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He didn't come-to
Jan. 7th, 2008 11:24 amFor as long as I can remember, I've held on to the belief that I am primarily Norwegian and English, with a bit of Irish and Cherokee thrown in. It explains my height, fairly decent complexion, and my dark hair. I spent a lot of my youth focusing on the English aspect of my heritage, obsessing about all things British before growing tired of it all. Don't get me wrong--I'm still proud of being English, but I just don't get excited about fish and chips and Minding the Gap and writing favouite instead of favorite. For me, it got to be a bit put on. Still, I willingly explored that portion of my heritage deeper than any other. This is partially enabled by the fact that my paternal grandmother is still alive (she's the Brit) and also because I've been to see the family twice (I was a bridesmaid in a second-cousin's wedding the second time). Even when an even furtherly-distant cousin compiled a family history of the Thompson clan (little more detail on that coming up), I simply chose to hold on to the English roots, discarding all others.
In the last few years, I've latched on to my maternal heritage: my mother's mother was (so I thought) from Norway; her father's family hailed from Ireland. I entertained all sorts of fantasies of how an Irish fellow might court a younger Norwegian lass, and got lost in those thoughts. Imagine my disappointment when, over Christmas, my mother told me how she and her sister and brother had spent an evening going through their parents' papers (their mother outlived her husband by a few years and died in late 1993) and found out that we aren't half-blooded Norwegians. We're Dutch. And Norwegian. And, my great-grandparents met in Philadelphia and married at Christ Church. There's some story about how Great Granddad de Vries ran away from home at 12 and joined the Norwegian navy, before eventually making port in Philadelphia and never going back east. It involves plank-walking and pirate-knives, and seems far-fetched, but it's fantastic all the same. I recovered from my initial disappointment and started thinking about trips to Netherlands and Norway (ha!). I mean, my mother and her siblings have addresses of where grandparents and family once lived. It might be interesting to travel over there and wander around the streets.
And I was all for pursuing this idea of researching my family history until my redneck past caught up to me. My father sent me a video with the explanation that his father's people hailed from Arkadelphia. As in Arkansas. As in: Does Not Want. And I had to admit that I knew this all along--that Arwillie Thompson, some relation or another to Leonard, my paternal grandfather, had, in fact, labored over the Thompson family tree, tracing our roots through the Midwest and South all the way back some centuries earlier to a Baron von Something-or-other in Germany.
While that all doesn't seem to be too big of a deal, you haven't yet seen the video. And the video? It's about a woman that gives CPR to a chicken. And that woman? She represents Arkadelphia, AR. I watched the video and immediately emailed my father and mother begging for them to confess I was adopted. Or, at the very least, LIE and tell me I was adopted. Because that gene pool? That gene pool is a large part of why I do not want children.
Or chickens.
Watch the video here. The quality's not the best, save for the shot of BooBoo on the beach, but then again, that's Arkadelphia.
In the last few years, I've latched on to my maternal heritage: my mother's mother was (so I thought) from Norway; her father's family hailed from Ireland. I entertained all sorts of fantasies of how an Irish fellow might court a younger Norwegian lass, and got lost in those thoughts. Imagine my disappointment when, over Christmas, my mother told me how she and her sister and brother had spent an evening going through their parents' papers (their mother outlived her husband by a few years and died in late 1993) and found out that we aren't half-blooded Norwegians. We're Dutch. And Norwegian. And, my great-grandparents met in Philadelphia and married at Christ Church. There's some story about how Great Granddad de Vries ran away from home at 12 and joined the Norwegian navy, before eventually making port in Philadelphia and never going back east. It involves plank-walking and pirate-knives, and seems far-fetched, but it's fantastic all the same. I recovered from my initial disappointment and started thinking about trips to Netherlands and Norway (ha!). I mean, my mother and her siblings have addresses of where grandparents and family once lived. It might be interesting to travel over there and wander around the streets.
And I was all for pursuing this idea of researching my family history until my redneck past caught up to me. My father sent me a video with the explanation that his father's people hailed from Arkadelphia. As in Arkansas. As in: Does Not Want. And I had to admit that I knew this all along--that Arwillie Thompson, some relation or another to Leonard, my paternal grandfather, had, in fact, labored over the Thompson family tree, tracing our roots through the Midwest and South all the way back some centuries earlier to a Baron von Something-or-other in Germany.
While that all doesn't seem to be too big of a deal, you haven't yet seen the video. And the video? It's about a woman that gives CPR to a chicken. And that woman? She represents Arkadelphia, AR. I watched the video and immediately emailed my father and mother begging for them to confess I was adopted. Or, at the very least, LIE and tell me I was adopted. Because that gene pool? That gene pool is a large part of why I do not want children.
Or chickens.
Watch the video here. The quality's not the best, save for the shot of BooBoo on the beach, but then again, that's Arkadelphia.
Weird dream this morning, as I drifted awake. I was at my old-old work (Roger and the gang), but my old-old work was housed in my new work, minus all the furniture. Anyway, I was wearing some sort of bizarre undergarment--a bra that came up to my chin--and running around in my undies trying to find my keys. Roger stopped me and said, "I've got to go home. I left one of my watches at home and I can't go on without having it here..." So, I started to cry as I told him, "My plumbing is leaking, I can't find my keys or my ID, my husband is leaving me, my car is somewhere in West Philly and I have to bike there to get it, but then I have no place to carry my bike, I've got no sink, and....." I went on and on with all my woes. Meanwhile, Roger went home, got his watch, returned, and looked at me disdainfully before taking off his shoes.
Then, the doorbell buzzed and I let in Watler (intentional misspelling; you'd understand if you'd been there), repeated my woe to him, and then begged him to give me a ride to West Philly so I could get the car (which, incidentally, wasn't the Ghia but rather some sort of atrocious Mini-limo, if that makes ANY sense). Watler said, "I don't drive, so I'm sorry," then fixed the broken laptop on my lap (because now I'm sitting? I don't know...).
I'm still in my undies when Seneca walks by (not this guy--an ex-coworker), and I collapse into a ball, trying to hide my undied-self. Then, I wake up.
Then, the doorbell buzzed and I let in Watler (intentional misspelling; you'd understand if you'd been there), repeated my woe to him, and then begged him to give me a ride to West Philly so I could get the car (which, incidentally, wasn't the Ghia but rather some sort of atrocious Mini-limo, if that makes ANY sense). Watler said, "I don't drive, so I'm sorry," then fixed the broken laptop on my lap (because now I'm sitting? I don't know...).
I'm still in my undies when Seneca walks by (not this guy--an ex-coworker), and I collapse into a ball, trying to hide my undied-self. Then, I wake up.
Dear Miss Angela,
The cookies were good. I ate them all at the Snyder Station. I walked past a German Shepherd at SPHigh and couldn't figure out why he was barking and whining at me through the fence. It wasn't until I saw the cop at the station that I got a little paranoid.
Anyways, I only ate one. They're awfully chocolate-y!
Sleep-sleep-sleepily,
Diva Sqrl.
(this message was typed in Word to facilitate editing)
The cookies were good. I ate them all at the Snyder Station. I walked past a German Shepherd at SPHigh and couldn't figure out why he was barking and whining at me through the fence. It wasn't until I saw the cop at the station that I got a little paranoid.
Anyways, I only ate one. They're awfully chocolate-y!
Sleep-sleep-sleepily,
Diva Sqrl.
(this message was typed in Word to facilitate editing)
what's not good
Dec. 8th, 2006 03:16 pmPhone calls that start out with "I'm okay, but..." are never good.
Mike was in a bike accident. His one bike, the only bike he had left, is probably trashed. I'm nearing the end of my tolerance for all this fan-shitting.
Mike was in a bike accident. His one bike, the only bike he had left, is probably trashed. I'm nearing the end of my tolerance for all this fan-shitting.
You can't be neutral
Nov. 20th, 2006 12:34 pmSunday morning, we went to church for the first time in 10 years.
Mike fixed his MC last week, a fit of inspiration after my list of negatives. This morning, his clutch cable snapped as he headed to school. He'll be making some emergency repairs at 22nd and Carpenter tonight--leaving the bike overnight is inviting trouble.
I've got bike grease on my hands, fingers and wrists. I mostly don't care, having spent 15 minutes first wrestling with the stupid Presta and the tire pump before heading out to Chestnut Hill for Rx cat food. Man, that's a tough ride when your body's loudly contesting the weekend's activities.
I need more wine in my diet.
Mike fixed his MC last week, a fit of inspiration after my list of negatives. This morning, his clutch cable snapped as he headed to school. He'll be making some emergency repairs at 22nd and Carpenter tonight--leaving the bike overnight is inviting trouble.
I've got bike grease on my hands, fingers and wrists. I mostly don't care, having spent 15 minutes first wrestling with the stupid Presta and the tire pump before heading out to Chestnut Hill for Rx cat food. Man, that's a tough ride when your body's loudly contesting the weekend's activities.
I need more wine in my diet.
