Silence

Tomorrow I won't post, comment or read blogs. I'm participating in the Day of Silence partly because I think there is nothing more to add about the shootings at Virginia Tech. I see this effort as a candlelight vigil in cyberspace.

I am also sad that so little attention is paid to the US soldiers who die daily in a questionable war. Little attention is paid to the civilians, including university students, also killed in that conflict. And then Darfur. I'll never forget talking to a relative last year about my dad's activism around Darfur (he wears one of those Not on My Watch green wrist bands) and she looked at me blankly.

"Darfur?" I repeated. Still no response.

"It's in Africa? [Please know Africa I'm thinking] There's a genocide going on."

"Oh." Is all she said.

The organizers of the Day of Silence acknowledge that there is little recognition of those "other" deaths. I am in no way diminishing the horror and tragedy of April 9, 2007 but simply trying to put it in context.

There is too much killing going on.

Rare

My boys created these posters last summer so

"when the President drives by he'll stop all the fighting".

This is part of the Weekly Photo hunters.

Click to find other hunters.

James Joyce Ramble

There are some really amazing things about this little suburban town we live in.

One is the annual James Joyce Ramble. It is a 10K road race run every year through our town. And while that doesn't seem like a big deal there are several things that make it special.

The first is the costumed folks, including a set of identical twins, who read Joyce throughout the race course. I kid you not. The race's logo is "Where prose greets the road". One year my kids and I stood and listened to someone read from Ulysess in the rain while people ran by us.



Then the more important reason is every year they dedicate the race to journalists who risk their lives to seek the truth. This year the race is run:

... on behalf of Anna Politkovskaya, the Russian journalist who was shot dead in October of 2006 in the elevator of her apartment block in central Moscow. On the day of her murder, Politkovskaya had planned to file a lengthy story on torture practices believed to be used by Chechen security detachments loyal to pro-Moscow state officials.

(both photo and Politkovshaya description were taken from the Ramble web site.)

Several years ago the race was run in honor of Daniel Pearl, the Wall Street Journal reporter who was brutally murdered. I was cryptically talking about him over the boys' heads earlier this month in the local coffee shop. I wasn't cryptic enough.

"What happened to that reporter you were talking about?"

So I started in on a lengthy discussion of religious intolerance and how he was murdered in part because he was Jewish.

"But how did they kill him?"

"They did."

"But how?"

"They used a knife and hurt him so that his body didn't work any more."

There was no way in hell I was going to explain a beheading to my 6 1/2 year old boys. They are just too young.

"But HOW?"

"You know what? This is one of those times that the information is too complicated for you to understand. I have given you enough."

And he started talking about the upcoming soccer game.

So this is a pretty special road race if it can generate that type of conversation. Over a maple oatmeal scone.

Who ARE you people?

O.k. Fess up.

I have a solid group of regular commenters. Some of you have even started off-line, or off-blog, conversations with me. I am very lucky to count each of you as an ally in life.

But then, there is the rest of you. Some days 40 or 50 more of you. Who are you?

Why do I know you are here person reading in Golden, Colorado or you in Athens (Greece, not Georgia) or even you in Kolonnowa, Sri Lanka? Because I've installed Google Analytics which shows maps of where you are from, how often you visit my site, and what pages you visit. Don't panic, I don't know who you are - that is why I'm asking.

But the funniest part is how you all are finding me. Google Analytics shows the blogs you come from (and a big thank you to all who include me in your lists) and the keywords you enter that lead you to here. The following are just a few of the phrases entered into Google search and this blog came up:

• how to dress like a "soccer mom" (I hoped you figured out this wasn't the site for that because I don't want to be known as a soccer mom nor do I have any sense of style worth emulating)
• my 6 year old is suddenly misbehaving (suddenly? yours only just STARTED? Please tell me your secret!)
• backyardigans "pink thing" (I couldn't agree more. I love Uniqua but what is she?)
• fool singing (yes, I know. Thank you)
• boy j*^king off to mom (What? WHAT!?!? GROSS! YOU EVEN THINK THAT??)

There was something even more disgusting which I won't describe. Whoever you were, I hope you get some therapy. Seriously.

So who are you? Just reply once. I promise I won't bother you. Unless you invite me over to your cyber-playspace. Which would be lovely.

Enough said (or drawn)

And what does the little cartoonist say in the bottom right corner?

Going to give the back alley a second look.

Gee... me?

I've been secretly admiring (alright, coveting) the Thinking Bloggers that everyone else seems to have. And then, one of the most thoughtful bloggers out there (seriously, he has three of these) has bestowed one upon me.

So, this is actually a double honor. A Thinking Blogger from Gunfighter.



Gee.

Thank you for associating a thought with this blog.

Now, my job is to thoughtfully bestow this honor to the blogs I admire. Some of my favorites already have one (or more than three) so you'll have to just know in your hearts or via telepathy that I admire you.

Nuren Xintan - it means Heart to Heart Talk in Mandarin and perfectly captures both Jenn's photography, writing and research. She is a Fulbright Scholar based in Nanjing. She is interviewing women about their work. Or as she writes: “how rapid economic development and reemerging traditional cultural beliefs are currently affecting women’s work.” But I'm addicted to her photography. She has images that have stayed with me. She has an incredible eye and composes photographs just beautifully. Plus, she doesn't edit her images. Which makes her even more incredible.

Something to say; about life in the Netherlands - [I'm cheating here and using parts of a previous write-up] Jenn lives the ex-pat life in Holland with her husband and three children and sees life from the glass is really full perspective. Jenn is truly one of the kindest and most pleasant people I've met, ever - in person or via the Internet. I don't mean that as an insult and her concern about people's perceptions of her life has stayed with me for days. I take it as a challenge to be a tad less bitter.

Jodifur - While she masquerades as the classic "mommy" blog, Jodi is actually a firecracker and techno wiz. Her site has inspired me to be a better blogger (which means I'm still pitiful - don't blame her for my site). She also works an incredibly difficult job which makes her humor, love of wine, and joy in parenting all the sweeter.

The Ambassador Returns - Aside from being funny, talented and really, really smart, Ken is living in New Orleans. It is a great American city that deserves and needs to be rebuilt. If the US could rebuild Europe under the Marshall Plan after WWII and is rebuilding (snort) Iraq now, then we should be able to rebuild New Orleans. Ken writes about that, about being an HIV+ gay man and what it all means today.

Following Lingling as she gives lymphoma a beatdown - this is a nomination that doesn't expect any effort on the recipients' part. I have been amazed at the poetry describing exhaustion, the honest descriptions of fear and what if. This is blog that celebrates life while honestly chronicling treatment, recovery and hope.

So if you haven't visited these folks, click on over. They make me think and hopefully you will too. Plus, see who makes the top four think. And just show Leeanne and Daniel some love.

Love

Dear daughter,

Words are completely inadequate to capture you. Joy doesn't fully describe how you bound into a room and make everyone fall in love with you. Passion doesn't convey the range of your emotions - one minute you are hugging and kissing with all the strength you can muster while another you are shoving an older brother with such force you send him across a room.

Beauty is a weak set of six letters next to you. You are beyond beautiful on the inside and stunningly so on the outside. People touch your hair in wondrous awe. People smile as you say "Nice to meet cha, ma'am." They marvel at your deep, blue eyes and clear pale skin. You are a Botticelli cherub personified.

You love food. Since you were a baby you have eaten more than your older twin brothers, combined. You used to sing to your food. Now you just take charge of your hunger. There are times when I find you, sitting on the kitchen floor eating chicken nuggets from the freezer because I am not moving fast enough. Yet even at almost three years old you have the patience to bake, to wait for each ingredient and to find something to do while the cookies are in the oven.

Generally that something involves music. You cannot help yourself. You dance. You sing. You make up songs. I've watched you going down the stairs as if you are Gabriella from High School Musical singing that ridiculously emotive song when she thinks she's jilted. Much to the delight of more than a few people at church you get up on the Great Hall stage and throw your arms out wide as you offer another song. And you will actually get up from a plate of food to dance. The look on your face when you first heard The Blind Boys of Alabama's version of Stevie Wonder's Higher Ground was one of awe. You were incredulous that anything could sound this amazing. So you danced.

Sometimes I get to be your dance partner. Other times you order me to clap as your audience. Whatever my role, it is an honor to be your mom.

Now you are three years old.

Happy Birthday, Love.

Steps

The steps in a former mill, now used for offices.

Check out more Photo Hunters.

Birthday CD

We have a birthday party this weekend. Four little girls, a big sister and some parents will descend upon our home for dancing, reading Jemima Puddle-Duck by Beatrix Potter and decorating shrinky dink necklaces of Peter Rabbit characters.

The little lady is turning three years old on Monday.

In keeping with our family's tradition, here is the list of songs from her Birthday CD along with a few explanations. We're giving these out as party favors on Saturday. I can't stand the expectation of plastic and candy goodie bags at parties. Instead, we share songs that the birthday kid(s) have enjoyed over the previous year.

1. The Tide is High - Blondie - she may not know the song very well, but it is her favorite article of clothing.
2. La Enganadora - Orquesta de Enrique Jorrin
3. Because We Can - Fatboy Slim - otherwise known as the Clown Song because it was the music the clowns danced to at the circus last year. Why does she know it?
4. Drive My Car - Elmo (channelling the Beatles)
5. I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For - Marva Wright
6. Catch that Train! - Dan Zanes and Friends
7. Time Passages - Al Stewart
8. Always - Erasure
9. Girls Just Want to Have Fun - Cyndi Lauper
10. Walk Along the River - Laurie Berkner Band - this song was requested non-stop during Little Lady's first trip to New Orleans, April 2006.
11. Higher Ground - The Blind Boys of Alabama - she's incapable of hearing this and not dancing
12. We are the Dinosaurs - Laurie Berkner Band
13. The 12 Yats of Christmas - Benny Grunch and the Bunch
14. Jemima Puddle-Duck - written by Beatrix Potter and read by Ewan McGregor

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl.

****

And the last of the interviews is in! Please visit Jenn in Holland for her response to my queries. Jenn is truly one of the kindest and most pleasant people I've met, ever - in person or via the Internet. I don't mean that as an insult (she's recently written about, well, some folks rather snide comments about her perfect, happy life. Could that be directed to the jealous, bitter moi?). She lives the ex-pat life in Holland with her three children (I LOVE a mother of three) and just sees life from the glass is really full perspective. There are not enough Jenn's in the world.

Plus, she wrote a gushing comment on my dear friend's blog. ANYONE who writes gushing comments to my Ambassador gets nothing but adoration from me. Hint, hint.

Just jump in the puddles

Talking about it

Yesterday the boys saw an image on the computer of police running.

"What's going on?" one of them asked

"There was a fire at a college." I blatantly lied.

***

This morning, when a fuller picture was known of what happened yesterday at Virginia Tech, we had to tell the boys the truth. They interact with other kids during the day and while we don't let them watch or listen to the news, we have no idea what will be said. We wanted to control their first hearing about this tragic event.

"Guys, I need to tell you something really sad. Yesterday I didn't tell you what was actually happening at that college. There was a shooting. One student killed a lot of other students. I didn't want to tell you yesterday because we wanted to have a better understanding of what happened."

"What happened to the shooter?"

"He killed himself."

"How?"

"With his gun."

"Did he do this?" and they both pointed their first fingers at their faces.

"The news hasn't said but probably something like that."

Then they ran away.

***

A half hour later we were all dressed for yet another rainy day. Suddenly, the little girl started singing the I love you, You love me song by an irritating, purple dinosaur. Then the boys joined in. Over and over again. First they sang together. Then they paired up. Little sister sang once with each brother. Even the brothers sang it once to each other. One guy brought me into it. Each rendition required a perfectly placed kiss on the lips.

At first I was irritated. I can't stand that show. Then, slowly, light dawned. It was comfort. Comfort in a scary world. Because we are a great big family.

They're so unusual

While putting on their coats in the lobby of a museum, my boys starting singing.

But I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you

The staff member sitting at the ticket desk actually stood up in disbelief. Twin redheaded boys singing Cyndi Lauper? In harmony?

"Yes." I assured her "they are singing Cyndi Lauper".

"That's what I thought!" she beamed.

So far away from me - Special Saturday edition

So two Kiwis and two Tongans pull up in a truck.

Seriously, this isn't a joke.

Two guys from New Zealand and another two from that South Pacific island nation picked up my husband and took him to yet another rugby match. I would not mind if it was a few hours to play and then come back to be a fellow co-parent. But no. There is this lovely tradition of the "drink-up" in which after the bloodletting the teams bond over beer. So European. So being in your 20's.

I took the kids the one mile into our town center for a mid-morning snack at the locally owned coffee shop. The boys were on their bikes while little lady walked her "tubby bear" in its stroller. I told the boys how to handle a particularly big hill but otherwise didn't give them any instruction. And when I couldn't see them I wasn't worried since they always wait at the next big street for me to help them cross.

They had always waited. Until today.

Today they decided to keep going. And going. I got to the intersection. No boys. I'm trying to get a nearly 3-year-old to hustle and she's getting tired. I turn the big corner. Still no boys. Now she's starting to cry from exhaustion. I tried carrying her and run but still no boys. Over 10 minutes pass as I run and she stumbles.

We get to the center of town and the local bank has set up a table to finger print your kids in case they go missing. I fly by it. I'm seething because if there were two parents one would have the 6 1/2 years olds while the other had the younger one.

The entire time I'm hoping they will be waiting for me on the bench outside the coffee shop. I turn the corner and they are not there.

I fly into the coffee shop and tossed my daughter to a neighbor. My little lady doesn't really know her but I need to find the boys. I throw a $10 and tell her to buy my daughter anything to calm her down as she screams while I literally run out.

I run past all these people holding signs for the seven candidates running in a special election for state representative. I run past the police station and see one of my guys carefully looking both ways as he crosses the street with the other one not far behind.

"Where WERE you?!?"

Said by him. Yes, him.

We all talked about how to handle being separated, how far is too far, and reviewed crossing streets. Then after scones and water, I helped them get back on their bikes and watched them ride off to a dead end road with an agreement that I would meet them shortly. Then I rejoined my little lady for the rest of my latte.

And later we stopped by the bank table to make finger prints.

***

Another set of questions were answered! Alex Elliot, who is a fellow UU, took the plunge (couldn't resist. Be sure to read her answers to #1 and #5 ). I find her blog one of the funniest, and most affirming, around. She pokes fun at herself and manages to make me (and I hope others) feel like we are all in this together. And I keep trying to rig, err schedule, a meeting near her house since we are both citizens of the Commonwealth.

Real Moms - Special Friday Post

Jodifur and Flexible Parenting tagged me with this one a while ago:

Here are the rules, put up a post "Real Moms [insert what you do here]", followed by an explanation, a picture and a "Real Moms. Making ....". Then tag five people.


Real Moms aren't afraid to let their kids grow up.

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they do not belong to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
Not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are set forth...

from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran


Real Moms. Making adults.

Originally I wasn't going to tag anyone and but now I challenge one man to start a new one. Gunfighter - what is a Real Dad?

***

And lucky me! I have gotten to interview a slew of people. Thanks for the chance to improve my hard-hitting journalism skills! Please visit to see what queries I inflicted on them.

The smart and compassionate Jodifur replied to my questions today. She's one of those folks I wished lived near me. I want her in my bookgroup (and not just because she'll bring awesome wine).

And a new reader, Jamie, also posted her responses today. Check her out. She is in an esteemed and honorable club - the mom of three kids club.

Another example of bad parenting

I'm the first person to admit I don't deserve any parenting awards. I try not to damage my children too much but know I've made mistakes along the way.

However, there is one group of parents that I cannot, cannot stand. These are the folks that take their children's activities so seriously they resort to violence.

Several years ago one hockey dad beat another hockey dad to death. Last month it was reported that a hockey dad punched and kicked a 10-year-old kid for accidentally hitting his son with a glove. The kid apparently apologized but words were still exchanged between the kids. That's when the dad jumped in and beat up this other kid.

Let me repeat myself.

That is when the dad jumped in and beat up this other kid.

I'm completely at a loss to understand parents who have so little self-control that they feel they need to hit another person. I do not get these parents who are so wrapped up in their kids' activities that a loss or missed opportunity is somehow a reflection of the adult's skills or identity.

Having just shelled out nearly $50 per each boy for new soccer gear, I can understand that feeling of I-bought-it-for-you-now-use-it. But that is the only understanding I'll offer. If a parent cannot separate his/her child's successes or defeats from his/her own then they either need therapy or to stop attending all games and practices. Or let the kid quit and take up crochet.

When I last checked that wasn't competitive.

***

Another friend of mine, Jenn at Nuren Xintan (which roughly means Heart to Heart Talk), has submitted her responses to my questions. While you are visiting, look at her daily photos from her life in China. Her images are just stunning. I start my day checking out what latest gem she has shared with the world. Maybe you can too.

Check back tomorrow for a special Friday post to see who else is answering questions from me.

Friendship

I am indeed lucky.

I've gotten back from a late night (well, late for me) with a group of people who are wonderful. Some are folks I've known since they were babies (really) and some I've known less than a year. Some are older (but cooler) than me and some were born in (gulp) the mid 1980's. But all were people who either I have cared about deeply or wanted to get to know and got to over a few hours in a bar.

And then, there is a friend of 15 years who I would like you all to read, bookmark, and basically bring into your lives. I'm big on sharing friends. I am thrilled when people I know hit it off and have friendships independent of me. Really. So bond with each other.

The Ambassador was the first to ask for interview questions. Please read what I asked him and how he responded. Then he went on to post again in the same day about how we met. He forgot to mention the day care center named after the adult movie star or the medal we saw for that star's, err, acting prowess. The Ambassador hasn't written in nearly a year and now writes two posts in one day.

But please, add his blog to your list. His is a story we need to follow. New Orleans is a city we all need to care about. I love my Ambassador. I think you will too.

Interview

I've been watching interview questions make the rounds of my favorite blogs. I shamelessly waited until Gunfighter posted his responses to pounce at the chance to ask him to interview me. And here is what happened:

1. You have settled you're accentlessness, and we know that you weren't born in the Bahstin... er, Boston area, so... where are you from? and how did your parents come to settle in the area you are in now?, and why did you stay there?

I was born in Lexington, Kentucky to a mom from Louisiana and a dad from Virginia. My dad has his Masters in Hospital Administration and came to Boston to be part of the merger of two hospitals. My parents fell in love with the town they moved to when I was two years old and I am grateful. There was a wonderful Unitarian Universalist congregation, strong public schools with music and drama programs, and public transportation to cool urban places.

I went to college in New York state, spent a summer teaching in South Central Los Angeles and then taught in New Orleans in the early 1990's through Teach for America. While there I realized that health care access was my (initial) passion and I wanted to live in a part of the country that valued government's role in helping people. So I came back to the Boston area for graduate school and knew I was settling here.

And a really cute guy followed me from New Orleans. We've been married for over 11 years.

2. Your husband plays rugby. Do you go to the games? Have you ever had the inclination to find a women's team to play on? Do you think you will encourage your kids to play rugby?

O.k. So that really cute guy can be a tad irritating too. He discovered rugby in his late 30's. I have gone to exactly three games in the nearly three years he's played. It has just been too complicated with three little kids.

I have also had absolutely no inclination to find a women's team to play on. None. Zip. Zero. I like having my ears.

The boys were in an instructional league last summer. They were the youngest by 3 years. It was a bit painful to watch. Not that they were being hurt - it was just that they wanted the older kids to acknowledge them and they got as much recognition as gnats.

3. Are you a good cook? What is your signature dish? What is your favorite comfort food?


[Pause.... can't breath..... wait.....]


I've stopped laughing now. No one would ever in a million years put my name and good cook in the same sentence. I'm actually one of those folks that eats to live, not lives to eat. Which is sad since my husband can recall the exact ingredients in meals he had years ago. He actually wept over a plate of risotto in Italy. I am not wired to have food send me over the edge like that.

My favorite comfort foods are gin and tonics, a big bowl of cereal with cold skim milk and pasta. Not all together.

4. What are you passionate about?

My children. The world is a better place because they are a part of this global society.

5. Do you have any tattoos?

No. Really. I'm not saying that because my parents and aunt read this (Hi!). I sat with a friend while she got one in Santa Monica (see #1 about teaching in Los Angeles) and that pretty much turned me off.

6. How do you want to be remembered?

As a mother who worked for a just society. I tried to have my children think beyond themselves and I worked for organizations that shared my values.

****

Thank you GF for the questions. I had to think for a while.

Would you like me to interview you? Just leave me a comment with your email address and I'll send you some questions.

Blind Boys of Alabama

What better way to spend the Saturday before Easter than at a Blind Boys of Alabama concert? Founded in the late 1930's at the Alabama Institute for the Negro Blind, it is now the Alabama Institute for the Deaf and Blind. And Buster Baxtor recently visited it on the terrific PBS show Postcards from Buster.

My honey and I took the boys to the concert hall of a local music college. One of our little men started clapping literally during the 3rd bar of the first gospel song. He couldn't help himself. The other one just couldn't stop moving. Music goes through both of them.

However, there was an adult in the row behind us who had no rhythm.

None. Whatsoever.

His mistimed claps were even throwing off my kids. They would look back at him in disbelief, as if something was something terribly wrong with him. And to two boys who can sing Ladysmith Black Mambazo, Erasure and parochial school songs, there was something wrong with him.

But we focused (it was hard) and let the music in. And these elderly blind men talked about the need for world peace and an end to the wars in the Middle East.

Amen.

New Yorker covers

I've been teased for trying to explain the weekly New Yorker covers to my kids. Problem is, they see something and want to understand it. And will nag you until they understand it.

Recently, one of my sons told me that a kindergarten classmate plans to join the Army when he grows up so he can fight in the war. "I sure hope the war is over by the time you two are grown ups" I commented.

It is with that backdrop that this New Yorker cover (above) was particularly tough.

I explained to the boys that our country has a duty to help those who are in the military, especially those who are hurt. Regardless of how we feel about the war, we owe it to them to take care of them. I told my 6 1/2-year-olds about the recent controversies surrounding Walter Reed Medical Center (and yes, the link is to a "fake" news broadcast because Stewart's outrage just captures the gross, horrid absurdity. This administration is for the troops - my a**).

The son with the future soldier as a classmate was quiet for a while then said,

"I hope they fix the army hospital so it can take good care of my friend."

"Honey, I hope that if your friend goes to war, he doesn't get hurt and need that hospital."

Flowers from a friend

I left my job last week. I'm taking this week off before starting my new job to do some long-ignored chores and get my teeth cleaned. Don't worry. I won't be sharing photos.

When leaving a job, it is amazing how attached I become to people. There are people I saw every day, more often than some of my family, and now - poof - I won't see them. There are the guys at Starbucks who gave me and my boys free tickets to a Revolutions game (how's that for service with a latte?), the colleagues who put up with me and the students who let me into their lives and listened to my tales of social change. I think a couple believed me.

One guy I'll really miss is the day security guard. I think he is a Vietnam Vet, not that he talked much about himself. Accept for fishing. He would talk about fishing even as you backed into the elevator. One day he mentioned taking his family on a long car ride and we all gossiped about it for days. "He has kids! And a wife!" He did tell me what last year's Christmas presents were for the grandchildren. He was very generous.

Last year he ended up in the hospital. No one heard any news so I figured out where he was and called. I eventually got a nurse and she (appropriately) asked me who I was. "Ahhh... a colleague?" "Nice try," was the response.

She did tell me that he would be in long enough to receive a card from our office. That's all I needed to know.

So last week I handed him a small card to say thank you for all of his help, kind words and reassuring presence. And I gave him a big bear hug.

Later in the morning he walked into my office with a bouquet of flowers. He gave me another hug and had tears in his eyes. I filled up too.

When I ran out of the office to get my lunch some young kid was sitting in the security guard's chair.

"Where is he?"

"He called me this morning saying he wasn't feeling well. It's not like him."

Get well my friend. I'll come back to visit.

On the Radio

No, I didn't pull a Donna Summers (although that would be fun at karaoke wouldn't it?).

For those of you interested in either 1) hearing if I really have a Boston accent or 2) hearing me wax about immunizations, feel free to listen to Kristen Chase's Motherhood Uncensored BlogTalk Radio Show.

And seriously, is there anything this woman can't do?

Uh....oh....

Dan Wasserman can do no wrong.

Bah-stin accent

Someone wondered, after watching the first 10 minutes of The Departed (he fell asleep) if I have a Boston accent. I don't.

First, an explanation for those of you unfamiliar with Boston, or Bah-stin, accents. A few of my observations:

1. R's are routinely dropped from words, particularly with the letter A. So car becomes cah, park becomes pahk and carpenter become cahpentah.
2. What happens to all those abandoned R's? They are added to the end of words that don't have R's in them, again involving the letter A. Therefore Lisa becomes Liser and pizza becomes pizzer.
3. And my personal favorite, you cannot tell the difference between a grizzly bear and an ice cold beer to drink. Both are pronounced beh-ya.

So, try your hand at a Bah-stin accent. Repeat after me:

Liser and I were driving the cah to pick up a pizzer and beh-ya when we saw a cahpentah being chased by a beh-ya.

My Southern born and bred parents moved from Lexington, Kentucky to the Boston-area when I was one year old. All research indicates that children develop their accents from their peer groups. That is why a child of immigrants can often speak English without an accent.

In third grade I came home to excitedly tell mom my class was going on a field trip.

"We're going on a field trip to Bah-stin!"

She remained facing the kitchen sink. Her back was to me. "Where?" she said, emphasizing the R.

"Bah-stin."

WheRe?" she repeated, without turning around.

"Boston?" I asked, meekly.

Only then did she turn around, bent down to point a finger at me and declared, "No child of mine will have a Boston accent."

Yes, ma'am. And that is how my mother single-handily thwarted the influence of my peers.

And I am grateful.

Pissing into the Wind

[I'm playing somewhere else today. Read this terrific post and at the bottom find where I am.]

Here's a Link

I was originally going to call this post pissing up a rope, but Mr. Q said he had never heard of the term. Maybe it's not a flat-lander phrase; there's lots of things, apparently, that we each missed out on, what with me having been raised [as all should] in the mountains, and he in the prairies.

But I digress. Neither one of these terms - pissing into the wind nor pissing up a rope - completely describes what I'm going for, but it's the closest thing to the fact that for the past year I have been chronically and unsuccessfully pissing on a stick. [see link above for an example of the stick in question] [And, normally, I would not choose the term "pissing" but use it only for consistency in what is, really, a bad analogy to begin with. But you'll forgive me]

It has now been one year since I took my last little pink oral contraceptive pill and absolutely nothing profound has come of it. But, that's not the problem. Within the past 12 months, my skin has reverted back to it's old, bad self, my presumed pill-weight hasn't gone away, I am [apparently] a teeny wee bit moodier and I have only had 2 partial and guilt-ridden alcoholic beverages. Generally, it sucks.

I'm not upset about the not being pregnant part [okay, only sometimes. just a little during my apparent "moody" phases] since it takes a lot of people a lot longer. Really and truly, I am okay with that. There are those people for whom it doesn't take as long [and I may, occasionally, experience the irrational urge to slap them]. I am upset, though, that I haven't had a beer. The few times that I can, I am almost always on call for work [like this weekend] and, being the lush low-tolerance type that I am, can't freely imbibe. For that alone, I will accept sympathy.

But, I now must come to terms with visiting my doctor in the fall. She heaved a big "finally" last year when I indicated that yes, I was going off the pill with the intent to become pregnant. Now, we'll see what she says when I go in this year, not pregnant. I'm honestly not sure if she's the type who will send me/us for tests right away or have us wait a little longer.

I've decided that tests are all very well and good, but as long as nothing is putting me in harm or does not involve an extremely easy, quick fix, then it ends with the testing. I don't think I'm into any serious fertility stuff. I say that now. We'll see.

Any tests that she orders would at least [hopefully] mean that there would be a conclusion of some sort. And then, at least, we'd know. And then, at least, I could have a beer.

Jenn is posting here today as part of the Blog Exchange. This is one of her favourite posts, originally written August 1, 2005. By the end of September of that year, she was pregnant and the rest is now all history. Read about it, and check out Allison's favourite post, at Quarter Rest.