Let’s get this straight: I’ve spent almost all of my life living in New Hampshire, and the state that comes in second after that one is Massachusetts. So while I consider that my own accent is existant but mild, my ears are accustomed to your standard Boston, North Shore, Down East, etc. accents. I might even go so far as to describe some of them as quaint, charming or pleasant. They are certainly familiar.

But there is NOTHING that grates on my nerves more than the ridiculous habit of people to attach an ‘r’ sound to the end of a word where there should not be one. The most commonly offended words being ‘area’ and ‘idea’.

Which is why I was so very very sorry to hear John Kerry saying idear all over the place in his speeches.

But I’m willing to sacrifice my nerves to put up with it for four years, thank you.

ObLink: I was reminded I hadn’t ranted about this in a semi-permanent way by this amusing Slate article.

Last night, I decided I’d pick up a Boston Globe today. You know, since the Red Sox finally won and all. Me and every other person in New England.

I wasn’t able to roll myself out of bed as early as I’d hoped, but it was still before 9, so I thought I’d have a decent chance at scoring a copy. Ha ha ha! I first tried 7-11, where there were no papers of note remaining. Market Basket, same deal. Walgreens. By then it was 9, so I popped on over to Borders, where a small crowd had gathered outside of the doors. The woman unlocking the store sadly informed everyone that there were no papers; she speculated that either the truck had not come yet, or their shipment had been stolen from the sidewalk in front of the store.

Thwarted, I headed down to work. I considered stopping on the way at some of the gas stations situated just off Route 3, but I decided against it. Instead I took the long way around and pulled in to Barnes and Noble for a quick check. They had none, and so, disappointed, I rolled over to the intersection and waited glumly for the left arrow to turn green.

And as I waited, trying to work up enthusiasm for arriving at work, my eyes were caught by the passage of a green truck bearing the logo of the Boston Globe. I turned my head to follow its path and saw it turn into the Barnes and Noble parking lot. Then the light changed, and I had to go. But I did a U-turn at the next light and came right back up to Barnes and Noble just in time to see the truck departing the lot. Inside I found that they had just acquired 22 copies of the Globe. I plunked my 50 cents down and headed off. Success!

This will (probably) be the last baseball related post for a while, since other things loom in the next few days (like the election!).

The Red Sox only ever made it to the World Series once before in my lifetime — the 1986 Series, origin of the endless Buckner jokes. I turned 10 that year, and something of the potential of that team had seized our household from the very start of the year. I remember having a preview poster and game schedule of the team tacked to my door, cut out of the Herald, probably. J1 and I collected piles and piles of baseball cards that year. In April, while we were at Disney World, Roger Clemens pitched his first 20K game — I remember seeing it in the paper and on the news report in the morning before we went to the park. I remember watching the ALCS against the Angels, when Dave Henderson hit a home run to win it — he jumped SO high in his excitement. And, of course, the World Series against the evil Mets, featuring a spectacular meltdown on the part of the Red Sox.

J2, of course, remembers none of this, having been born a week AFTER the meltdown.

I have the worst trouble telling stories. I can never quite figure out where best to start, and often end up overloading the meat of the story with extraneous, though potentially useful, information.

So this is a tale I’ve been meaning to write out since the end of August.

I have a visceral horror of flat gravestones. You can’t see them in the winter: they’re covered by snow. The rain comes straight down on the inscription. Dirt and moss and leaves cover them with ease, because, of course, they are flat in the ground. So when polled about what sort of headstone to use for my father, my response was instantaneous: “I don’t really care what it looks like, as long as it’s vertical.” I was backed up in this by J1, who seemed to have the same feelings on the matter as myself.

So earlier this year, my mom, after much vacillation, decided that she would have dad’s ashes moved to a new location so that she could have a vertical stone put in, along with a little bench. She had a brainwave at the time and asked that when they dug up the box to shift it they should take out a small amount of his ashes so we could put them someplace.

In August she called me and said she was ready to go and take care of this and was I still interested in joining the expedition? Of course I was!

Our group of adventurers consited of me, mom, J1 and mom’s friend Clara. Now, mom and Clara are generally sensible responsible women — they are mothers, Clara is a grandmother of 6 or 7, and live respectable lives. But sometimes when you get them together, like any two women friends, they do not behave in a sensible fashion.

And so the day began…

Lucy and Ethel go to Fenway

After last year’s playoff debacle against the Yankees, mom decided that the Red Sox needed some extra help in breaking the curse. Familiar with the Fenway Park tour, she announced we would take it, and when they brought us down onto the field, we would find a convenient moment to sprinkle our ashes into the grass.

The day dawned grey and drizzly, and I woke to a phonecall from mom, who was uncertain whether or not we ought to postpone the trip. “They won’t bring us down onto the field if it’s raining,” mom said, worried.

I pointed out that if that turned out to be the case, we could simply go again.

Reassured, mom decided the trip was still on. I got in my car and, armed with some directions from Yahoo, headed off in what turned out to be a futile attempt to find my brother’s apartment in Malden. I ended up calling the apartment from the parking lot of a Stop n Shop to ask for supplementary directions.

I arrived finally at the apartment and we piled into mom’s SUV. After a brief detour
to drop off J1’s car, we get into Boston and find ourselves some parking near the park. During the short walk to where the tour groups met, mom displayed The Container: a small tupperware condiment container. J1 took hold of it, opened the lid and gave it a shake while he inspected the contents. I squeaked, mom looked horrified, and he put the cover back on.

It was still drizzling on and off, but there was a crowd gathered for the 11am tour in the “Souvenir Shop”. We joined the milling fans, mom’s nerves starting to get the better of her and manifesting in giddy, giggly behavior.

First stop was the press box, then the 406 club and a variety of interior locations. The tour guides are well versed in Fenway Park lore, and of course there’s a mystique to seeing parts of buildings you’re not usually permitted to see.

The next stop was the top of the Green Monster, to see the seats up there. J1 showed us where he and J2 had been seated for the game they watched from up there.

And then, as the threatened rain failed to materialise, we were brought down to the field. Mom’s giggles had returned and she hung back as the tour group started to circle toward the big manual scoreboard on the Green Monster. She, like me, was busy making up responses to anyone who might spot us dumping something on the ground and feel the need to inquire about it.

I took her camera and got some pictures. Mom and Clara continued to whisper and look suspicious, so J1 relieved her of the tupperware container in which the ashes were kept, mosied right on over to the left field grass, and dumped them out.

When he returned, mom seemed at a loss as to what to do with the now empty container, so I took it, feeling not a little creeped out by it.

The remainder of the tour (and also the day) was uneventful; no one ever saw us, or if they did, they didn’t think to investigate what came out of the tupperware.

And so that is how my dad ended up in left field at Fenway Park.

And how the Curse was BROKEN.

Ha.

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG!!!

THEY WON!!!

Oh my head! I can’t believe it.

When that ball went between the pitcher’s legs I almost died.

GO RED SOX!

Oh, and, YANKEES SUCK.

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG!

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG!

3 LANES, BABY!

From widen3.com:

Motorists should be aware that the third travel lane is opening this morning (10/15) on Route 3 northbound between the I-95 in Burlington and the New Hampshire border.

The Route 3 Team is anticipating opening the final section of Route 3 southbound by the end of this month. Please continue to check the project website for details.

Over the past month, I started a few posts, all of which are still in vestigal form, waiting the day when I grow inspired enough to finish them. And I will, eventually. It’s just not right this minute.

I’ve been growing more and more tense over the upcoming election, but I’m still hopeful because to me, the mood feels akin to 1992 rather than 2000. Right up until the election it wasn’t clear whether Bush Sr would manage to pull a victory off, but he didn’t. I hope his son repeats the feat.

It boggles my mind that there are still so many people in this country who intend to vote for him. The country is in vastly worse shape than it was 4 years ago, and much of the chaos is directly attributable to him and his administration. There are more terrorists in the world; there are more people who hate the United States, and those people now have real atrocities to point to in their recruitment. The government is now massively in debt and teeters on the brink of financial disaster. He has lied. His minions have lied. They have purposely misled the citizens of this country and the world with their statements. Companies are outsourcing jobs at a high rate, and he and his Republican controlled congress have no interest in trying to at least make it less financially attractive for them to do it.

And people want to vote for him… why? Because they’re afraid the gay men down the street getting a piece of paper to validate the relationship they’ve had for years will somehow cause hellfire to rain down on them?

A lot of people, when asked why they’re voting for Bush, will say “I don’t agree with him very much, but at least he stands for something.” He certainly does. He stands for imperialism, arrogance, pig-headedness, blind stupidity, willful ignorance, bigotry and prejudice. Having an opinion and sticking to it is not a reason to give a man unfettered power. Captain Ahab stood for something, but he would have made a pretty crappy president. (Though in spite of the whaling, I imagine his environmental policies couldn’t be any WORSE than Dubya’s…)

This morning I had a bit of a panic attack over the polls and the election, but it seems to have passed now. Spent a while searching out information about Canadian immigration laws, home prices and looked at monster.ca. But hopefully that won’t become necessary.

Still, I have trouble figuring out if I’m a socialist, a libertarian or a democrat. You’d think those would be easy to decide amongst, but it’s not so much. I think there should be guarantees of certain things: health care, food, shelter, etc. Socialist. But I don’t really like the government interfering with my life either; I don’t trust them in the least to know what’s right or best for me. So, Libertarian. And, well, I’ve always been a registered Democrat.