Relative Distance

13 October

Penn’s email spam filter being what it is, it’s not at all surprising when a message with the subject “Distant Relative” sneaks through. With a last name like mine I get a fair number of these. This one seemed unusual because it mentioned my maiden name, but spammers are a clever lot and Penn still sometimes lists me as I used to be called. So into the trash the message went, unread.

Until Jack sent me an email later in the day: Some guy called, claiming to be distantly related to me, who wanted information on me to complete a family tree. Fuck that. I dug the message out of the trash and saw that he was starting an email list of supposed relatives. So I wrote, “Please leave me out of this.”

That wasn’t good enough for this guy. He wrote back, begging for an explanation. Because this is my work address, I told him, and I don’t have time to be on any more email lists.

That wasn’t good enough either. He wanted to meet me and Jack, to stage a family reunion in Philly next year, and he wanted information about me.

Creepy.

I figured I’d just ignore the whole thing. But, as I walked down the hall to finish my DNA prep, I realized that this would be the perfect opportunity for an all-out snark-fest. While I worked I began composing a profile I could blog but never send.

So let’s have at it, shall we?


*****

I am a far-left liberal, atheist, feminist, environmentalist, vegetarian, child-free freak.

I don’t kiss ass. I don’t pull punches.

I don’t do girly. I don’t carry a purse. I don’t wear makeup.

I don’t do Facebook. I don’t do reunions. I don’t do baby showers. I don’t do babies. I’d rather swallow rat poison than inflict my genome on another generation.

I have a PhD but I’m not a PhD. I am a glorified technician. I can kill a mouse with my bare hands.

I believe in marriage equality, LGBT equality, the right to die as one chooses, a living wage, a tax on greenhouse gas producers, and the right to do whatever I want with my uterus.

I am the Conservation Chair for the New Jersey Chapter of the Sierra Club. I helped stop two highways and a Wal-Mart, and because of this many mayors hate me. I am writing a beginner’s guide to land use and open space preservation in New Jersey.

I am a road cyclist. I climb hills because I like the view from the top. I lead rides for the Princeton Free Wheelers. I am a Hill Slug. I suck at mountain biking.

I write a blog for my friends.

I make jewelry too funky to wear.

I commute to work by train. I don’t like driving.

The first nineteen years of my life are not public information.

I have a cat called Cleio, a cat called Burnaby, and a blind spot called Fido. I have a bike called Kermit, a bike called Grover, and a bike called Gonzo. I am called Our Lady of Perpetual Headwinds.

I am weird.

I hang around academics who are smarter than I am, athletes who are stronger than I am, and activists who are more experienced than I am.

I am a coffee snob but not a caffeine addict. I don’t like eggplant. I belong to an organic farm. I don’t like cooking. I like candy and big salads. I only eat the tops of muffins. I like soft pretzels.

I like Surrealist art. I don’t like paintings of naked angels.

I am a pacifist.

I am cynical and sarcastic.

I’m built like a well-padded tank with boobs. I lift weights. I’m too big to be a pixie and too wide to be lanky. So I’m tough instead.

I’m not the nurturing sort. I am impatient with people. I don’t tolerate drama.

I think the worst thing one person can do to another is to break a bond of trust.

I don’t like SUV’s.

I am a dead branch on the family tree. A blackened, fungus-infected, fetid, suppurating branch. Now leave me alone.