He Might Be One Of Those... Hit-Men
Huh. I honestly, completely forgot I had one of these gods-be-damned things. Which is a bit frightening, actually, since I've checked other people's journals recently. I'm just going to chalk it up to outright denial, because I really don't care to waste time worrying about early-onset dementia. And if you were ever to meet my grandmother, you'd agree that it's a valid fear.
Hmm. My grandmother. Gotta love her. At a recent family dinner: "Oh, that reminds me of this joke! Now, there was a rich doctor who arrived at the Pearly Gates with a suitcase and... no. No, no, he had a few suitcases with him. Now. Saint Peter told the man that he wasn't allowed to enter the Kingdom of Heaven with any of his earthly possessions, but the doctor debated with him and... Wait, no. It wasn't a doctor. It was a lawyer. Because of the debating, that's right. A lawyer. The lawyer debated for so long that Saint Peter gave in and allowed the man to bring one suitcase with him. So the lawyer chose the suitcase that was filled with bars of gold, and as he was passing through the gates Saint Peter stopped him and said, 'Just out of curiosity - why did you choose the paving stones?' And the doctor, I mean the lawyer, didn't know what to say." So we all did the polite laugh, but apparently it wasn't the response she was going for because she proceeded to explain the joke. "Gold. See, the streets of Heaven are paved with gold. And the rich man thought that..." What's worse... we had company. There were people sitting at the dinner table with us who were in no way related to the whack job. And you can't apologize in front of the person who's behavior you're apologizing for. The best we could do was give them pained smiles and sort of shrug.
But she's down in Florida now, which is all for the good. She actually called us after her flight arrived so that we wouldn't worry about her. Unfortunately, I was the only one around at the time, so she gave me all the wonderful details of the flight. Usually she finds some poor, unsuspecting traveler to annoy so I figured I had to set about an hour aside for the phone conversation. She started by saying, "Well, there weren't too many people on the plane, but I was seated next to this young Hispanic man. He was very muscular, and he didn't talk much at all. I think he might be one of those... hit-men." Oh, my fucking head. And the kicker? After telling me he didn't talk much, she proceeded to give me this guy's life story. He's from the Dominican Republic, he's going to visit his sister, he's unemployed, and so on and so forth. So I'm sitting there listening to her tell me all about this guy that she claims barely even spoke to her, and I'm thinking, "How in Hell did she find all this out? I don't even know my own friends this well..." I've come to the conclusion that she slipped him a mickey and rifled through his wallet. She is just unbelievable. The US government should hire her to interrogate all their Guantanamo Bay POWs. The woman could squeeze blood from a rock.
Anyway. My grandmother may be gone, but other, more annoying people have taken her place. My sister is about to deliver her little hell-beast, but she's always here. My father's company just shut down for the winter, since you can't lay pipe once the freeze sets in, so he's always puttering around. He seems to think I'm his "little buddy" which is just another way of saying "unpaid slave laborer." No matter how often I point out that I'm not his "buddy" but his "daughter," and that the "daughter" part's questionable and I that demand a DNA test, he persists in thinking my time is his. I have four major essays to write, a massive block of code to revamp, a job, and occasionally a life to contend with. I have no time to help him fix his machinery or design a sunroom for the house or answer his inane questions about what makes computers work. I'm beginning to suspect that Andrew Borden got his face axed in for asking Lizzie ad nauseam how the kitchen stove functioned. I mean, jeez... enough's enough.
All that basically means is that I've been spending as much time as possible away from my family. I actually spent the better part of last week in a bar in Southie. I don't drink (bad family history) but a few of my friends like it there, and I kick ass at darts. The only problem about hanging out there is that everyone always assumes I'm a waitress. I guess I look too Irish for my own good. But it's probably better to look Irish there, since there are quite a few Northern Irish guys who like to bitch about England. I actually used my mother's maiden name (or a variation thereof) when one of the regulars asked me what my name was. He was one of the scary anti-Brits, and my last name is very English. I figure I have just as much claim to my mother's last name as my father's (damned patriarchal bullshit) so I didn't really lie. And the guy seemed pleased with O'Shea, so I win.
Oh, and here's a big not-surprise: I managed to stumble across the only lesbian in the joint within half an hour. Not that I'm complaining, but... I have, like, three straight friends. A few months ago I could have said four, but then one of them came flaming out of the closet. And he wasn't even the one I was sort of wondering about. I'm a gay magnet. Again, not complaining. Anyway. I found the bar-chick by mistake. I hadn't eaten much of anything for a few days, so I was kind of spacey, and that means I blank out a lot. When I came out of one of those blanks I was staring at the girl's collarbone. Yes, I have a strange collarbone fixation. Don't ask. She must have assumed I was looking a bit lower, so she came over to talk to me. Which makes me wonder about her, actually. If someone was staring at me like I was staring at her, I think I'd have slapped them. But she came over, and I had no good explanation to give her. Really. "No, I wasn't staring at your chest. I was fixated on your collarbone. But I was thinking about something else." That just sounds wrong. It's actually close to what I said though, so I had to backpedal even more. She was nice and laughed it off. It turns out we have a lot in common, and now I have someone who will go with me to museums, so that's good. I guess the moral is that you should always stare at strangers in seedy bars. Or something.
Hmm. My grandmother. Gotta love her. At a recent family dinner: "Oh, that reminds me of this joke! Now, there was a rich doctor who arrived at the Pearly Gates with a suitcase and... no. No, no, he had a few suitcases with him. Now. Saint Peter told the man that he wasn't allowed to enter the Kingdom of Heaven with any of his earthly possessions, but the doctor debated with him and... Wait, no. It wasn't a doctor. It was a lawyer. Because of the debating, that's right. A lawyer. The lawyer debated for so long that Saint Peter gave in and allowed the man to bring one suitcase with him. So the lawyer chose the suitcase that was filled with bars of gold, and as he was passing through the gates Saint Peter stopped him and said, 'Just out of curiosity - why did you choose the paving stones?' And the doctor, I mean the lawyer, didn't know what to say." So we all did the polite laugh, but apparently it wasn't the response she was going for because she proceeded to explain the joke. "Gold. See, the streets of Heaven are paved with gold. And the rich man thought that..." What's worse... we had company. There were people sitting at the dinner table with us who were in no way related to the whack job. And you can't apologize in front of the person who's behavior you're apologizing for. The best we could do was give them pained smiles and sort of shrug.
But she's down in Florida now, which is all for the good. She actually called us after her flight arrived so that we wouldn't worry about her. Unfortunately, I was the only one around at the time, so she gave me all the wonderful details of the flight. Usually she finds some poor, unsuspecting traveler to annoy so I figured I had to set about an hour aside for the phone conversation. She started by saying, "Well, there weren't too many people on the plane, but I was seated next to this young Hispanic man. He was very muscular, and he didn't talk much at all. I think he might be one of those... hit-men." Oh, my fucking head. And the kicker? After telling me he didn't talk much, she proceeded to give me this guy's life story. He's from the Dominican Republic, he's going to visit his sister, he's unemployed, and so on and so forth. So I'm sitting there listening to her tell me all about this guy that she claims barely even spoke to her, and I'm thinking, "How in Hell did she find all this out? I don't even know my own friends this well..." I've come to the conclusion that she slipped him a mickey and rifled through his wallet. She is just unbelievable. The US government should hire her to interrogate all their Guantanamo Bay POWs. The woman could squeeze blood from a rock.
Anyway. My grandmother may be gone, but other, more annoying people have taken her place. My sister is about to deliver her little hell-beast, but she's always here. My father's company just shut down for the winter, since you can't lay pipe once the freeze sets in, so he's always puttering around. He seems to think I'm his "little buddy" which is just another way of saying "unpaid slave laborer." No matter how often I point out that I'm not his "buddy" but his "daughter," and that the "daughter" part's questionable and I that demand a DNA test, he persists in thinking my time is his. I have four major essays to write, a massive block of code to revamp, a job, and occasionally a life to contend with. I have no time to help him fix his machinery or design a sunroom for the house or answer his inane questions about what makes computers work. I'm beginning to suspect that Andrew Borden got his face axed in for asking Lizzie ad nauseam how the kitchen stove functioned. I mean, jeez... enough's enough.
All that basically means is that I've been spending as much time as possible away from my family. I actually spent the better part of last week in a bar in Southie. I don't drink (bad family history) but a few of my friends like it there, and I kick ass at darts. The only problem about hanging out there is that everyone always assumes I'm a waitress. I guess I look too Irish for my own good. But it's probably better to look Irish there, since there are quite a few Northern Irish guys who like to bitch about England. I actually used my mother's maiden name (or a variation thereof) when one of the regulars asked me what my name was. He was one of the scary anti-Brits, and my last name is very English. I figure I have just as much claim to my mother's last name as my father's (damned patriarchal bullshit) so I didn't really lie. And the guy seemed pleased with O'Shea, so I win.
Oh, and here's a big not-surprise: I managed to stumble across the only lesbian in the joint within half an hour. Not that I'm complaining, but... I have, like, three straight friends. A few months ago I could have said four, but then one of them came flaming out of the closet. And he wasn't even the one I was sort of wondering about. I'm a gay magnet. Again, not complaining. Anyway. I found the bar-chick by mistake. I hadn't eaten much of anything for a few days, so I was kind of spacey, and that means I blank out a lot. When I came out of one of those blanks I was staring at the girl's collarbone. Yes, I have a strange collarbone fixation. Don't ask. She must have assumed I was looking a bit lower, so she came over to talk to me. Which makes me wonder about her, actually. If someone was staring at me like I was staring at her, I think I'd have slapped them. But she came over, and I had no good explanation to give her. Really. "No, I wasn't staring at your chest. I was fixated on your collarbone. But I was thinking about something else." That just sounds wrong. It's actually close to what I said though, so I had to backpedal even more. She was nice and laughed it off. It turns out we have a lot in common, and now I have someone who will go with me to museums, so that's good. I guess the moral is that you should always stare at strangers in seedy bars. Or something.