shouting hallelujah
Apparently there is a big Mason Dixon difference between what you tell whiny children. I had always heard, “You get what you get and you don’t care a bit,” which rhymed locally, obviously, but it seems in these parts it’s “You get what you get and you don’t get upset” which makes more sense when you don’t pronounce it git.
Just when I thought we were beginning to fit in…
- Did not get the clawfoot bathtub. The current landlord said he’ll work with us to put in tile for our current cave/marsh, though, and we’ll keep looking.
- Almost can’t be sad about the apartment falling through today because SOMEONE HAS BEEN WRITING FANTASY AT THE RECEPTION DESK. Best work discovery ever? The first lines: “Flashes of light zipped by her periphery. The motions resembled the Aurora Borialis if it were a gigantic all encompassing web strewn across the Earth.”
- My boss just laughed when I said I was eating barbecue lentils for lunch. “Wouldn’t they fall through the grill?” she asked. Silly New Englander. Grill ≠ barbecue.
It’s heartbreaking to stand, stomping your feet for warmth, and realize the approaching bus is running a sign that reads NO PASSENGERS.
beca:
Me: Shit. I don’t know how to drive in the snow and ice and all that scary stuff! Do you?
Sarah: Fuck no. That’s why I take the damn bus.
Me, too, Beca. Me, too.
New England, I love you.
It took my Southern husband and me a very long time to figure this out, and we’d only had one drink.
Take that, silly Mercer-sounds-like-MRSA New Englanders.
[via Jacqueline’s facebook]
2.17:
Now that it’s getting toward spring, it’s actually snowing more. Someone explain this to me, silly New Englanders.
So on Thursday, as you’ll recall, I motored on up to New Hampshire* to see my cousin Mike, his girlfriend, their baby, and my aunt and grandmother, who were visiting them. After the minimum of wrong turns, I arrived at Borders, where Mike immediately congratulated me. I couldn’t figure out why initially, till I realized it was for getting married—in May 2008. I, in turn, congratulated him on the birth of his son—likewise in May ‘08. Maybe it was a bit silly to drive so far for just part of an afternoon, but nice to see so much of the family, and to meet Peter, the little handsome fellow above.
*Incidentally, I can never get accustomed to how casual New Englanders are about state lines and state identities. I am a Floridian, a North Floridian, which means that in some ways I grew up in the South (unlike a kid hailing from Miami, for instance). We’ve asked several folks from Massachusetts what a resident of their state is called. They wrinkle their brows. “Masshole?” Usually they decide on “New Englander from Massachusetts.” Weird.
