The Joy of Genes

In every family it never fails that a child will pick up a habit or carry a trait that everyone notices right away. She got his eyes, her demeanor, Uncle Stan's weird grin, or grandpas knack for cooking. Every now and then a child may pick up a very disturbing habit that might make his or her family ask, “where did we go wrong?” Take for instance Piero Manzoni--(his real name is Count Holy Too Much Name To Spell Batman; considering his name is led by Count, I imagine he had a noble upbringing) this man is known as the grandfather of shit art. Yep, that's right ya'll...poop. I imagine his parents, leading their prestigious lives must have been quite thrilled when they realized their boy was following in the footsteps such names as Monet, Michelangelo, or Rembrandt and were tickled to share his work with their other noble friends. Until one day it went horribly wrong and they were mortified to see their artist son collect some 90 cans of poo to use in the form of art. I've no doubt that if they were still alive at the time, they argued at great length about who's side of the family that came from. Honestly, who wants to admit something like that came from their side? “Ohh, yes...I remember Cousin Bubba collecting his snot balls...that's probably where he gets this.” Unlikely.

(Thank all that is holy that is now out of the way, I've been dying to use poop art guy in some writing and really, how often does that fit into a conversation or a story any normal person would write? It was just one of those weird things I picked up somewhere along the way that stayed with me. I've got a bunch of them people, all waiting to be thrown into some odd sequence of words; the knack for storing useless information comes from my dad if anyone is wondering. I also got my colorful potty mouth from my dad. Family influence isn't always a pretty thing.)

Sometimes, I think a gene gets confused and throws us all a curve ball.

Other times, things tend to stay right on course...in some cases that is a wonderful thing. In others, well, wonderful wouldn't be the word to use. Poo guy could have come by his disgusting flair as a result of a confused gene or Uncle Bubba. The story that follows, well, it shows my side of 'coming by it honestly'.

Those of you who have spent any time at all with me are quite aware that grace and agility are words that a person will never use to describe me. Clumsy, klutzy, and “OH MY GOD SHE FELL AGAIN”, yes...grace...not in this lifetime. I remember a time after one of my finer moments, I said to a girlfriend, “you'd think with all of the gymnastics and dance and cheerleading in my younger days that I'd at least carry myself with something resembling balance.” She responded, “just think though, if you hadn't had those lessons, you might have killed yourself by now.” She had a point.

She'd be proud to know that just the other day I was on the phone with a dear friend while I was paying bills. As I sat in my desk chair, I leaned over to grab some envelopes. They were just out of reach and instead of getting off of my bum to grab them I leaned further. As luck would have it, I toppled the chair with me in it. On the way down I crushed my arm between the chair and the desk and as a result have a lovely new bruise to add to my collection. I will add that there was a certain amount of grace to the fall, as I avoided head injury and managed to remained seated, as if everyone works on their back. Trust me, when you injure yourself as frequently as I do you tend to hold onto the smallest of victories as if you just reached the top of Everest. If ever you see me without a bruise, chances are I've been strapped down in a padded room somewhere. Or I'm dead and had one hell of a make up artist.

If ever I doubt that my clumsiness is something that was bestowed upon me by genes, I will need only to spend a day with my mothers side of the family to be reminded.
My family reunion occurred a few weeks ago. I hadn't been to one in a few years, so I threw in the towel and jumped in the car with my immediate family and we drove our happy behinds 40 miles to join in the festivities. We sang songs...Do You Know the Muffin Man, 99 Bottles of Beer, etc; we played I Spy, and How Many Cows can you take home (that was a horrible game...count as many cows as you can on your side of the road and who ever has the most at the end of the trip wins. The catch however was that all of your cows died if you passed a cemetery on your side of the road. My parents always drove past a cemetery that was laid out on both sides of the road right before we'd get home. Nobody EVER took cows home. Cruel.) Okay, that's a lie. We didn't sing or play games...we did what every well rounded family does, we argued, whined, and asked repeatedly are we there yet?

When we arrived at ground zero, my aunts and one of my uncles were already there. He came out to greet us sporting a fabulous black eye, swelling, stitches, and all. When asked what had happened we were told that he and my other uncle were horsing around the day before and were throwing logs back and forth and my Uncle Will swung a log just as my Uncle Bob stepped in and he ended up getting cracked in the face. Knowing my family, there was no reason to doubt this account of events. That's right, my family makes you think, yep, they've definitely been hitting each other with logs. I think that grants me the right to make fun of rednecks everywhere and not feel a shred of guilt.

We were told much later in the day though that that story was a big fat lie and that in reality my Uncle Bob had been walking along, sober as all get out and walked into a tree. Not only did he walk into a tree, he walked into it hard enough to require stitches. As this sunk in, we all knew this was even more likely than the horsing around tale and told him he should probably stick to the original story.

I'm sharing this so that the next time I do something stupid, I want whoever is with me to know that I never really had a chance. My family walks into trees. I probably am lucky to still be alive.