Adam and Eve

About a year ago I sent dna into both FTDNA and Ancestry.com. The results were very similar, as they should be, but there is a striking difference a year on: the Ancestry results are changing!

I found the original FTDNA map and it’s the same as today’s:

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Of course I couldn’t find the original Ancestry map, but trust me… it’s different.

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NOW I have Greek/Italian ancestors, albeit not many. And a smidgen of Jewish!  I figure that’s Adam and Eve. Yes, Ancestry is just that good; they’ve traced my origins to the beginning of time.

Give them another year and I’ll be Pocahontas’ freaking cousin.  How does that work?  I know they figure in people’s ancestors who are related to me via DNA, but are they taking for granted ALL their predecessors are mine?

Owl Creek*

Badger hates having her picture taken. She thinks it steals her soul or something, so if she knows the camera is pointed at her it’s a full snark situation.

Here she almost can’t believe the thing is after her again.

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I think you can judge this expression for yourself:

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And she’s such a sweet, happy girl otherwise.  Oh, well.

Daisy, on the other hand, could care less. Or she doesn’t have the brain power to realize what is transpiring.

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*No idea; just wanted to write it.

I Don’t Have a Playlist for Thursdays

I do for Tuesdays.

The man is working on something. A cooler; I don’t know. He’s doing something with fiberglass.

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I love his hands. That is all.

Daisy on the sofa. Just because she’s so damn cute.

 

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And I threw a big ‘ol clove of garlic into a pot and it put down roots. We’ll see what happens next.

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That’s basically my day. Must return to cleaning now. Ta!

 

Monday Morning

No,  it’s not a sitrep sort of thing. Well, kind of.

I continued to work on the hedge this weekend. Well, Sunday.  All that’s left is the lily bed and to plant more ivy.

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Hi there!

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Hope you all like looking at me as much as I like looking at you. Which is not at all. That huge green wall made so much difference. Like it was my own secret garden.

Well, with dog shit.

Nothing’s perfect.

I hate living on a postage stamp.