Maybe I’m a Kardashian? Guess that’s the risk to one of these ancestry kits
I’m stuck writing this column at a stopped L.A. intersection, solid as a block of ice. Traffic isn’t just bad, it’s congestive. If this intersection were any sadder, Paul Simon would write a song about it. It’s just one of the ways this season can chew at your soul.
As usual, greed is to blame. What happens a lot in L.A. — or Chicago or Boston — is you let some sad sack in a Corolla into your lane and then discover that the idiot needs to get over one more lane, blocking you and 50 other angry drivers as he tries to merge.
Here in La La Land, any act of courtesy is quickly punished. Because I refuse to live in a place devoid of simple kindnesses, I try to give fellow drivers a break. I almost always regret it.
So here I am, scribbling my column on the knee of my Levi’s, the mall a distant dream. It’s working out pretty well (obviously), though I find myself pausing now and again to work on my Christmas list.
Over the years, I’ve discovered that gift-giving is a form of intimacy, a sign you’re paying attention to the wants and needs of your loved ones. This may explain why I am so lousy at it. Not only do I not know the wants and needs of my loved ones, I can seldom recall their actual names.
“Dear recipient,” my cards usually read. “I hope you like this fruitcake. It made me think of you.”
My sister, for all her faults, is excellent at gift-giving. I think it reveals a certain emotional IQ, and her deep respect for me. I’ve always been the smartest, least-successful sibling — a chronic disappointment, the blackest sheep in the flock. Fortunately, that stirs certain sympathies.
Last year, my sister gave me a collapsible tailgate grill, which I keep with me always. When I get stuck in traffic like this, I will often break it out to cook street food for strangers. At the car wash the other day, I made a very nice brisket — a little fatty, a little stringy, just how I like it. Gave it away like holiday alms.
This year, for my birthday, my sister sent me one of those kits that reveals your ancestry. There have always been great gaps in our family tree, missing limbs and signs of termites. I’m the son of a son of a sailor — that I already know. In fact, my great-grandma (on my mother’s side) was a Viking.
Back then, you couldn’t tell the women from the men; it was kind of a master race of unisex warriors bent on conquering Europe. When that didn’t completely work out, a rogue faction landed in New Jersey, where they maintained their Viking lifestyle while achieving great success in suburban real estate. Instead of Europe, they locked up vast stretches of farmland south of Trenton.
That’s about all I know of my ancestors. Now I’m eager to learn more.
All I have to do with this ancestry kit is spit into a tube without ingesting the stabilizing fluid they include. According to the instructions, this is not exactly something you’d want to sprinkle on your Cheerios. “Keep from skin, eyes and mouth,” the kit says. Worse than gluten, this stuff.
On a more positive note, what if it turns out I’m a long-lost Windsor? Or a Kennedy?
Assuming you survive the DNA collection process, you then mail it off to Utah, where they analyze it and send you the results.
You gotta love that in Utah, there’s a place where the townsfolk spend their workdays studying drool from all parts of the world, solving the jigsaw puzzles of our pasts. I picture 100 smiling Mormons in hazmat helmets.
Shakespeare insisted “the past is prologue,” but frankly this whole thing scares me. Wonder if your dad is not your real dad and your mom is not your real mom?
As with most tests, I am squeamish about the results. Instead of saliva, I might send them Champagne or two ounces of office party punch.
On a more positive note, what if it turns out I’m a long-lost Windsor? Or a Kennedy? Or the scion of some Arab oil czar?
Yikes, wonder if I’m a Kardashian? Just kill me, OK?
Or what if — fingers crossed — Paul McCartney is my real pops? I could be a Beatles baby (though probably Ringo).
All I can say is that it’d be nice to be rich for the holidays, or just be able to pay the mortgage without dipping into the college fund.
For one Christmas, it’d be nice not to give fruitcakes to my lovely fruitcakes.
To read the article in Spanish, click here
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