With the Coronavirus pandemic, I’ve been doing my best to shelter in place. I sure wish I could get a haircut, though. It’s starting to get a tad out of control.
Throughout my life, I’ve never had what you would call “long hair.” I’ve always sported that clean-cut, All-American look – the kind when I was young that endeared me to any dad and got me a free pass to date his “little girl.”
Why, you ask, as a child of the 60s, was I not a long-haired-hippy-freak? For starters, I attended an all-boys military school that had a strict dress code. “A cadet’s locks shall not exceed two inches nor touch the top of his ears”, lest he incur the wrath of the Headmaster and receive two demerits for hating America and disrespecting God.
You’ve probably guessed that my parents were of the conservative bent, who believed that any teenage lad with long hair was either plotting to bomb an Army recruitment center or become a ganja-fueled roadie for Bob Marley and the Wailers, both equally unacceptable.
Don’t get me wrong. Despite my restrictive, cloistered upbringing, when I got to college, I tried shaking things up with my appearance. Like the time I bought a pair lavender corduroy striped bell-bottoms. (What were you thinking, Tim?) I was thinking it would be groovy to sew a large Smiley Face patch on the pant leg. (Seriously, dude, have you no sense of fashion?) The answer would be a resounding “No” – not then or even now, according to my wife.
During graduate school, I finally broke out of my squeaky clean Pat Boone persona by growing a beard. Just my luck, it came out white and orange. I resembled a walking creamsicle. Speaking of ice cream (my favorite dinner time staple) donning a beard made eating a deeply unpleasant culinary experience. Dribbles of Rocky Road would drip off my whiskers or get encrusted in the tangle of my mustache. Something had to go – and it wasn’t going to be my Rocky Road! After only two months, I was squeaky-clean-shaven once again – much to my father’s approval.
The bottom line is, I can’t pull off long hair (or a beard, for that matter). Now that I’m in my sixties, if I go for three days without shaving or grooming (trying for the trendy grunge style), I look like I woke up from a bad bender – which sucks because I don’t even drink.
And now I find myself, like everybody else, stuck in the middle of a pandemic with orders to shelter in place. It’s been over three months since my state’s governor first issued a mandate to stay at home as much as possible. Oh, sure, conditions in my area have been slightly loosened in recent weeks. We can now go to the hardware store, so long as we wear a mask, maintain a safe social distance, and are completely encased in bubble wrap.
I don’t mean to sound like my problems are worse than anyone else’s. After all, I have Amazon Prime and Netflix, so, technically I could hole up in my man cave, eating frozen pizza for several more years. But it sure would be nice to get a trim. It’s been five months since my last one. If I have to wait much longer, my daughter will start braiding my hair and I’ll qualify to be the backup drummer for Metallica. I know I shouldn’t complain. After all, my three older brothers went bald decades ago – a fact I enjoy pointing out whenever we get together.
Even my cats are tired of my shaggy, messy guise, unless they suspect a mouse is hiding within. I lack the cool factor to pull it off. That’s why, back in March, thinking ahead, I bought a Nose / Hair Trimmer on eBay.
This is me circa 1977, with the longest hair I’ve ever had – until now. Man, I was such a radical back then.
It finally arrived this week, after a mere three-month wait. I missed the fine print that stated it was being shipped from China, via Pony Express. Unfortunately, what I thought was a Nose AND Hair Trimmer turned out to be a Nose Hair Trimmer. So, every day, my mane continues to look increasingly like an Old English Sheep Dog. On the plus side, my nasal follicles have never been more perfectly coiffed.
Thankfully, our governor announced this week that Phase Two has begun. This means hair salons can resume business. The place I usually go to has an app by which you can check in remotely and it tells you what time to show up. After three hours, they even called me to tell me I was third in line for a haircut. So, I headed over to my local hair styling establishment and announced my arrival. The receptionist could not find me in their system. It turns out my reservation somehow got re-routed to a sister salon located in Oregon. Did I mention I live in Washington state? I figured I’d probably be late for my appointment.
“When can you get me in today?”, I asked my local salon. That elicited a hearty laugh from the receptionist. “Oh, there’s no way we could possibly get you in today. Try back next week.” Since then, every time I have checked, the wait time has been four hours or longer. I guess I’ll have to continue doing my Rod Stewart circa 1973 impression a little while longer.
In the meantime, I need to find my nose hair trimmer. I think my nostrils are due for another trim.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Sometimes people worry that there are no depths to which I will not sink to pull off a practical joke. They’re probably right to be concerned. This is the true story of the best practical joke I ever pulled – which almost got me arrested.
I love to play practical jokes. Hard to believe, I know, being as shy as I am. Sometimes I pull off an Oscar-deserving gag – like the time I ambushed my oldest friend at the Columbus airport in disguise (see photo at right). Due to the resulting lawsuit for mental anguish, I cannot use my friend, Bill Anderson’s, real name here.
Though we both grew up in Albany, NY, I had migrated to Seattle and Bill to Baltimore. One day, Bill’s wife Johanna phoned to invite me to visit. “I know Bill would love to see you.” I replied, “I wish I could, but I used all my frequent-flyer miles for an upcoming family reunion in Columbus.” Johanna became really excited and asked, “Columbus, OHIO? Really? When are you going?”
It turned out that Johanna and Bill were going to be in Columbus the exact same weekend as my daughter and I (to attend a wedding). They were arriving one day after us, which got me thinking… and plotting….
Bill and I are life members of Pranksters Anonymous, always one-upping each other. This was a golden opportunity to pull a huge one over on my old buddy.
The stage for my plot was set: the Columbus Airport’s baggage claim area. I scrounged up some fake rotted out teeth (think Deliverance), donned dark sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a whistle. For extra measure, I stuffed a pillow under my shirt, making me appear 60 pounds heavier. Even to my daughter, I was unrecognizable.
As Bill, Johanna and their kids descended the escalator, I launched my sneak attack. Waving a pair of tickets, I started shouting, “Get y’ar tickets hee-are fer duh Columbus Crew sockuh game.” Imagine a melding of hillbilly drawl and chain-smoker’s growl.
Cornering an unsuspecting traveler, I bellowed, “Howdy, mistuh. Y’awll look lahk a good sport. I got deez two tickets faw tanight’s soccuh game. Wanna buy ‘em? – half price. I need thuh money for alimony. Mah Ex is bleedin’ me dry. Help me, please.” I made sure I was loud enough for Bill to hear the entire play-by-play. The poor chap bolted into the crowd.
My next mark was within three feet of Bill. I hit my stride with an even trashier story:
“Exkyoose mee, sirrr. I’z awuhndrin ifn you’d lahk ta buy deez here tickets. Great price. I cain’t use ‘em cuz thuh wife dunn grounded me onaccounta me gitten drunk and sleepin wid her sister Shirley. Again. Wudduya say, buddy? Help a poor felluh out.” With utter revulsion, he scrambled away, mumbling “Hell no.”
I was confident my ultimate target had heard both pestering conversations. Time to go in for the kill.
I invaded Bill’s personal space with the same sandpapery, hillbilly, slow-talkin’ sales pitch: “Whutta purty family you got der sir. I bet duh kiddies would love to see a perfessional soccuh game. An’ I just happen to have some tickets. Best price in town.” Bill was surprisingly gracious, replying, “Thank you for the offer, but we have other plans.” He hustled his family away like a papa bear protecting his cubs from some predator.
I surreptitiously followed them to the luggage carousel, It was clear Bill had no idea who I was. As he reached for his bag, I came out of nowhere and grabbed it. “I got it, sir.Hey there! Fancy bumpin’ into you again! This sure is yer lucky day!” Bill was taken aback and momentarily flustered. My chance to close this deal.“Now, ya’ seem lahk a man who knows a good investment when it’s staring him in the eyes,” I proclaimed, as I shoved the tickets in his face. “Chance of a lifetime.”
“Um, no thank you,” Bill anxiously muttered, as he futilely tried to wriggle out of this awkward situation without it turning ugly.
I looked to Johanna and remarked, “Wooo-eee! Is this lovely lady your wahfe?”
Full frontal attack with a party horn, soccer tickets and a little too much personal touching by an absolute stranger.
“Um, uh, yes,” Bill stuttered, inching in front of Johanna as if to shield her from an encroaching snake.
I was a dog on a bone. “Heck, mister. I can tell yer a upstandin’ Christian, and duh Good Book says to help out dose dat’r down on their luck…Please. Jus’ $50 – a steal.”
Now, the art of practical jokes is to push the target almost to the brink of losing it, and then make the big reveal. We were almost there.
I cajoled, “You look lahk awfully nice people. I’m willin’ to just give ya’ duh dang tickets – No charge. Deal?”
Bill sheepishly caved, no doubt just to get rid of me. To his horror, I started cheering, “Yeehaw! You are one lucky man!” I pulled out a party horn and blew loudly, announcing to the gathering onlookers, “Folks! This here gentleman is going to the Co-lum-buss Crew soccuh game! Woo-hoo!” I presented Bill with the prize tickets like he had won the lottery, patting him on the back and making a raucous scene.
Bill desperately wanted to escape this close encounter of the uncomfortable kind, so I decided it was time for the Final Act.
I started to turn away, paused, looked back, and asked, “Hey buddy, don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“I’m quite certain you do not,” Bill rebuffed, suddenly becoming assertive.
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Positive!,” Bill said even more forcefully.
Here I am with Bill after my big reveal. If I tried this stunt nowadays, sadly, I might not need the “fat” pillow. Sigh.
“Cuz you sure look an awful lot like this fellow I once knew named … [long dramatic pause]… BILL ANDERSON.”
“How do you know my name?” Bill was completely flummoxed – how could this annoying vagrant ever have been an acquaintance?
“Well, I gotta say, it’s kinda disappointin’, Bill. To think you don’t recognize me,” I continued with my thick-as-molasses gravelly drawl. “Cuz I sure as shootin’ remember you. You really don’t remember…. (slowly removing my teeth, sunglasses, and pillow, and then in my normal voice) … “your oldest buddy in the world, Tim Jones?”
Bill’s jaw hit the floor two levels below. Speechless, he stood there in shock and disbelief for almost a minute. Then he burst out laughing. “That was awesome!!” he exclaimed with a glint in his eyes – a rather mischievous glint. And I knew right then there will come a day – I don’t know when and I don’t know where – when Bill will undoubtedly even the score. I can’t wait. Your turn, Bill.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
[Postscript: As I was writing this column, my daughter Rachel informed me that as I was playing my little charade, unbeknownst to me, airport security personnel were watching and moving to intervene. Rachel was able, somehow, to keep them at bay by explaining that I was harmless, I was her dad and that it was just a lighthearted practical joke I was playing on an old friend. So they backed off. I had never known this part of the story until just now.]
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[Author’s Note: I had the most wonderful dream last night, which I’m going to tell you all about below. It felt so real. I woke up positively gleeful, feeling hopeful for the first time in four years. It may have been the after-effects of anesthesia from my recent knee replacement surgery, but I’d like to think it was prophetic. A guy can dream, can’t he? Below is the news story I dreamed I read. – TEJ]
JOE BIDEN BECOMES 46th PRESIDENT
YEARS OF NATIONAL EMBARRASSMENT FINALLY OVER
[January 20, 2021 – Washington, D.C.]On an extraordinary day in American history that many thought might never happen, Joseph R. Biden, Jr. was sworn in as the 46th president of the United States. An inaugural crowd in excess of three million cheered wildly, tears pouring down the faces of men, women, children, and dogs. FOX NEWS reported the occasion as “A day that will go down in infamy,” and reminded its 6,000 remaining viewers that 23 million citizens had attended Donald Trump’s 2016 inauguration (even though historians agree it was closer to 350,000, most of whom were hired actors).
Biden’s induction closes the book on the most contentious election in modern times, marred by widespread disinformation campaigns and accusations of voter fraud on both sides. While no evidence of such fraud has been found involving our new president’s campaign, authenticated videos have surfaced of Trump and Vladimir Putin naked in a sauna at Mar-a-Lago drawing up plans to rig the voting in 29 states. Granted, the documents are difficult to decipher since the crayon markings were in Russian and they mostly melted in the steam, but many of the stick figures clearly show Russian spies replacing voting booths with slot machines in Democratic-leaning districts.
This bombshell story was covered in detail by every major media outlet, except Fox News, which counter-programmed with wall-to-wall coverage of Hillary’s emails and Obamagate. Despite Trump and Putin’s conniving, in the end, the result wasn’t even close. Biden carried 49 states, though he narrowly lost in Mississippi, thanks to a recently enacted provision in their state constitution making it illegal to vote for a Democrat.
Nevertheless, Trump insisted his opponent unfairly won the election with 27 million fake votes from illegal Mexican immigrants, ISIS terrorists and black people, all of whom “don’t count”, he tweeted. In an unprecedented move, the outgoing president declined to attend the inauguration ceremony, choosing instead to chain himself to the American flag in the Oval Office. As staff scurried from the White House, they could hear their former Commander-in-Chief screaming, “Go blow, Joe! This is MY house!”
As the new First Couple drove to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave, Secret Service agents stormed the Oval Office, tackled the flailing Trump, and restrained him in a straitjacket, taking pains to make sure the flag never touched the ground. Having narrowly averted an awkward confrontation with the incoming president, the Secret Service turned their prisoner over to a heavily armed unit of Navy Seals, Randy Rainbow fans and Black Lives Matter activists chanting, “Lock Him Up” as they escorted him off the premises. It was difficult to make out exactly what Trump was ranting since, for the first time ever, he was forced to wear a mask, for the protection of everyone around him.
Trump’s attorneys filed a last-minute petition to the US Supreme Court, asking them to invalidate the election and give their client four more years in office. They cited an untested legal principle, “My opponent is a loser.” Their 11th hour appeal was rejected in a 9-0 decision. Justice Ginsberg tweeted the Court’s decision, stating:
“The Court finds no legal basis to intervene in the outcome of the election. Besides, Mr. Trump is just being a total douche. To teach him to not waste the Court’s time, we’re releasing all his tax returns. Have a nice day.”
Speaking of Justice Ginsberg, after posting the verdict, she issued a press release announcing she is 100% cancer-free and plans to stay on the court for the next 10 years – mainly just to piss off Mitch McConnell.
Now that the Democrats have won back the White House, expanded their control of the House and taken back the Senate, experts anticipate Biden will announce several bold initiatives in the areas of climate change, healthcare, and gun control. His proposed Executive Order that employers greet employees with a hug and a shoulder rub may, however, meet with some resistance.
With Vice President Oprah Winfrey at his side, the 46th president apologized for the previous administration’s offensive actions to the WHO, NATO, blacks, Hispanics, women, and people who value proper spelling. He went on to reinstate diplomatic relations with the exhaustive list of former allies whom Trump had alienated. In a gesture of goodwill, Canadian Prime Minister Trudeau formally reversed course and decided to scrap his country’s plans to build a southern border wall.
Speaking of border walls, in his first address as president, Biden declared that all work on a Mexican border wall would be permanently halted, and the construction teams would be redirected to build an impenetrable wall around the former president. When asked whether he would consider pardoning Trump for all the state and federal charges piling up against him, Biden added, “Absolutely not. Do I look like Gerald Ford?”
As this new administration begins its journey to Make America Respectable Again, there is breaking news regarding the COVID pandemic. Just hours after Biden took the oath of office, scientists from five countries gathered to announce a vaccine that has been shown to be 99.99999% effective – and that all Americans can get it for free. When asked how they developed a vaccine so quickly, Anthony Fauci, former Director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases (fired by Trump), explained, “While Trump was spreading lies to vilify his opponent, Biden was personally funding our research. We figured out a vaccine a couple months ago, but no way were we letting Trump take the credit.”
Speculation abounds about the former president’s future plans. Will he start Trump News Network to keep his base energized and loyal? Now that his marriage with Melania is in tatters, will he finally wed the love of his life (other than himself, that is), namely, his daughter Ivanka? Or will he pitch Putin on a new reality show, Moscow Celebrity Apprentice? Trump has been surprisingly mum about his next chapter (11), partly because he’s been banned for life by Twitter and Facebook. Also, the psychiatric hospital currently detaining him for observation doesn’t allow phone privileges.
In other news, the Seattle Seahawks beat the New Orleans Saints 37-20 before a sold-out stadium of 60,000 screaming Hawks fans, to advance to the Super Bowl. (Like I said, a guy can dream.)
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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So you want to marry my daughter? Have you totally thought this through? Let me tell you what you’re in for. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.
[Author’s note: My daughter is in her mid-twenties and has a boyfriend. The days of “Will he ask me to the prom?” have evolved to “Will he ask me to marry him?” I thought I should prepare for that frightening eventuality by jotting down some notes for what I might want to say to her future husband when that important day approaches. This is just a first draft. Suggestions welcome. – TEJ]
Dear Possible-Future Son-in-Law,
So you want to marry my daughter? What on God’s green earth gives you the right to stomp on my heart and steal my little girl, you hateful, wretched son-of-a-b*tch? Have you met my close friend, Mr. Smith and his buddy, Mr. Wesson? If you think for one minute you’re going to swoop in out of nowhere and take my place after all I’ve done to raise her right, well, you’ll have to come through me. Ya’ hear me, fella?
(Okay, I’m feeling a little cranky. I haven’t eaten in hours, so that opening was a little hangry. Sorry. Let me try this again.)
Son, my daughter has informed me that you would like to marry her. How exciting! I could not be happier for you both. This is a very important decision, so, I hope you’ve thoroughly thought it through.
My daughter is a very special young woman. In the remote chance you’re not quite as familiar with her charming quirks as I have come to be, perhaps I might share a few words of counsel, to help ensure smooth sailing as you embark on your new life together.
You may have noticed by now that my precious little angel is rather, um, strong-willed. She’s been that way forever. When she turned two, she insisted on baking her birthday cake all by herself, proclaiming, “I DO IT MYSELF, DADDY!” I still can recall the proud look on her face as she diligently mixed the cake batter, added the rainbow sprinkles, Frosted Flakes, and bananas, and then poured the entire concoction into what she called “the blender,” but which we adults usually refer to as “the toilet.” The plumber and I sure had a hearty laugh about that, up until the moment he presented me with his $575 bill.
I also hope you’re not terribly concerned with a particularly tidy home. My little Entropy Engine, as I like to call her, is more of a free spirit in that regard. As far back as I can remember, her room always has looked like a Category 5 hurricane had just swept through. I wouldn’t waste your breath asking her to load the dishwasher, or make the bed, or clean up after herself. She’ll no doubt remind you: that’s what maids are for. Hope you earn a good paycheck, young man.
Oh, and a word about pets: DON’T – unless you like getting up at 3am to let the dog out. Because there’s no way you’ll be able to nudge her out of bed. After all, she needs her nightly uninterrupted ten-hour beauty rest. No, when it comes to pets, her job is to cuddle them. Don’t get me wrong. My daughter loves animals – or more accurately, YouTube videos of them, especially fuzzy hedgehogs and baby penguins. If you’re really serious about pets, might I suggest starting with baby steps, say, a bowl of fish? On second thought, scratch that suggestion. It might end badly.
You’ve probably noticed by now that my daughter is remarkably independent. We raised her to be that way. And you may notice she has a slightly elevated need to be right a fair amount of the time – but only when she’s conscious. She will be quick to point out when you’re wrong about say, your taste in men’s fashion or perhaps the latest Star Wars film or where you both should go out to dinner tonight. But she will overrule you with the cutest expression on her face, so you won’t even notice. My Little Miss Sunshine is absolutely willing to listen to your point of view on a wide variety of issues – just so long as your point of view happens to be the same as hers. Just practice saying, “That’s a great idea, dear.” You’ll do just fine.
If my precious jewel has decided that you’re Mr. Right, that says a lot about you. You are clearly a wonderful young man, hardworking, smart, sensitive and a devoted companion, who has compiled at least a six-figure 401K by now. Well done. Oh, on that last point, I’m not saying that my daughter just wants you for your money. Let me be clear. I just want you for your money.
Your future mother-in-law and I plan to move in with you guys when our retirement nest egg runs out. Not to worry. That won’t be for at least another three years. Be sure to buy a large enough house so we can have plenty of privacy – and a view of the ocean and a very large en suite… with a Jacuzzi and a 65” flat screen TV. You’re going to make such a good son.
I hope this will help you feel more comfortable as you contemplate spending the rest of your life married to this incredible young woman, who for the first 18 years of her life I affectionately called my Prima Donna Angel Monster Princess. Welcome to the family.
Remember, in the long run, you needn’t worry about us. Worry about yourself – um, perhaps I phrased that poorly. I mean, life is short. In the end, all that matters is your and my baby girl’s happiness (albeit not necessarily in that order). Make a point to laugh together, love and support each other, and never forget what’s really important in the life you create together: Grandchildren. I really don’t feel I should have to explain this to you. Don’t disappoint me, son.
Signed,
Your soon-to-be “Dad”
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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[The following article contains no factual information of any kind. Not a scintilla of truth. We felt a journalistic responsibility to thus inform our readers. We fear Mr. Jones is starting to lose it. – The Staff at VFTB]
This is a map of the areas of the world where, according to my DNA report, I may have had distant ancestors. Pay particular attention to that island off the east coast of Africa, Madagascar – the one spot with which I appear to have no connection.
If you are inclined to research your genealogy, be forewarned. There’s a lot of misinformation and hype out there. Learn from my mistakes. Not long ago I signed up for a service called Ancestree.com. The report came back concluding that my roots trace back to a ficus. Turns out the company was a rip-off luring bad spellers who were looking for Ancestry.com. I’ll never make that misteak agian.
That’s why I decided to sign up with 22andMe. I know what you’re thinking: Don’t you mean 23andMe? Turns out I’m also bad at math. Anyway, 22andMe offered results in less than a week, for half the cost of the more reputable service.
On the plus side, unlike the more well-known genealogy outfits, which typically require a saliva sample, this company did not ask for any of that fuss. I only had to send in a toenail clipping, a 16-ounce urine sample, fifteen strands of hair, and a photo of me dressed like a pirate. In retrospect, that probably should have been a tip-off.
When I received my results, they were somewhat disappointing. Not quite the kind of information I was hoping for. The analysis said I’m 99.995% Caucasian (what a shocker) and fit the profile of an under-achiever with self-esteem issues around my career choices. (I have to give them points for accuracy there.) They also concluded that I have a proclivity towards making impulsive online purchases about my ancestral background without doing adequate research. Perhaps most surprisingly, it also evaluated, “You’re not as funny a writer as you think you are.” I found that oddly critical for a DNA report.
The data indicated that my lineage originated from one of the following very narrow regions: Northern Africa, Western Europe, Eastern Europe, Asia, South America, North America and Tonga. So I know once and for all that none of my distant relatives originated in Antarctica. That is such a relief to know.
My DNA profile indicates that my most direct relative from the Middle Ages was probably this guy in the hoodie, second from the right, plowing a field. He could neither read nor write. Thus began a succession of low achievers.
The summary went on to say – and I know this may astound you – that many of my forebearers had extensive facial hair, although slightly more so on the males’ side. Even more precisely, the report determined that my mother had always hoped I would become a doctor and my father never really loved me. Wow, this DNA stuff can get incredibly specific.
I had hoped for a bit more illumination about my actual genetic history. Fortunately, I learned that for an additional investment of a mere $250 – accompanied by a nose hair sample plus a photo of me in drag – 22andMe could furnish a much more in-depth DNA analysis. The hardest part was explaining to my wife why I needed to borrow her sun dress.
Two weeks later, I received a more exhaustive assessment – I mean, it went on and on! It provided a fascinating portrait of my primogenitors. It appears they are 42% less likely to have sweaty feet; 39% more likely to have a craving for sweets; 53% more likely to have owned a cat; and 85% more likely to make poorly timed investments in the stock market.
My distant relatives more than likely included Celts, Germans, Slovaks, and people who were afraid of the moon. They were at least 70% likely to have had one or more black acquaintances. Among my Scottish lineage, they were 75% likely to have had the snot beaten out of them by Vikings. (I know what you’re thinking: Did the report actually say, “snot beaten out of them by Vikings?” Yes, it did. I would never make up something so personal – because I’m a professional humor writer.)
The findings went on to disclose that a closer review of my genealogical bloodline indicates I may have been related to European royalty, like a past King of France or a Danish prince. In fact, and I found this part particularly intriguing, it appears that some pretty famous and powerful people, including Abraham Lincoln, Winston Churchill, King Richard the Lionheart, Queen Victoria, Leonardo da Vinci and even Cleopatra were all people who my ancestors were perhaps marginally aware of.
If you go back far enough in my genealogical history, I’m related to this dude. Now that I look more closely, I totally think I have his eyes. Handsome critter.
This narrative also listed the last names of people who were likely to be my second, third, fourth and even fifth cousins – who, for an extra fee, 22andMe will invite to connect with me and exchange our genealogical profiles. I was intrigued to see unusual names from countries all over the world, such as Latvia, Spain, New Zealand, and, surprisingly, Tonga.
In retrospect, I’m still not sure this was worth the expense, not to mention the hassle my wife gave me for cutting up her dress so it would fit me. I don’t think I acquired many insights into my heritage, although I feel painfully more aware of my genetic baggage.
I just received another email from 22andMe. In this offer, they claim that for just another $500 – along with a copy of the deed to our house – they’ll provide an even more detailed report. Maybe with these findings, once and for all, I will be able to relocate my long lost relatives from Tonga. I miss them so much.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
