Chromosome 16

I've been meek as a lamb lately. So meek, in fact, I've barely recognized myself. As all you loyal blog-followers already know, since I got sick I've been working on improving some personality traits which I've deemed less than desirable. I think I've made some progress; heck, I'm sure I've made some progress. But apparently there are certain truisms about my psyche which are as immutable as the laws of physics. I'm sure all of you know the old maxim that redheads all have fiery tempers. In 1997 scientists discovered what causes redheadedness on a cellular level. People with red hair have two copies of a recessive gene on Chromosome 16 which causes a mutation in the MC1R protein. This means that in order to be blessed with the rarest of hair colors (only 1% to 2% of worldwide human population), both parents must be carriers. Sheesh...doesn't that sound like we're discussing a disease? The question to ponder is whether the same genetic anomaly that makes someone a carrot-top also leaves him with a propensity to be a walking volcano. Not possible, you say? Consider: people with Down Syndrome have a plethora of problems with which to deal, not only their obvious intellectual disability. There are the characteristic facial features and often heart defects and other health problems. The syndrome is caused by extra genetic material from chromosome 21. So obviously any change in one's normal genetic make-up can be responsible for more than one distinct physical and/or psychological trait. Of course, this is all a long, drawn-out, convenient excuse for me going totally ballistic over a parking spot on 13th Avenue in Boro Park last night.

The details aren't important. Indeed, I might even have been wr-r-r-ong (that's usually when someone says "the details aren't important"). Suffice it to say that the other guy referred to me as a particular orifice which appears south of the border on one's body. I, of course, took umbrage, and I hardly ever take umbrage unless it's just laying around and nobody else wants it. I'm proud to say that I came up with several different, somewhat colorful ways with which to question said neanderthal's manhood faster than you can say "get out of my face, you fat, ugly punk!". Things escalated of course, until we were standing in the gutter yelling profanities at each other loud enough to disturb the eternal slumber of the denizens of nearby Washington Cemetery. But here's the worst part: Babby* was with me. We were going to Kosher Delight for an "I only gained half a pound at Weight Watchers tonight after pigging out two nights in a row at two separate Chanukah parties this week" celebration. I was kind of hoping two things: one, that her hearing would be bad enough so that she couldn't hear her beloved middle child sounding like Richard Pryor on steroids, and two, that her memory (or rather lack thereof) would prevent her from bringing up this disgraceful fiasco over our sino-steak sandwiches. No such luck. On both counts. So even though I can truthfully state that all my soul-searching and self-improvement resolutions have not been for nought, I apparently have more work to do. But if I ever fly off the handle in your presence,

please remember: it ain't my fault...it's my genetics.

* Babby=Grandma. Meaning my mom. One of her proudest moments, no doubt.