V, being from the south, employs a certain amount of colorful slang. There is one term in particular that stands out, which is "shitshow." This usually being dropped into conversation as V, MCB, and some number of their other coworkers slide into a booth at our little dive bar after work: "That was a real shitshow."
The shitshow does not merely relate to workplace operational complaints, it has also made appearances when any group larger than three tries to decide where to go for dinner, when something in the kitchen is not going according to plan, and when V has to engage in certain kinds of logistically complicated tasks, like grocery shopping.
Of course, being a lover of language and an enthusiastic curser, I have been considering how to fold shitshow into my own vocabulary. But appropriation is a dangerous game; it's easy to sound foolish when using a word that doesn't quite fit in your mouth. Slang may seem simple on the surface, but the subtleties of when you should and shouldn't use it are really quite complex.
Something that helps to fully understand a word is what you might call an index case. A more or less perfect example of the correct way to use a term. It can't be an everyday sort of usage, where another word might also do, you need an event which can absolutely only be described as a complete and utter shitshow. The platonic ideal of shitshow, if you will.
Fortunately, the universe will provide.
As MCB, V and I are heading out to dinner last night, V gets a call from the people who have shipped his car across the country. They are not expected until Friday, so this is a surprise. Also a surprise, that they seem to find this process even more confusing than V does. The woman that V talks to on the phone seems a bit lost, both geographically and psychologically, and V is not likely to be much help in this kind of situation*, but between the two of them they manage to arrange that V will call them after dinner and arrange to meet them at his office down the street.
So after dinner we call them back, and then head to the large and busy street where they have parked one of those giant car mover things, directly in front of a bus stop. It's worth noting that while I live in California, the weather here is not actually always 72 degrees and sunny, especially not in the beginning of March. So in fact it is very cold, and eventually begins to sheet down rain.
We arrive to meet up with the husband and wife team who run this "business" and they promptly inform V that the remainder of the payment for the delivery of the vehicle (about $700) is due in cash. The woman is utterly floored when V asserts that actually, he does not carry that kind of cash around on him at all times. She does not take credit cards. She refuses to take a check. V calls his wife (who arranged the transport) and she is similarly surprised by the request for cash payment. MCB and I stand around and watch this entire process with a certain amount of bemused fascination. V negotiates.
After taking a brief meeting with her husband and the ill-tempered dog that rides in the cab of her truck, the woman agrees to allow V to pull as much money as he reasonably can from the ATM, and pay the rest with a check. So MCB and I drive V to his place to grab his checkbook and then to a bank, and back again to the side of the road where his car is now finally being unloaded.
At this point, it has begun to rain hard enough that simply opening the door to get out of the car leaves me half-soaked. As V is crouched under the overhang of a building, attempting to write a check on a clipboard the woman has produced from the depths of her truck, it finally occurs to me.
This is a shitshow.
V's car was finally rescued, and in payment for our suffering V took MCB and I out for a drink at The Alibi Bar** (which is really called that, yes, really) and let me watch him play pool, which was more fun for me than it was for him.
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*I have now made fun of V's capabilities twice now, and I feel I should make a disclaimer. He is an very smart guy, and broadly speaking incredibly competent at those things he chooses to do, but he suffers from an illness (MCB is just the same) where basic logistical planning of things like finding an apartment, getting his car registered and buying socks are completely beyond him. I could write an entire piece about the strange incompentency of brilliant guys, having spent a lot of time around them in my life, but for now suffice it to say that V is not some kind of drooling moron, he's just "one of those guys."
**I'll have to talk about The Alibi more another time, but for now I will just say that I am in love with the bartender, who wandered around with an unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth and played a lineup of Iron Maiden, The Andrews Sisters and Nessun Dorma from Turandot on the jukebox. How can you not love a girl like that?
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