[An aside about my post title: I mean it in the most cordial of tones. I own that it did take a while before I embraced the common use of the eff-bomb in ordinary, everyday Massachusetts vernacular. Whereas I once thought Yankees had all the charm of a snake, after two years in residence up yonder, I see their affably blunt manner in a new light. Bostonians say fuck with aplomb, demonstrating at once both their status as a person of the world–a reckon-able force, I daresay–and their passionate candor. The Irish blood shows itself in their heightened color, irresistible sarcasm, and a retributive justice that lends a simple ardor to their storytelling (see also: Bill Burr). When I ponder migrating southbound again, it’s surprisingly this aspect of New England life that gives me pause more than any other. I’ve grown fond of telling it like it is, y’all. And so I wonder, would I be able to speak as bluntly in the honey-dripping, bless-your-heart Deep South? I fear not.]
I feel I owe you some deets after missing another blogging day yesterday. It is complicated, this 31-days-of-posts business. Let’s get on with it, shall we? I’ll begin by telling you that when I brought the kids home from school today, I stood in the kitchen for five minutes, “making out furiously with a jar of Nutella.” I blame Nate, who suggested I might eat more calories now that I am pseudo-training for a triathlon. Thanks, dear.
In my defense of the Nutella binge, allow me mention that winter has finally beaten me into a dazed submission. It started snowing while I was milling about the preschool hallway, and I cried actual tears on my friend’s shoulder while she patted my back. Me!, grown woman who does not cry (that would be my Native American name, I think). We are simpatico, these girls and me, and I feel lucky to have some best-good friends who understand the meltdowns of a transplanted southerner WHO JUST WANTS TO FEEL FUCKING WARMTH ON HER SKIN IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK.
This morning (I realize I’m going backward, but that’s how stream of consciousness works sometimes) an older lady in my neighborhood was wearing a plastic grocery bag on her hair while walking to her car. So this is still A Thing, this bag-over-the-hairdo thing?! I’d like to have a serious discussion with you about this sighting. I remember ladies doing this practice when I was a child, but somehow I thought the passage of a few decades would mean the extinction of such a behavior. The fact that it is alive and well means the following scary truth: Daughters of those ladies witnessed their mothers’ placement of the bag, laughed at them, and yet. Yet! Somewhere along the line these same women thought “This seems like a good idea” and started doing it too. I would like to go on record now to my future grown children that if I ever start wearing a plastic bag on my head, you have my permission to pull it the rest of the way down. Because, no.
In closing, I present to you a sweet picture of my kids huddling close to each other during the scary part of a movie (Cars, I think? I can’t imagine what scared them, haven’t sat down to watch it yet). Pay no mind to the clean but unfolded sheets under them on the chair.
