So I wrote a post this morning in which I told you I was almost Amish.
That part was right.
A few years ago I started researching my family’s genealogy. I’m especially interested in my Dad’s side of the family, because there wasn’t a lot of oral history passed down by my grandparents.
Using the information that I already had, coupled with documents I found through Ancesty.com, and research articles online, I’m 99 percent sure that my paternal grandfather was descended from the Swiss Brethren.
This means two things.
First, I almost spent my summers growing up eating Haystacks at Amish barn raisings.
The Swiss Brethren immigrated from Zurich, Switzerland to Alsace, France, then to the U.S. where they eventually started what are today’s Amish communities in Pennsylvania and Indiana. That’s interesting since I grew up near Shipshewana, IN which is probably the most famous Amish community outside of Lancaster, PA.
I am thankful my branch of the family opted out of bonnets and buggies, and into electricity and jeans.
But then for some reason I said that meant I was part Swedish. Being Swedish that explained my love for Ikea I reasoned.
Hmm…Swiss — Swedish. Two completely different nationalities, two completely different countries, and on a normal day I’m aware of that.
I really can’t explain my gross error, other than the fact that I wrote the post early this morning before the coffee kicked in, and I was in a hurry.
My error finally dawned on me at about 5 p.m. Then even though I was home alone except for the boys, my face flushed bright red and burned with embarrassment. I felt like I was in that dream where you’re back in Jr. High standing in the middle of the lunch room in your underwear.
Egg on your face doesn’t feel very good.
I unpublished the post, and tried to wipe it from my RSS feed, but as Ferb from Phineas and Ferb once said, “Time is fleeting, but the internet is forever.”
That’s the risk you take with blogging, making yourself look like an idiot in front of the entire world wide web.
It’s pretty humbling. Especially when I thought I was being so funny. No wonder nobody commented. They either went away as confused as I was, or they didn’t tell me what a moron I was out of pity.
Even though I’m not Swedish, maybe I should be because I do still want to take up residence inside an Ikea store.
As I said ealier…
It’s completely plausible.
They have all those cute little apartments set up in there already. There’s an on-site restaurant and playground. As long as they have showers in the employee locker rooms, I could happily enjoy the functionality, clean lines and beautiful colors of the Swedish aesthetic on a daily basis.
Now I am going to sit on my Ikea sofa, lick my wounds and dream of the long legs, pale blond hair, bright blue eyes and thin hips I would have if only I really were Swedish.