Forgive the Massholes, They Have Accents

   I know, I know. It’s been a while since I’ve updated the blog. However, it would have been incredibly deceitful of me to write a post for The Wild and The Free when I have been neither wild nor free. But, on the up side, I am back now, and I won’t disappear again…hopefully.

   My life has not been as silent as my presence on the Internet, though. In fact, it has been a whirlwind of activity since my life-changing adventure to the city of my people (Boston, for those of you who have been living under a rock).

   I even became a parent!

   …just kidding.

   But I am a nanny in Massachusetts. I moved to Walpole (40 minutes southwest of Boston) about a week ago to take care of this little munchkin for the summer.  

   The job is challenging to say the least, but I have a plethora of stories to tell and pending adventures on which to embark that I get to share with you all.

   None of this could have happened without the suggestion from a good friend of mine, so thank you so much Brooke. You're the best.

   Although I made the decision to move cross country at the drop of a hat (not the wisest), I am happy that I did. My advice of the day? 

   Seize all opportunities, even when you're scared. Something good will almost always come from a moment of bravery-slash-stupidity. 

    In my case, the "good" is all around me. The Atlantic Ocean is 45 minutes away from my house. All the trees stretch gracefully into the sky, as if they are racing toward the rays of sunlight from directly overhead. When the wind blows, the leaves rustle and create a soft whisper that echoes for miles.

   When this is the view in my neighborhood, it isn’t even hard to convince myself to go for a run. Maybe I'll even make a habit of it. 

   The only downside is humidity; by the time I get back to the house post-workout, I look like I went for a swim in a pool of sweat. Cute look, right?

   It’s how I get all my boyfriends.

   But really, the houses here…

   Conjuring up my rudimentary knowledge of architecture and its history, I can say with certainty that these houses are…old.

   Really old.

   Like pilgrims landing on Plymouth Rock old.

   …Give or take a few decades.

   For the most part, all of the homes are constructed in a classic colonial style without regard toward modernism or postmodernism. They have large porches and hardwood floors and breakfast nooks that look out into the surrounding vegetation.

   The home in which I live has the charm of Robert Frost’s New England, the comfort of a log cabin in the winter, and several reading chairs that Rory Gilmore would kill for.

   It’s nothing short of magical.

   Speaking of magical, the regional accent is hypnotic to those of us unaccustomed to it's irresistible allure.

   I find myself at Stop&Shop (the east coast version of Fred Meyer) or Dunkin’ Donuts completely and sometimes embarrassingly engaged in other people’s conversations without their knowledge or consent.

   I couldn’t care less that Charles and Martha are getting a divorce or that Michael, Robert’s 16-year-old son, crashed the family’s Lexus. Who are these people? I don’t know. But I like the way they talk.

   I am much more interested in the fact that Charles sounds like Chawles and Martha is Mawtha. Would it be wrong to name my child Chawles just because it sounds like the upgraded version of Charles?

   I have spent my free time tirelessly working on perfecting my accent (in order to talk the talk while I walk the walk), although yesterday I was slightly chastised for saying “pawk the caw in the Hawvawd Yawd.”

   Evidently, that’s what all the annoying tourists say.

   Perhaps it was these annoying tourists that brought the infamous Utah driving to Massachusetts because, on the real, this is a group of terrible drivers. 

   This is coming from Yours Truly, who happens to have managed to crash into a car that was completely parallel and right next to mine while I was backing out.

   How? I don't know. It just happened. 

   The point is that I do not label a group of individuals “bad drivers” unless they deserve it, and I was quickly vindicated in my observations.  

   I was informed upon my arrival that the generalization I have made is not the first time it has been asserted. 

   In fact, Massachusetts drivers have earned themselves a nickname in the New England area:

   Massholes.

   See what they did there? So clever.

   However, we must forgive them their faults because the aforementioned accent happens to be so charming that it may just knock your socks off. At the very least, the fact that they barely passed driver's education slips your mind. 

   While I could comment on this regional dialect for days, Taylor (the munchkin in the photo) and I have eight chapters of The Tale of Despereaux to read, followed by a very intense third game of the Stanley Cup Finals.

  

Go Bruins!

XOXO,

Safe Travels!

           

P.S. While searching for a Subway, Taylor and I accidentally wandered on to the campus of Wellesley College, an all-girls collegiate institution with a stellar academic reputation. It also happens to be one of the most beautiful campuses I have ever laid eyes on. My sudden interest in graduate school prompted me to schedule a tour while Taylor is in camp on Thursday. I’ll let you know what I find. Also, updates on Fenway, Harvard, and George’s Island are all on their way, I promise!

P.P.S. Oh my goodness a hummingbird just flew right in front of my face! Is this real life??