It must be in my blood

ah, before I launch into this tale, you must first know that it is not mine.

In fact, I wasn't even there when it happened.

I wasn't even born. (insert audience *gasp* here)

I heard this one from a family member over a nice meal at a nice restaurant in the french quarter. The best part being the the food was light years better than anything the school cafeteria had ever put out, and I didn't have to pay.

I love getting a meal at someone else's expense. I feel guilty as hell when the bill comes, but deep down I love getting treated to food. Make a note of that, any of you blog readers that want to get me a present for being awesome- free food rocks.

So, way back when, my relative, Jill, was playing around in the basement of her parents house.

A few things to note: My extended family is very Italian. Everything happens in the basement. They have a kitchen down there. They also have a kitchen on the first floor, but that one is more immaculate than a clean room. I don't think they have used the upstairs kitchen in eons.

Family Meal? Basement.
Entertaining Company? Basement.

Also, my great aunt wanted those floors spotless. You could perform open heart surgery on them they where so clean. Seriously.

I mean, you could be getting a glass of water, and spill some of the water on the floor and she'd be after you over the sticky spot on her floor. The water spill, however, would not be sticky if you took a towel and sorta wiped/spread the spill around. Then it was fine.

Never mind the fact that I have trouble trying to see water as sticky in the first place. But, she was right. Every time you spilled something, bam, she knew exactly where it was. She had developed some kind of synergy with the floor, it was less a floor and more an extension of her nerve network.

Anyway, so Jill was playing around, in her words, "Trying to kill a bug or something", when she managed to break the triangle shaped window from the basement to the garage. So, naturally, to try and hide the event from my great aunt, she tried to clean up the glass shards quickly.

However, being a wee little gal, she didn't quite do a fantastic job. This led my great uncle coming back and seeing a pile of glass and then sticking his head through the new triangle shaped hole in the door.

Great Uncle: "Why is there a pile of glass around the door?"

And he wasn't being sarcastic in the least. He honestly did not make the connection between the broken window and the pile of glass.

It would appear I've been cursed from birth.