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The Self-Fertilizing Soil Salesman

In Philly’s 30th Street Station, as I waited and prayed for some magical entity to whisk me to Boston, I was struck up for conversation by a former investment banker in his late 50s who was trying to reinvent himself as a business developer for some kind of biotech self-fertilizing soil start-up. He was attempting to network with me. You see, I was still wearing my funeral suit, which is a very elegant suit — Calvin Klein, in fact, originally purchased for job interviews but safely converted into a “sad occasion” suit given its total blackness and modest tailoring. The suit coupled with my laptop (on which I was blogging) gave me the appearance of being someone successful, a young go-getter and a potentially useful business contact for someone in the twilight of their career.

“I came down this morning from Boston for a 2-hour presentation to a company in Ambler,” he told me as we stared glumly at the sign that announced all train service to Boston had been stopped due to track flooding in Rhode Island. To my horror, he launched into his sales pitch — not that self-fertilizing soil isn’t an interesting concept, but he was giving me the science, the financials, the droning rip-my-ears-off market opportunity statistics. I wanted to interrupt him and stop this businesswoman charade by saying “I just came from a funeral!” but he suddenly asked me what I did.

“I work for an educational software company,” I said vaguely. “I do a lot of creative things, like designing, editing, and writing. I’m more of a writer than anything else.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a writer,” he said wistfully. “I always felt I had a book in me.”

Whenever someone expresses this aspiration to me, I must squash the desire to be snide and say “You and half of this goddamn country of functional illiterates.” Instead, I pretend to be super-amazed and impressed by their ambitions. If I’m feeling mean, I’ll slyly ask them who their favorite authors are just to watch them flounder for the name of the last respectable book they read.

“Something based on my own life,” he continued. “About my family, my father, and what I did when I was younger, my finance career… I mean, it doesn’t sound exciting, and it wouldn’t be exciting, but more profound.”

“Mmmm-hhhmmm… well, what I always say is the only way to be a writer is to write,” I told him. “I write something every day. Sometimes it’s for work, sometimes it’s for pleasure.”

He was quiet for a second. “Good for you,” he said. “Good for you. I envy you.” He looked distraught for a second, then recomposed himself. “You’ll leave something behind in this world. Writers leave something behind, something that people will want and value. I’ll leave behind a pile of papers that will be shredded, and that’s it. That’s the end of me.” He shook his head. “Morbid, I know.” His voice became upbeat, indicating a change of subject. “So what brings you to Philly?”

I thought about lying — it seemed more polite — but I paused for too long and the truth popped out. “A funeral, actually.”

Conversation killer.

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By Meredith – April 3, 2010

Safe at Home, at last…

And I’m never leaving my apartment again.

I totally have Amtrak-induced agoraphobia. I have an intense fear that, if I go outside, I won’t be able to come home without finding my way to the NYC Port Authority and taking a goddamn Greyhound bus.

The kick in the ass: after I arrived home via a time & money-sucking combination of train, bus, and taxi, I realized that I lost my house keys. The one time in my life I’ve ever lost my keys! I waited outside for Mr. P to drive home from the office to let me in, wondering if anyone would see me if I relieved my near-bursting bladder next to the garage (no, I didn’t). The mere fact that I was considering urinating in my backyard shows how bereft of my human dignity I had become after my Amtrak ordeal.

Thanks, Amtrak. You really put the “fun” in my uncle’s funeral.

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By Meredith – April 1, 2010

Bloggin’ Train Blues

Since the state of Rhode Island is officially a swamp, I’m currently stuck in Philly… standing in 30th Street Station, in fact, trying to get as close to Boston as Amtrak will let me. I wrote the following stuff on the train from Boston to Philly yesterday, as I made my way to my uncle’s funeral, which was this morning. How long ago yesterday seems…

It’s been years since I’ve taken the train to Pennsylvania. Amtrak is an economical and reasonable way for a single person to travel the 350-mile journey from MA to PA, but since I climbed aboard the Mr. P express, driving has become the preferred mode of transport. When round-trip train tickets cost anywhere from $225-$350 per person (depending on if you want local or express), it’s more logical for two people to split the driving and not have to worry about who you will inconvenience for a ride to and fro the train station.

But since Mr. P wouldn’t be coming with me to my uncle’s funeral — and since the rain of the century had turned New England’s roadways into one giant interconnected puddle — I jumped at the chance to take Amtrak. I’ve always been sort of a train dork. I remember taking the Acela train to New York City soon after it began service, and telling my seatmate how exciting the Acela was to me, because I just loved train travel! (I think he thought I was “special,” but he did give me his number.)

I decided to take the regional train that made local stops so that I’d have as much time as possible to spend on the train (plus, it was significantly cheaper). The train was less than half-full. I was a little fearful of what the regional train cars would look like — I have distinct memories of trying to sleep on a vinyl-coated bench with unidentifiable, internal clangings. But the train boasted modernized, fabric-covered seats (like an airplane, but more legroom).

The train was going pretty fast at first, then suddenly slowed down to 2 miles per hour as we approached Providence. I peered out the window and thought we were crossing a river. Then I realized that we were in the river, that the tracks had been totally flooded by the rain. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” said a voice on the conductor’s radio. And then, in disbelief, “I can’t believe we made it past the switching station.” Yes, that is a relief.

As soon as we cleared Providence, the train trundled ahead at a pretty good clip (making all local stops). Periodically, an automated voice would make announcement about how “track one has no defects.” Again, what a relief.

I settled into my work. I purposefully brought along the most mind-numbing project on my burgeoning docket of work tasks. You remember those classroom worksheets that you did when you were learning how to read, when you had to fill the sentence with the most appropriate word, or string together a prefix and word stem to make a new word, or sort words by their suffixes? Well, I edit those. More precisely, I take the raw educational content dreamt up by some lady in England and work my magic within Microsoft Word to hammer out bonafide classroom busy work. Yes, I grew up, and I became the antichrist.

Byt the time we cleared New York, the train was running late, and I was running low on energy. I reminded myself how much suckier it would have been to drive as I stared out the window into the night, into New Jersey’s vague industrial wastelands.

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By Meredith – March 31, 2010

To the Sun-Set Breeze

Last Saturday, my Uncle Charlie passed away. He was 72 and reportedly had myriad fatal ailments, not the least of which was colon cancer. It was not sudden. He knew he was dying. And in the end, he did not suffer.

I did not know my Uncle Charlie very well. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I saw him. I must have been 10, or 12, or 14. It may have been at my Grandma’s house, or an Aunt’s house, or another Uncle’s house. I have a perpetual memory of Charlie, sitting in a chair in a living room with all the other adults, watching sports on television, talking and eating. Like every man on that side of my family, he was large — over 6 foot, with vast shoulders and a thick coating of muscle. But Charlie was also fat, topping 400 pounds (at least) in a time before such girth was a common American attribute. He never married, never had kids, never pursued a serious career beyond auto repair. I remember being slightly fearful of him, perhaps sensing his discomfiture around us, his nieces and nephews.

And then he stopped going to family gatherings. We still got reports of Charlie from our uncles, with whom he hunted and fished, but I never saw him again. He was a distant relative who wasn’t very far in actual distance. I didn’t know Charlie well enough to make pronouncements about him, but my feeling is that he was guileless, naive, helpless, simple. Easy to forget about, my distant Uncle Charlie, but then I saw his obituary picture and… I saw myself in his face. Those are my eyebrows, those are my eyes. That is my flesh and blood, my Uncle Charlie, and tomorrow I will head to PA — come hell or, most likely, high water — and pay homage to him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“To The Sun-Set Breeze” by Walt Whitman

Ah, whispering, something again, unseen,
Where late this heated day thou enterest at my window, door,
Thou, laving, tempering all, cool-freshing, gently vitalizing
Me, old, alone, sick, weak-down, melted-worn with sweat;
Thou, nestling, folding close and firm yet soft, companion better than talk, book, art,
(Thou hast, O Nature! elements! utterance to my heart beyond the rest–and this is of them,)
So sweet thy primitive taste to breathe within–thy soothing fingers my face and hands,
Thou, messenger–magical strange bringer to body and spirit of me,
(Distances balk’d–occult medicines penetrating me from head to foot,)
I feel the sky, the prairies vast–I feel the mighty northern lakes,
I feel the ocean and the forest–somehow I feel the globe itself swift-swimming in space;
Thou blown from lips so loved, now gone–haply from endless store, God-sent,
(For thou art spiritual, Godly, most of all known to my sense,)
Minister to speak to me, here and now, what word has never told, and cannot tell,
Art thou not universal concrete’s distillation? Law’s, all Astronomy’s last refinement?
Hast thou no soul? Can I not know, identify thee?

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By Meredith – March 29, 2010

Sandal Season, You Filthy Animal

As further proof of New Hampshire’s dismally warm and snowless winter, this week marked the earliest-ever recorded “ice-out” on Lake Winnipesaukee. For those unfamiliar, “ice-out” means the lake’s largest ship can now safely make all its ports of call. For 122 years, locals have looked to this tradition as the unofficial herald of spring.

Meanwhile, on my feet, a historic milestone of my own: the earliest-ever recorded “toes-out” pedicure took place this afternoon. “Toes-out” signifies that the crust and sorrow of winter have been professionally sloughed away and I am now cleared for public sandal exposure. It is as reliable a signal of spring as the chirping of sparrows or the forsythia’s first bloom.

(Yes, I’m aware the blue nail polish trend is so last week. But I get it now—it really does highlight the blueness of one’s ropey foot veins.)

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By Meredith – March 28, 2010

Your Moment of Om

Until this morning, I hadn’t attended a real, live yoga class in about two months.

The suburban gym that I switched to when I switched jobs heavily gears their class offerings to the only people who can afford to go there: Old people looking for a legitimate reasons to go to the gym so they can sit in the luxurious whirlpool. They don’t do ashtanga, vinyassa, or power yoga… they want corpse yoga. I went to a Hatha Yoga class where the first pose was Savasana (which is essentially laying on your back and relaxing — normally it comes at the end of class). The second pose was Savasana. Then we lifted our legs into the air, and then Savasana. Then we twisted our knees from left to right, and then Savasana. Then we did some mini-crunches, and then… guess what? 15 minute Savasana! We didn’t get off our backs the whole 60-minute class.

I only have time to seek out other yoga classes on the weekends, and since skiing takes precedence over yoga, I haven’t gone to a studio since before Christmas. In order to keep my hips open and my shoulders strong, I’ve been relying on my Yoga DVD library, which is dominated by the famed instructor Shiva Rea, a tall blond woman whose can do poses that look like special effects. Of course, the majority of her practices are accessible to beginning-to-intermediate yoginis, and Shiva demonstrates everything with unerring clarity and a spacy smile on her serene face. I couldn’t hold a conversation with someone who looked so internally blissed out, but learning yoga from them is entirely suitable.

But this morning, I dragged myself out into the cool sunshine and headed to a yoga class in Cambridge. The class was advertised as Ashtanga Yoga, though the instructor didn’t follow the series of poses that typify that style; rather, we did slow sequences with many gentle variations. Which was fine by me, because I realized that 2-3 months of yoga DVDs really spoiled me. I regularly skip segments that I’m not in the mood for (balances, inversions) and focus mainly on Sun Salutations and standing poses. In other words, I do the poses that I’m good at.

So it was jarring to be in a yoga class and forced to do poses that I may skip or that Shiva Rea doesn’t do. As I struggled to hold a standing split, I remembered what I liked about yoga in the first place: it challenged and enlivened my focus. It put my body in positions it never had to be in. And like many things in life, yoga requires constant practice. In fact, all it requires is constant practice. So, with all due respect to my Shiva Rea DVDs, the fact is… the revelation will not be televised.

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By Meredith – March 27, 2010

Healthy Choice?

Historic health care reform legislation was passed this week by congressional Democrats, who narrowly approved a trillion-dollar redesign of America’s broken health care system amid Republican fear-mongering and threats of violence from the lunatic fringe, including Sarah Palin, who urged her followers via Twitter, “Don’t Retreat, Instead – RELOAD!” (here). Apparently Sarah’s got a killer recipe for Democrat goulash.

Frankly, I can’t say if I think it’s positive or negative legislation, despite having read dozens of news and op-ed articles about health care reform. All I can declaratively say is that no one can really predict if it will be a success. And I will wager that in 2020, America’s health care system will be no worse off than it is now. Socialized medicine might sound scary to many Americans, but come now. Socialized education sounds scary, too, yet only the most batshit capitalists argue in favor of abolishing America’s public education system and replacing it with private schools.

At least America no longer carries the stigma of being the only indistrialized country with no universal health care system. Of course, as a Massachusetts resident, I’ve been living with universal health care for nearly 3 years… remember who spearheaded that socialist legislation? Why, it was then-Governor Mitt Romney, who went on to run for the Republican Presidential nomination while tooting his horn about Mass’s universal coverage! Why wasn’t it socialism then?

Speaking of Mitt Romney, today’s New York Times cover photo is priceless. That’s Obama, holding a Mitt Romney’s book in one hand and Karl Rove’s book in the other, laughing like “What the fuck is this shit?” The caption underneath says I think I’ll Wait for the Movie.

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By Meredith – March 26, 2010

What’s a pretentious word for pretentious?

Today I googled “what’s a pretentious word for pretentious.” I was astonished that Google returned no results that were exact matches! Am I the first person in the history of the internet to wonder this, and phrase it as such?

So, as a service to anyone else who wonders this in the future (and who is too poetic to simply type “pretentious synonyms”), I am composing this post to inform you that I cannot find a satisfyingly pretentious enough word for pretentious.

Synonyms such as pompous, ostentatious, and conceited are just too sensible, too common.

There are the words grandiloquent and magniloquent, but they only pertain to pretentious writing.

There is vainglorious, a word to which I have already composed a love letter, but to me, it is not a precise equivalent in usage. A celebrity is vainglorious, whereas an academic is pretentious. A rich person with 8 houses is vainglorious, whereas a social climber is pretentious.

Turgid is a potential contender, but could be construed as an indecent observation and provoke alarm.

Bombastic doesn’t work for me, because it was a Shaggy song, and I believe Shaggy thought it was cool to be bombastic. “What you want is some boombastic romantic fantastic lover / She call me Mr. Boombastic, say me fantastic…”

To sum:  I’m left with no eloquent way to pretentiously express myself about how pretentious something else is.

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By Meredith – March 24, 2010

Perfume Review: Versace Pour Homme

The expression on the Versace Pour Homme model’s face carries a distinct hint of confusion (see below). Something happened, or is going to happen. But what? To whom? And how, precisely, am I involved? I possess nothing he could possibly need or desire, so why does he affix me with this stare of profound lostness underscored by an almost menacing passion, like: You bitch. You imperfect bitch.

Indeed, it is a mystery. Men of such otherworldly beauty typically don’t deem me worthy of such probing scrutiny (except, of course, Tom Cruise). Frankly, it makes me uncomfortable. His freakish facial features — the hyper-masculine stubble-peppered chin juxtaposed with the feminine plumped lips, noble nose, and overly-plucked eyebrows — seemed to be architected by some omnipotent being, capable of transcending the boundaries of typical corporeal reality. Perhaps you should look away now, pretty boy, before I am tempted to tousle your hair.

Is this how demigods smell, of bergamot, citrus, and a touch of seaspray? Dominating this musky, woodsy scent is an effusive burst of floral notes that turns this virile smell into an androgynous fragrance. It is no accident, although it is a disaster, resulting in a mannish potpourri, a beefcake flower, a sachet for the jock and sock drawer.

Too pretty for rugby, too rough for polo, the Versace Pour Homme model reads online reviews of carbon-frame bicycles in anticipation of triathalon season. He enjoys burgers and smoothies, retro cola and fine wine, and a bi-monthly cigar. He would rather scrimp on a winter coat in order to splurge on a Caribbean vacation. He slathers lotion on his body with vigorous rubs. He is aware of his metrosexuality, but does not associate with anyone who would dare question this gender-blending identity as anything other than civilized. The mystery is, that there is no mystery. Something happened, or is going to happen. And the Versace Pour Homme model has no fucking clue.

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By Meredith – March 23, 2010

Pre-spring Skiing at Tuckerman Ravine

People have been skiing at Tuckerman Ravine on Mount Washington for over 9 decades. It’s a legendary skiing destination in the Northeast, owing to its stalwart springtime snowpack, its extreme nature, and its convivial friendly atmosphere. Plus, there’s no costly lift tickets required, because there’s no lifts. If you want to ski Tuckerman, better be prepared to carry your gear up the mountain.

Me, I don’t especially want to ski Tuckerman Ravine, because despite having mastered the piddly black trails at Wachusett mountain, I’m still a looong ways away from displaying the skill and technique required to ski Tuckerman Ravine with my pride and my skeleton intact. But Mr. P, who was born on skis, was game. So we bided our time, watching the weather forecasts and avalanche reports in anticipation of conditions like last Saturday’s. Owing to either global warming or just a fluke pre-spring preview, Saturday proved to be a day of uncommon warmth — many people remarked it was the earliest in the season they have ever skied Tucks (as the regulars call it).

We arrived at the Tuckerman Ravine trailhead at 9am and parked on Route 16 amid hundreds of other skiers. Mr. P attached his telemark skis to his backpack and prepared to suffer for roughly the next 2 hours to Hermit Lake. I carried water, food, and a lightweight camping chair that attached to my backpack. If I was going to be a spectator, I wanted to spectate in comfort. The chair and I caught some amused looks and several comments along the way: “You bring a newspaper, too?” one man asked.

Ready for the Hike

The snow on the Tuckerman Ravine trail was packed enough that we could sustain a steady pace in our winter boots. I, not having 20 pounds of gear strapped to my back, faired a little better than most. Overall, the crowd was much more ambulatory than when we hiked Tuckerman’s Ravine last summer.

The upward trek

We reached Hermit Lake in a little less than 2 hours. What a scene! Everyone was grabbing a snack and preparing their gear before ascending their chosen ski route.

Base of Tuckerman Ski Area, with the looming ravine

Mr. P wanted to ski The Lip, so we continued up the Tuckerman Ravine trail. The footing got a bit trickier and the wind picked up.

Headed to Lunch Rocks, with the Lip in the background

I settled in at Lunch Rocks, and Mr. P, after putting on his telemark boots, continued to hike up the ravine. I relaxed on my chair and watched the skiers trudge past the rocks up the ravine. Thanks to his garish pants, I could watch Mr. P steadily ascend the Ravine.

The Ski March

As a lazy observer who fears heights, it’s hard for me to say what is the bigger challenge of skiing Tuckerman Ravine: Going up or going down? Mr. P adamantly says that going up is harder; he reports witnessing a fair amount of anguish while ascending the ravine, including his own. A steep set of snow stairs had been established by his predecessors, but the wind became fierce, and some people had difficulty staying upright.

Mr. P’s View of Wildcat Mountain

But surely temporary bodily anguish is worth this view:

View from the near-top of ravine’s wall (squint to see skiers on other routes)

Meanwhile, I lounged at Lunch Rocks in my chair, watching the action. One skier launched himself off a crop of rocks and took off top-speed down the ravine, with turns so tight that his thighs nearly grazed the snow. The crowd erupted in cheers as the skier zoomed past us, pumping his fist twice in the air. Others were not so victorious, and more than a few skiers tumbled down the wall, their skis and poles jettisoned in every direction. The crowd would let out a sympathetic, pained “Aw-oof!” As one such snowboarder lay in the snow, a chunk of ice broke away from the headwall. The ice came nowhere near the felled boarder, but the crowd began their customary warning call of “Ice! Ice!” “Wake up, man!” people were yelling, and the medics looked prepared to mobilize, but the snowboarder picked up his head and got up.

This whole scene made me fear for Mr. P, who was beyond my sight on top of the ravine’s wall. Finally, I saw him. I couldn’t make out his telltale pants, but his style — the relaxed bent-knee stance, the graceful pronounced jumps — was unmistakable.

Mr. P on the Lip

He didn’t earn any applause, but who cares? He made it down!

Yeh!

We sat and relaxed for a bit, as Mr. P recounted his journey and we watched other skiers. The ravine was really starting to fill up, although there were a lot more people hanging out than actually skiing.

Skiers in Tuckerman Ravine

In mid-afternoon, we decided to head down. Mr. P could ski down the Sherburne Ski Trail, but I had to walk back down the Tuckerman Ravine trail. Given the soft condition of the snow, it was easy for me to sustain a bizarre downhill running gait that had me in the parking lot in 40 minutes. “A chair? Now that’s a bit ridiculous,” some guy commented as I galloped past him and his friend. I half-turned around and called “Ridiculous compared to what?”

Meanwhile, Mr. P was descending Sherburne with his telemark brethren, his legs absolutely burning but completely happy and fulfilled from his single run at Tuckerman Ravine.

Sherburne Ski Trail

On the way back to the hotel, we stopped to get some beer. Of course, I had to get…

Tuckerman Pale Ale

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By Meredith – March 21, 2010