the headline mentioned a woman who "gives birth to her own grandkids."

cynical me snorts, "must be in Appalachia."

a long pause, in which i remember the official map and the legal definitions.

"crap. I live in Appalachia. and i probably own more Appalachian instruments than June Cash."

and somewhere, in the Otherworld....

there is a knock on my vintage 1930s glass and wood door in between the weekend chore round. on the porch floorboards stands a Tony Soprano thug, all black leather jacket, heavy gold jewelry and slicked-back hair.

"Hey, I'm here to repossess your credentials. You don't need 'em any more."

Me, covered in garden dirt, with a strand of hay in my hair from the mulch: "What credentials? Do I know you?"

"Your Jersey Grrl credentials. Seeing as you live in Appalachia, you don't need 'em any more."

What would you do with a thug at your door? Sighing, I opened the latch door of my heart and dug them out, pushing aside philosophies and idols and books. They were a bit worn around the edges, and attached to a cheap metal chain that swung as i passed them across the threshold, then frantically stooped to catch the cat slinking toward the aperture.

"Where do I get new ones?"

"New what?"

"New credentials."

"Sorry, hon. You'd have to move back for that," he said, getting into a waiting black Camaro.

"Do they have credentials for here?"

"Beats the shit outta me."

Slam! The exhaust spews Jersey air down the street, and the mockingbird on the line coughs.