just had a piece on how having a stubborn family, all in need of different forms of help, is like that old joke about four-wheel-drive vehicles: you can go further before you get stuck.
And the truism with me is that when someone says something, it reminds me of a story.
So. Not a Shawn-story, this time, but nearly as ass-brained stupid.
Set the scene. Alaska. Late March/early April, one of the two. Before the full moon that was after the Ides of March, because that was the one that heralded the period that meant that I actually wasn't pregnant. But, at the time of this story, there was the very real possibility that I was pregnant by my just-recently-ex boyfriend.
So I'd just gotten involved with BJ, and he was sharing his enthusiastic ideas for the summer. He was going to have us pitch a tent in the woods by the softball parks. Kids and teenagers pitch their tents in there every summer. We could live there. We drove past, and he turned in to show me, drive me closer.
Now, this is early April or late March in Alaska. The snow was a good four feet high, packed, pushed up by snowplows, packed down by snowmobiles. It's almost hard enough for him to drive his mother's van onto, and he does. We get maybe a hundred feet off the driveway-place before the weight of the van cracks through the sun-softening crust of the snow and through. We try getting it out, and it gets more stuck.
My cellphone (prepaid minutes, thank all gods) is called into play, summoning first his father, then a tow truck.
My frustration and anger level throughout this little scene was rising. I may or may not have hauled off and slapped him. I did cuss him out for his shortsightedness.
The difference between BJ and Shawn, on reflection, is that BJ's plans weren't assheaded quite so often, when they were assheaded, they were assheaded on a grander scale, he allowed me to rebuke him, and in the end, I'm not capable of being friends with him.