**** Birds Do It
Last night at 8pm, at the passenger pick-up area at Alewife T station, I sat on a long, wooden fish-shaped bench, waiting for Mr. Pinault. The Alewife T station is crowned by a 5-level elevated concrete parking garage, which provides sanctuary for countless pigeons roosting in the rafters and terrorizing humans with their droppings, feathers, and kamikaze flight patterns.
Three or four feet away from where I sat, two pigeons circled each other frantically. Then, the bigger pigeon beat his wings and jumped on top of the smaller pigeon. And there they were, mating. I tried to avert my gaze, but it was all too mesmerizing.
After a few minutes, the male pigeon dismounted and they walked away in seperate directions. I may have been animistically projecting an indignant stumble in her steps, a cocky stride in his. Then two other female pigeons flew down from the rafters, and I couldn't believe it when the same male pigeon started to chase them, too.
Somebody told me once that pigeons are just as monogamist as swans. I have always doubted this, because I figured the wispy intellectual capacity of a pigeon would preclude its ability to recognize another pigeon as being its soul mate -- both literally and figuratively. Most of the time I see pigeons, they're wandering aimlessly on a sidewalk or street, pecking invisible grains on concrete. Once when I lived in Allston, I saw pigeons enthusiastically eating a person's puke. Is this the type of animal that benefits from monogamy in an evolutionary or emotional sense?
And what it is with me and birds this week, anyway? On Sunday, I almost get mauled by an owl. Now, I am an unwitting voyeur of pigeon sex.
**** Road Rash
I used to have no qualms about bicycling on Boston city streets. Then again, in my 20s I did a lot of reckless things, like go to work without a morning shower, eat cake for dinner, go 2 years between pap smears, forgo ear plugs at punk shows, rent cars without the extra insurance, order burritos on dates, smoke cigarettes, and talk to homeless people. But age confers wisdom, and fear. And while death, dismemberment, and disfigurement could just as readily occur as I cower in my home eating vegetables, whole grains and fish-oil capsules on my yoga mat, somehow my natural instinct tells me that perching my flesh and blood on top of a puny diamond-shaped frame and pedaling in the same cramped space as cars, taxis, construction vehicles, buses, duck boats, and jaywalkers is just batshit dangerous.
After many years neglecting the plight of his city's cyclists -- who can forget when he disbanded the Bicycle Advisory Committee? -- Boston Mayor Thomas Menino is concertedly trying to make Boston a "bicyclists' haven" (here). What brought about this change of policy? Was it because Menino finally headed the advocacy groups who complain how city cyclists are regularly harassed, hurt, and even killed? Is it because cycling is good for the urban and global environment? Is it because Boston just can't accommodate any more cars? No, it's because Menino has finally put his fat ass on a bike and discovered, "Hey, cycling in Boston is pretty effing scary."
In response to this epiphany, Menino appointed Boston's first ever "bike czar," a former Olympic cyclist who "wants to make big changes, but is focusing first on simpler projects, like adding bike lanes and encouraging more people to ride, by awarding businesses that encourage cycling." Yeah, before you make any changes to the traffic patterns and laws that imperil cyclists, just flood the streets with cyclists! Like war, when soldiers are used as cannon fodder to attain a greater strategic aim. Every cyclist's death will bring a little more public awareness.
Personally, it'll take a lot to get me back on a bike as a mode of transport in Boston. I need bike lanes that rival the size of car lanes; real crackdowns on double-parking, speeding, and reckless driving; a ban on driving while handling a cell phone; and a major attitude adjustment among drivers who think it's okay to 'threaten' cyclists with their 2-tons of metal. Maybe they should all follow Menino's lead and try getting on a bike.
**** Hooters of Horror
Yesterday Mr. Pinault and I went hiking at the Blue Hills Reservation south of Boston. It was our first day of hiking since last October, and the 400-foot Blue Hills seemed a nice warmup of our dormant rock-stepping muscles before we head up to the 4000-foot White Mountains.
I babbled incessantly as we trotted up and down the rocky terrain. Beautiful day, with adundant sunshine tempered by a cool breeze. About 1 1/2 mile into our 6 mile journey, we were descending a hill when we came upon a smooth, steep rock slab. I edged past Mr. Pinault to plot my path down the tricky obstacle, when --
"Hisssssssss!" The noise in my left ear reminded me of an aggressive cat or snake, with a throaty malevolence that seized my body with panic. I whirled towards the noise and found myself less that a foot away from a pair of large, unflinching eyes staring boldly into my face.
I screamed. I mean, screamed. If you think that you wouldn't have screamed, then you are in denial about your humanness. I stumbled away from that noise and those eyes, my hands flailing to prevent the creature from ripping my face off. I thought I had disturbed a badger. Mr. Pinault, who was equally as startled, thought it was a large raccoon.
After we calmed down, we were awed to be looking at a majestic owl who was extremely pissed off. It snapped its beak to make an odd clicking noise and bobbed its whole body back and forth. Its wings were spread and rotated forward, and its feathers were poofed up in a fierce show of force. It was a fascinating display of aggression. Mr. Pinault promptly began taking its picture (see below) while I heaved relief from a slight distance.
The owl may have been protecting a nest, but I find it hard to believe that an owl would set up house directly on a popular hiking trail. If she reacts like this everytime a person walks by, poor thing must be in near-constant hysterics.
As a devout Twin Peaks fan, I can't help but attach paranormal implications to the owl encounter. According to Twin Peaks mythology, my body will probably soon be inhabited by an evil spirit who will use me as a vessel to terrorize and kill beautiful women. Should I develop a compulsive need to dance and my hair turn white overnight, someone better call the FBI.
**** Happy Mother's Day
Today NPR featured a short segment about the founder of Mother's Day, Anna Jarvis. (The fact that she's from West Virginia played neatly into their coverage of that state's upcoming Presidential primary). Anna Jarvis, never a mother herself, campaigned to establish Mother's Day as a holiday to esteem the "truth, purity and broad charity of mother love." After she succeeded, she was horrified at its commercialization, and waged many public feuds against people who abused "her" holiday's original intentions. Once, she noticed a 'Mother's Day Salad' on a restaurant menu, and ordered it just so she could dump it on the floor and walk out (here).
Yes, at times, Anna Jarvis acted a little nuts, but her aim was noble. She wanted "a day of sentiment, not profit." She was horrified at the popularity of Mother's Day greeting cards, "a poor excuse for the letter you are too lazy to write." Ooof. It hurts because it's a little true. I did send my mother a nice greeting card, and signed my name to someone else's words. So here's my own sentiment for my Mother...
To the right is a picture from my family's trip to Disney World in 1982. We are on a ferry boat. That's my Mom in the sunglasses which, incidentally, have come back in style. Seated next to her is 5-year old me, 7-year old Laurie (in the Phillies cap), and 10-year old Brian.
It was my first trip to Disney World, although my Mom likes to remind me that, during the previous family trip, she went on Space Mountain when she was pregnant with me. Which explains so much.
What I remember most about that first trip to Disney World, aside from the rides, is throwing a tantrum at the hotel because my parents insisted that I take a nap while my siblings went to the pool. I remember howling in the hotel lobby, hysterical, insisting that I didn't need a nap. Of course, this is the equivalent of a drunk person slurrily insisting that they're 'kay to be driving. I ended up taking the nap, and when I woke up, it was like everyone had forgotten about my horrific behavior.
That night, we returned to the theme park, and went to the Haunted Mansion, which is my Mom's favorite ride. I remember huddling in the Doom Buggy with her, thrilling at the ghosts, goblins, and graveyards. I felt as safe and happy as I'll ever want to be.
(I hope this little exercise in sentiment would have pleased Anna Jarvis, although I get the feeling she would disapprove of my sentiment being rooted in a manufactured 'Disney-magic' moment.) |
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**** Get Bready for the Bread Blog
For a while, I've been trying to brainstorm a creative endeavor for Mr. Pinault and I to undertake together. Something that utilizes his photography talents and my penchant for babbling about matters of little consequence. Something for which we shared a consuming passion. Something that already plays a convenient role in our domestic routine. And then one day it hit me: Bread.
We are fresh-bread fanatics. Unfortunately, though I sometimes do dig out the jar of instant yeast and attempt some home bread-baking, the lack of a professional bread oven yields middling results. And besides, since I arrive home at 7pm on weekdays, it would be impossible to bake bread for our 8pm dinner.
So, nearly everyday, one of us must grab a loaf to bring home. It's a preoccupation of ours, this constant acquisition of bread. Since we eat simply -- vegetables, salad, a stand-alone protein -- no meal is complete without bread. It's the canvas on which we spread cheese and jam. It is our staff of life. Sometimes, I think we could indeed live on bread alone.
Long story short: There are numerous bakeries in the Boston metro area, and we plan to blog about their bread. Surely everyone's seen one of the millions of foods blogs out there, where a foodie will go to a restaurant, snap pictures of their meal, and write critical or glowing reviews about it. For example, eggsbaconchipsandbeans is devoted exclusively to writing about British breakfasts featuring, of course, eggs, bacon, french fries, and baked beans.
Why not bread? I've seen loads of blogs devoted to bread-baking, but I cannot find one devoted to bread eating. Granted, the attributes of good bread are harder to quantify than the attributes of an entire meal. And the adjectives used to describe bread are more elusive than those used to describe wine or cheese. But we will try!
Developing... to be continued...
**** The Really Modern Bride
My wonderful sister gifted me with a subscription to Modern Bride magazine, and I've been receiving it since January. I've developed a love/hate relationship with the magazine. It does directly cater to my current mindset by offering loads of neat-o ideas about weddings. For example, it has inspired me to wear light blue nail polish to take care of the "something blue" adage. Hurray!
But Modern Bride also leaves me with the sense that everything I've chosen to do, wear, serve, and mail is wholly inadequate. Everything in its pages is basically unattainable to average brides like myself who'd rather save for a mortgage than spring for a $3,878 platinum-plated clutch or a $13,650 gold, pearl and diamond bangle with "old world appeal."
Mr. Pinault peers at the pages of Modern Bride over my shoulder. "That's a nice dress," he'll say, pointing a cathedral-length satin ballgown with a diamond-encrusted bodice. "Eh, it's a little showy," I'll insist, picturing my actual dress, currently on order, which he hasn't seen yet and hence I will decline to describe at this time.
I've come to understand that Modern Bride is positioning itself as Cosmopolitan for brides, a view that was reinforced by an article I stumbled upon this morning during breakfast. One minute I'm reading a Q&A about what to do if your Groom doesn't like your dress, the next minute...
Wedding-Night Sex Moves the banner headline screamed. Surprise him with these hot new positions. "Omigod!" I exclaimed, putting down my cereal spoon. It was a pretty shocking juxtaposition, because Modern Bride is all about white dresses, flower girls, and flowers. I began reading aloud to Mr. Pinault: As you leave the reception, you'll likely be rehashing every detail of your big day. Your new husband, on the other hand, will probably be thinking about one thing and one thing only: hot, steamy wedding-night sex.
As he laughed (probably picturing himself thinking about wedding-night sleep), I scanned the five sex positions that Modern Bride describes in uncomfortable, meticulous, scientific detail. "Nothing new here," I yawned. I was shocked, though. I guess these are the salacious details that one won't get from a wedding planner. (Here's the article, if you're, um, curious).
**** The Most Laugh-Out-Loud Quote from Today's NY Times
The newly-elected Conservative mayor of London is Boris Johnson, an infamous and controversial figure in British politics whose trademark dishelved hair is an apt symbol of his "buffoonish... bumbling, self-deprecating persona" (here). He is best known for making sensational gaffes (for instance, writing that the country Papua New Guinea is best-known for "cannibalism and chief-killing") and then duly issuing public apologies. These antics happened so regularly that the media suspects he courted controversey to forge his celebrity, a view that was reenforced by the relatively blooper-free mayoral race in which he narrowly defeated the popular Ken Livingstone (here).
Yesterday Mayor Johnson announced that one of his first acts as mayor is to ban the drinking of alcohol on public transportation in London (here). At first I didn't understand... did he mean to ban alcohol from being served in commuter trains? Because surely they don't allow people to sit in the Tube or on a bus drinking beer. I mean, this is London after all, one of the cradles of Western civilization, and in 2008, they still allow public drinking?
Apparently, yes, they do, at least until next month. Still, Johnson's plan is not without its critics. The leader of a transportation union claimed it would be difficult to enforce, saying "Perhaps the mayor will come out with his underpants on over his trousers like Superman one Saturday to show us how it should be done" (here).
Wow. The thing is, I don't think that's just British wit, I think that's a genuine challenge.
**** Celtics Explosion
Last night Mr. Pinault and I ventured to the TD BankNorth Garden to see the Boston Celtics take on the Cleveland Cavaliers in Game 1 of the Eastern Conference semi-finals. Pictured below, that's a burst of fireworks from the pre-game show. It sort of freaked me out. If 19,000 people had to quickly evacuate an indoor sport arena due to a haywire pyrotechnic display, exactly how many of them would be trampled to death?
Only my most grizzled readers may recall when I was a devout Celtics fan about four or five years ago. But I stopped paying attention when Danny Aigne became General Manager, and he traded all the players that I loved and annually allowed the team to fall to new levels of suckiness. Sure, a "real" fan would have kept watching, but life is too short to spend it crying over the woes of a NBA team.
This season, with the acquisition of Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen to assist veteran warhorse Paul Pierce, the Celtics' years of re-building have finally came to fruition, and they finished the regular season with the best record in the league. Still, I never resumed my Celtics enthusiasm, unlike Mr. Pinault, who has been promising/threatening for the past few months that if the Celtics made the playoffs, we would go to a game.
Hence, last night. Oh, to be back at the Garden in the nosebleed balcony section, my stomach full of Budweiser and pre-game pizza from Ernestos in the North End, surrounded by working-class white Bostonians who have no quelms about chanting "USA! USA!" when non-American players on the other team take free throws. At least we were in a relatively quiet section, filled with pensive young men who watched the Celtics stumble and trip their way to victory with their elbows on their knees, silent except for peroidic intense hand-clapping and the occasional curse. These guys weren't dancing around to get on the Jumbo-tron. They weren't going to relax until victory was assured for the Celtics in the final seconds of the game.
**** Tales from the T
Red Line, 8:45am. I'm running late today, which by the standards of the 9-5 existence, actually means on time. After two stops, the train is jammed, as I am too, in my seat, due to the immense width of a woman who had burst onto the train in a frenzy for the empty seat to my right. "Courtney," she waved and called out to a young black man who had boarded the train like a normal person. He stood in front of her, grasped the pole, and stared at his newspaper. "Somedays I get a seat, if I hurry," she told him, and he nodded.
She is in her thirties, with short and sexless brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Her voice has an odd, slurred quality that hints at a developmental disorder. "What do you do for lunch?" she asks the man as she settles in the seat. "Oh, I go out with the kids, someplace around the school..." he said in a quiet voice that trailed off.
"I bring my lunch every day," she boomed. "To save MONEY." She is rummaging through her bulging purple backpack in such a way that her chubby limbs rub against me without mercy. It was as if she didn't realize I was a person. Finally she pulls out a clear plastic bag filled with what appeared to be generic Fig Newtons. She fed them whole into her mouth.
"Are you going on vacation this summer?" she asks the man in between cookies. He softly says he is going to Los Angeles to visit a friend, and then to Philadelphia to visit family. She chews while he talks. Crumbs fall on my right arm. "I'm going to Florida," she announces. "But I haven't bought the tickets yet." She polishes off the last of the cookies and rummages through her backpack again. I'm inching away from her, impinging on the seat of the slim woman on my left, trying to lessen the effects of her soft elbow in my side, her knee knocking my knee, and her stalwart cushion of hip flanking my thigh. She pulls out a bottle of juice and chugs it.
The train has reached Central Square and it is totally full. I've been staring at the same article in the New York Times about Iran suspending negotiations with the US, and I'm unable to mentally digest it nor physically turn the page to try another subject matter.
"What time do you have to be at work?" she asks the man. He answers something about classes starting soon after 9. "I have to get to work at 9," she says. For whatever reason, she begins jiggling her massive left leg. My whole body begins to shake, and finally I allow myself to give a fitful, annoyed sigh to register my discontent. She appears not to notice and continues her nonsensical leg movement.
At Park Street, the train empties out a bit, and I decide to stand up rather than allow this woman to continue her oblivious molestation of my person. When I stand up, I notice that the entire right side of my body is sweating. I spend the remainder of the day feeling sullied and gross.
**** Was Not Was
I was not ready to wake up. The downside of perpetual three-day weekends is, of course, Monday. It's as if everyone else started partying at the designated Happy Hour, but I've been slugging margaritas since noon. I jump higher; I fall harder.
I was applying my deodorant after showering when my mind became stuck on the euphemistic phrase for when a person's body odor is perceivable: their "deodorant failed." I felt a twinge of empathy for deodorant, overwhelmed by excessive perspiration that surely it was not formulated to handle. And the 99% of the time when deodorant succeeds, it doesn't get a lick of glory.
I was walking on the bike trail to the subway station behind a man in a natty business suit. His pace was a bit slower than my normal cruising commuter speed, but not slow enough that I was willing to spazz-walk in order to pass him. His suit jacket's shoulder pads were extremely excessive. He was around my height with a neat boyish haircut, and I could just picture the knobby shoulders that naturally sat parallel to his ears. But his shoulders pads were about twice the width of his hips, resulting in comical bodily proportions not unlike an extremely gaunt woman with breast implants.
I was crossing the Fort Point channel to get my lunch. The channel's water level was at peak height. There was a solitary duck in the channel, diving under the water for long periods of time. I grew anxious while waiting for the duck to surface. What is he doing down there, anyway? There's no plants or animal life in the Fort Point Channel. There's razor blades and industrial waste. Where is he? Ah, there he is, whew. NO! Don't dive again, you stupid fucking duck!
I was yawning in mid-afternoon when a co-worker approached my cubicle. Wouldn't you know it, the first time ever this co-worker ventures to ask my opinion, and I'm in the throes of a sustained yawn. My arms are raised in the air as I stretch my arched back across my chair. My jaw is so wide open that it cracks when I clamp it shut. Actually, it was the first break from staring at my laptop that I had taken in nearly three hours, but I looked like a cat whose just been roused from a day of napping in a sunny field of grass.
Do people still have existential crises, or did Apple cure them? Anyway, I think I was having one, and then the workday ended, and I forgot about it.
**** Pennies from Heaven
I decided to cash in our bursting bowl of non-quarter coins using an automated Coinstar machine. Mr. Pinault poured the coins into a large Zip-Loc bag (or, as he called it, "Zip-Zap" bag) and I lugged the bag across town to the single-most depressing Stop and Shop supermarket in eastern Massachusetts. Many of my previous Coinstar trips have been foiled by machines in need of maintenance, so I was thrilled to see the Coinstar appeared to be in working condition. I emptied my bag into the coin receptacle, began feeding the coins into the slot, and watched the coin tally ascend.
When the total neared $9, the satisfying tickling of processed coins was replaced by violent mechanical groaning from within the Coinstar. Many Stop and Shop customers stopped and stared at in alarm. The odd noises reminded me of a gorging all-you-can-eat-buffet-goer who, already in the throes of indigestion, is determined to squeeze in a chocolate pudding. Soon the troubled Coinstar gave up, and a message flashed across the screen: "This machine is unable to continue this transaction. Your coins are safe! Please seek the assistance of a store employee."
Relieved over the safety of my coins but still annoyed, I went over to the customer service desk and explained the situation to a sinewy red-headed woman in her 40s whose name-tag said Kelly. "I bet you jammed it," Kelly said in a twangy generic White Trash accent.
I followed her back to the Coinstar. Kelly printed my voucher for the $9.40 that Coinstar sucessfully processed, then opened the Coinstar's front cover with a key. "You put foreign coins in here? Can't put foreign coins in here."
Probably some Canadian money lurked in our coin jar, though previous Coinstar machines just returned the Canuck change without comment and certainly without malfunction. "Oh, okay," I said. "Yep, see all these foreign coins caught in here?" Kelly muttered as she picked coins from an internal filter and placed them in front of me on the Coinstar's receptacle.
"I don't think all of these coins are mine," I admitted as the pile grew. "Well, they are now, if you want them," Kelly said, closing the Coinstar. She said I could start over and walked away, muttering warning about foreign coins like some sort of xenophobic protectionist.
When I commenced feeding the Coinstar, it immediately emitted the same disturbing noises. Exasperated and sheepish, I gathered my remaining coins and left the store. Though I didn't begin to put a dent in the Zip-Loc bag of change, I had $9 of paper currency and a swelling handful of foreign coinage.
Of the foreign money that Kelly gave to me, the vast majority was Canadian. There was a hodgepodge of Euro and Mexican coins. Pictured below (courtesy of My. Pinault) are the three most interesting coins. On the left is a Chinese Yuan, which I have never seen before. In the middle is a German coin from 1920 featuring Beethoven, issued by the city of Bonn. And on the right is a religious talisman, with both sides featuring an angel. I suppose it's a guardian angel pocket coin, meant to protect the bearer. How these coins ended up in a Coinstar is delightfully bewildering.
**** Paranoia
A new study from psychiatry researchers in England has found that paranoia is far more common in the general population than anyone had previously suspected (here). It's like the scientists can see into our brains!
**** Marriage Hitches
Five things I've become more conscious of since getting married over three months ago:
1. The power of the word 'husband.' In society's eyes, the next best thing to being a man is being legally bound to one. At first, the words "my husband" felt strange on my lips, but then I noticed the effect that it had on people. For instance, when I first met a neighbor -- a mother with young children -- she noticably warmed to me after I mentioned "my husband." In a restaurant, when I sat alone at a table and told the waiter I was waiting for "my husband," he softened his determined hurriedness and brought me a breadbasket. Even people who I've known for years seem a little more respectful of me when I mention "my husband." It confers a stability and maturity that "my boyfriend" just can't.
2. Wedding rings. As a single girl, I never checked out people's left-hand ring fingers. I noticed rings incidentally, in the same way that I'd notice watches. But as a married woman, I routinely check out people's ring fingers. In fact, it's my favorite new subway game.
3. My husband's diet. "Did you eat anything green today?" "Don't you want eggs instead of waffles?" "More bok choy?" "Do you really need that much sugar in your coffee?" "Do you want some banana in your cereal?" "No, we would not like to see a dessert menu."
4. Surnames. According to this nifty interactive widget that shows the 5000 most common surnames in the United States (here), I've gone from having the 37th most common surname to one that is completely off the charts. Yes, my last name is less common than Booher, Baeza, and McGinley.
5. Life's cruel brevity. Maybe it's just the newlywed talking, but I can't imagine life without him, and I'm prone to anxiety concerning his physical well-being. When he's due home from work, I'll fret about a siren in the distance. When he goes out for a run, I'll beg him to be careful. And me, what if something happens to me? I picture him alone and in grief, and it tears my heart apart and makes me determined to live forever.
**** Googling the Past
I had a dream last night, not a noteworthy dream except a girl whom I had known as a teenager made an abrupt appearance. I woke up with her round, rosy face held in my mind, and her name gradually sprang to my lips: Anne...
It has been many years since I've been troubled and thrilled by thoughts of Anne. We had a complex relationship that oscillated between fierce devotion and dramatic loathing. "Only you could make me this insane," she would spat before crushing my neck in a farewell, get-out-of-my-life hug. Months would go by with complete silence, and then a phone call that would lead to a week of inseparability: "I need to see you."
Anne lived in a town 45 minutes away, and our lives would have never overlapped if not for a week-long session of church camp when we were 13 years old. She was loud, bold, and divisive. I was quiet, shy and agreeable. Something compelled us to forge a bond to the exclusion of the other 8 girls in our cabin. After camp, we wrote letters and even visited each other's homes before drifting away from lack of daily contact.
Three years later, in the thick of a hot and boring summer, I came across Anne's old letters and decided to write her a letter. She called me the moment she received it in the mail two days later. "What are you doing? Do you drive? Come see me right now!"
Anne was artist, which intimidated me, but she liked that I wasn't an artist. She liked that I was pretty and punk and funny and in awe of her. She introduced me to her friends, all of whom were artists. To this insulated group of suburban freaks, 30 miles outside of Philadelphia, I was an exotic creature. A few months later, I began dating her ex-boyfriend.
Anne minded. She minded a lot. But then again, she was an artist, and I wasn't an artist, so I felt like I was just a novelty to her anyway. For the next several years, we would see each other during the brief spells when we were lonely and in between boyfriends, and then I went to college and she went to art school. And I stopped thinking about Anne.
But last night's dream prompted me to google her. I was not surprised that her website was Number 1 in the search results, was not surprised to see her online gallery of work, and was not surpised to read about her career as an artist. I felt happy for Anne, and was glad that she visited me in my memories, in my dreams, and via Google.
**** China Pall
Today I got an email from a grassroots political group who, I believe, got my email address when I signed a petition in Central Square three years ago. They send me a weekly summary of their leftist position on a current issue, followed by an impassioned plea for immediate action!!! I'm tired of clicking the checkbox to delete their missive every week, so I opened the email in search of "unsubscribe" instructions.
The email explained their desire to orchestrate a wholesale boycott of the Beijing Olympics in protest of China's human rights record, especially their treatment of the Tibetan monks. China... Olympics... Tibet... hot issues these days, I know, and the complexity prevents me from forming a truly educated opinion around the matter. But, when I break it down in my own head:
Was it a mistake to allow China to host the Olympics in the first place? Yes. Do the Olympics "legitimize" an oppressive Chinese government with an appalling human-rights record? Yes. Should America boycott the Olympics, the opening ceremony of the Olympics, and support the taunting of the torch relay team?
No. These actions would fail to fundamentally affect China or makes any headway for Tibetan freedom. At the very least, it makes China more headstrong. At the very worst, it calls America's own human rights abuses into question. We execute mentally retarded people, we stick 1 percent of our adult population in prison, and we have committed an atrocity in our bungling the Iraq War. Yet if China talked of boycotting our Olympics, we would laugh our asses off.
You know what would really hurt China is if America stopped buying stuff that was "Made in China." Where's that boycott? Is it just easier to say "Oh, we'll boycott the Olympics, but we'll continue to support China by purchasing apparel, electronics, auto parts, toys, decorations, food, and the endless array of useless crap that they produce?"
If someone could organize a realistic boycott of Chinese-made goods that would not preclude me from buying nearly every modern-day necessity (here)... now that's an e-newsletter I'd stay subscribed to.
**** Realty Reality
The real estate downturn is finally affecting Massachusetts, and prices for single-family homes have plunged 11 percent (here). Many people are booing, but we are cheering! Prices should continue to slump well into 2009, when we will be ready to pounce into a home of our own. Yes, I'm dreaming big. I even dare to envision a yard.
Ever since I moved to Boston almost ten years ago, I've kept one eye on the real estate market. (Sometimes, when in a pique of nesting, both eyes). I've watched it rise to dizzing heights where the only residences within my household's means were crap properties in towns where I would never, ever live. $250k for a 90-year old "fix 'er upper" in working-class exburbia. $300K for a 2-bedroom factory-converted condo in the heart of Chelsea -- the ceilings are so high that they confer a sky-like atmosphere that will recreate the outdoor experience on days when the gunfire is too heavy to leave the condo.
Last year, moderate-sized single-family homes in the inner-ring of the Boston suburbs started at $500k. How depressing, and confusing. We are two computer professionals who are relatively frugal, with no kids, no pets, and one car. But as of last year, the only place in semi-fashionable Waltham that we could buy was an 800 square-foot condo located a half-mile from the vibrant downtown. If we can't afford those $400k two-bedroom high-rise condos along the Charles River, then who can?
The subprime mortgage crisis cleared up a lot of my confusion. It never occurred to me that some of the people buying these places actually couldn't afford to. Lenders were giving money to people with poor credit and a high risk of default. Even more incredible, people were accepting unmanageable mortgages with adjustable rates on the wild hope that the housing bubble would continue to inflate indefinitely. The lenders are blamed for the subprime mortgage debacle, for deceitfully representing mortgages as being zero-risk. But ultimately, many people assumed risky mortgages that they couldn't reasonably afford.
I have little sympathy for people who use credit cards to live beyond their means, but it's hard not to feel bad when people lose their homes for engaging in essentially the same careless financial behavior. Homes are the staple ingredient in the American Dream, essential to the social fabric of any modern society. They anchor families within a community. I have a hard time accepting the notion of a home being an investment that can gone horribly awry. Then again, I have a hard time accepting that the median home price in Cambridge is about $500,000. Realty reality is smacking a lot of people in the face.
**** Tomato Babies
I realized that I haven't posted a picture on this website for the entire month of April. How bloggedly boring of me. So here is a shot (courtesy of Mr. Pinault) of one of the tomato plants that we started growing indoors last weekend. Germination has been achieved! We have also started hot cherry peppers indoors, and planted radishes in a row of questionable soil in the backyard. Hopefully everything will be ready for harvest by the time the global food supply crisis strikes the US of A. In the event of food shortages and mass hysteria, we're pretty much counting on the radishes for our survival.
**** Bridal Extraction
Wedding magazines and books often feature timelines to help plan the details of one's event. These checklists are pretty standard. For instance, most recommend choosing a wedding date 1 to 2 years before the wedding -- a self-referential paradox, incidentally. I read a dozen near-identical timelines, looking for something I may have missed, and then I came across a line item in the 6-month to 9-month time range that I had never seen before: Begin pre-bridal skin treatments.
Now, I was blessed with many enviable physical attributes -- working brain, good health, perfect height, sturdy calf muscles -- but my skin has been a long-life source of anxiety. After my pimple-plagued teenaged years, it has steadily improved, either because my hormones are abating or I've found a regime of organic skin care products that have quieted the storm, at least that can be seen from a distance.
But to achieve flawless bridal pores, it seemed worth trying out monthly facials. To someone who does her own manicures and sometimes skips the post-haircut blow-dry to save $10, it seemed an unconsciable extravagance. Three months later, I'm addicted to facials.
For anyone unfamiliar with what exactly a facial entails: It begins soothingly enough, with an array of clean-smelling lotions and scrubs, hot wet towels, and light massage around the face and neck area. A facial steamer is trained on the face for about 5 minutes, and it feels wonderful. Then, the extraction begins.
My first extraction, I was completely ignorant to what was about to happen. Imagine my shock when the facialist began squeezing the pus out of my pores by means of intense finger pressure. Horror quickly replaced shock, and then pain set in. Gasping pain. The facialist is lucky I didn't kick her. My only conciliation is that I couldn't see the junk that was being extracted. After she finished and applied a face mask, she left the room for ten minutes, and I can only imagine she was retching in the bathroom.
I've since read up on extraction and found out it's a controversial procedure, with some claiming it damages the skin and causes breakouts, but the results for me have been marvelous. Extraction. I thrill on the word.
**** Prairie Chic
"Your shirt, it reminds me of something," a work acquaintance said to me today.
I glanced at my shirt, which I had already studied for several minutes in the mirror this morning thinking "Hm, should I really leave the house wearing this?" It's a button-down shirt of an unusual rusty pink color, with puffed and cuffed long-sleeves and a high neck with limp lapels that tie into a floppy bow beneath the neck. There is also a bizarre configuration of superfluous darning stitches just below the shoulders in the front. The light cotton material is perpetually creased, and its sack-like fit confers both old-fashioned modesty and present-day "Made in China" cheapness. It's a ridiculous shirt, and not in a ridiculous fashion maven way.
"What do you mean?" I asked, as if it were the most normal shirt in the world.
He looks pensive, appearing as though he is conjuring the something that my shirt reminds him of, but I have known this person long enough that I can tell he is weighing the ramifications of what he wants to say.
"It reminds me of those polygamist women in Texas," he says. "Very frontier styled, you know what I mean?"
I did, immediately and painfully. "It's from H&M," I said lamely. "I think the prairie look is in."
**** Participle Slapstick
Heading out the door this morning, shoulders bearing the brunt of upcoming day in a bulging backpack, arms carrying curbside recycling, one hand holding a paper bag that threatens to rip from the weight of the wine bottles within, other hand holding a paper bag that threatens to burst from the density of newspapers within, feet stepping onto the welcome mat, body bracing the storm door ajar, forearm pressing the bag of paper against body, freed hand shutting the front door.
Stepping away from the front door, failing to move. Realizing backpack's cordage is caught on storm door's internal door handle, jostling backpack blindly in attempt to free self from door handle, failing to move. Continuing to jostle backpack, stepping away, failing to move. Defying logical solution to put down paper bags to manually free self from door.
Losing grip on bag of paper. Bending knees to force bag of paper against body. Dropping bag of paper. Dropping bag of wine bottles. Falling backwards. Hanging from backpack attached to storm door handle. Crashing to ground as backpack cordage magically detaches from storm door handle.
Checking sheepishly for witnesses. Freeing self from backpack shoulder straps. Standing. Gathering spilled paper. Gathering wine bottles. Picking up paper bags. Walking to curb. Depositing bags in curbside bins. Recycling.
**** Tim and Eric Awesome Tour
I'm not surprised that the most famous person to come out of my hometown is the Eric half of the infamous comedy duo Tim and Eric (here for Onion AV Club interview). Honestly, I don't remember who won the "Most Likely to Succeed" award for Eric's high school class, which was one year above mine, but it was probably some smarty-pants with straight A's who burnt themselves out in college and was too socially maladjusted to do anything but become an accounts receivable clerk. Knowing what I know now, I see that Eric possessed many of the attributes correlated with future success: He was smart, creative, ambitious, well-liked but not crazily popular, quite tall, and, according to my best friend AS, a phenomenal kisser. He was also opportunistic. I remember him driving me and a group of 6 other girls to a Sonic Youth concert in his station wagon and charging us $5 a piece. Yep, he is definitely showbiz material.
Over the past year, I've watched bits of the 'Tim and Eric Awesome Show' on YouTube and signed up for their mailing list, which last month alerted me that the nationwide 'Tim and Eric Awesome Tour' was coming to TT the Bear's Place, a music club in Cambridge. I managed to buy tickets for last night's show before it sold out in, like, a day.
While squeezing through the packed crowd in TTs to secure a good spot to stand, I saw that the bulk of the spectators were in college, dressed like punky hipsters, and expressing fresh-faced fanaticism about Tim and Eric. Mr. Pinault and I were visibly on the higher end of the age range and were dressed like old office-working dorks. I didn't get it: This was comedy, not a rock and roll music show featuring a band of dirty noisy primitive teenagers. Are all the other 30-year olds safely tucked in their condos watching South Park on their LCD televisions while the college kids lap up the gritty amusement on the streets? Is humor really generational?
But I understand why Tim and Eric's unique brand of comedy is popular with the younger set: Tim and Eric are not political but exude subversion; they appear to be simultaneously trying very hard and not trying at all; they seamlessly meld animation, music, and multimedia effects in their act; and they do funny dances. As people get older, they become conditioned by mainstream humor to always look for the punchline. They don't want uncomfortable, edgy, open-ended humor anymore than they want to leave the house on a cold day without their hat and gloves. Kids today, they don't seem to mind the cold. And they want to rebel against society's conventions by laughing at stuff that no one over the age 25 finds funny -- like Tim and Eric.
Personally, I find the majority of Tim and Eric's sketches to be funny, maybe because I got a trickle-down taste of Eric's bizarre sense of humor as a teenager. First and foremost, no one can play out a scene of intentional awkwardness like Tim and Eric. Their scatological and sexual sketches are so puerile as to be actually quite sophisticated. Their parodies of commercials and products are also spot-on, and range from subtle (discussing how much they love Shrek) to over-the-top (Child clowns, B'owl). And Tim and Eric are masterful at beating a dead horse until it comes back to life.
After the show ended, I considered sticking around to see if Tim and Eric emerged from the backstage area. If I approached Eric and said "Hey, I'm from Audubon. I went to Methacton," I'm positive he would have remembered me. Eric probably would have said my name without me saying it, maybe ask what I was doing in Cambridge, maybe exchange a bit of hometown news. My worst fear, and the reason why I left without trying to see him, was that he would have brushed me off by saying "Hey, yeah, thanks for coming out! Buy a t-shirt!" and then walk away to jabber with his legion of fanboys. After all, he is now a very, very cool kid.
**** Marathon Monday
Yesterday I mentioned some typical Patriot's Day festivities that really get the local citizenry sputtering with pride, like men costumed as British soldiers marching on Massachusetts Avenue past the Starbucks, sushi joints and yoga studios while colonial militias yell, shot fake muskets, and encourage onlookers to join in the fun: Come on, kids, let's all tell those British to get out of town!
Today, instead of watching "living historians" march down the streets, most Bostonians were watching thousands of skinny marathoners run down the streets. And the only thing we love more than historical re-enactments is our marathon! See, Boston knows that its marathon isn't the biggest running race in the world, and that the weather is prone to being imperfect, and that the logistics of getting to the starting line are famously tricky, and that it's not a "fun" course feted with live music and hors d'oeuvres. But the Boston Marathon is the world's oldest annual marathon and by far the most prestigious, making it a nice little simile for the city's place in the world. Little, foul-weathered, cramped, boring, enduring and prestigious Boston.
Like maybe half of all working adults, I don't have off work for Patriot's Day. It's a State holiday that provides a 3-day weekend for government employees, teachers, and many people who work for Massachusettes-based companies, but I have never been so blessed. So I missed watching Robert Cheruiyot of Kenya and Dire Tune of Ethiopia win the Men's and Women's event respectively (here).
That's another thing about Boston that the marathon represents: Our willingness to welcome people from foreign countries to come to our city and do great things. Some ignorant folk do make catty remarks about the unflagging dominance of African runners in our most venerable sporting event, but most people are proud as hell that the world's elite runners come to Boston to win. Whether its sports, academics, industry, arts, or commercial services, we know that Boston can only be enhanced by our foreign visitors... unless they are trying to enforce the rule of King George III, and then we will chase them down the street brandishing guns.
**** Patriot Games
Today my town had a re-enactment followed by a parade to celebrate Patriots Day, which is a holiday officially observed tomorrow to commemorate the Battles of Lexington and Concord. Patriots Day is only recognized in Massachusetts, Maine, and oddly enough Wisconsin -- a state that needs to borrow reasons to celebrate. Patriots Day is also Marathon Monday, but I'll reserve that topic for tomorrow's post.
My town is midway between Boston and Lexington/Concord, and in fact the bike trail that I walk and run upon is roughly the same route that Paul Revere took to warn the colonial Minuteman army that "The British are coming! The British are coming!" The next day, British soldiers arrived in Lexington and Concord and were quickly overwhelmed in battle by Minutemen. When the British retreated back to Boston, they marched through my town (then known as Menotomy) and individual homeowners joined militia to fight against them, resulting in what has been called the Jason Russell House Battle (here). In fact, more blood was shed in Menotomy than another other town during the whole battle.
Given my town's historical significance to Patriots Day, obviously something extra special has to be done. I knew that a parade was planned, but I never imagined that the British's march through Menotomy would be re-enacted with the help of dozens of costumed British and Colonial re-enactors. The official event description:
"The Menotomy Minutemen along with re-enactors from all over New England will be recreating the Jason Russell House Battle starting at 12:30pm on Sunday, April 20. British troops will march down Massachusetts Avenue from Arlington High School while being harassed by Colonial minute companies. They will then attack the Minutemen defending Jason Russell and his home."
Which is pretty much what happened this afternoon. I give the re-enactors credit -- they made history come alive -- but it was more infinitely more bizarre that I ever imagined, like being a sentient object in someone else's dream. I'm just glad they didn't use live ammo.
**** Jehovah's Rebels
After six months of winter weather, today Bostonians drank in weekend spring sunshine like dehydrated camels eager to stock up the balmy radiance for the inevitable bouts of foul weather that typifies our climate 90% of the time.
I spent the morning in the laundromat -- a hard place to cope with while the world frolicked outside. I had planned to spend my idle laundry moments strolling on the sidewalks, but my five separate loads were staggered in such a way that attention was required every few minutes.
I passed the time with the only reading material available: A Jehovah's Witness Watchtower magazine.
This Watchtower was from October 2001, and appeared to be in unread condition. The magazine may be dated, but its message? Timeless. On the cover, a middle-aged man adopts a close-mouthed zombie smile while holding a pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses below the single headline: You can have true faith.
What impresses me most about the Watchtower is how nearly every sentence is appended with a Bible verse citation. Not only the direct biblical quotations, but also sentences like "Jehovah's Witnesses strive to contact everyone they can with the Kingdom message. At times, it takes an extraordinary effort to reach those who are seldom at home (Mark 13:10)." I didn't have my Bible with me, but I was dying to know how Saint Mark addresses the inconveniences of door-to-door proselytizing.
As creepy as the Watchtower is, I've said it before and I'll say it again: Gotta give those Jehovah's Witnesses credit. By obstinately clinging to their rights to go proselytizing door-to-door, to be excused from military service on religious grounds, and to refuse to put another deity before God by saying the Pledge of Allegiance, Jehovah's Witnesses have protected all of our civil liberties and speech freedoms -- something not discussed in the Watchtower. Perhaps they should take their marketing to another level. Perhaps they should change their name to Jehovah's Rebels.
**** Brisky Bryson
I'm a big fan of author Bill Bryson (here), who writes wonderfully readable books about the English language. This is a feat not to be under-appreciated, because language aficionados can churn out some pretty obtuse musings while employing the very tool about which they bandy. It's like how Author-it, the software that I use to generate online help, has the lousiest online help I have ever seen. I guess it's the phenomenon of the cobbler's barefoot children.
Currently I'm reading Bryson's The Mother Tongue, a book that buffers Anglo-Saxon linguistic history with fascinating factoids about English and other languages (in particular Latin, French, Welsh, and Gaelic, though random tongues like Cree, Albanian, and Korean do pop up.) Bryson ponders how English is, at core, a simpler language than others (we have one word for you; German has seven) but its flexibility causes illogical usage and pronunciation. For example, English has eight prefixes that express negation: a-, anti-, in-, il- im-, ir-, un-, non-. Yet we have flammable and inflammable, which have the same meaning. And invaluable, which means really valuable. It's very wild, I know.
The linguistic lore flies fast and furious. Why does the word "colonel" have an R sound when pronounced? Why doesn't low rhyme with how? If someone can be unkempt, why not kempt? While Bryson doesn't attempt to address all of English's idiosyncrasies, he does marry the English language with history to explain why we use many of the words that we do. For example, Viking raiders in the ninth century introduced England to words such as freckle, husband, scream, sky, dazzle, and skill. Words from other languages usually supplement rather than supplant our vocabulary (skill didn't replace craft). This has been one of English's strengths: The ability to absorb new words like a sponge (though our reluctance to take on German words is noted.)
Bryson shares the universal English-nerd reverence for Shakespeare, who coined around 2000 words (critic, dawn, bump, bedroom, jaded, torture, hurry, hint, obscene, gloomy) and countless phrases (flesh and blood, budge an inch, foul play, one fell swoop, to be in a pickle). What I found interesting were the Shakespearean words that failed to catch on, such as conflux, tortive, vastidity, barky and brisky -- all of which appear to have found some recognition on the Internet.
All of this, and I'm only halfway through the book. I can't wait until America is discovered.
**** BostonNow Dead
The gauntlet of newspaper hawkers surrounding the subway turnstiles has thinned out. On Monday, the BostonNow, one of Boston's two free daily newspapers, suddenly ceased operations due to adverse economic conditions in Iceland (here). Yes, the BostonNow is so BostonThen.
BostonNow first appeared about a year ago, after the Boston Metro (here) proved to be a success with subway commuters. BostonNow copied the Metro's distribution methods exactly by hiring minimum-wage hawkers to stand in subway stations during rush hours, obstruct commuters and yell "Metro! BostonNow! Metro! BostonNow!"
BostonNow's gimmick was that the paper offered a blend of traditional and citizen journalism, meaning that it supplemented AP news stories with the content from local bloggers. I had picked up a BostonNow some months ago, and had been appalled by the dearth of real news, the bumper crop of entertainment news, the foamy-mouthed local reporting, the anecdotal editorials, the sloppy editing, and the finger-coating cheap ink. The most intellectually stimulating element of the BostonNow were the Sudoku puzzles.
The BostonNow claimed a daily circulation of 119,000 newspaper, which spurs my ongoing internal feud with my pretentious core: Is it better for people to read a free daily like the Metro or BostonNow, or read nothing at all? The obvious argument is that it's better for people to read something than nothing. However, if people stopped reading the free dailies, then they would go away. Some people would read nothing, but others might return to spending 50 cents on a real newspaper with reporters and editors and information, not infotainment.
**** Poped
I don't much care for the Pope. It's nothing personal, and in fact I admire part of what the Pope decrees, especially concerning humanity's duty to alleviate poverty, suffering, and pollution. What bothers me is that there's this central cloistered figure controlling a religion while isolated from the social realities of the people who he spiritually and morally guides. To disallow women and married priests, birth control, abortion, and hamburgers on Fridays just seems hopelessly out of touch. But whatever. It's their party.
All this pomp over Pope Benedict's visit has prompted reminiscing of the year 1995, when I was an unwitting pilgrim to Pope John Paul's visit to New York City. The Friday night of that weekend, I took a Peter Pan bus from Amherst to visit my best friend AS at Columbia University. Somewhere in my insulated collegiate mind lurked the knowledge that the Pope would be in NYC that weekend, but the implications didn't hit me until the bus was stopped on I-95 for literally hours. An equally clueless college student asked the driver what was going on, and he just grunted "Pope."
The next day my friend AS, her sort-of boyfriend C and I decided to try to glimpse the Popemobile. We headed to the general vicinity where the Pope was known to be and wandered through the crowds of Catholics. Many of them were Hispanic and clutching trinkets of Catholicism and praying. No one seemed to know where the Pope was, or at what point he would become visible.
I should add that my companions and I were total little punks. AS had a shaved head with bright green bangs, C had an intricate motif of colored spikes, and my blond hair was partially in dreadlocks that never quite held. We wore patched army surplus and sported various facial piercings. Soon there was a crowd of people from Central and South America taking pictures of these strange young Americans. A woman from Germany approached us with a video camera and asked my friends if they would like to be in her documentary about bagels. (I should add that, due their wilder hairstyles, AS and C received most of the attention. I threatened to stick a safety pin through my lip to upstage them.)
Soon we tired of being the absent Pope's freak sideshow and headed over to St. Mark's Place. I don't remember anything else about that weekend except getting the hiccups for about two hours. I returned to Amherst and regaled my friend AB with tales of my pilgrimage, and she said "Who gives a Pope about Pope?" and laughed her insane devil-may-care cackle, which inspired an odd inside joke for about a week in which we'd say things like "Who gives a Pope? I don't give a Pope. Man, that guy just doesn't give a Pope."
**** Googles
It's been a long time since I've compiled a list of my favorite search engine phrases from my website statistics. Honestly, going through my log files to cull the phrases has become tedious, unnerving, and sort of depressing. The #1 search engine phrase is my name or some variation thereof. I know that I'm hardly the only Meredith Green in the world, but I'm left wondering just how many of these searches are targeting me. The #2 phrase is "Green Days," which was the original name for this website that I have since abandoned but will live forever in Google's brain and misguide dozens of sloppy-typing Green Day fans to my website. #3, #4, #5, #6, #7, #8 and #9 are always related to porn or escorts. Judging by the number of queries involving "nuding" and "sexing," this is what brings most of my international audience to this website.
The remaining search engines phrases are variations on a theme. For example, apparently Google has identified this website as a leading authority on Jagerettes, because I receive dozens of hits like "how do i become a jagerette," "jagerette apply," and "Jagerette salary height weight." After filtering these out, only a handful of semi-interesting queries remain, including...
can you return store-bought seashells to the ocean
is my prada a fake if it has a square metal
what kind of ring should a female wear when only heaving a civil ceremony
does a discharge stop you from attaining a top secret security clearance
what tv commercial had the swedish guy peddling and gravity
do employees have to take breaks in texas
why do rich people feel shy while having pepsi
what brand of cigarettes does billie joe armstrong smoke
is paul banks of interpol married
real pictures of cavemen bones found in hundred foot bongs
trainer - gym - flirty
hidden candid camera of women's clothes ripped off
mustache philia
odds of hunting accident
lady kills puppy with heels
radio commercial /phlegm nicknames
romantic ipod engravings
charlton heston put his vest on
speech on the topic: life is like an ice cream, enjoy it before it melts
the serif font in marie claire
etiquette classes for millionaires
methacton beef and beer
rats living in barbecue
scotch and a cigarette with co-workers at an upscale bar
cuckold groom is castrated as he walks down the aisle
"amanda onion"
"effeminate chat"
"leave-it-town" philadelphia
harper's index americans spend on yoga
oscar wild life is too short to drink mediocre wine white
keith richards dante's inferno
sarkozy shirtless on boat pics
cliff claven bulge
hearing an echo nasal irrigation
calzone caused nosebleeds
monkey ice cream
**** Bitterness
In what many observers are calling the first major rhetorical blunder by Barack Obama, last week the Senator made comments in San Francisco that small-town voters are "bitter" over the economy and, because of this, they "cling to guns and religion" (here). Both Hillary Clinton and John McCain have charged Obama with being an "elitist," but have steered clear of the more-appropriate "Marxist" label, knowing that no one in Pennsylvania's Rust Belt knows what that thing is.
Go ahead, call me an elitist, but I think Obama's comments were right on. Only I would have added a host of other things that small-town folk cling to, including patriotism, xenophobia, and on hot days, the insides of their blue jeans and Nascar t-shirts.
A few weeks ago, an article in the New York Times explored the political leanings of voters in blue-collar Latrobe, Pennsylvania as the presidential primary ever-so-slowly approaches (here). Many of Latrobe's citizens were only too eager to explain why they would not be voting for Barack Obama: "The Second Amendment is too important to me." "How can I vote for a president who won't wear a flag pin?" "I don't say this because he's black, but the guy just seems arrogant to me, the way he expects things to go his way."
That last comment, made by a truck driver, stirred such amused rage within me that I showed the article to Mr. Pinault over dinner that night and ranted. And let me tell you, I called these people worse things than "bitter," because these are the idiots who voted for George W. Bush because Al Gore is too boring and John Kerry looks like a Frenchman. These people understand abso-effing-lutely nothing about how the world outside their tiny little pinprick towns works, so they react to candidates using childlike logic and primitive instincts. "Where's Obama's flag pin? I look for the flag pin every time he's on television. How can I vote for a man who won't wear a flag pin?"
Hmm. Is she truly offended because Obama won't wear a flag pin, or is she just a simpleton who can't fathom the issues of real political significance that the candidates are discussing and can't wrap her brain around any issue more salient that a flag pin? Flag pin! FLAG PIN.
And Mr. 'I don't say this because he's black' is a perfect example of the small-town bitterness of which Obama spoke. This man would obviously prefer a presidential candidate who doesn't expect things to go his way, who exudes pessimism that matches the glumness that I can only imagine that a truck driver from Latrobe would feel. This man is as bitter as the citrusy adulterated aftertaste of a Rolling Rock Extra Pale.
**** Invitations
Since the beginning of the wedding planning process, I've maintained that we would do the invitations ourselves. It's not because I'm too cheap to shell out many hundreds of dollars to the wedding invitation industry in order to achieve cookie-cut elegance. No, it's distaste at the prospect of outsourcing every aspect of a marked event in my life. And since I can't sew elaborate dresses, bake big cakes, play the harp, or take pictures of myself, I'll take a crack at the invitations.
This determination causes surprised gasps of horror, so I hasten to assure that nice paper, eyelets, ribbons, and Adobe Illustrator are involved. Today Mr. Pinault and I spent hours planning the design and taking trips #3 and #4 to the local paper and craft store. There were a lot of issues with which to contend, as well as several heated discussions, periodic stony silences, and even a few tears. It's going way better than I expected.
The current and nearly final design is, um, original. Not quite unconventional -- we've adhered to the major wording conventions -- but the layout may cause a few raised eyebrows. I'm not worried, because we plan to tell the American guests, "That's how invitations are done in France." And we plan to tell the French guests, "That's how invitations are done in America."
**** Offensive Hallmark Cards
(Here for "Hallmark card yanked from shelves after woman claims it promotes teen sex.")
Well, I don't have anything much to do today. I think I'll go shopping. I'll go to the Fashion Bug to hunt for off-season sweaters on sale, then I'll visit the birds and fish at PetSmart, and then I'll poke around the Hallmark store. How I do love their wholesome greeting cards and keepsake ornaments.
Oh, look at this birthday card, with the little boy with chocolate smeared all over his face. Bless him. And if there's anything cuter than a baby with a birthday cake, I've never seen it. So precious. And look, Snoopy! Now that is just pure innocence, like greeting cards should be.
Here's the Belated Birthday section. Goodness, look at that sad dog. If that ain't just the saddest doggie ever. And the Friendship section. Ugh, it's an unpleasant Maxine card. That callow hag. Who buys these things? Oh, look at those two little girls, holding hands on the swings.
The Love section. Hmm, well this one is all words, so I guess it's okay. Oh, pretty rose. I like that rose.
WOAH. What is this? Oh my goodness. Two... two wine glasses on the cover, and it says inside the card, "Care for some liquid clothes remover?" Well, I never. I cannot believe Hallmark is irresponsible enough to sell this smut.
Oh my goodness. This card must be removed from the store immediately. A teenager could see this card, and choose to drink wine and become sexually promiscuous. Teenagers are so impressionable, and Hallmark greeting cards are so influential. I must go ask the clerk to remove the card. And then I will call the local newspaper, and alert them to how Hallmark is trying to turn my 18-year old daughter into a wine-swilling whore.
**** Tales from the T
The sweet deal with my commute is that I board the subway at Alewife, a terminus station, guaranteeing me a seat in the morning so I can pick through the New York Times during the bustling 20-minute journey to South Station. Yesterday I sat at the end of the car and read the front page while the car steadily filled up. The warning bell rang, the doors closed, and we were off.
Next to me sat a woman with enough girth spilling over into my seat to cramp me up against the window and encumber my page-turning. Ten years ago, I would have pegged her as mid-50s, but age has conferred a better sense of the timeline of its cruel effects. Her frizzy brown hair with stray thick strands of gray, the smooth ruddy jowls, and the excess weight hidden beneath ill-fitting cotton and polyester signaled a woman in her early 40s whose appearance is in strict survival mode.
I was cerebrum-deep in an article about our idiot President and barely took notice of her, until I discerned that her body shook rhythmically, her breathing was deep and stifled, and her hands were covering her face. I looked at her, thinking she was sick. But no, she was crying.
Ten years ago, I would have buried my face into my newspaper, but age has also conferred an understanding that a stranger's kindness can be precious. "Do you need a tissue?" I whispered to her as the train stopped at Davis Square and quickly became packed.
Her hands didn't move from her forehead, but she whispered back "Yes, please." I retrieved my make-up bag from my backpack and rummaged for the package of clean tissues that lurked within a pile of used tissues. Dammit, where was it? Just as I feared that I would have to rescind my offer, my hand touched the plastic wrapping and I pulled out the tissues. I held out two of them. "Here."
She took them with her right hand, and covered her face again. "Thank -- you." There was a gulping breath between her words that caught the attention of the commuters standing in front of us. The woman sat like this for the rest of the train ride, and was still there when I got off. Ten years ago, I would have promptly forgotten about her, but age has conferred empathy for the weary.
**** Nipping Hooters in the Bud
The Hooters "Breastaurant" chain continues burgeoning globally, getting bigger and bigger and bigger, refusing to rest until the entire world is culturally Floridian. It recently opened its first UK branch in Nottingham, and has plans to implant 36 more locations in the UK by 2012, according to this human interest article in the Guardian (here).
The emergence of Hooters on their jolly old island has outraged feminists, family advocates, and cultural snobs alike, all who seek to stop the development of Hooters. One crusader asks "Without the sexualised waiters and the soft porn and sport on display, what would men go for?" Another says "The very fact that they are called Hooters speaks for itself." The company plans to use those denouncements to pad out its UK advertising campaign.
Other detractors point to the sexual harassment that Hooters girls face in the workplace, although a waitress in the article seems more offended by her customers' triteness: "Most men comment on the 'lovely jugs' when I carry pitchers to their tables. I just wish they would come up with something original." Exactly what stellar wit can a Hooters girl hope to hear? "Mmmm, buds and suds!" Or "Do you have milk shakes?" Or "Wow, thingamajigs."
The anti-Hooters campaigners are extremely vocal and active about their concerns that the waitresses in low-cut shirts will promote "loutish, sexist and threatening behaviour" in society at large. A predictable and fair argument, but ineffective. To turn men off to Hooters, they should rally against the decline of British pub culture, and take a chance that pride in cultural preservation can trump man's natural love for boobies.
**** Ambulance Concerto
Last night I saw piano virtuoso Evgeny Kissin play Brahms Concerto No. 2 with the Boston Symphony Orchestra, James Levine conducting (here for concert review from the Boston Globe). Kissin is kinda a big deal in the world of classical piano. A Russian-born prodigy, Kissin was playing at age two, performing on stage at age 10, and recording at age 12 to amazed acclaim (here for video of 12-year old Evgeny). Like child stars of any discipline, Kissin could have very well grown up and gone bonkers - forging Valium prescriptions, assaulting prostitutes, getting plastic surgery until he resembled his sister - but he is now in his late 30s and still dazzling audiences around the world.
It was a sold-out night at Symphony Hall. An unusual amount of Russian was heard while navigating through the crowds. Kissin played the Brahms concerto following the intermission, and after suffering through a lulling Brahms symphony in the first half, the audience was ravenous for Evgeny's appearance. Frenzied, even. On the brink of ripping the 32-foot long pipes off of the Aeolian-Skinner organ and smashing the decorative Roman statues to bits. Kissin! Kissin!
Our seats were six rows from the stage, but centered so that the Steinway obscured the piano's keyboard. The well-dressed symphony dowager at my right overheard me lamenting that we would not see Kissin's magical hands at work, and pointed out two empty seats to the left of us in a better position. She had a hint of mischief in her blue eyes that I savored, but we didn't have time to switch seats because Kissin and Levine appeared on stage.
I don't much care for Brahms, but it was a pleasure to see Kissin perform. His trademark poof of hair, thinning though it is, bounced in the air as his body labored over the keyboard. With each solo, his face underwent a cycle of steely concentration, fevered euphoria, and orgasmic release before returning to nonchalance when yielding to the orchestra. For a solid hour, I sat motionless, my body rigid against the waves of kinetic energy emanating from Kissin's piano.
A strange thing happened after the second of the four movements: An ambulance could be clearly heard from the busy Boston streets outside of Symphony Hall, and Levine waited for it to pass before beginning the third movement. He waited, and waited. While no one laughed outright, a strange mirth siezed the audience. Just seconds ago we were listening to a world-class symphony orchestra and Evgeny Kissin, and now we sit, 2500 strong, in silence, listening to an ambulance.
**** March Gladness
Although not a constant fan of college basketball, I've always loved participating in the NCAA March Madness Pool at my office. When I left the company last August, I knew that March Madness would be one thing that I'd miss. So I was psyched to return to the company at the beginning of March, just in time to fill out my tournament bracket.
"It's destiny," I trash-talked to co-workers. "Destiny has sent me back here so that I may crush all of you in the March Madness Pool. I can feel it." I took my fanciful logic to the next level: Destiny wants me to avenge last year's disastrous results by making the same picks. It's why I've returned.
So I selected Kansas to win the championship for the second year in a row (I picked them last year after being inspired/freaked out by Truman Capote's In Cold Blood). And even more amazing, I picked Kansas to win the championship by beating Memphis. And Kansas won last night in a sensational overtime game over Memphis, earning me tons of points in the office pool despite my tepid beginnings.
What a game! Kansas was down by 9 with 2 minutes to go, and I was thinking how much I hated the March Madness Office Pool for getting my hopes up and making me stay up until 11:30 to watch Memphis win. And then, all of a sudden... Memphis missed four foul shots, Kansas prevailed, and I prevailed too. I finished #2 out of 91 people in the office pool, earning me a gift certificate and, infinitely more important, bragging rights. Yee-haw! I'm back and I'm winning office games. Destiny.
**** Missed Manners
The Boston Globe has an article about the growing popularity of etiquette classes for children as young as 4 years old (here). The classes are meant to reinforce dining etiquette and table manners that parents may struggle to instill due to "an increasingly fast-paced and informal society."
For example, one expert who charges $45 to $80 for an hourlong manners session or $1000 for extended private tutoring says "So many of these children had never seen two forks." Now I'm not a parent, so I hesistate to judge anyone's parenting skills, but I just gotta wonder... how can any parent let their child reach 6 years old and be ignorant as to a two-fork place setting? Let's face it, people. You've already failed.
Anyway, it would be unnecessary for me to share my dire predictions about a society where table manners need to be taught in a class because there's "not enough time" for children to absorb them the old-fashioned way: By suffering through family dinners during which their every move and word is scruntinized and, if needed, corrected by fearless, attentive parents.
That is how my parents taught table manners. In fact, most of our family dinners were basically etiquette classes because my siblings and I were little heathens, fond of poking each other under the table, sucking up spaghetti strands individually, and failing to use a napkin. Me, I would catch hell for reading books at the dinner table, a practice which I now admit is beyond rude, but man oh man, those Sweet Valley High books were as addictive as crack.
The most heinous breach of etiquette at the Green family dinner table was placing your elbows on the table. Perhaps my recollection of this rule is amplified by the fun that my siblings and I had in 'catching' each others' violations: "Brian has his elbows on the table! Laurie has her elbows on the table!" This made me very meticulous about resting my hands in my lap when I'm not eating. (And then I married a Frenchman, who comes from a country where removing your hands from the table is a serious dining faux pas. So currently, I'm rather schizo about where I'll put my hands, but Mom, Dad, I swear: No elbows!)
When my siblings and I wanted to leave the dinner table, we were required to ask "May I please be excused?" Exactly like that. In fact, we could sit there all night asking "Can I please be excused?" or "May I be excused?" and my Dad would say "No" until we asked correctly: "May I please be excused?" I think that my parents would have considered sending us to "Manners for Minors" classes tantmount to putting us up for adoption.
**** 45:49
Today I ran the 5-mile Cambridge City Run (here). It was my first running race in several years. I've become a lazy runner, which may sound like an oxymoron, but compared to runners who track their mileage, pace times, personal bests, sneaker miles, and other stats, I'm the nonchalant, "Think I'll go for a jog" type with no preconceived notions of how I'd fare against a clock.
"I'll be happy if I finish under 55 minutes," I told people. Aiming for 11-minute miles seemed sounder than 10-minute miles, which is what I did in the last race that I ran when I was younger and more motivated.
The weather at race time was the nicest it has been all week: Gray, windy, and 40 degrees. Miraculously, it was not raining (yet). There were hundreds of runners, as well as large groups of Cambridge teenagers participating in a concurrent 3-mile walk for the Andrea Harvey Memorial Fund (here.)
Soon after the start of the race, I fell into a comfortable pace and let Mr. Pinault disappear into the pack ahead of me. At Mile Marker 1, my headphones prevented me from hearing the split time being called out by a man with a stopwatch. I picked out a 'rabbit' -- a small woman in shorts whose legs were red from the cold. We passed a fair number of people. At the Mile 2 marker, I lowered the volume on my iPod to catch the split time: 18:30.
Not bad! I thought. The race began to circle the Fresh Pond Reservoir on an unpaved trail, and I contended with puddles and mud as well as strolling dog-walkers and families. Passing the other runners became difficult, and my 'rabbit' hopped away. The wind coming off of the reservoir was frigid. To make matter worse, the runners soon merged with the walkers -- packs of teenagers who clogged the path and amused themselves by making fun of the runners. I increased my pace just to get away from them.
There was no Mile 3 marker. When I reached Mile 4, I was stunned to hear: 37:15. The realization that I was running 9:30-minute miles invigorated me, and when a woman in a Red Sox hat passed me, I vowed to return the favor. I trailed her until the only substantial hill in the race, a 1/2 mile from the finish. She slowed down and I sped up, overcoming her at the top of the hill. I ran like hell to the end and finished at 45:49 (410th place out of 701 total, 38 out of 93 in my age/gender.) Man, I was psyched, and exhausted, and rather hungry.
**** Reviews of Perfume Samples from May 2008 Glamour Magazine
Princess by Vera Wang
Is there anything Vera Wang can't slap her name on? She designs clothes, eyeglasses, lingerie, invitations, dishes, glasses, silverware, and flower arrangements for FTD. Her wedding dresses are regarded as the pinnacle of bridal fashion. There are even Vera Wang mattresses. And oh yes, her perfumes, which have bored the fragrance community but captured a decent market share, probably due to name recognition.
The sample proclaims itself "Pretty and playful as a field of fresh flowers," a statement that bothered me because flowers aren't called "fresh" unless they've recently been killed for human edification and removed from the field. It's also inaccurate, because Princess is more "Sweet and cloying as a field of fresh donuts."
Light Blue by Dolce & Gabbana
Naturally, the sea is a prominent theme in Light Blue's branding. The advertisement shows an unrealistically crystalline sea pictured behind an unrealistically flawless brunette who is reclining on what appears to be a white inflatable raft, with a rivulet of glittery liquid dripping from her moist white shirt onto her mid-section.
But my expectations of a clean, fresh scent with marine notes were sunk by the overpowering apple and floral scents that anchor the cedar base. Light Blue is an earthy yet simple fragrance that probably smells better in the bathroom than on the body.
DKNY Be Delicious by Donna Karan
Apples! Apples! There are apples in the advertisement, in the scent itself, in the shape of the bottle, in the hand of the model whose lipstick would preclude an attempt to bit into one, and in the perfume's concept (Donna Karan New York... The Big Apple... Be Delicious... get it?) The entirely inappropriate thing that kept popping in my head is how when I was a kid, a favorite joke to play on someone would be tell them to hold their tongue and say "I like the smell of apples." Ha ha.
But the apples work. They are balanced with notes of floral and citrus, along with a crisp melon flourish that really did smell delicious. Yet it never crosses the line to evoke reminders of jelly, jolly ranchers, or air freshener. Overall it's agreeable, if you like the smell of apples.
J'Adore by Christian Dior
J'Adore is the most sophisticated of the bunch, and I'm not just saying that because I own a bottle. It was gifted to me a few years ago by my French mother-in-law, and when I opened the bottle, I exclaimed "J'adore!" and she cocked her eyebrow knowingly and purred "J'adore." In that moment, we transcended our linguistic boundaries to share a moment of universal feminine delight.
J'Adore is a floral scent, yet its orchid and rose notes are perfectly blended with a light musk to result in a classic, refined fragrance. Still, the scent is more conservative than is insinuated in the advertisement, which shows a sensuous blond in a darkened room with one hand on her chic golden earrings and the other hand on her slipping bustier. J'Adore is actually more suited for dinner with the in-laws.
**** Rainy Day Woman
I'm walking on a residential section of Massachusetts Avenue, where unimpeded cars and buses speed on through to the next strip of commerce. My umbrella is pitched forward to protect my face from the wind-driven rain. I am thinking about a map in a recent New York Times that illustrated national population trends. There were prominent arrows pointing from the Northeast to places like Florida, Texas and Arizona. Every ten feet, my umbrella throttles a wind gust.
A voice breaks my pensiveness. "Excuse me, can I ask you a question?" A short older woman with a nest of bright orange hair and matching eyebrows darts over to me. She wears a thick wool coat and nothing to protect her from the rainstorm.
She's going to ask me for money, I thought, but I stopped and turned to face her, positioning the umbrella accordingly. "Sure."
"Have you heard about the postal service's new rule?" she asked while mopping her forehead with her coat sleeve.
She's crazy, I thought. "What do you mean?"
The woman walked over to a nearby USPS blue mailbox and pointed to a decal on the top that explained the 13-ounce weight restriction. "It says that stamped mail that weighs over 13 ounces cannot be mailed here. It says it's a new rule."
"Yes," I said.
"So can I mail it here or not?" She pulled a thin envelope out of her pocket. Literally half of the envelope was covered in stamps.
She's joking? "You can mail that. It's not over 13 ounces."
She turned to the collection box again and began reading the notice aloud. "Attention, new 13-ounce rule..."
"How much postage did you put on it?" I interrupted, and she looked at me blankly. "Do all of those stamps total 41 cents?"
"Yes, yes," she said. Silly question. "But it says..."
"You can mail it here," I said. "Definitely. It's not over 13 ounces."
"Oh, okay," she said. "I just wanted to make sure I'm doing the right thing, cause it's a new rule."
"It'll work," I promised, and she dropped it in the box, thanked me, and scampered away. I couldn't suppress one last judgment on the poor woman:
She's as dim as the sky during a rainy Friday afternoon.
**** Blog-Worthy
While walking in Harvard Square, I trailed behind a college girl who I didn't notice until she squealed into her cell phone "That is so blog-worthy!"
I have moments like that, when something triggers a mental stream of words and one half of my mind is concatenating them into blog while the other half is committing digestible phrases to memory so that I may later honor the blog-worthiness.
So now, to give some nuance to this vacuous post, let's reflect back on the college girl, totally unaware that she is so blog-worthy.
**** Lest Ye Be Judged
Back in February, the local news had great fun over the DUI arrest of Boston-based federal court judge Robert Somma, who had rear-ended a pick-up truck with his Mercedes Benz and then failed a field sobriety test and a breathalyzer (here). The kicker is that the accident occured after Judge Somma, who is married and was appointed by President Bush, had left a gay bar in Manchester wearing a black cocktail dress, fishnet stockings and high heels. Since he was alone, he was obviously unlucky in more ways than one.
The Boston Herald wouldn't put a virtually-unknown bankruptcy judge on the cover for a DUI arrest unless he appears to be wearing blue eye shadow in his mugshot. The paper could hardly contain their glee over the police report, which described Somma's vampy outfit and how Somma "fumbled" in his purse to retrieve his license, presumably because he was so wasted. Or maybe he just had some purse clutter to contend with.
Judge Somma immediately resigned from the bench, but an article in today's Globe reported that Somma is reconsidering his resignation because of the "outpouring of support from judges, lawyers, and others." Somma decided that "the media frenzy occasioned by this episode would not be an impediment to my continued service as a judge" (here).
I'm glad and frankly surprised that there are people within the federal judiciary who are open-minded enough to accept that a man with cross-dressing tendencies can still be a competent judge and want to continue to work with him. But in their eagerness to overlook his salacious proclivities, are they not also overlooking the fact that Somma was driving while intoxicated enough to cause an accident?
Judges are supposed to be incorruptible civic bastions of integrity, virtue, and most importantly... good judgment. But we live in an age where no one who is white, educated and successful has to take responsibilitity for their actions. So what may end up happening is Somma pays $600, gets a yearlong driving suspension, apologizes for "that terrible lapse of judgment" and returns to the bench, where everyone will wonder if he's wearing a short black black dress underneath his long black robe.
**** April Foolery
I decided to play an April Fools' Day prank on Mr. Pinault. Not out of meanness, of course, but to honor his cultural heritage. You see, the custom of playing pranks on April 1 is thought to have originated in France in the sixteenth century, when a royal decree moved New Year's Day from April 1 to January 1, leading to jokes being played on those who did not accept or know about the change (here). Today the French call April 1 Poisson d'Avril ("April Fish"), which comes from the hilarious medieval hoax of putting dead fish on people's backs while they slept.
I considered doing what French children do nowadays: Taping a paper fish to Mr. Pinault's back and yelling "Poisson d'Avril" when he discovers it. But I hankered for a cruel, harmless American prank. I mulled over possibilities: Salt in the morning coffee? Dead bugs in the cream cheese? Perhaps I could hide all of his boxer shorts?
After weighing the difficulty of each option against the potential explosiveness of his reaction, I decided to pull the ole' switcheroo on his Rusk shampoo, since it's not like he really needs shampoo anyway. I poured his shampoo into another bottle then scoured the kitchen cabinets for a plausible substitute. Maple syrup matched the orange-pink hue best, but is too precious of a commodity to waste, so I selected olive oil instead.
When Mr. Pinault went into the shower this morning, I waited with bated breath for something unusual to happen, but he emerged after a wholly-typical 20 minutes. I immediately gave myself away by demanding "How was your shower?" with a big grin.
He laughed when I declared him an "April Fool!" Not as long and hard as I laughed, of course, but without any hard feelings. It was a great success, though he did promise payback. I hope that I don't wake up on April 1st next year with a dead fish on my back.