I knew exactly what was happening as soon as that soul draining shock filled his eyes.
Except what if you weren’t playing to be invisible? What if you were in training in hopes of being everything they wanted? Isn’t that all it was?
My tiny cousin calls me out of the blue for this ten second phone call.
I answer the phone and in the most excited, childish voice he screams
"I cawld you to say you are awesomest, Katie! You’s my awesomest cousin!"
And then he hung up. Just that. That was it. Little drive by blurt and I sat here with the dial tone in my ear with my eyes leaking all over the damn place.
"WE LOVE 1/3 OF OUR CHILDREN"
"2/3’s OF OUR OFFSPRING ARE FAILURES"
"WE JUST LOVE THE ONE WITH A DICK"
Usually what happens when I tell people about my family.
I’m just gonna be like
I was raised by wolves.
and how it was mainly Germany’s fault.
And you’re sitting there, in your head, thinking how getting you and your sister thrown out of the house was your fault.
And you start tearing up because you don’t see her anymore.
And like a loon you bust out like “I’M THE GERMANY!”
And everyone looks at you like you’re crazy.
Yup, have the sudden urge to go see her tomorrow
Um, my life the past two years… akljgnskdg Iakov’s our little Stitch
Does this mean I can get rid of this horrid surname?
So, as we’re standing in the massive Black Friday lines for Lud and Snapper as they go shopping, Simon and I start chatting it up. Remember now, we’re in the middle of Walmart, in little ol’ Tucker, nothing special, nothing “rómánsúil” or “impressionnant” about it. And, being Thanksgiving, Simon asks why I didn’t spend it with my family. Which led us down the yellow brick road.
Ok, so my mom’s maiden name is Sandlin, and I knew they were Scottish. But when I mentioned that to him to look on his face nearly sent me into a panic. Sandlin comes from Sandilands, which, unknown to me, is kinda a big Clan. So, in other words I belong to Clan Sandilands of Clydesdale, sept of Clan Douglas, and apparently that’s royalty.
ok, ok, what the fuck, stop the film, hold up! No. Ha. no-no, I am Dutchess No-one from the lands of Who-gives-a-fuck, married to Duke of Forever-alone, not some distant kin to Scot royalty.
Simon is a McCrimmon. That’s been stated before. McCrimmon (or MacCruimein) from the MacCrimmon’s (but hell if you get ‘em confused) are known as the lineage of flawless pipers in Scotland for the chiefs of Clan MacLeod, which have two main branches of Harris and Dunvegan and then Lewis, pretty much royalty of the isle of Skye, meaning somewhere along the grapevine Clan A and Clan B met. He went through a lot of Clan Mc-this and sept clan of Mac-that but pretty much came down to it that our families had more ties than we thought. And don’t even get me started on the WW2 and Australian part!
Not saying we’re distant cousins or blood related, but our families have been good friends through the ages -at least on my mom’s side. And here we are, just by chance, met at a technical college on a whim we spoke to one another and he was gracious enough to put up with me. I mean, if that doesn’t R Lee Ermey scream FATE in your face, I don’t know what fuckin’ does.
Just thought I’d share my Black Friday Genealogy lesson….
In the Summer of 2004, just after signing his name away to the RAF, he stepped into a small tattoo parlor in the sleepy eyed town of Portee. Plopping down onto the stool he handed the older man the money he had been saving for the deed, tilting his head to point to the smooth skin just behind the right hinge of his jaw, on the firm muscle beneath his ear with a smile on his face, “Make it a roman four.”
An old Italian gentleman lived alone in New Jersey . He wanted to plant his annual tomato garden, but it was very difficult work, as the ground was hard. His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison. The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:
Dear Vincent, I am feeling pretty sad because it looks like I won’t be able to plant my tomato garden this year. I’m just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. I know if you were here my troubles would be over. I know you would be happy to dig the plot for me, like in the old days. Love, Papa
A few days later he received a letter from his son.
Dear Papa, Don’t dig up that garden. That’ s where the bodies are buried. Love, Vinnie
At 4 a.m. The next morning, FBI agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area without finding any bodies. They apologized to the old man and left. That same day the old man received another letter from his son.
Dear Papa, Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now. That’s the best I could do under the circumstances. Love you, Vinnie
And this is why New Jersey is the best
AND EVERYONE SAYS NEW JERSEY SUCKS.
THIS IS WHAT WE FUCKING DO.
That was creepy and funny at the same time.
So awesome omg
Awww! Seriously, I wish I had family like this.