My English cousin Angela and I are thick as thieves.  While technically distant second cousins, we bicker and banter like we’re brother and sister.  And even though we live in different countries, there’s absolutely no culture clash whatsoever.  We were obviously separated at birth.  We use the same kind of shampoo, for Chrissake.  Who needs NATO when you’ve got the two of us?

Angela is head nurse in a neo-natal unit.  She and her team of doctors save the lives of countless premature babies every day.  But that’s not the Angela I’m familiar with.  I’ve never seen her in action.  I’m sure it’s like an episode of “ER”, you know from the first few seasons when it was still good.  The Angela I’ve come to know and love is a class act, yet loves to swear like a sailor.  She also dotes on me hand and foot.  (Maybe she thinks I’m a sick newborn?)

She’s busty, brassy and speaks perfect Queen’s English.  She’s the only person I know who can wear a turtleneck and still show off cleavage.  She’s quick to call me her “stupid American cousin”, it seems almost fitting.  She can’t fathom how I’m always hungry.  She laughs every time I accidentally get in on the driver’s side of her car.  And she rarely plans anything when I’m over here because she knows I like to be spontaneous. 

She’ll stay up late with me and watch stupid British TV programming like “Big Brother” and “X Factor” and all those other shows America has ripped off over the years.  And since we’re fairly close in age, we like the same trashy pop songs from the ‘80’s.  And her life has changed for the better since I had her try one of my margaritas.  A first.  Tequila was like a foreign country to her … like Zimbabwe. 

She cackles endlessly when I do my impression of British people, which is a hybrid of the Queen, Monty Python, Simon Cowell and those chicks from “AbFab”.  The funny thing?  She cannot do an American impersonation to save her life.  She desperately tries to pronounce everything with a “HARD R” like Americans do.  She ends up sounding like she just had a mild stroke with a mouthful of turnips.  And I would know.

In the span of 10 minutes today she told me, “I wish you’d never leave.  Just stay here in England!”  That was followed up with “Bugger off, you mug and shut your gob … who asked you?” when I commented on my disdain for one of her favorite British pop groups.  (Seriously, I swear Bananarama had more talent than the group we were listening to … and they lip-synced everything.)

I love my cousin Angela.  She’s like the older sister I never wanted.