jerry Garcia...so we're still totally on topic, really.



He says, I WAS SLEEPING, WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT PHONE, I AM NOT IMPRESSED WITH YOU OR YOUR BEHAVIOR AT ALL. To be fair, though, he learned that expression from me last night when he tried (again) to catch a skunk, and disaster was only narrowly averted.

I'M JUST GONNA GO BE THE HAPPIEST DEADHEAD EVER NOW, KTHNXBYE
gyzym: (JUST THIS ONCE)
Saturday brunch did not happen this weekend due to [various and assorted nonsense], so we did pizza dinner tonight instead. Why I always let myself believe they'll be less ridiculous later in the day, I just don't know.

Me: Ugh, this tomato sauce is killing me, I bit the inside of my cheek this morning.
My Mother: DON'T LOOK AT IT.
Me: What?
My Mother: The place you bit, don't look at it, or if you do look at it, don't be surprised if--
Me: Why would I look at it?
My Father: Who looks at that kind of thing? Do you look at it when you bite the inside of your mouth?
My Mother: Well, yeah, I mean, I can feel it, I can't help myself.
My Father: Never look inside your mouth. What are you, crazy?
Me: Okay, well, sometimes I think there's probably a good reason to--
My Father: No, no there's not, there is never a good reason to look inside your own mouth. It's like sushi--just go with it, do not look at what's inside. Unless you're you, I guess, because you're a freak and you like octopus--
Me: Octopus is delicious!
My Father: There are suckers on it.
My Mother: She can eat octopus if she wants.
My Father: We can't go by you, you look inside your own mouth! Only dentists should go there.
Me: Your intensity about this is kind of freaking me out, just so you know.
My Father: You should listen to your father, I know what I'm talking about, and--
Burrito: *BURP*
My Father: Don't burp at the dinner table, you know better than that.
Burrito: Seriously? You guys are talking about the insides of your mouths.
My Father: ....
Me: ....
My Mother: He's kind of got us there, guys.


And then, of course, there was the continuation of the Angry Bird madness after Burrito left the table:

My Mother: So, should I download it?
Me, referring to the conversation she interrupted: ...what, turkey tacos? How would you--
My Father: No, she means the birds.
Me: Oh my god, are we still on Angry Birds?
My Mother: It's all he's been talking about all day.
My Father: I got to the second part! In only a couple of days, that's good, right?
Me: I don't know, I stopped play it when I realized how much of my time it was eating.
My Father: The yellow ones explode when you hit them!
Me: You recognize that you sound like a four year old right now.
My Father: Fuck you, it took me like an hour to figure that out.
My Mother: So, should I download it?
My Father: YES
Me: NO
My Father: DON'T LISTEN TO HER IT'S AWESOME
Me: IT'S TOO LATE FOR HIM, SAVE YOURSELF
Burrito, from the other room: YOU GUYS, STOP YELLING, I'M TRYING TO WATCH A SHOW.


In conclusion, the 11 year old is the only mature adult out of all of us, and it's not even much of a surprise. The end!
gyzym: (Facepalm (Steve))
A few days ago, my father got himself one of those iPads that aren't. Tablets, I think they're called? I could google it, but why. In any case, he made me come to his office and help him set it up, and we had the following conversation (obviously, I have subbed out Burro's real name for...er...Burro, as my father does not actually call us by the names I use in this journal):

My Father: Oh, and download that thing with the birds.
Me: What, Angry Birds?
My Father: Yeah, Burro's obsessed with it.
Me: You don't want me to download Angry Birds. It will eat your soul.
My Father: What is it? Isn't it like, a stupid game with birds?
Me: That's exactly what it is.
My Father: I'm not going to be sucked in by a bird game. I am a grown man.
Me: You don't understand what you're dealing with here. Also, I don't think people that fight with their eleven year old children about Oreo cookies get to call themselves grown--
My Father: DOWNLOAD THE BIRDS.
Me: Fine, but it's your funeral.


That was days ago. I mostly forgot about it. TONIGHT, AT 11 PM, WHILE I AM DRIVING HOME, HE CALLS ME.

Me: Hello?
My Father: THESE FUCKING BIRDS.
Me: Wha--oh my god, are you playing Angry Birds?
My Father: I don't want to talk about it.
Me: You called me.
My Father: Well, yeah, I need you to tell me how to beat 1-15.
Me: I...you...what? I'm driving, I don't remember which level that is off the top of my head--
My Father: It's the one with the birds and the wood and the glass!
Me: THEY ALL HAVE BIRDS AND WOOD AND GLASS, THAT IS THE WHOLE GAME.
My Father: I can't sleep until I win!!!
Me: I told you this would happen.
My Father: Fuck you!
Me: Fuck you!
My Father: OH, YES, YES, I GOT IT, NEVERMIND, GOODBYE.
Phone: *Disconnects*


gyzym: (Sunset girl)
Life lessons for Burrito at weekly family brunch this morning (Burro is leaving town again tomorrow, we are having a lot of Together Time to prepare, god help me):

1.
Burrito: Any friend of mine is my best friend.
Burro: That's not really how it works, little dude.
My Father: That's like saying "Any dog I see is my dog!"
Me: No, it's--okay, well, it's possible to have more than one best friend--
Burro: Or 'bro,' I call them my bros--
Me: But if all your friends were your best friends, the words wouldn't mean anything, you know?
My Father: All trees eat beans! See? Nonsense.
Me: ...Don't really think you're clearing it up for him there, Dad.

2.
My Father: *Asshole comment I've forgotten*
My Mother: Wow, persnippity much?
Burrito: Don't call Dad snippity!
Burro: Ahahaha, no, man, persnippity.
My Father: Which I absolutely am.
Me: There's no denying it.
Burrito: Hmm, okay. What does persnippity mean?
My Mother: Well--
Burro: How do you--
Me: It's sort of like--
My Father: Dickish.
Everyone: !!!!!
My Father: What? He asked!

THESE PEOPLE, WHAT EVEN.

In other news, I am off to a movie this afternoon, but round two of the Inspiration Meme has ALREADY EXCEEDED MY WILDEST EXPECTATIONS, OH MY GOD. You guys gotta go check it out, and post post post those things you want to add. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS TOO MUCH AWESOME ♥ ♥ ♥!!!
gyzym: (John Stewart facepalm)
Waiter: And our special tonight is a cut of wild boar, served with--
My Father: Wait, boar, like--what's his name, hangs out with the meerkat, tusks, with the song--
Me: You're thinking of Pumba.
Burro: What?
Burrito: Pumba, from the Lion King!
Burro: I thought he was an elephant.
My Mother: No, he was--an elephant? He was a boar, he was definitely a boar.
My Father: Right, so, are you serving Pumba? Is that what you're telling me?
Waiter: Uh, I don't think...it's specifically...Pumba...
My Father: Well, obviously, he is a cartoon character, don't be ridiculous.
Waiter ...
My Mother: I'm sorry about him.
Me: I think we're all sorry about him, really.
My Father: No, wait, you didn't answer my question, it's boar like Pumba, right?
Waiter: Uh. Yes?
My Father: Well, I can't eat that now that you've humanized it for me. I'd feel guilty. Do you have anything on the menu more Hakuna Matata friendly?
Waiter: I...recommend the trout?
Me: Seriously, we're really sorry, he's just like this.
My Father: Hey, but I bet I'm the first person to ask that question tonight, right?
Waiter: The first ever, sir. Rest assured.

ETA, via phonecall after [livejournal.com profile] false_alexis's comment:

Me: Dude, Pumba's a warthog.
My Father: SHIT, I WOULD HAVE ORDERED THE BOAR
gyzym: (Default)
This is a drive-by post; I will be back later to answer comments (oh my god I love you guys have I mentioned that recently) and probably to make a fjdsfjdshf post about last night's ep.

BUT IN THE MEANTIME:

Me: Do you remember the Gator Golf commercial from when we were kids?
Burro: What the fuck is Gator Golf?
Me: *Sings the Gator Golf jingle*
Waiters in the Restaurant: *Side-eye me so hard I'm surprised nobody hurt themselves*
Burro: Nope, not ringing a bell.
Me: Seriously? This song's been stuck in my head for 17 years and you've got nothing?
Burro: Hahahahaha 17 years, your life blows.
Me: You're not helping.
Burro: You're beyond help.

THE GATOR GOLF COMMERCIAL, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:



Guys. I ask you. I plead with you. Leave the scraps of terrible 90s commercials you remember in the comments. Link me to YouTube vids, embed shit, tell me how to access the mp3 files. THIS IS A CALL TO ARMS: I CANNOT TORTURE BURRO BY MYSELF, AND HE NEEDS TO BE TORTURED. For the sake of nostalgia. For the sake of my pride. For the sake of long-suffering older sisters everywhere.

ETA from the car on our way to spring Burrito from school:

Burro: Dude, I'm such a fucking bum right now, this hoodie isn't even clean.
Me: Yeah, man. My sweatshirt's clean, but my shoes totally don't match right now.
Burro: YOUR SHOES DON'T MATCH?!
Me: Yeah, what's the--oh my god, you asshole, I meant they don't match my outfit, they match EACH OTHER, what is wrong with you?
Burro: Don't look at me like that. You think I forgot how you used to dress in high school?

IF I DIDN'T LOVE HIM SO MUCH I'D HATE HIM, YOU GUYS. He must paaaaaaay.
gyzym: (John Stewart facepalm)
Burro and my father on the topic of going down to the Q and watching March Madness basketball live and in person for twelve solid hours:

My Father: Too much basketball. Tooooo muchhhhh basketballllll.
Burro: All of my senses are tingling with basketball.
My Father: Touch, sight, taste--
Burro: Smell. I can smell the basketball.
My Father: All the other senses.
Me: You named them all except for hearing, guys.
Burro: Look, I have sixth and seventh senses I don't even know about, okay, and all of them are overwhelmed by basketball. My basketball sense had too much basketball.
My Father: I feel like I'm never going to say anything but basketball ever again.
Me: You seriously felt it necessary to spend your drive home telling me this? Right now? We're having breakfast together in like eight hours.
Burro: That is less time than we spent with the basketball. That's four hours less. Than basketball time.
Me: I told you guys it was crazy to spend the whole day down there.
My Father: Nobody knows the trouble we've seen.
Burro: Nobody knows the chicken wings we've eaten.
My Father: He meant our sorrow. Our chicken wing sorrow. Even the chicken wings tasted like basketball, oh god.
Burro: Hey, turn the radio up, I want to check the score on the Georgetown game.

ldfhsdjkfhsd;lflkfdfajslfjsdfj
gyzym: (Matches)
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
gyzym: (Default)
Pupdate: I have been chilling with the stray in my garage, staying low to the ground and chatting at her. She has gotten closer to me, but not all the way there yet. Baby steps, etc. She's adorable, you guys, thank you so much for your help, I'll keep you posted as things develop.

In other news: tomorrow I'm going to post a story that I'll have to come up with a better title for than "The one where it took me 7,000 motherfucking words to get to the scene I intended to write in the first place." It's done and everything! More or less, anyway. I just have to, you know, stuff and things at it. Polish, as it were. Make postability happen, what have you.

Until then, you get the story of that time my father thought the possum was a raccoon, and further scenes from Steve and Danny's house, this time with title! Because everything is words and nothing hurts, or something. I don't know, guys, it's two in the morning, thoughts are hard.

That Time My Father Thought The Possum Was A Raccoon:

My Father: There's a dead raccoon hanging by its tail in the garage!!!
Fourteen Year Old Me: Um. That seems unlikely.
My Father: Go see for yourself!
Fourteen Year Old Me: *sees for herself*
My Father: I told you.
Fourteen Year Old Me: Dad. What...do you think raccoons look like?
My Father: ...is it not a raccoon?
Fourteen Year Old Me: No, it's not a raccoon. It is an opossum. And it's not dead. It's playing possum.

He also labored for years under the belief that pigeons were, in fact, "grey city seagulls." I can't necessarily fault him for that, though, because they do kind of act alike.

Danny/Steve Nonsense:

dodging your fit fueled artillery )
gyzym: (Turtle puppy!)
I've switched my layout and my default icon again--even though the icon on this post isn't the default one, gdi--because ~I'm so changeable~ or whatever. But I'm pretty damn sure I'll be sticking with this layout for awhile; I've coveted it forever, but have been looking for the right background image to tweak it with. I've got some more tweaks to do (like figuring out how to make that bar at the bottom green instead of black, and actually how to get rid of a lot of the black because it's too harsh with the lighter background, ffffff), but, yes. New layout! Hooray.

You guys should really all just probably expect that my journal's going to look different every time you come back to the main page, but I swear to god I'm going to try to commit to this one, ugh.

The icon thing is because I discovered that [livejournal.com profile] tulabula exists, and actually bought myself an icon package in my sudden crazy need to have them all. And also because, as much as I loved those shoes, there's only so long you can look at the same pair of shoes before it starts to drive you mad, you know? Especially if they're a pair of shoes that you made into your icon because you DESPERATELY WANT THEM and then you looked everywhere and couldn't find a pair that was close enough and looking at the icon was just a bitter bitter reminder of the shoes you could not have...*cough* I mean, I'm not crazy. Um.

Moving on, I am actually here now to tell you the bijillipede story I mentioned the other day, which I don't think I've told y'all yet, because I'm taking a break from writing before my brain oozes out my ears it is amusing.

SO: my family makes up names for things that:

a) no one else on the planet need a name for
b) other people do need a name for, but somehow are without one anyway, or
c) already have names attached to them, but INFERIOR NAMES THAT DO NOT DO SAID THING JUSTICE.


The bijillipede thing falls into category C; a bijillipede is, in actual fact, a bug. And, to be honest with you, I don't know the real name of the bug--people around here call them silverfish, but the internet is showing me photos of an insect I don't mean when I google that, so I'm not sure. I tried to search for a picture to identify it, and then made terrible horrified faces at my computer at the results and had to stop, because "grey wall climbing bug legs" does not actually yield you very pretty results.

Suffice to say: a bijillipede is a long skinny silver-grey bug that scuttles along walls. It is so named because it has a bajillion legs.

I HATE THESE LITTLE FUCKERS, YOU GUYS. I HATE THEM MORE THAN BEES, I HATE THEM MORE THAN SPIDERS, I HATE THEM MORE THAN ANYTHING. Nothing should have that many legs, nothing, it is terrible, it is wrong, it fills me with a deep and arcane terror, and the way they move...their little bodies just...oh god, I can't even think about it, aughhhhh.

I hate them, and I also didn't know they weren't...actually called bijillipedes...until I was, I swear to god, sixteen years old and at a house party with my friends. Here's how that went (names of characters are in relation to what these folks were to me at the time, not what they are now):

Bijillipede: *Scuttles along wall*
Me: *Shrieks* (look, okay, I am normally tough, I am, I really am, BUT THESE LITTLE BASTARDS FREAK ME OUT)
Boyfriend: What? What is it? Are you okay?
Me: It's a BIJILLIPEDE!!
Entire Party: ...Sorry, what?
Me: That, right there! Don't you see it! The bijillipede.
Best Friend: Oh, we see it, alright.
Boyfriend: What did you call it?
Me: A bijillipede! That's what they're called!
Best Friend: Noooo, no it's not.
Me: Come on, yes it is. You know, because they've got...a bajillion...legs...oh god, bijillipede isn't a real word, is it.
Boyfriend: *Helpless laughter*
Best Friend: *Helpless laughter*
Entire Party: *Laughter that probably could have been helped*
Bijillipede: *Exits stage left*


My parents maintain that this incident is my fault; Burro and I (he went through the same experience shortly thereafter) maintain that it is theirs. "You knew bijillipede wasn't a real thing!" my father said, when I told him. "....didn't you?"

No, no, I didn't. So teach your children well, you guys, lest they embarrass themselves at parties.
gyzym: (Rainbow balloons!)
HERE IS A THING I HAVE NOT YET TOLD YOU GUYS: I have been to Hawaii before! And now I'm going to talk about it, kind of, ish. Sadly, this post is not about:

a) How beautiful it was
b) How wasted that trip was on my 15 year old self (I had a bit of a stick up my ass at fifteen, if by 'a bit of a stick up my ass' you mean 'an inability to take out my headphones and reign in my overwhelming teenaged bitchiness for five minutes')
c) SERIOUSLY SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL OH MY GOD
d) How ridiculously lucky I was to have the experience or
e) All of the totally amazing things I got to do there.

I could talk about all of those things--at length, oh man, fucking Maui, so incredible--but this is a post about chasing dragons.

Food dragons.

So, right, I'm pretty sure the term 'food dragons' is one of those that my family just made up (remind me to tell you guys the bijillipede story one of these days), so I will explain. There are certain things that you eat, okay, that are so good they stick with you, and you remember them fondly--everyone has these things. Normally, you just cook/order these dishes again, and have them another time. But sometimes, for whatever reason--location, restaurant goes out of business, ingredient stops being available, what have you--the item in question is no longer available.

Then it becomes a food dragon, and you are, officially, chasing it.

I have a couple of major food dragons. There was this place we went to for lunch sometimes when I was a little kid that sold the best French fries in the world, for example, and all other French fries still pale in comparison; there's a bar in my college town that sells this cucumber vodka that I long for on a regular basis.

But my greatest food dragon--the one I am forever chasing--is ahi poke.

So poke, right, is a traditional Hawaiian dish, that can be made with many different kinds of fish (everything from ahi to octopus, dfdsfhdskf SO MUCH FISH OH MY GOD *SALIVATES*). Ahi poke is the most common form of it nowadays, and it is...you guys, okay, it is the freshest most delicious raw yellowfin tuna in this world, chunked and covered in this like. This fucking sauce, oh, Christ, the sauce, that somehow manages to be salty and a little bit spicy and, look, AHI POKE IS THE FOOD OF THE GODS.

The first day we were in Hawaii, I ordered it, because the words "raw yellowfin tuna" have been my siren song since I was old enough to know what they meant. And then I literally ate nothing but ahi poke for, seriously, the rest of the trip. You can buy it in the grocery store, okay, I ordered it at every single meal, I ate so much of it that my father was like, "One of these days I am going to turn around and you are going to ACTUALLY BE A TUNA."

I rolled my eyes, because me being 15 wasn't pleasant for anyone, and ate another piece of fish.

But here's what happened, you guys: ahi poke ruined me for all other tuna. I can't eat seared ahi, because even when I order it rare (the words "No, seriously, as raw as you will give it to me, preferably still swimming" have been uttered by me at many a restaurant) it is not rare enough. I can't eat tuna sashimi, because it is never as fresh, and it is never coated in that sauce. I can't make it myself, because every time I have tried it is inferior. I can't eat ahi poke made here in Cleveland--I've found it on menus a couple of times--because it just does not taste right.

Ahi poke is a food dragon to such a degree that I have to actively avoid thinking about it, because it makes me want to do crazy things like spend all my money on a plane ticket to Maui and eat nothing but it for the rest of my days. And by and large, I have shaken my thoughts of it.

BUT HAWAII FIVE-0 IS MAKING IT DIFFICULT. And so mostly this post exists to say: I love this show, I do, I really do, but every time they mention food I think WAAAAAAH AHI POKE FDJHSFHDSKF, and it is making it hard to concentrate.

In conclusion: there will be a new H50 fic up later today, and probably more this week, but I'm weeping on the inside, you guys. Weeping for my lost food dragon, forever ahead of me in the mire of inferior foodstuffs I choke down on a regular basis.

I know. My life is deeply tragic. I'm sad for me too.
gyzym: (Flowery neck)
Ugh, you guys, my work schedule is SO WEIRD THIS WEEK. So weird.

But here is that bag meme everyone is doing, mostly because [livejournal.com profile] wheres_walnut has like, incepted me into doing it, I think. Possibly not even on purpose, it's hard to tell, she is a nefarious Nut.

I just spent like a minute trying to get the +/= button on my keyboard to produce a quotation mark for this cut. I THINK I WILL GO GET SOME COFFEE AFTER THIS. )
gyzym: (Journals)
Or, The Family von Jizz Sounds Off On:

Making Crab Cakes!

Me: It's kind of like making latkes.
My Mother: It's exactly like making latkes!
My Father: Except for how it's shellfish.
Me: ...
My Mother: ...
Me: We're the worst Jews ever, aren't we.
Burrito: *ignores us all as he eats pepperoni*


Fraternity Shenanigans/Culinary Experiments!

Burro: I ate cake with hot sauce on it last night.
Me: What? You did what? Oh my god, why?
Burro: Well, we were having chicken for dinner, and there was hot sauce on the table, and I said I'd eat hot sauce on pretty much anything--
Me: And then, what, you decided to prove your point?
Burro: Could you let me tell a story?
Me: You lead with "I ate hot sauce on cake last night," and you expect me to be calm about this?
Burro: You know, I'd kind of let myself forget how you are about food.
Me: You wound me, but fine, continue.
Burro: As I was saying, one of my bros was like, "Would you eat it on ice cream?" and I was like, "Prooobably not," and then someone else was like, "Would you eat it on cake?" and I was like, "Yeah, I'd eat it on cake," and then someone was like, "I have cake," so.
Me: So you ate it?
Burro: I said I would! So yeah, I totally did. I think they're gonna put it on Youtube. It wasn't actually that bad.
Me: Seriously.
Burro: Not that bad!
Me: There is something wrong with you.
Burro: Maybe, but no one can say I'm not a man of my word.


The Shitstorm of Anti-Semitism in the News This Week!

My Father: For fuck's sake, is Mel Gibson out recruiting these assholes now?


This has been today's episode of Fuck I Love These Crazy Assholes. Tune in next week for further nonsense!
gyzym: (Danny (the face that goes with the tone))
Those of you who've been around for awhile may remember the last time I made a post about a lucid dream; for those of you who are just joining us (and hello, by the way, lovely to meet you all :D), I...er. Well, sometimes I have dreams and realize that I'm dreaming while I'm dreaming, which is great, it's awesome, except for how I can't seem to put together any more than that. After last night's, I actually think my problem is an inability to recognize that I'm in control of my environment as well as myself, but that's not the point here.

The point is, I had a lucid dream last night, but in order to tell you that story, I have to tell you this story, which starts the same way most of my stories do: with the sentiment that my family is not particularly sane. You guys all know this already, but it bears repeating--constant repeating--because it is so deeply true. And sometimes, we get together and play a game we affectionately call Penalty Jeopardy.

Here's how Penalty Jeopardy works: you watch Jeopardy. When you get a question right, you get a high five. When you get a question wrong, you get a pinch. If you run a category, you get both (high fives for being awesome, pinches for being such a nerd).

Now, I should point out at this juncture that these aren't particularly painful pinches we're doling out. We're not coming out of this experience bruised or anything, barring that terrible week when Burrito, too young to understand the game or know his own strength, pinched the shit out of all of us indiscriminately for the whole half hour each night. It's a love-pinch, really, and is frankly nothing compared to the verbal abuse we fling at Alex Trebek, who, along with clowns (just, as a population), is the family nemesis.

So last night, we played Penalty Jeopardy, and it was the fucking Teen Tournament, and I ran a category that I can't remember the name of but was, essentially, "Give the meaning of these Spanish verbs."

Here, in case any of you are wondering, is my study history of languages other than English:

-Four years of high school Latin
-One year of high school French (things learned: "Je ne parle pas Francais" and "Je voudrais un sandwich")
-One quarter of college Italian (abandoned because I was just answering test questions in Latin)
-One day of college Chinese (which, okay, it was my first class on my first day of freshman year and I somehow ended up in an upper level course without realizing it, and when I went to do the homework that night there was this CD I had to play, and I turned it on and it said "*Five minutes of a language I don't speak at all*" followed immediately by "What did Joey have for dinner?" I DROPPED THAT CLASS LIKE IT WAS HOT, YOU GUYS. And then by the time I realized I'd been in the wrong level I was too freaked out by the experience to try again.)

So my family, naturally, was like HOW DID YOU DO THAT, and I was like IT'S BASIC VERBS FROM A ROMANCE LANGUAGE, THEY'RE ALL ROOTED IN LATIN, and then my father told me I need to stop indulging my Matilda complex, and I told him that the fact that he chooses to compare himself to Danny Devito in any capacity is not my issue, and then Alex Trebek snickered at someone like the asshole he is and we all yelled SHUT UP ALEX and went on with our game. Later, I watched the new 5-0 (oh my god oh my god etc), wrote a post-ep, and went to bed.

And ALL OF THAT is, I think, why I blinked asleep in a dream featuring Danny Williams, Steve McGarrett, and 12 people speaking only in Latin. )
gyzym: (Flowery neck)


Me: I had this incredibly bizarre dream last night where I was dating Andy Samberg's doppelganger--
My grandmother: Samberg, there's a nice Jewish name. You should ask this boy out! Better him then the goyim you're always bringing around.
Me: ...Andy Samberg is an actor on Saturday Night Live, Grandma.
My mother: She's kind of got a point though--no, I mean, date whoever you want, but Andy Samberg's got that New York Jew look, maybe you're attracted to that now! That'd be so nice for everyone.
My father: Says the convert.
Everyone: Hey!
My father: What? Oh, come on, don't look at me like that, I married her, I don't mean it as a bad thing. I'm just saying that you could meet a nice boy and turn him Jewish, that's all I meant.
Me: Oh my god, you guys, I'm not even dating anyone--what the hell is a "New York Jew look," Mom, do you have any idea how that--and that isn't even the weird part of the dream, how did this become--
My grandmother: We just want you to be happy, is that so wrong?
My grandfather: And a Jewish boy would make you happy.
My father: Okay, okay, let's not pile on. What was the weird part of the dream?
Me: Okay, so, this guy--who just looked like Andy Samberg, he wasn't actually Andy Samberg, and we were mostly "dating" by playing board games in his apartment--
My mother: What board games?
My father: How is that relevant?
Burrito: You didn't want to play a board game with me when you were babysitting last week!
Me: Little dude, Mario Party is not a board game, it's a video game, you'd been playing video games all day, I took you to a movie--
Burrito: I'm just saying.
My mother: Okay, sorry I asked, continue.
Me: Okay, no, so the weird part was that he was living in this college dorm, right, and he had this roommate he kept talking about who was never around, and then when I met him it was--
My grandfather: Rudy Giuliani?
Me: No--wait, Papa, why would it be--
My grandfather: Well, he shows up in my dreams a lot.
My father: Doing what?
My grandfather: Running for President, mostly.
My father: You have dreams about Rudy Giuliani running for President? He's a Republican! Don't tell me you're thinking about voting Republican again--
My grandfather: It's not an election year, I can think about voting for whoever I want--
My mother: Oh my god, okay, not going there. Who was Andy Samberg's roommate?
Me: Morgan Freeman.
My mother: No kidding?
Me: Yeah, he kicked my ass at Boggle like six times and then I woke up. This really didn't have to be that long of a story, you guys.
My father: You know what I think?
Me: I'm not sure I want to.
My father: I think--well, you know I think of Morgan Freeman as God--
Me: How many times do I have to tell you that you can't base a theological viewpoint on the movie Bruce Almighty--
My father: So I think that dream was God telling you to settle down with a nice Jewish boy.
My grandfather: I agree.
My grandmother: It's a sign.
My mother: Date whoever you want, sweetie. It would just be nice if he was Jewish, that's all we're saying.
My father: And try to make sure he likes sports this time. I never know what to talk to the artsy ones about.
Me: ....
Burrito: You gonna eat your hash browns?

HOW ARE THEY REAL, YOU GUYS, HOW IS THIS MY LIFE
gyzym: (Open road)
Ahahahaha oh my god, it's a WIP titles meme, totally ganked from [livejournal.com profile] sorrynotsorry et al. THIS SAYS A LOT ABOUT MY WRITING PROCESS: to wit, that it is a mess. These are actual titles of actual documents, and I actually know what (almost) all of them mean. Also, enough of them contain parentheses--in the RIDICULOUS DOC TITLES THAT ARE NOT ACTUALLY FIC TITLES--that I had to differentiate my comments by putting them in brackets. In conclusion, fml fml fml.

Seriously, this is solid proof that I'm out of my mind )

TO SUM UP: run from me now, I am obviously not good for anyone's health, least of all my own, and oh god please do not hold me to producing any of these, the end.
gyzym: (Red house)
So, uh, before I do anything else, I have AN ENTHUSIASTIC REC. The truly incredible [livejournal.com profile] wandrinparakeet did a fanmix for the domesticverse, and, just, YOU GUYS. This fanmix is just like. jdfdskf AMONG OTHER THINGS, ABOUT HALF OF THE SONGS ARE ON MY *PERSONAL* SOUNDTRACK FOR THAT VERSE, and the rest of them are INCREDIBLE, I've listened to nothing but this mix all day. I am just so flattered and so floored, and it really is some fabulous music, and she did gorgeous liner notes to go with and I am just. I AM A BALL OF LOVE. Trust me, GO DOWNLOAD IT.

And now for some information that I found extremely jarring, and some thinky thoughts about it!

The Year in Fic Meme! )
gyzym: (T.Hard w/ cig and skepticism)
First of all, MERRY/HAPPY, EVERYONE! Even for those of us for whom today is just a Saturday, albeit a Saturday when none of the stores are open :D

I was debating making a post about Chinese food and my family, but I have decided against it, largely because I had breakfast with my grandfather and my father and Burro&Burrito this morning, and it was literally SO MUCH LIKE AN EPISODE OF CURB THAT I HAD TO PINCH MYSELF. I can't even bear to relate it. There was arguing. And a few badly-landed penis jokes. And arguing. And a poor, hapless waiter who visibly regretted being employed at a Jewish deli. We tipped him heavily, but I doubt it eased the pain of having to listen to us very much.

Also also also someone wrote me an incredible Westing Game story for Yuletide!!! A Game of You, Theo/Turtle, and it's just excellent. EVERYONE WHO HAS EVER READ THE WESTING GAME SHOULD READ IT AT ONCE.

Now I am going to eat a piece of the amazing parve dobos tort the local Jewish bakery (ALSO OPEN CHRISTMAS DAY OH MY GOD BEST DISCOVERY OF MY LIFE) handily provided me this morning, and maybe take the plunge and watch the pilot of Hawaii 5-0, if I can find somewhere to...procure...it.

But first, a conversation about nothing at all that needs to be preserved for posterity anyway, even if it does make both me and Cathy sound more than a little bit like Pretentious Hipster Nerds....

Jonathan Frazen, Jonathan Safran Foer, and David Sedaris walk into a bar )
gyzym: (Default)
Changed my layout and my default icon (SORRY CATHY I GOT REALLY SICK OF THAT RED HOUSE ALL THE FUCKING TIME DON'T HATE ME I KNOW IT IS CONFUSING BUT YOU WILL ADAPT SOMEHOW). Also changed my journal title for the first time since HAVING this journal, largely because... er, well. Because while "angelheaded hipsters" was and is one of my favorite Ginsbergian turns-of-phrase, I am not actually a hipster? At least not according the the current definition. I'd be more accurately described as "hippie," and I've wanted to screw around with my journal title for ages. It will probably change again shortly, once I scroll through the Inspiration Meme for the umpteenth time, but for right now it's a line from the e.e. cummings poem here's to opening and upward.

In other news, [livejournal.com profile] onthecount and I had a conversation last night about a Wizard of Oz AU and she...she drew DOROTHY COBB, oh, it is so glorious, and several other EQUALLY GLORIOUS THINGS (Tin Man Arthur! Scarecrow Eames! oh god really just click that link).

Furthermore, if anyone still needs proof that I am apparently Larry David, here is an actual conversation from the Chanukah brunch my family did this morning to make up for the one that got canceled due to blizzard:

My Aunt: Here, have some fruit.
My Father: Thanks.
My Aunt: Why aren't you taking any mango? Take some mango.
My Father: No, I don't like mango.
My Aunt: Of course you like mango. Everyone likes mango. Have you ever even tried mango?
My Father: Yes, I've tried it. I don't like it.
My Aunt: YES YOU DO, EVERYONE LIKES MANGO. EAT THE GODDAMN MANGO.
My Father: I DON'T LIKE MANGO.
My Aunt: You're probably mixing it up with something else. Where did you have it--in a smoothie? On a salad? Because you have to just try it plain to--
My Father: I've had it in smoothies and in salads and plain, I don't like it, I feel like I'm in Green Eggs & motherfucking Ham, I AM NOT EATING THE MANGO.
My Aunt: YOU MUST HAVE BEEN EATING SOMETHING ELSE, MANGO IS GOOD NO MATTER HOW YOU PREPARE IT.
My Father: The only time I've ever liked it was when I had some of those dried slices.
My Aunt: Oh. I don't like it like that.
Everyone: DSJFDSJFSDHJFKHDSFJKDSFHKDSJ.

Okay AND NOW I AM WRITING THINGS, BECAUSE I KNOW ALL I DO LATELY IS POST ABOUT HOW MY CRAZY FAMILY IS CRAZY, BUT IN MY DEFENSE...THEY ARE CRAZY. But my writing mojo is baaaaaaaaack, THERE WILL BE FIC OF SOME KIND BY THE END OF THE WEEKEND I SWEAR. My holiday_heist thinger went up yesterday but it was, let's be honest, largely an excuse to make it widely known that my people, the Jews, eat Chinese food on Christmas. BUT I COULD HAVE JUST LINKED YOU TO THIS VIDEO:



:DDD

ETA: OH ALSO, in an attempt to aid in the fake-naming of my brothers, I asked the 19 year old what he would pick as a superhero name. He considered deeply and then, dnfjsdfndsf oh my god, said MUTATION, and when I asked him why he said, very seriously, "Because it's a name of ambiguous morality. I could be caught in the epic internal struggle of good and evil! THINK OF HOW MANY COMIC BOOKS THAT WOULD SELL."

I reminded him that it was a theoretical exercise, but he would not be swayed. What even is my life.

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