fair

Well, I finally made it to Nova Scotia, but, gosh, there's not much in the way of internet access here, not at the place I'm staying, nor, despite their claims to the contrary, on the ferry over.

I'm going to head out and take some scenic pictures of scenic boats and docks and rustic-type things, but in the meantime, here's a shot of the ferris wheel from the Fourth of July fair. The sign said it was "semi-permanent" and it didn't look exactly, you know, safe, but the lights were awfully pretty, if a little garish. Which, like most things, sounds like a metaphor for something else.

independence day

northward bound

Tomorrow morning, we'll be heading north. First stop: a little town with a huge, over-the-top Fourth of July celebration, including an all-day parade, fireworks on the waterfront, a pie-eating contest and a fireman's muster.

Next, I'll get on the ferry and head a bit further north to spend a few days by the Bay of Fundy with my friend, Hortensia. Hortensia is not only as black-hearted as I am, but is also one of the few people who still calls me by my college nickname -- Evilla. Don't ask. Please don't ask.

stay tuned

Though it's usually held on the first Friday of the month, due to the fact that this upcoming Friday is the Fourth of July,* the July edition of anonymous people on the internets revealing their innermost secrets has been postponed until next Friday.

Until then, why not peruse the previous iterations of Niobe's True Confessions™ A few of which are actually Niobe's own personal confessions. See if you can guess which ones.




*That is, the Fourth of July (observed). Because, as the astute observers among you will have already noticed, actually, Friday is the third of July.

subtraction

Those who've lost children usually count differently than other people. I have no children, one child, two, three, four, five children, they say, leaving space for the one who isn't there.

But, for me, even now, one of the few things that can still make me have to remember to breathe is when people, trying to be kind, refer to Cole as my fourth child. I have two children, no more, no less.

The twins are . . . lost, gone, vanished, stolen, disappeared, absolutely elsewhere. But they are not my children. And they never were.

with one string

I've been avoiding writing about it or even thinking about it, but it looks like we're going to do another IVF cycle with the help of our wonderful surrogate, Trish. Check out her blog if you want more details. (eta: if you stop by Trish's blog, please leave her a comment -- even if it's just to say hello or good luck. Being a surrogate can be such a difficult and often misunderstood role and I know that your support would mean a lot to her.)

I'm not feeling exactly optimistic (I know you're shocked), but, as Saskia reminds me, "There's always hope."

I hear it's somewhere in Arkansas. Or hanging in one of the galleries at the Tate.

something new

And -- if, like me, you tend to thoughtlessly succumb to the patriarchal gender role stereotyping that permeates, pervades and perfuses our society -- something blue. M has had her long awaited baby boy and both M and her little one are doing very, very well.

I won't tell her story, because it's, well, her story, but it's been a long and painful road and M has experienced just about every imaginable obstacle and more sorrow than anyone should ever have to endure. Honestly, I can't begin to tell you how happy I am for M and her new son.

M's blog is password protected, so no link, but if anyone who doesn't have access wants to leave their congratulations or good wishes here, I promise I'll collect them and pass them along.

night of the radishes

When Magpie was looking for ways to persuade her daughter to eat more vegetables, Elephant's Child that that I am, I suggested that learning bizarre veggie facts might pique her interest. I started to look up a few examples and immediately chanced upon (cue scary music) The Night Of the Radishes, a festival that apparently takes place every December 23 when the residents of Oaxaca, Mexico gather in the town square and exhibit monstrously large radishes intricately carved and arranged into religious and historical scenes.

It's all very quaint and folkloric, but it does have vaguely ominous undertones. In fact, it reminds me of the little tune that we learned in French IV that was supposed to teach us the pleonastic ne:

il faut manger, manger, manger les radis
avant que les radis ne nous mangent*

And while it's good luck to dream of radishes, the dreams inspired by this particular song were more of the nightmarish variety, involving ruthless and rubicund tubers hellbent on a radishy revenge.

Which is a long way of saying that, while our CSA was supposed to deliver radishes this week, I'm just as happy that we somehow seem to have ended up with turnips instead.




*We must eat, eat, eat the radishes
Before the radishes eat us

googlies

How did you get here? And by that I mean: what was the google search that brought you to this, my blog? Was it, perhaps, one of the following?

Child is wise beyond her years.



I realize it's likely cold comfort at best, but J doesn't love me either.



Not to out myself as hopelessly vanilla or anything, but I kinda hope that when they say "niobe" they're referring to this lovely, wine-colored clematis.



Have I mentioned lately how much I love my readers?


And, tell me, because I really, really want to know: how did you find this blog in the first place?

lightheaded

The other day, the lovely and charming Artblog wrote an intriguing post about a detox plan she'd tried for a few weeks back in January, noting that she'd stopped after she (coincidentally) ended up pregnant. Now, I absolutely do not want to get pregnant and I'm not really looking to lose weight, but it sounded like, I dunno, fun? a challenge?

I emailed Artblog to get more information and she sent me a detailed plan, filled with tips, tricks and encouragement. (if you have any interest, I'm sure she'd send it to you too). Right now, I'm on day one. I keep telling myself that it won't kill me to give up caffeine for a couple of weeks. It just feels that way.

Wish me luck. And tell me what the strangest or best diet plan you've ever tried?


(Oh, and the photo is of a girl riding a carousel at night. If you look closely, you can just make out her hands and face. Appropriate, no?)