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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

Blood Bothers in Thailand

In Thailand, protesters have been demonstrating against the government of Prime Minister Abhisit Vejjajiva, who is viewed by many as representing the interests of the country’s aristocracy and military elite. Mass “Red Shirt” demonstrations have been ongoing for the past week, with a peak 100,000 of mostly poor and rural protesters clamoring for the government to call elections.

And since old-fashioned protest sings and slogan chanting didn’t appear to be working, on Tuesday, they brought out the blood.

After drawing blood from thousands of protesters and storing it in plastic jugs, the crowd emptied gallons upon gallons of blood onto the gates of Vejjajiva’s office and headquarters. The New York Times reports (here):

The protesters held up the containers of blood like offerings to an angry god before pouring them out. Clumps of coagulated blood clung to the pavement. A Brahmin walked barefoot through the foamy red pools and performed a ceremony. A soldier in full riot gear fainted.

Just reading this almost makes me faint. Then again, I faint when I go to the eye doctor.

Even though the mental imagery of all this coagulated human gore evokes a squeamishness unrivaled by anything I’ve ever encountered in a doctor’s office, I really must admire the symbolism. “The blood of the common people is mixing together to fight for democracy,” says one of the Red Shirt leaders here. Plus, apparently the blood also conveniently doubles as a black magic curse on the government!

Note to American Tea Partiers: Time to step up your protest tactics a notch. Your rallies with your Revolutionary-era garb and your sloganized signs (“It’s the Marxists, Stupid!” “Rush Is Right!” “Public Schools: Leftist Re-Education Camps”) are pretty batshit, but they just aren’t as cutting-edge crazy-angry as painting government property with your own blood.

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By Meredith – March 18, 2010

Sunday Morning Laundry

Outside, an epic rain was falling. The weather forecaster explained that a storm system was “stuck” over New England, that it would “sit and spin” on top of us for days, dumping massive amounts of precip and blowing sustained wind gusts and flooding our roads, our basements and our rivers, and it would be unrelenting. On Saturday night, I’d periodically wake up to the sound of battering rain drops against our windows, accompanied by a persistent sigh of wind that occasionally reared up into a howl. Sit and spin, indeed.

The laundry had to be done on Sunday morning. I lugged our two portable hampers to my car, my face catching the brunt of water flung by the sideways wind. “Enough!” I wanted to shout at nothing. “Can’t you see that I’m already wet? Can’t you see that everything is already wet?” But the storm persisted with its chilled torrent, and I made my way to the laundromat nursing severe feelings of persecution.

When I arrived at the laundromat, there was no convenient street parking, owing to the fact that the laundromat was located in between a Baptist church and a popular bagel eatery — a Sunday morning double-whammy that left me hauling my hampers down two blocks of sidewalk, my biceps burning under the weight of dirty clothes while rivulets of water streamed off my raincoat and the cuffs of my tan pants turned brown with moisture.

The laundromat was empty, although several dryers were in motion — the lingering presence of another launderer. Immediately I began sorting our clothes into a cluster of washers — a mad dash of flying socks, pouring detergent, and clanging quarters, because the sooner the washers start, the sooner I can leave. The washers clicked to life, filling with sudsy water and spinning into a vortex of cotton and synthetics. Sit and spin.

I slipped on my iPod headphones, and watched the washers sit and spin, and watched the rain beat down on Mass Ave. People came in, the wind helping them to burst the door open: A young black man with a single load, carrying a cup of Yoplait yogurt and a banana; two young men, one wearing an oversized T-shirt that said “My Feet Hurt,” bearing clothes that briefly perfumed the laundromat with body odor and cigarette smoke; an older man, washing a comforter. We were all idling in the laundromat, in silence, in a comfortable silence, as the storm periodically intensified and then abated. For once, the scariest thing at the laundromat was outside.

Soon my clothes began to dry. Load by load, I piled the clothes into the laundromat-provided steel basket and wheeled them over to the folding table, where I expertly whisked the jumbled mess of fabric into a neat stack of clothes. I folded with frenetic speed, intent on erasing this last bit of tedium from the task that is laundry.  I folded sheets, towels, t-shirt, dress shirts, slacks, boxers, dish clothes, napkins, handkerchiefs, jeans, and sports bras. And as I folded, I darted glances around the laundromat and realized I was the only person moving; the others stood frozen, gazing into some private abyss that existed somewhere outside, in the storm, through the windows at which they gaped.

My iPod hung on my ears, dormant, a silent victim of my preoccupation. So when the church bells began, I could hear them very clearly, and a shiver ascended my spine. The bells overcame the sound of the storm, chiming a winsome, sweet song; it made me think of a sunny spring day filled with flowers and birdsong. It made me think of going to church as a young girl with my family, wearing an airy Sunday dress, content in who I was and who I was with, innocent to the ravages of man, nature, and deity.

I wanted the church bells to last forever, to ring out in everlasting solace. But the song finished, and the rain continued to pour from the sky — from fountains of unfathomable reserve, from the sit and spin weather system that has turned our radars green — to purge the ungodly for our deeds of ungodliness, for what we have done and left undone, for spending our Sunday morning in the laundromat as the epic rain purges the wicked and cleanses the yielding, like socks in the laundry.

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By Meredith – March 17, 2010

Sucky Vacuums

Our vacuum cleaner has been dying for the past year or so, its suction slowly waning until only the hose would ingest the proffered dust, dirt, hair, and crumbs. So I’d vacuum the whole apartment with the hose, a tedious, inefficient process that was the height of domestic banality and evoked near-lethal amounts of self-pity. And then, sometime last month, even the hose stopped working.

“I abhor this vacuum,” I’d declare. “This vacuum sucks. Because… it’s not sucking.” As much fun as it was to make vacuum-related puns during my semi-tri-monthly house cleanings, the whole thing bothered me immensely. I can’t relax on my yoga mat when I can see, smell, and taste the mites and allergens that coat our hardwood floor. I had been reduced to using a broom like some medieval chambermaid.

Since the sucky non-sucking vacuum was not worth getting repaired, we decided to invest in a new vacuum — another sub-$100 model that will probably die in a few years, but by then maybe we’d be willing to invest in one of those 1000-watt motor marvels with a 20-year warranty. Until then, we’re going to Sears.

The lady working the vacuum department in Sears had not one, but two lazy eyes. She was large, middle-aged and spoke with a dripping Boston accent. Yet make no mistake: This woman was a vacuum cleaner hustler.

“Those have no suction,” she started off straight away, gesturing towards the lower-end canister vacuums we were looking at. “Good if you live in dorm room or a studio apartment… that one can’t get under furniture, so if you’re one of those really clean people, I wouldn’t recommend it. Of course, not everyone want to maintain that level of cleanliness… when you empty the bin on that one, you’re going to get a face full of dust… you’ll have trouble cleaning carpets with that one.”

“We don’t have carpets,” I told her, a bit triumphantly. “We have a smallish hardwood floor apartment and we just need something simple.” I turned my hopeful attention to a $70 Kenmore upright vacuum.

She aimed her fishy gaze at it. “Noisy as heck, that one. Turn it on if you don’t believe me.”

Mr. P seemed keen on a Bissell canister. When buying appliances, he is extremely brand-conscious; he doesn’t trust brands that he has never heard of. “What is this, Hoover?” he asked, his accent turning it into a very disdainful “Hoo-verrr.”

“Hoover’s actually a well-known brand in the vacuum world,” I assured him. “I think they, like, made the first modern vacuum.”

“Hoo-verrr,” he said again, testing out the word. After a lengthy pause, he said “J. Edgar.” Which made me giggle.

Since I do 95% of the vacuuming, I had the final say, and I went with the noisy upright Kenmore model. “I like the feel of upright vacuums,” I said, pushing and pulling it along the swath of test carpet. “The canisters just don’t feel right to me.”

The saleswoman refrained from making disparaging remarks about my selection as she rang us up, although she obviously thought it was a big mistake that we turned down the 2-year service plan. “This is such a racket,” Mr. P grumbled as he carried our new purchase back to the parking garage. “I give this vacuum one year, tops.”

Regardless of the vacuum’s future lifecycle, right now it works like a dream. “This vacuum sucks!” I exclaimed, elated, gaping with satisfaction at the scary amount of floor crap that ended up in the vacuum’s bin after the first use. “It really, really sucks!”

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By Meredith – March 15, 2010

Corey Haim’s Mortal Fame

I found out that Corey Haim had died on Wednesday afternoon, when the all-day meeting in which I was confined took a break and I hastily went through my battery of internet pitstops: email account #1, email account #2, stock portfolio, LOL Cats, and Google News, where I saw that “Corey Haim” was a trending search term. I intuitively knew without seeing any headlines that Corey Haim had died. He had either solved Greece’s debt crisis, or died.

Whenever a celebrity dies, I feel no sadness, but just a morbid curiosity about the circumstances. I toyed with possible scenarios of Corey Haim’s demise as my meeting reconvened: Drugs, probably. Suicide, possible. Homicide, a slim chance. Natural causes, unlikely. I tried to picture a young Corey Haim in my mind, but I couldn’t. I knew Corey Haim was a pretty boy, and I’ve never liked pretty boys because I’ve never been an especially pretty girl. Honestly, I had preferred Corey Feldman, with his alert brown eyes, smirky mouth, and billowy cheeks. Corey Feldman looked smart. Smart enough to live past forty, at least.

Corey Haim is a minor enough celebrity that I forgot all about him until the next morning, when I was at the gym, flipping through the channels on the television attached to my treadmill. The Today Show featured an astounding 18 minutes of coverage about Corey Haim: his prominence as a teenage heart-throb, his inevitable decline, his slight re-insurgence on reality television, and of course his drug problems. To chime in with expert knowledge of being a child star-turned-drug addict, Today enlisted Danny Bonaduce from the Partridge Family (Let me just interject that this very bout of morning news inspired me to renew my home delivery subscription to the New York Times). Bonaduce speculated that Corey — who he had never met — was abusing prescription drugs, and then waxed lyrical about how it wasn’t drugs that killed Corey, it was the haunting specter of celebrity.

And here is where the finger of culpability points at us, the fickle public. Blame the legions of girls who elevated Corey Haim above what his paltry movie experience warranted and made him a heartthrob, and then blame them again for allowing the fascination to fade and fizzle. Perhaps that’s why, whenever a past-peak celebrity dies, the public emotes with disproportional grief. We demand to know all the details, the toxicology results, the coroner’s report, the wills. Because it’s our fault for loving, and it’s our fault for forgetting.

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By Meredith – March 13, 2010