DNA results are in...

... and the most important thing you need to know is this: Matt is more Neanderthal than me.

My DNA contains 246 Neanderthal variants, more than 15 percent of 23andMe’s 1 million-plus customers, and my husband’s contains 259, more than 25 percent of customers.

“You are less Neanderthal than Matthew,” my online report states, bolding, this time, not mine.  I printed this part of the report and plan to frame it.

Sixty-thousand years ago, interbreeding between modern humans and knuckle draggers like Matt’s ancestors led to 4 percent Neanderthal DNA existing in certain populations today, according to 23andMe.

“Everyone living outside of Africa today has a small amount of Neanderthal in them, carried as a living relic of these ancient encounters,” according to National Geographic. “A team of scientists comparing the full genomes of the two species concluded that most Europeans and Asians have between 1 to 4 percent Neanderthal DNA.”

Bragging rights aside, the confirmed superiority of my bloodline is important thanks to Matt himself, who set himself up for deep disappointment and shame after we shared a recent dinner out with Kelsey.

This was post-purchasing the 23andMe kits but pre-spitting, and Kelsey proved almost as giddy about the prospects as Matt and I were.

“We’ll have an ethnicity reveal party like people have gender reveal parties,” she said as we strolled back to her house. “You give me the test results, and I’ll go buy little flags.”

And then Matt turned to me.

“You’re going to break their system,” he said. “They’re going to be, like, ‘This is the most Neanderthal person we’ve ever seen.”

Later, on the ride home: “Oh, you better hope you’re not more Neanderthal than me.”

(I know these quotes to be accurate because I make mental and written notes of many of the stupid stuff my family members say. As a journalist, it’s essentially, like, my job to do so. Plus, I read them back to Matt, and he said, “I said that? That’s funny!” And laughed.)

The morning of July 28, I received an email announcing my DNA results were viewable via my online account. Matt had already left for work, but I compared my results with his, revealed the night before. I snapped a photo of the most important bit, and promptly dispatched a text to the gang.

Matt responded first.

Matt: “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!”

Jackie: “Very cool! Any surprises in the results?”

Matt: “Only that I’m somehow, in ways unimaginable by me, more caveman than Megan.”

I guess, if you think about it, another mildly important component of the reports and their comparison is the fact that I’m not my husband’s long-lost cousin – or sister (We don’t share any identical DNA segments). So that’s good news too.

Christmas -- 365 days a year

I noticed the lights within the first few weeks of moving to Cupertino. Then a gradual realization affirmed itself each time I walked my dog: Every fifth house in our new neighborhood featured a single strand of holiday lights dangling above the ubiquitous two-car garage door. And all the bulbs on all the icicles remained unlit whether I walked Wolfie during the day or well after dark. 

That first observation took place in early January. Yes, the winter holiday season had come and gone, but the festive spirit lingered, I surmised.

By February, our potty walk route had expanded, and we now passed a two-story split level showcasing a holiday wreath affixed to a gable.

Just a bunch of lazy folks who can’t be bothered to pack it all away, I thought. 

In March, I noted a 6-foot plastic pine prominently displayed in the bay window of a gray neo-eclectic.

Yikes, I thought. Someone ought to buy these folks a calendar. 

And then April. May, June. The lights and holiday decorations remained in place. 

Who are these people? I needed to know. Did the lights and décor signify Christmas or New Year’s or Kwanzaa or the Chinese New Year, or were my neighbors celebrating some kind of year-round holiday I knew nothing about? 

In July, the 1,800-square-foot midcentury across the street sold for $1.8 million. Did the sale price include the 2-foot plastic candy canes in the front yard? I wondered.

I broached the subject when conversation lulled at the neighborhood National Night Out potluck.

“I noticed every fifth house in this neighborhood has Christmas lights hanging above the garage,” I said. “Is that a ‘thing?’” 

“No, that’s not a ‘thing,’” said Mary Anne, the cardiac nurse. Her house, I knew, was strand-less, but her quick dismissal had me puzzled: What was she hiding?

I pointed out the offenders to Matt as we walked Wolfie together, to Kelsey as we rollerbladed and to my mom as we strolled to a nearby restaurant. They smiled politely, but seemed thankful when I stopped counting aloud. 

What Mom and Matt knew (and Kelsey would surely surmise) is I’m a Scrooge-ist when it comes to Christmas, the holiday most commonly associated with light strands. I resent the pressure, the hurry-up-and-purchase-expensive-junk-nobody-in-my-family-actually-needs mentality. I promptly vacate any shop that pipes Christmas tunes over the P.A. system. 

“Buy! Buy! Buy!” Mariah and Elvis and Ol’ Blue Eyes seem to chant. 

The slightest ding of a silver bell or mere coupling of red and green on any day of the year other than December 25 instantly splits the shirt on my back and turns my skin a shade of split pea soup. I like my seasons segregated -- so I can fully enjoy each one separately – and I don’t appreciate Christmas’ encroaching on my fall – or my summer. No occasion is special if it’s celebrated 365 days a year.

So yes, this blatant disregard for poor August vexes me to no end, and I will do my utmost to bring this disturbing trend to light (Ha, pun!) and save still-strandless neighborhoods like yours. Starting with this blog post.