**First, I must make perfectly clear that the story I am about to share had absolutely nothing to do with our decision to adopt from Asian countries. Nothing. I AM being serious about this.**
Okay, all seriousness may or may not end at this point, but the tale is true either way.
Many years ago now, McHusband’s maternal aunt and one of his maternal uncles decided they must, just m-u-s-t have Native American blood coursing through their veins. They loved many things Native American: dream catchers, carved wood art, Kickapoo Nation pow wows held on the uncle’s property, part of which he donated to the local Kickapoo, and the buffalo burgers made from the uncle’s buffalo and sold at the pow wows.
Ahem. Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just telling you what I saw.
Due to their affinity for certain aspects of Native American culture, and the fact that they were born and raised right on top of historically Native American soil, they just knew that somewhere in their ancestry someone had a name consisting of an adjective and a woodland creature.* So, this being the late 90s (hey, it was at the time I think, maybe the early 2000s, but what’s a year or two in either direction?), they did what all people wanting to verify their heritage would do, and they went for DNA testing.
After waiting on tenter hooks for I don’t remember how long, the results came in and there was not, is not, nor ever will be, a drop of Native American blood pumping steadily and rhythmically through their bodies. I suppose if they met up with a willing party at the pow wow they could do that whole blood brother/sister thing kids used to do before AIDS came along, and then there would be a drop, but that’s a stretch. Anyway, there is however Asian blood. And lots of Eastern European blood.
As my mother-in-law so deftly stated, “I guess when the Huns invaded Europe, a Mongol boinked a Russian, and here we are.”
Being who I am, I wasted no time in pointing out to my husband that this could explain why he is
short not particularly tall, and relatively hairless. I mean, he has hair, don’t get me wrong, it’s just that he doesn’t have to shave that often and, should his razors ever be stolen by a band of vagrant marauders, he would still never ever get the lead in an off-Broadway production of Grizzly Adams without some serious help from the makeup and costuming folks and, perhaps, a donor Wookie. On the up side, he never has to have his chest waxed, which is a great relief to him because he neither wants to be hairy chested nor a metrosexual.
A few months after this startling revelation about the alleged intercountry boinking which ultimately led to McHusband’s very existence, we were visiting my grandparents and McH realized he hadn’t brought along any pajama pants. With a house crammed full of various relatives, modest night clothes were a must. So I dutifully ran out (and I am such a snob that I can’t believe I am admitting this publicly) to the local K Mart to see if I could find my husband some cheap pajamas.
As I perused the selection of Joe Boxer lounge pants (wasn’t Joe Boxer a cool brand? how did it wind up in K Mart?) I stumbled across a navy blue pair littered with fat, pasty sumo wrestlers.
You have all pretty much clued in a long time ago to the fact that, though I don’t try to be intentionally offensive, I really don’t buy into the whole political correctness thing, right? Right.
So the trip to the store where I never shop was made so worth it when I returned to my grandparents’ house, sumo Joe Boxers in hand, to say, “Here you go, I found some pajamas to help you embrace your heritage.”
“Har de har har” was his general response, but he wore them.
Ever since then it has been one of our things — you know, one of those quirky things between a couple that nobody else gets or even realizes is going on — that I only buy him pajama pants when I stumble across ones with some sort of Asian theme (or Superman, but that is an entirely different “thing”).
And everything I have told you up to this point is just back story to explain that this year, while I was Christmas shopping, I hit the pajama jack pot. Seriously! Have I mentioned before that McH’s paternal line is French (please don’t hate him for it)? Actually, they are French Canadian, and technically they originally came from Belgium, so I guess they’re not exactly French (which technically means you can’t exactly hate him), but they were all French speaking, and our last name is tres French (or at least tres French Canadian), so it’s easier to say his people were French.
ANYWAY, this year while not really looking for McHusband pajamas, I stumbled across a pair of lounge pants decorated with very Asian looking dragons and very French looking fleurs-de-lis.
One pair of pajamas to celebrate both the teeny tiny bit of Asian blood running through his veins and the huge globs of French blood that undoubtedly turn tail and run to the far reaches of his body any time they see those microscopic Hun drops. How discombobulating that must be!
And George, if you’re out there, Tewt the Newt says bonjour!
*I ran this line by a friend of mine who is part Cherokee. He said some people may be really, really offended by it. I said some people will be really, really offended by anything because that is just how they choose to be, so I’m not catering to them; but I did want to know if he found it offensive since I know he doesn’t walk around looking for opportunities to be offended. He said he did, actually, find it a tiny bit offensive. I told him I’d take it out. He told me not to, that it was still good. So, if you are offended on behalf of Native Americans everywhere, all I have to say it this: What about the French and the poor, dead Wookie?