WHO AM I?

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Perhaps my question should be WHAT AM I?

I've wanted to take a DNA test for quite some time to see if it would confirm what I believed to be true about my ancestry––about 50% Norwegian and 50% German. 

Mother always made a big deal about being Norwegian because her mother came to the U.S. from Norway when she was 12 years old. Daddy's family was known to come from Germany––way back––although he laughed about being a "Polack" when I was in elementary school and Polack jokes were thought to be funny. 

I finally got around to ordering a kit a couple of months ago. So I spat into the receptacle and sent my slobber back.

The results surprised me, but fortunately not because I discovered that my mother had fertility treatments, the doctor is my father, and I have 10 million siblings (seriously, have you seen the Netflix documentary Our Father? It's insane. And that guy is not the only doctor who used his own sperm to impregnate women. Ah, here we go. Let's spank the monkey in my office and git her done while it's still nice and warm.). 

So here are my results:

Eastern Europe and Russia? Finland? And then Norway comes in at a paltry 15%? Mother would have said, That can't possibly be true. 

I once saw a shirt that said YOU CAN ALWAYS TELL A NORWEGIAN BUT YOU CAN'T TELL HIM ANYTHING. Mother was certainly Norwegian in that sense. 

I've done a bit of work on a family tree, but haven't had a lot of time to put into it. Perhaps I'll be able to research it more in the future to find out who these long-forgotten Russians and Finns are. 

I picture romantic assignations with Cossacks in their finery and a title somewhere. Instead of Janie Junebug, Queen of Grammar, perhaps I'm Slovenian royalty.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug a.k.a. Her Royal Highness The Duchess of Something Or Other