Usually by Thanksgiving, the trees in Pennsylvania are bare, and the fallen leaves have turned into shriveling piles of detritus that rustle and shift in the wind. But this year, there were a good number of maples and oaks still shedding richly-hued yellow leaves on the landscape. Below is a canoe poised along the canal in New Hope, PA. Below that is a lovely maple along the banks of the Perkiomen Creek at Mill Grove in Audubon, PA. Both pictures were taken by Mr. P.
Posted in Trips.
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– November 25, 2007
As the Thanksgiving weekend winds down and the door-busting Black Friday sales abate, I urge America to make haste to the malls, the shopping centers, the internet commerce sites, and shop yourselves into a frenzy. Buy more than you think you need. Buy indiscriminately and lavishly. Buy until your credit card’s magnetic strip is worn and useless. Buy, buy, buy.
This may sound uncharacteristic of me, but I am quite concerned that the product peddlers are using sneaky market reverse psychology to trap us in a quagmire of emotional impluses.
My suspicions were aroused when I heard the media outlets reporting on the holiday shopping season using strange themes like consumer restraint. The headlines said that one-third of Americans are planning to spend less during the 2007 Christmas season out of logical concerns about the contracting economy, softening house prices, high fuel costs, a weak dollar, and an environment that is buckling under humanity’s consumption. All this bad news has many Americans believing that this is the year that they can finally exhale. That the mad consumer frenzy to acquire goods is over. That we no longer have to spend ourselves into debt to show our appreciation for our loved ones.
Many Americans have taken cues from the media and eschewed the Black Friday sales. They are proudly exercising self-control, taking on less debt, and reducing their overall materialism. And in the coming weeks, Americans will throw themselves into the pure joy of the Christmas season. They’ll plan practical gifts. They’ll donate to charity in other people’s names. They’ll plan hand-made crafts or baked goods to distribute. They’ll regift without shame. They’ll shake their heads at the commercials that blithely beseech them to spend big bucks on that perfect holiday gift.
And then, with about ten days to go, the tone of the media will change. Suddenly, the economy is fantastic. Holiday spending is up. The stores are packed and shelves are emptying. And Americans will survey their meager and pathetic clutch of presents, and imagine Mother unwrapping the second-hand DVDs of Will Farrell movies, and Father beholding the large Costco container of pretzel bits. America will collectively freak out, head to the mall, and outspend themselves on full-price products to rectify their initial spate of miserliness, resulting in a banner year for retailers and record levels of consumer debt.
So spend now, before you’re conned into going for broke with 5 shopping days left…
Posted in Americana.
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– November 24, 2007
Yesterday I declared my thanks for receiving less search query hits involving naked Meredith Vieira. Ironically, this declaration of thanks will result in more search query hits involving naked Meredith Vieira. Happy freaking Thanksgiving.
If I may get serious for a moment: I have a lot to be thankful for this year. The Patriots are 10-0. The end of the Bush regime is in sight. The spinning instructor who plays too much country-rock music is on maternity leave. I am employed, healthy, and still reasonably good-looking.
And there’s Mr. P. Some readers of this web site with whom I’m not personally acquainted may wonder if Mr. P is a real man, and not some fictitious French foil to my inner malcontent American. But he is so very, very real. And after countless walks in the woods, glasses of wine, courses of cheese, cups of coffee, kisses, movies, billiards, mountain tops, campfires, apres-skis, impromptu language lessons, and general lovey-doveyness…. Mr. P has consented to ask me to be his wife.
Meaning that, some time next year, I will be Mrs. P.
Posted in Existence.
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– November 21, 2007
Yes, it’s a special heart-warming Thanksgiving edition of my favorite search engine queries that brought people to this web site to huddle in the warmth of my gravy-like wisdom!
In the past week, I’ve received over 50 hits involving Squanto and Tisquantum, who I wrote about in Thanksgiving 2006 after reading 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus.
50 hits for Squanto and Tisquantum! That’s twice the number of hits than I received from people seeking nude photos of Meredith Vieira. It appears that I may be turning an important corner on the road to respectability. And for that, I’m very, very thankful.
INTERROGATIVE
what food makes girls horny
what does succotash look like
how do i get marker off my chanel purse
how is the calvin klein advert for euphoria a myth
does meredith viera have penis envy
what is the wc fields quote about spending a year in philadelphia
why was burger king closed in central square
what does green discharge mean for a dog
how to use eyelash curler for thin straight eyelashes
who was the first us president to prove the pythagorean theorum
MISSPELLED
texas tallest mountain rages
time and a half hourly rage of $4.50
how any cars cross the zakim bridge
jeusus freaks
candace cameroon
common tu tappel
como tappel tu translated
adult wemon shown wering diapers
pros and cons of al gore of the green house affect
CELEBRITY & BUSINESS & PRON
peace sign darfur tee shirt designed by celebrity
elizabeth baxter birney nude
idiot remark on maury povich
green day’s favorite food
pillsbury doughboy controversy poking stomach
finagle a bagel upward mobility
brussel sprouts and chanel
going green environment and neiman marcus
holocaust designer plates crate barrel
orgy in brussel -gay
looking for fat women to love and to have sex.com
porn with tentacles and pie
sexy pulpous women
horny mennonite women pics
EVERYTHING ELSE
swiss chard poisonous
fluorescent muscleman paintings
john milton quote tattoo
semantic pox
norristown sucks
big mac methacton
santa claus hairstyles
egg nog lip gloss
funny stair injury pics
“green green”
Posted in Miscellany.
rev="post-3256" 1 comment
– November 20, 2007
The National Endowment for the Arts just released a deeply grim report analyzing over two dozen studies on American reading habits. And the findings? Shocking to absolutely fucking no one: young Americans are reading less for fun, testing lower, writing worse, and growing into adults who can’t read or write for shit.
(Pride demands I interrupt to clarify that the grammar in the previous sentence was butchered on purpose. My own command of English remains unimpeachable, if occasionally ornery.)
I could mount the high horse and wax on about my lifelong love affair with books. But let’s not get precious—I read because there wasn’t much else to fucking do. My teenage options were: kung-fu reruns on UHF, a two-year-old VHS from the sticky end of Blockbuster, or listening to the same ten CDs on repeat. So I read.
But let’s be real: if teenage me had Wi-Fi, a phone, and a Spotify account, she wouldn’t have been curled up with Oscar Wilde and William Burroughs. She’d have been trolling eSpin the Bottle for eyelinered dirtbags, fantasizing about being a Suicide Girl, and pirating every moody band Pitchfork ever overhyped.
So yes, kids today don’t read. But it’s not because they’re worse than we were. It’s because they have better distractions.
Posted in Culture.
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– November 19, 2007
We were driving when we passed a farm stand with a sign that hollered, Pies! Pies! Pies! $10. The car slowed in that barely perceptible way it does when someone’s foot gets ideas. Mr. P made an interested noise. “Maybe we should—”
“We’re not paying ten dollars for a pie when I can make a better one at home,” I cut in. Because when a man wants pie, he wants pie. It doesn’t matter if it’s farmstand pie, grocery store pie, gas station pie. And frankly, I don’t love the idea of my man eating some other woman’s pie.
So I promised: I’d make pie that night.
Back home, I surveyed the pantry. Enough butter for crust—check. But filling options were… grim: a few aging Granny Smiths, bananas on the cusp of fruit-fly season, potatoes, green beans, an eggplant, and some wilting romaine. Oh, and two pounds of brussels sprouts.
I stared at the brussels sprouts. Since writing about them last year, my blog had drawn a suspicious number of hits from people Googling “brussels sprouts sexy” (unclear why). And I’d seen them creeping onto swank menus—Sel de la Terre, for one. Surely the internet could produce many recipes for Brussels Sprouts Pie.
It could not. I found one. Singular. It called for a box of sprouts, 2½ cups of skim milk, and half a cup of sugar. Sugar. In brussels sprouts pie. A war crime.
I felt the reckless tug of experimentation. I omitted the sugar, used whole milk, sautéed the sprouts with garlic and onion until they stopped smelling like feet and started smelling like food. Chopped, poured, baked.
The resulting pie—pictured below—was as delicious as it looks.
(Which is to say: your mileage may vary. Yumminess, like love, is in the eye of the desperate.)
Posted in Existence.
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– November 18, 2007
Today we went to the Joy Street and Brickbottom Open Studios in Somerville. I’m ambivalent about attending Open Studio events. Because I’m not an artist, it’s hard to make knowledgeable small-talk about artistic mediums and other technical aspects, which are the safest, most neutral comments should the artist look at me quizzically. Never open a conversation with “This is so interesting” or “You really like to work with purple!”
I enjoy mingling in an atmosphere of open expression. But I also feel invasive, like I’m inspecting an artist’s work in their own space. I try to remain expressionless, with a slight smile to indicate I’m delighted by what I’m seeing. But I never laugh, even if I’m staring at a meticulously-painted and ornately-framed oil painting of a can of WD-40. Artists earnestly exist in a state of Irony.
I never go for the snacks or wine, because I don’t want the artist to think I’m only there for the free booze. If I were at artist, I can only imagine exposing my inner sanctum of creativity to anyone who wanders in from the street, and watching them make consistent beelines for the Camembert wheel and Yellow Tail Shiraz. I would paint a series depicting people gulping wine and stuffing their mouths with crackers, and then exhibit the paintings at an Open Studio event. Take that, you leeches.
I leave an Open Studio event feeling a mixture of inspiration and jealousy. Why didn’t I devote my life to writing creatively, instead of killing myself in a day job that leaves little left over for more serious endeavors? A person who aims at nothing is sure to hit it. I dwell instead on the inspired fervor, and I head home to create… dinner.
Posted in Culture.
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– November 17, 2007
By now, everyone in my twice-a-week French class is aware that my sole reason for learning French is so that I may speak the native language of mon fiance, Mr. Pinault. As a modern-minded female who likes to set her own agenda, I’m a little sheepish that my ambitions should blatantly reflect my emotional dependence on a man, although my fellow students seem to find my endeavor to be admirable.
“I’ve had boyfriends where I don’t even bother to learn the family members’ names,” the young urban sophisticate who is moving to Montreal admitted to me. “Like, don’t clog my mind with too many details. So, for you to learn a new language, that’s devotion. That’s the sort of relationship I ultimately want to end up in.
“The last guy I dated had one kidney,” she went on to tell me. I raised my eyebrows in surprised horror. “And, you know, they say that having one kidney doesn’t make a difference, but it really does. He just seemed so fragile and bird-like all the time.
“So, you know, I want a guy with two kidneys, and a guy who knows the meaning of the word ‘courtship,'” she said straight-faced.
“You like romantics,” I stated sympathetically.
“No, really, he must know the meaning of the word. All the men I meet have such lackluster vocabularies,” she said with a wink in her voice.
Ah, I love a good wit. Reminds me of myself, before I found my two-kidneyed prince.
Posted in Existence.
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– November 15, 2007
Excitement-craving library nerds like myself are riveted by yesterday’s ousting of Boston Public Library president Bernard Margolis, whose successful 10-year tenure brought an increase in book circulation and improvement in local branch programs despite marginal increases in funding from the city.
Supporters of Margolis contend that Boston Mayor Tom Menino influenced the Board of Trustee’s 7-2 decision not to renew his contract. Apparently, Margolis and Menino have been feuding for years. Margolis was told by mayoral confidants that Menino was fixated on forcing Margolis out because “he hates you”. Margolis further charged that Menino is an “anti-intellectual” who runs the city as if it were an authoritarian state. “I didn’t think this was Venezuela,” Margolis said. Zing!
I’m sure likening Menino to Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez will resonant deeply with anyone who knows who Chavez is, and who is hysterical enough to see any resemblance between a South American Socialist president and the mayor of Boston. And as for the anti-intellectual charge… well, Menino is a profound supporter of academic and intellectual accomplishment, so long as it helps the Red Sox win the World Series.
Menino declined to comment on Margolis, saying, “I’m not getting involved in ‘he said, she said.'” Wait, which one’s the “she”? This keeps getting juicier and juicier!
Posted in Massachusetts.
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– November 14, 2007
I physically and figuratively walked into my regular hair salon in Downtown Crossing. “Lauren isn’t here today,” the receptionist purred. “Angela can take you in ten minutes.” I hesitated. Lauren does a decent job, plus she keeps the conversation light and pleasant. But my hair begged for a cut, and here I was, in the salon with an hour to spare. So I took a chance on Angela.
“Meredith? We’re gonna make you look fabulous today.” A chubby, nondescript woman around my age with a brash South Shore accent steered me over to the sink. It took her all of two minutes to have sufficient cause to declare “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you!”
Over the next 40 minutes, Angela talked non-stop. About her co-workers and the drama of her workplace, where everyone is always stealing each other’s clients, grooming implements, and cigarettes. About her ex-husband, who purchased two condos and three cars in her name before emptying the joint bank account to take a gambling trip to Las Vegas, leaving her bankrupt and lovelorn. “I’ll tell you my philosophy of life,” she whispered in my ear, scissors poised at my neck. “Men suck. They suck.” About her 5-year old daughter, who is a lot of fun, but whose own father can’t remember to pick up from dance class because he’s too busy drinking and drugging. About her mother, who wants to be paid to look after her own grandchild. About Vince Vaughn. Yes, Vince Vaughn, who she once drank with at the Viper Room in LA when she visited her brother 7 years ago, though her brother never visits her here because the weather in Boston is so shitty.
In the last 5 minutes, her virulent spew of words changed into tip-baiting flattery. “You look gorgeous. Your hair is so soft. I can’t believe you’re 30. You look like a baby. Your hair is perfect for this cut.” I tipped Angela 25% and ran out of the salon, exhausted by the manic small-talk that she heaped upon me.
I should have known better. ‘Lauren’ is a name that fills me with warm fuzzy feelings because it’s my sister’s name. But ‘Angela’ is one of those female names that fills me with dread. Ever since grade school, where two of the nastiest girls were named Angela, I’ve been predisposed to not like any Angela, as well as any Missy, Crystal, or Sandra. My bias is usually bourne out by the fact that every woman with one of these names is unpleasantly crazy.
Posted in Existence.
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– November 13, 2007
