First of all, he's adopted. And even if he weren't, he's like my grandmother's cousin's daughter's son, and thus only slightly more related to me than any other Jewish kid with Eastern European grandparents. I'm not even sure of his last name because we're so not related that my family doesn't even talk about them behind their backs.
That being said, I wanted my cousin.
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He's of Italian descent but was raised Jewish. This makes him something of a sheep in wolf's clothing. The only time I met him before this fateful Rosh Hashanah visit was when he was passing through New York with his girlfriend. But later on, at my grandparents' house in Toronto, the girlfriend was nowhere to be seen, and as soon as he saw me we stared at each other longer than acceptable by any family's standards. He invited me out with his friends that night and, already sloshed on red wine, I didn't care where we went as long as I got to spend more time with him. The Case For Cousin Marriage (Hey, Darwin Did It)
As soon as we got to the bar, he apologized for the party being so lame compared to what I must be used to living in New York City (thank you Sex and the City). Nodding in agreement, I didn't mention the Friday nights I spend watching the box set. 5 Things To Blame On Sex And The City
He introduced me to his friends as Michelle. Not his cousin Michelle; just Michelle. But as soon as this fairly hot girl came by, he introduced me as "his cousin." Competition—fine. I was talking to his friends anyway. The hot girl asked him how we were related. "We're not really," he said.
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"So you could get married?"
I looked at him. "Yes," he said.