The Carnival Arrives and I Get Stuck in the Cotton Candy Machine

If you’ve ever checked out my Blogger profile, you know I live in an “area of New England mistaken for New York.” We’re waaaaaay down south in that little nub of Connecticut that inserts itself right into Westchester County, N.Y. I usually refer to it as the state’s “tail,” but you can probably come up with your own body part imagery.

Most people down here root for New York sports teams. They listen to New York radio stations and, until cable permeated our lives in the mid-1980s, we only could watch New York broadcast television stations.

Here we talk a lot about “The City” and the benefits of being a 40-minute train ride from its culture and clubs, but the majority of us only read about it after we’ve picked up a copy of the Sunday Times along with our weekly half-pound of Boar’s Head cold cuts from the Stop & Shop.

We are suburbanites; hear our minivans roar!

That said, it came as no surprise when I signed on to do today’s New England Bloggers blog hop/carnival that I found myself, as usual, to be a bit different from my other 186 NEB members.

The Uncools don’t do crafts.

We don’t scrapbook.

And Things 1 and 2 are not nearly as wholesome as the kids in the carnival logo above. Trust me.

Then I found her -- New England Girl, a Massachusetts lass with a heart of gold, a backyard full of rocks and a few bottles of Bully Hill wine under her belt.

Based on the photos on her home page, she likes to hang out in bars. How could I resist her?

She’s searching for the perfect dog. Or at least one that won’t eat her cat.

And finally, her man is a professional fighter so damned if I am going to say anything bad about her. Ever.

New England Girl seems a little self-doubting and introspective today, so rather than comment here, please go drop her a quick note.

Or else her man’s going come looking for ya with a bucket of rocks and broken bottle of the Bully.