Which is not to say that mine are not, truly, the greatest. Yesterday, a good chunk of my small but tight knit family converged in New York City for brunch. It was like Thanksgiving in August, with all of us sitting around a huge table eating like pigs and catching up as if no time had passed since our last gathering. I was particularly tickled at the reaction they all had when they realized I was there too (nobody had mentioned that I would be in New York City to take my mother to the doctor). It's been a long time since so many folks seemed so genuinely happy to see me. And not one of them asked me to pick up any lint.
There is much to celebrate in "the fam" these days. We went around the table clinking our mimosas to toast all the good tidings; there is a baby in the oven, a wedding in the offing, several new jobs, a startling recovery by my mom (the reigning matriarch), and, a boy I love (who I could swear was just born) is turning twenty-one. Heck, I toasted myself for just being a part of the clan, even though, at the moment, my life seems to be going to hell in a hand basket.
Yep, cousins are just a cool invention in general, no matter whom they belong to. Back home in Brooklyn, as I made my escape from my mother's barrage of orders to spend some quality time at the local Shoprite (I believe I've mentioned the Shoprite before, and it is truly one of the most unpleasant places on earth, but compared to extended periods in my mother's apartment, it's heavenly), I was waylaid by my mother's neighbor. He claims his name is Joel, but I just like to think of him as somebody's cousin. Somebody's cousin Vinny, perhaps.
"Psst. Jill. Over here." I whipped my head around. "Jill, I got the best guy for you. The best fuckin' guy out there." It wasn't just Vinny; it was Joe Pesci, in the flesh. I was sure his next line would be something about being in Ala-fuckin-bama.
Joe, Vinny, who cares? He said he had a guy for me, so he sure got my attention. As it turns out, the guy he was talking about wasn't a potential sugar daddy -- damn! Just a sleazy personal injury lawyer who would make us rich.
"Yaw mudda, she's a tough lady, she doesn't listen to me." Go figure. The presentation just screamed legitimacy and common sense. Even a deaf lady should be able to sense it.
"Dis guy, he knows his way around the courtroom." Okay, I'd prefer a guy who knows how to find a G spot, but Shoprite could wait.
"Yaw mudda, she got all them grievous injuries. And you too, you were hurt bad." Who knew? I had no idea coffee stains on my dress constituted grievous injuries.
Well, Vinny/Joe was on a roll, and by the time he finished filling me in on the killing I was about to make (let's hold off on tort reform, please) and the stash of painkillers he was willing to give me -- just because we're both somebody's cousin, I suppose -- my head was spinning so badly I started to think I really was in Ala-fuckin-bama.
Who knows? When I see the real cousins again, I could be wealthy and feeling no pain. I just might really have something to clink my glass about.
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