Bunghole

I sat today with the intention of writing a fascinating (of course!) essay about how I ripped up the disused tomato plants from our garden tonight. About how I chucked dozens of rotted bodies of fruit, bloated by nighttime frost. About how I hacked at the twine that had bound the plants to the posts with a retractable blade, allowing the great vines to swoon to the ground. About how our mutually-beneficial relationship has ended. We are the tomato plants’ creator, protector, and ultimately the destroyer; with no great effort, we tug its defunct roots from the soil and crumple the vines into the Yard Waste bin.

My essay didn’t progress as planned. I lost my focus somewhere between answering emails, making dinner, and running various domestic errands. Aw, shit, I hate to evoke the prose of Woolf so cavalierly, but “Women, then, have not had a dog’s chance of writing poetry. That is why I have laid so much stress on money and a room of one’s own.”

Having failed at poetry for tonight, instead I bring you… Bunghole Liquors, of Peabody, Massachusetts. What a surrendipitous discovery, to be driving down the road and happen upon a typical nondescript package store called Bunghole Liquors. I forced Mr. P to pull over to take a picture, even though he could not comprehend why. “In dictionary English, a bunghole is the pouring hole in a liquor barrel,” I explained. “But doesn’t ‘bunghole’ just sound like it should mean something a helluva lot dirtier than that?”

I was a little disappointed when the Internet told me that the proprietors of Bunghole Liquors were fully cognizant of their establishment’s unsavory double entendre; their website boasts of the slogan “We’re not #1 butt we’re right up there” and offers a good selection of merchandise riffing on bunghole’s slang meaning. Which is rather coarse and low-class, if you ask me. The opposite of poetry.

Posted in Massachusetts.

Tagged with Beverages, Domesticity.

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By Meredith – November 1, 2010

Zombie Pilgrim

This morning we ran the 6.66 mile Devil’s Chase run in Salem (here). Ever since I read the Crucible in high school, I’ve had a fascination with Salem — although I’ve never fully accepted Salem’s self-proclamation as “Witch City” and ownership of the Halloween holiday. I mean, the life lesson to be learned from the Salem witch trials is that none of the accused witches were really witches. Of course. Salem as a city is no more supernatural than Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. But it’s a good marketing technique, as evident by the nearly 1200 runners who signed up to run 6.66 miles at 8am on a late-October Sunday morning that fortuitously happened to be Halloween.

The race instructions said that costumes were encouraged and they’d have prizes for the best 15 costumes, but we somehow missed the memo that only devil costumes would be judged. Which is ridiculous, because how boring is it to see hundreds of runners wearing red shirts, tiny devil’s horn, and forked tails? Wouldn’t you rather see…

: Zombie Pilgrim

…a zombie pilgrim?

Mr. P improvised with a can of green hairspray and the ridiculously orange tech shirt from the ING half-marathon:

Pumpkin Man

Even though I didn’t qualify for the costume contest, I created a stir as I ran through the streets of Salem. And whatever discomfort caused by running in a full-length skirt (with a pinned hemline), a collar, an apron, a bonnet, and highly toxic face paint was compensated by the hilarity that such a sight caused among the festive citizens of Salem, who consistently correctly identified me: “Look, it’s a pilgrim zombie!” One woman pointed at me and shrieked “It’s a witch! Hang the witch!” I must’ve had my picture taken two dozen times. I loved that everyone understood and appreciated what I was going for:

The Home Stretch

Thank goodness the morning chill kept me from sweating profusely, as I was highly paranoid that my face would melt into my eyes. My pace was very relaxed, and by the time I rounded towards the finish line (passing speedy Mr. P — who had long since finished — with his camera) I could even muster a smile, though beaming happiness isn’t very pilgrim zombie-esque.

Happiest Zombie Pilgrim Ever

At the finish line, I sampled some popcorn and helped Mr. P pillage the energy bars (for future use). Then, we took a turn in the photo booth.

And, just because I’m verklempt with seasonal exuberance, here are some gratuitous late-season foliage shots from Lynn Woods:

Boston from Lynn Woods

Posted in Massachusetts.

Tagged with Exercise, Running.

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By Meredith – October 31, 2010

Adventures in Adult Education: Italian Wine Tasting

or How I Got Tipsy in a Spanish Classroom While Listening to a Guy Named Frank Talk About Tannins

Since last spring’s charcuterie-and-champagne class left us gloriously buzzed and full of facts we would forget within a week, we decided to level up. This fall, we enrolled in “The Wines of Italy” at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education, because Mr. P, a Frenchman with pride and palate, knows fuck-all about wine beyond the French border. And because I, an American woman with a credit card and unresolved academic tendencies, will sign up for literally anything that makes me feel both smarter and mildly drunk.

We figured the class would be full of beardy old men sniffing their glasses like truffle pigs and quoting vintage years they first tasted in the Left Bank with a countess. Instead, we walked into a room that screamed “budget public high school”: hard plastic chairs, scratched-up table, a chalkboard inexplicably covered in Spanish verbs. And seated around it? 7 women, 2 men, and one very American instructor with Italian ancestry and the energy of a divorced high school teacher who once studied abroad and never got over it.

We kicked things off with introductions. Everyone had to name their favorite wine. No pressure.

First were two Irish-faced townie sisters who looked like they dropped straight out of a Dorchester family reunion. One liked “Californian wines,” and the other offered “I like red, but I’m getting into whites,” which is code for “I’m here to get hammered and I brought backup.”
Next up, two older women who clearly had disposible income and the kind of friendship that involves ayahuasca trips and matching fleece. One was Italian but “knew nothing about wine,” which felt like a lie, and the other named some obscure varietal so I immediately respected and feared her.
Then came a 20-something Asian woman who said she liked “champagne,” which prompted a future tantrum from the teacher about how Americans misuse that word. Young lady spent the evening simply housing the flavorless crackers.
Our lone other man: a late-20s ginger wearing the full Brooks Brothers starter pack. He said “zinfandel” (he pronounced it right) and gave off the vibe of someone who writes Yelp reviews for sport.
Mr. P explained that he was French and therefore drinks French wine. “I’m his wife,” I said. “I drink whatever he buys.” That got a laugh, got me off the hook, and cemented my role as the sarcastic one. Perfect.
Last was a confident 40-something woman who said she “knows people in the industry,” which was vague enough to either mean sommelier or bartender at Eataly. Either way, I believed her.

To “wake up our palates,” we were given mystery liquids. The first was clear and acidic. I swirled. I sniffed. I bullshitted. It was water with lemon. Great start.

Next: a pinkish liquid. “Cranberry juice,” I whispered confidently. Nope. Grape juice. Because apparently I’ve never had either.

Third: an amber-colored mystery. “Flat beer?” I guessed. It was black tea. I’m officially a tasting failure and also probably just thirsty.

Then came the wines. First up: a dry white from Veneto. The room lit up with shouts of “Apples!” “Pears!” “Stone fruit!” I turned to Mr. P and whispered, “I think it tastes like white wine.” I wasn’t wrong.

The next two whites were less acidic, actually good, and tragically poured out before I could finish mine. The townie sisters were draining their glasses like it was Thirsty Thursday at TGI Friday’s. Meanwhile, the instructor was going off about soil chemistry, vine altitude, salad pairings, and how the Italian wine bureaucracy is “similar to France, but even more psychotic.” (Direct quote.)

Things got more interesting with the reds. A rich Tuscan red inspired one of the funky fleece women to announce, “This one’s very thick and jammy in my mouth. Am I crazy?” No. You’re drunk and honest. Keep going.

We learned that Italy has over 200 grape varieties, while France has about 50… because Italy’s topography is chaotic and beautiful, and France got wine-regulation fever and purged everything fun. Our teacher kept comparing the two countries. Possibly for Mr. P’s benefit. Possibly because he has a lifelong complex about French wine.

By the final wine, I was buzzing off vapors and residual crackers. Not drunk, exactly. But wine class isn’t all giggles and gulping. It’s educational. We learned about history, geography, fermentation, agricultural colonialism, and the socioeconomic implications of labeling… and we got tipsy doing it.

Class #2 is next week. We’re studying hard. And by “studying,” I mean wearing clean clothes and pretending not to be wine-degenerate trash for two hours in front of strangers.

Can’t wait.

Posted in Culture.

Tagged with Beverages, Cambridge, revised.

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By Meredith – October 30, 2010

Lesbians at the Laundromat

They kissed. I folded. We all had a moment.

Several weeks ago, I vowed never again to do laundry on a weekend. This epiphany arrived during a particularly bleak Sunday evening in an overcrowded laundromat where I found myself in a passive-aggressive, high-stakes showdown with a scowling Russian grandmother and a sweaty dude in cargo shorts who reeked of Axe and despair. Is this my life now? Furiously yanking wet underwear from the washer so I can beat Team Sad Beige to the last available dryer?

Tuesday night seemed like a smarter play. No yoga, no French class, no happy hour, just me and my dirty socks, living the dream. I left work at five sharp, broke two lesser traffic laws on the way home, grabbed our hampers, and beelined to the shiny, over-air-conditioned laundromat. Parked right out front like a laundry boss. This is how laundry should be.

I hauled in Hamper One. The door was propped open (October heatwave, naturally), and the place was empty,except for two girls perched on the folding table behind the front-loaders. Cute. Quiet. Unbothered. That changed quickly.

As I bent to unload my shame pile of stretched-out sports bras and off-white socks, the girls leaned in and started making out. Full tongue. No warm-up. Just, boom—lesbian softcore.

I turned around and went back out to get Hamper Two, blinking. Not because I was scandalized. Please. I was just recalibrating… because for a split second, I thought they were sisters. They looked that alike: short, tan, bespectacled, and straight-up adorable. Mexican? Filipina? Cuban? Algerian?

When I came back in, things had escalated. Bodies pressed, hands groping, tongues… visible. I focused all my mental energy on loading the washers. Detergent. Quarters. More detergent. Pretend the lesbians aren’t dry-humping three feet away.

From outside came a high-pitched shriek that was startling, but obviously in passing. The girls paused, glanced toward the door, and the taller one muttered, “How annoying.” But she was looking at me. I could feel it.

And that’s when it hit me: they wanted me to be shocked. Like I was supposed to clutch my pearls and scurry off with my sensible sport panties, shaken and stirred.

As if demonstrative queer affection would leave me flustered. Bitch, please. I’ve done worse things than make out on a folding table, and I’ve done them on camera.

Posted in Existence.

Tagged with Laundry, revised.

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By Meredith – October 27, 2010

Charity Begins With Irritation

Blackmailed by junk mail

I get an endless stream of junk mail from charities and organizations whose entire mission is to make the world a better place. So why the fuck are they sending me junk mail? Is there any mail more ironic than a thick, glossy envelope from the freaking Arbor Day Foundation? Maybe if the American Heart Association mailed me a carton of Marlboros and a sleeve of Twinkies.

I’ve gone numb to these paper pleas—fighting homelessness, injustice, Republicans, environmental collapse, misogyny, underfunded schools, birth defects—each one wrapped in a guilt-trip and a set of free cheap address labels. I don’t even bother opening them anymore. Like most people, I’ve learned that a $30 donation is less about helping a cause and more about buying yourself a permanent slot on the begging list.

But today, a letter from Smile Train caught my eye.

I had to read it twice. “Make one gift now and we’ll never ask for another donation again!” It was so blunt, so refreshingly transactional. No emotional blackmail. Just: Give us money and we’ll leave you the hell alone.

Honestly? Respect.

And if that means no more oversized envelopes featuring ghostly white babies with cleft palates? That might just be the best ROI in the history of charitable giving.

Posted in Culture, Existence.

Tagged with Mail, Money, revised.

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By Meredith – October 25, 2010

Blue Ribbon BBQ

Along with thousands of other Boston-area omnivores, two weeks ago I bought a Groupon for Blue Ribbon BBQ, a famed local establishment that serves heaping portions of pit-smoked fatty, salty, sweet meat. In fact, since Blue Ribbon BBQ is less than a mile from my house, I bought 3 Groupons (the per-person limit), with each $7 Groupon redeemable for $15 worth of food. It wound up being the most popular Groupon ever, selling a whooping 16,571 (here). That’s nearly a quarter million dollars worth of BBQ — the mind boggles, the health care system buckles.

I had never tried Blue Ribbon BBQ. In fact, I’m admittedly leery of overcooked, greasy meat basted in sugar and served in between two doughy slabs of enriched white flour. Up until I started my current job, I can’t remember ever having BBQ, but as there’s a small BBQ joint in sleepy Concord near my work, I find myself going to lunch with co-workers for pulled pork and brisket on a monthly basis. Surprisingly, most people I know are very enthusiastic about BBQ. Perhaps it’s something New Englanders must enthuse over to prove that they’re not straight-laced chowder-quaffing elitists who are fear spice and grease. “Oh, you must go to Blue Ribbon BBQ!” my co-workers rave, amazed that I’m not there on, like, a nightly basis… perhaps suspecting that I’m one of those uptight chowder-quaffers. Perhaps I am.

I arrived at Blue Ribbon BBQ on Friday night at 7:45pm, my Groupon in hand. It’s a small place with just a few tables; its coziness was accentuated by a slew of kitschy decorations (posters, license plates, antique bar taps), not to mention the crowd of obese men waiting for take-out. I immediately perceived that I was one of few females in the restaurant. I got in the ordering line and was soon motioned to the register by a large older man with watery eyes and a pronounced limp.

“Hi!” I said, smiling too brightly.

He glanced at me. “You look tired,” he drawled with cloying sympathy. “And hungry.” Dear lord. This man looks like he’s had three heart attacks, and he thinks I look tired?

“Yes, I am hungry!” Laugh. Hillbilly hospitality unnerves me. I’d last about a week in the South. “I’d like a…”

“Hold on a second dear, I gotta change the tape,” he murmured as he fussed with the register. He talked to himself, or maybe me, as he fed a new roll of paper into the slot. Behind him, I could see 4 or 5 large men bustling about in the kitchen as they prepared huge orders of food from various vats and pots. Beyond that, a sea of flesh marinated in anxiety as they waited expectantly for their orders.

“Okay, dear,” he said. “What will it be?”

I squashed the sudden urge to ask for salad. “A pint of pulled pork and a pint of coleslaw please.” The order came to $17, so with the Groupon, I paid a grand total of $9. It’s a good deal until I see the hospital bill.

I joined the crowd in the takeout area. Out of about 12 people, 10 were men. What is it about BBQ that’s so manly, anyway? Is it because it’s one of the few cuisines whose preparation requires a formidable array of tools? As I waited, I filled multiple little plastic ramekins with various BBQ sauces (and pickles!) and snagged a seat next to two total old-school Boston guidos who made insipid observations about the wall of license plates.

“Look at that skinny one,” the older one growled, pointing to what appeared to be an antique orange license plate from Europe.

“Look at that Chinese one,” the younger one said, pointing to what appeared to be a license plate from Korea.

“North Dakota, huh,” the older one said.

“Yeah, and Mississippi,” added the younger one.

Pause. “Texas,” said the older one.

“Yeah, and North Carolina,” added the younger one.

I was on the verge of tossing XXX Hot BBQ sauce in their faces when their number was called and they left with two large bags of food. Had I known that I would wait for 25 minutes, I would have brought a book, but as it was, I simply gazed at the license plates. Very soon, my mental activity was akin to “Huh, Oregon. And, Nevada.”

I arrived home at 8:30 with the takeout, and even though I was famished, I couldn’t bring myself to fully dig into a huge mound of pulled pork, as taste-pleasing as it was. My mind was swimming with all of the bulging bellies at Blue Ribbon BBQ, the sad sacks of loose flesh clinging to their overstuffed takeout containers, eager to go home so that they can eat everything, but taste nothing.

We finished about half the pint of pulled pork. “Taste everything, but eat nothing.” That night Mr. P stumbled into bed, gripping his stomach and complaining about his digestion. To a French person, poor digestion is an absolute fucking tragedy; I usually shrug it off, but as my own stomach churned with fatty sweet meat, I could empathize. The next morning I examined the leftovers in the refrigerator, and to my horror, a solid inch of congealed sauce-tinged lard had pooled on the bootom of the container. Hm. That would never happen with chowder.

Posted in Americana.

Tagged with Food.

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By Meredith – October 24, 2010

Happy Fisty

I was reading the French newspaper Liberation. Actually, “reading” is an exaggeration. It’s more like I was piecing together vague comprehension based on recognizable cognates and an array of possible meanings gleaned from my trusty French-English-French dictionary. And then I happen upon the word “tampon.” What could that possibly mean? It turns out this word — the source of such proper embarrassment in English — means blotter or stamp in French. Ew. I’m dreading the inevitable day that I’m in France, and “tampon” comes up in reference to something I’d get on my passport. Even weirder, it’s a masculine noun.

For the past few months, I’ve been listening to RFI (Radio France Internationale’s) 15-minute news podcast called Journal en francais facile — Easy French. Well, if this is the easy French, I quiver at the thought of the diificult French. Oh, it starts off easy enough — Bonjour á tous — but then the words begin. Rapid-fire French, with no pauses and occasional cuts to telephone reports. It’s amazing how one word can clue you into the entire context of a new report. “Manifestations” (protests), for instance. These days, there are a lot of manifestations.

I read Liberation in its entirety — after all, this newspaper does cost me $5 at Out of Town News, so I read everything. My reading comprehension is much better than my listening comprehension, so I understand perhaps 65%. That doesn’t include the wee bit of English that I found in the personal section…

Posted in In the News.

Tagged with France.

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By Meredith – October 20, 2010

Open Up and Say /t/

As a technical writer, I sometimes must create mock-up drawings to hand off to a skilled graphic designer. It is a shameful process, for my graphic handiwork is inevitably horrendous. It makes me realize that children draw sloppily not because they are children, but because they have no experience as drawers. An adult with an equal amount of experience will draw quite in the same way.

Like most people, I gave up drawing circa age 6 and my drawing skills have stagnated ever since. Here’s my Photoshop rendering of a mouth demonstrating the ideal position of the tongue tucked behind the front teeth when pronouncing the sounds /t/ (unvoiced) or /d/ (voiced).The graphic designer must really like it when I send her mock-ups like this; it must tighten her sense of job security.

Posted in The 9 to 5.

Tagged with Art.

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By Meredith – October 19, 2010

Dancerish Pose

We were walking in the woods alongside the Sudbury River when we happened upon a wooden bench plopped about one foot from the shore in six inches of water. The urge to hop onto the narrow plank and do some balancing yoga poses for the camera was irresistible as well as extremely challenging. It’s one thing to do Warrior III with your foot planted on a mat and gaze trained on the ground, but on a 8-inch wide beam surrounded by water under the stare of a camera-happy husband is a wee bit intimidating.

None of my poses reached a “full expression,” as they say. And even worse, Mr. P cropped the bench out of every shot so that the viewer does not truly understand and appreciate the difficulty of the sub-par bodily positions that I did manage to attain. Still, it’s much better than a shot of me flailing in the water, at least from my biased perspective.

I suppose there’s a life lesson here, about how hard empathy is. None of you can imagine the difficulty of this dancer’s pose, because none of you can see the narrow wooden bench upon which I stand, submerged in the Sudbury River. Circumstances change like the ebb and flow of tidal currents; indeed, life is a never-ending spiral of change. Don’t attach to an outcome, because the outcome will change. Be mindful of this moment, because it will pass, and if you are somewhere else you will miss it. Celebrate the ordinary, accept what you have, remember that every day is a gift (that’s why it’s called the present), and namaste, bitches.

My sub-par Dancer on a Half-Submerged Bench

Posted in Existence.

Tagged with yoga.

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By Meredith – October 18, 2010

Ravenswood Trail Race

This morning Mr. P and I roused ourselves at 6:30am and stumbled/drove to Gloucester for the 4.1-mile Ravenswood Trail Race. Trail running is our new thing; it’s the perfect activity for avid hikers who enjoy occasional gusts of speed but grow weary of asphalt’s monotonous cuddling. We trained a few times this summer in the Middlesex Fells, plus we incorporated trots into our mountain descents, plus there was that whole lung-conditioning Inca Trail/Machu Picchu thing, but this was our first trail running race and we weren’t sure what to expect.

The low-key, casual, friendly race organizers as well as the $10 entry fee was a welcome departure from the pricey running events involving timing chips, sponsors, and a crush of participants at the starting line. The ~140 participants simply gathered in the woods, lined up based on a quick visual assessment of where each person determined that they belonged, and then someone at the front shouted “Go!” We were off, running through the beautiful autumn woods in cool sunshine.

The Ravenswood race course alternated between rough woodsy terrain and wide dirt roads. One big difference between a road race and a trail race is that it’s much trickier to pass someone on a narrow, uneven, sometimes steep dirt path pocked with rocks and roots. This is unfortunate for me, because my main advantage in a trail running race is my technical prowess on rugged earth, not my lackluster lumbering speed. I would pass people as I solidly bounded up and down the trail, and then they would pass me on the expansive pine needle-covered access roads. All-in-all, it was a tough but invigorating 4.1 miles. I finished in 93rd place (about 46 minutes) and Mr. P in 54th place (40 minutes) out of 143 runners– not bad for a couple of novices.

After the race, there was a wonderful smorgasbord of baked goods provided by the sponsoring running club as well as an impressive raffle featuring free Montrail running shoes, $50 gift certificates, packages of Yodels and Yoo-hoo, socks, and a plastic running trophy that plays “Chariots of Fire.” Sadly, Mr. P and I won nothing, not even the garish scarecrow mile-markers from the race, but overall it was one of the best races I’ve ever run in with a great post-race vibe. I loved it from the moment that some guy shouted “Go!”