Natalie Zed: Defying Gravity

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Let's start with the eyebrows

I know I still have catching up to do, with Bokfest and camping and many other things to be recounted, but let's start with this.

My brother, the awesomest brother ever, lives in Calgary now. Since he's moved to the city, the most common exclamation uttered (other than "Shut your filthy mouth!" and "There's motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!") when we aere in the same room together is "You two look so much alike!" Neither of us had really considered this until it was pointed out to us so frequently, but when we really compared features (especially now that I have my commando, please-grow-out-soon hair), we had to admit there was a very similar combination of Mihailovsky-Walschots genes working us over something fierce.

I look alot like both of my parents, and I will be declared the "spitting image" of either one of them depending on whom I am standing near at the time. I have my dad's hair and viking colouring, his butt chin and his propensity to say absolutely ridiculous shit with little to no provocation. I have my mother's general facial construction, her laugh, and her mania towards keeping my house sanitized and filled with the aroma of things baking. I have two different feet, one from each side of the family.

There are, however, some aberrations. There are some things about my, physical or chemical in nature, that seem to have no genetic source the I can puzzle out. Mutations, if you'd like. Here are a few of my particularly interesting deformities that I'd dearly like to know the origins of.

1) The Ankles. I have two huge, bony, independant sets of ankle bones on each foot. This would be fine if it just looked wierd -- I could earn some pocket money charging two bits a gander. However, it also makes wearing any shoes that might be described a cute a painful ordeal that invarialy ends with me asking a passer-by, bus driver, or waiter in Thai Sa-On for a bandaid.

2) The Nose. My mother has an adorable little nose. My dad has a honker (or, as he describes it, "a little pug nose"), but it is a completely different shape. I, however, have this schnozz that confounds logic. It's probably an unfortunate result of too many genes colliding.

3) The Height. Walschotses are tall people. Most of my aunts are very tall, lanky women, and my great uncles are almost uniformly over 6 feet. My dad felt like the short one in the family becase he's "only" 5'11". My mom is petite, but notably taller than me, and my Mima was taller still when she was still at her full height. I was a big baby, always at the top of my growth percentile. When I was in kindergarten, I was the biggest kid in my class. I clearly remember my pediatrician telling my parents that I might be as tall as 6 feet when I grew up. Maybe I would be a model like my aunt.
Then, something magical happened. I turned twelve or thirteen, hit the tiniest and saddest little spurt of puberty ever recorded, and stopped growing. Stopped. Growing. All those genes suddenly deserted me, popping any hope of an adulthood with long delicate limbs. Having angered the Gods of Tallness through some unremembered offense, I am doomed to be short girl with short legs who can never find pants that fit and who will get carded trying to see an R-rated movie on her 27th birthday.

4) The Teeth. My dad claims he had teeth like me in his youth. He'd be wrong, see, because his teeth are straight. I spend a good five formative years looking like a vampite when I smiled. For a pasty kid with glasses who read a lot, adding vampire teeth into the equation did not help.
They've straightened as I got older, mostly due to the fact I had my wisdom teeth ripped out of my skull which opened up some gum real estate, but I still have weird crooked teeth. If I don't pay attention when I smile, they still get caught on my lips in a way that says "I never"

5) The Gastro-Intestinal System. There have been some guesses, some hypotheses thrown out there as to why I am so cruelly afflicted. My mom has hinted at a similar affliction in her younger days, but always qualifies this with the ominous qualifier "but never like that." My dad, of course, thinks it's hilarious. I can remember him just killing himself with laughter when his five-year-old daughter could regularly break the toilet and he, a large full-grown man, never managed to. I don't know who's genetic code is responsible for this, but I am not amused. I just want to be able to eat cheese and poop like a normal person. To be able to use a public restroom and not come back to the table in a panic, asking my table companions to settle the bill quickly before any staff realize what is taking place in the ladies room. And to not have conversations through the bathroom door with my husband that to any eavesdropper would sound like he was trying to remove a bullet from my leg like the Doc on Deadwood. I pray this is indeed a mutation, because the thought of my future children suffering such bowel disruption wakes me up at night.

Enjoy your normal-ankled, small-nosed, tall-personed, straight-teethed, poop-filled lives, fuckers.
Natalie Zed updated @ 2:17 p.m.!!