I've fastideously claimed my East Coast roots. I absolutely adore the mid-atlantic. We're close to so much. Historic towns, major cities, prestigeous universities. I'll argue long and hard about it being the best place to live.

Where I live is pretty indifferent on the whole blue versus grey issue. We have a few that think they are southern and a few that are die hard northern. But for the most part you have people who don't care. (After all, we were a mixed state during the civil war.) You can tell I am a yankee. I talk fast. I drive like a maniac. I eat sushi.

But this week, I'm staying down south on business. I must say, I absolutely love it. The southern influences of both my parents and a dedicated friend are slowly appearing. Much to the chagrin of my sister when I get home, I am not fighting it.

My rental car for the week is a truck. I've taken great delight in driving with the windows rolled down and the country music cranked up. I smile at people. I sit patiently in traffic. I talk to strangers. I eat boiled peanuts and drink beer.

Don't worry. I haven't given up all my wretched ways. Just last night, per my warning, a forward McFucker got an open handed smack across the face. (When I say "don't touch me again or I'll slap you" I mean it.) But, to balance things out, I stopped to help a guy push his smoking and spewing car out of five o'clock traffic.

Despair not. I have yet to say fixin'.

Lest you think I am an absolute sham (which my southern accent is entirely) my grandparents were from Mississippi and my Daddy is from Virginia. I do live only a few miles north of the Mason-Dixon line.

I suppose all this is meant to say, I guess we all suprise ourselves.