Monday, 11 August 2014

Special Guest - Oleander Plume

It is my utter pleasure and delight to welcome a darling of the Twitter world, the awesome rock chick, Ms Oleander Plume is in the Brit Babe's house! Take it away Oli...

First of all, I want to give a big old thank you hug to all the Brit Babes for giving this crazy American the honor of being a guest blogger today. (I wore my Union Jack knickers while I wrote this, just for extra flair.)

Starting from a very young age, I've always wanted to be British.

I think my obsession started in the sixth grade, when I became addicted to watching reruns of Monty Python and Dr. Who on PBS. The humor, the characters, the delicious British accents - oh, I had it bad. I started using phrases like "Bloody hell!" and "What say we have a spot of tea?" This vexed my mother to no end, which only added to the appeal. By the time I reached the age of 12, I could mimic an almost perfect English accent.

Flash forward to the age of 14. I was languishing in eighth grade study hall, minding my own business, when a "friend" decided it would be fun to tell me I was adopted. I thought she was kidding, until I confronted my mother a few days later, and she tearfully confessed that it was true, I had been adopted at birth. Honestly, the revelation didn't really shock me all that much since I had always been the proverbial square peg. Not only that, I didn't even remotely resemble anyone in my family.

It took awhile for the news to sink in, but once my brain properly wrapped itself around the concept, the fantasies began. I was adopted! Holy crap, I could be related to anyone! I could even be, gasp, BRITISH!!! My mind reeled with the possibilities of who my parental units could be. For some reason, I fixated on a father figure. After days of careful pondering, my 14 year old mind came up with only one possibility.

Mick Jagger.

Yes, Mick Jagger, lead singer of the Stones. And why not? He was pasty, I was pasty. He had pouty lips, I had pouty lips. He was in a famous rock band, I liked to listen to rock music. Plus, he was a male bimbo who slept around a lot. Bam, rock star daddy. Besides spending hours perfecting my accent, I started writing letters to the aging rock god.

"Dear Mr. Jagger,

Sorry to barge in on your life, but I think that I might be your biological daughter..."

"Dear Mick,

Are you my daddy?"

"Hey Pops,

You might want to start building a nice trust fund for me."

Of course, the letters were never finished, or mailed. As I got older, the fantasy of having a rock star father fell by the wayside. But my British obsession did not. I had become so proficient at the accent, I could actually trick people into believing I really was from "across the pond."

Case in point: I was sixteen, and my friend Joy's cousin was staying with her family for the summer. His name was Sean, he had big brown eyes, longish hair, and, thanks to Joy, the notion that I was from England. We met, we hit it off, and I spent the next two weeks faking an accent. Keeping up the charade was exhausting, so I finally fessed up. Sean didn't take it well. Apparently, an American Oleander was far less interesting than a British Oleander, so that budding romance came to a screeching halt.

Even now as an adult, I still fake an accent from time to time, mainly to amuse my kids, and occasionally to throw off a telemarketer. My obsession with the UK faded into more of a fondness, until about a year ago.

Being adopted meant I had no clue about my ethnic background. Of course, due to my pale skin and slightly auburn hair, I knew that most likely I wasn't Asian, or African, or Egyptian. Then something amazing happened. I received a DNA test kit as a gift. All I had to do was spit in a tube, send it back to the lab, and in 6 - 8 weeks, I would know my heritage.

After what seemed like an eternity, my results finally arrived. According to the lab, I was 97% "Northern European." With quivering fingers I quickly pulled up a map on Google. And there it was, like an old friend. England. The UK. The Mother Land. (Okay, Sweden, Finland and a few other countries were part of the map, too, but who cares?)

British. I was finally British. Bloody hell and all that. By the way, I'm saving up for a trip to your lovely country. I want to gaze upon Big Ben. I want to visit Stonehenge. I want to ride a double decker bus. I want to get arrested by a Bobby. But most of all, I want to pay a visit to a certain man.

Mick Jagger, I've got a DNA test with your name on it, so be ready.

Daddy.


Dontcha just love her ?! Thank you Oleander, or should I say, Miss Jagger :D
Here's some lovely links - check out Oleander's blog for some of the hottest erotic short stories ever x x x
https://twitter.com/OleanderPlume
http://oleanderplume.blogspot.co.uk/




4 comments:

  1. This blog is amazing Oleander - thank you for sharing so much of yourself here. Even though I had a lovely family, I used to dream of the day I would be told I was adopted - though Mick Jagger could not be in the running for pappa - too many impure thoughts about him ;)
    Thanks for coming over love x x x

    ReplyDelete
  2. Oleander you are simply fabulous darling and if you come to the UK we should definitely organise a party - perhaps we could dance around Stonehenge drinking Somerset cider, pulling party poppers and wearing plastic crowns! Lily x

    ReplyDelete
  3. Very fun. Good that you took your heritage in stride. I'm a Chicago lass myself, but have been known to slide into an inexplicable brogue when conversing with my older fam and Irish in-laws.

    Best of luck on the trust fund.
    Veronica :)

    ReplyDelete