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Super Bowl: the Battle of the Vailglorious

I haven’t blogged about football much this year, probably because my beloved Patriots haven’t moved me to the emotional highs that they have in years past. Or the emotional lows; I wasn’t phased when the Patriots lost games this season, because losing was entirely within my realm of expectations, whereas in previous seasons, I was so convinced of their supremacy that any demonstration of the contrary simply crushed my whole system of faith. The acceptance that Tom Brady is not so God-like without a good defense and that Bill Belichick is not an evil genius had been gradual, buffered somewhat by the 2008 season in which Matt Cassel took over as quarterback for an injured Brady.

But despite the Patriot’s dismal playoff performance, I have still enjoyed the post season thus far. The two NFL teams that I despise the most played each other, prompting intense soul-searching during which I realized that I hate the Jets a little bit more than I hate the Colts. Because New England’s rivalry with Indianapolis has always been gentlemanly: fierce opponents, but with respect for each other’s abilities and unspoken gratitude for the excellent match-up. But the Jets are a fundamentally inferior team of whining tattle tales with a crass fair-weathered fan base who would rather party in the concessions area than watch their team play football. Even if the Jets had a perfect record, they would still be LOSERS.

So I found myself cheering for Peyton Manning and the Colts for three uncomfortable hours. And I can’t say I love the Saints, who roundly trounced the Patriots with gloating pridefulness earlier this season. But when I found myself contemplating a Colts-Saints Superbowl match-up, there was only a tiny bit of hesitancy before throwing my insignificant mental support behind the Saints. Strangely, there is no real underdog this year, although the Saints probably qualify as such by virtue of their playoff inexperience.

Honestly, I don’t care who wins as long it’s not the Jets. God, I hate the Jets.

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By Meredith – February 7, 2010

Snow Envy

So the Mid-Atlantic region was hit with another major snowstorm (after last December’s Christmas Interruptus), this one so epic that it has been dubbed “Snowpocalypse” and “Snowmageddon” — not exactly catchy monikers that roll off the tongue, but it shows more creativity than “the Blizzard of 2010.” The snow is reportedly heavy, it’s wet, and it just won’t stop falling from the goddamn sky.

And here in New England, we saw nary a flake of snow. We observed our southern neighbors’ flustered frenzy with amused jealousy, like an insecure jock watching the head cheerleader flirt with a nerd. When’s the last time she showed me that kind of attention? Oh sure, we’re had a few inches there, a snow squall there, but 30 inches wasted on that wimpy Washington? He’s not equiped to handle it, let alone appreciate it.

Here in New England, we’d know exactly what to do with 30 inches.

Today we went XC skiing in southern New Hampshire. Pitiful, really, that we’re reduced to skiing on 2-3 inches of icy granules — about as fun as taking a leisurely stroll on a highway shoulder — while, meanwhile, the state of Virgina has run out of shovels.

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By Meredith – February 6, 2010

Surrealistic Cubicle

Last year, everyone gave us calendars for Christmas. My mother-in-law, my sister, my father, and my friend all gifted very nice paper calendars for us to mark the cruelly relentless passage of time. Additionally, since we never get calendars for Christmas, we had already bought a calendar in early December to start tracking the January appointments and events that had already begun to accumulate.

So, with calendars to spare, we’ve been hanging them up everywhere. I decided to hang one in my cubicle, and I chose the Salvador Dali calendar from my mother-in-law. The Dali calender seemed to strike the right professional note of being creative almost to the point of madness. Also, I wanted to see if my office had any eccentric art buffs who would point out the irony of a calendar featuring the work of a man who rejected time as being an irrelevant constraint, as evidenced by his infamous theme of melting clocks (showcased in the month of January, incidentally.)

But just in time for President’s Day, February features Dali’s work of Abraham Lincoln. Actually, it only looks like Lincoln from 10 feet away:

Up close, it becomes a picture of Dali’s wife Gala contemplating Mediterranean Sea, completely bare-assed.

It’s elegant, it’s artistic, but it’s a nude butt. Since we are an education software company, and since I’ve worked there less than 3 months, I showed it to my boss and asked her if I should cover her up with a Post-It. She laughed and jokingly suggested a grape leaf.

The Abraham Lincoln picture has attracted some attention. My co-workers are amazed at how a portrait of Abraham Lincoln morphs into a completely new painting when you get up close, although I always cringe as they inspect the painting up close and realize they are staring a women’s naked buttocks. I brace myself for surprise, indignation, perhaps outrage and a sexual harassment suit. But invariably, people simply wonder what statement Dali is trying to make about Abraham Lincoln. “That Lincoln was actually a very beautiful woman,” I explain.

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By Meredith – February 4, 2010

Here She Comes, Mrs. Fringe America

Like Paul Revere riding his horse through moonlit Massachusetts towns to alert the sleeping citizenry that the British army has mobilized, today the local Boston press is sounding the alarm: Sarah Palin is coming! Sarah Palin is coming!

Yes, today in an op-ed piece in USA Today, Sarah Palin said a whole buncha things, including that on April 14 she will step foot in our stalwart Blue-State liberal stronghold (future President Scott Brown not withstanding) as one of several appearances in support of the Tea Party Movement. Palin is joining forces with the Teabaggers in order to propagate “a vision that promotes common sense solutions to out-of-control spending and an out-of-touch political establishment.” Isn’t it funny how Palin subtly warps the meaning of “common sense” to mean “vague notions with no basis in reality that sound good when spoken in a folksy accent?”

I guess it was only a matter of time before the Queen Bee conservative wingnut commandeered her hive. Going rogue, indeed!

I will not go into an in-depth analysis of the Tea Party movement, a once-fringe band of angry conservatives that is steadily gaining mainstream support. Although I disagree with most of their platitudes, and although it scares the bejesus out of me to think of all the gun-carrying lunatics who identify themselves as  “a soldier in the cause” (to cull Palin’s term), I believe that public protest is a sacred American right, and I wish that mainstreams liberals had been half as demonstrative of their outrage during the Bush years.

Since Palin will be visiting Boston just in time for Patriot’s Day, I just wanted to take issue with the Tea Party movement’s name, which is obviously meant to conjure the Revolutionary-era event in which Bostonians dressed as Indians dumped tea into the Fort Point channel. The popular notion is that the colonists were protesting high taxes, but actually, they were protesting taxation without representation within the British parliament. And, Teabaggers, unless you’re a resident of Washington DC or one of our little pseudo-colonies, you do have representation. So if you’re unhappy with pork-spending stimulus socialist spending, vote for someone who agrees with you. And if that person loses the election, that’s called “democracy.” This is not a monarchy, a dictatorship, and it’s sure as hell not Nazi Germany. So stop promoting your anti-government agenda under the guise of “patriotic indignation” when it is, in fact, pure anger.

I might have to go and see Sarah Palin throw some tea in Boston, just to guage if the people coming out in support are really upstanding citizens who are sick of Washington’s ineptitude, or if it’s a bunch of New Hampshire hicks.

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By Meredith – February 3, 2010

Pool Schmool

I’ve been honoring my self-commitment to swim at the pool twice a week, although some weeks I double-count my weekend sessions. Although I still enjoy swimming, my initial enthusiasm for the pool has waned somewhat, as the monotony of tallying countless laps sets in, as my hair becomes chlorine fried, and as I grow annoyed with the pool crowd at my gym.

On the weekends, the pool is crammed full of screaming children. Why do all kids shriek, yelp, and holler when they’re in a pool? I mean, these look like the type of well-heeled youth who can control themselves in school, church, and restaurants, so why do they suffer an utter breakdown in self-discipline during their swimming lesson? Kids, this isn’t little Debbie Jones’s pool party, this is a serious nautical facility. So stop flailing around in mock distress or trying to surf on your kickboard before I dunk you.

Even worse than kids in the pool are the kids in the locker room. The women’s locker room is bad enough on weekday mornings — you can’t move an inch without blocking some rich bitch’s view of herself in the mirrors — but changing my clothes in front of a bunch of 8 year olds is a wee uncomfortable. They look at everything with a frank, probing curiosity. There I am, fresh from the shower and preparing to put my bra on, and there’s a prepubescent staring at me. Our eyes met, and she doesn’t look away! She just keeps looking, like “Let’s see what you got.” God, kid, why are you making me be a pervert?

Last Saturday I was soaking in the whirlpool, which is adjacent to the showers. I could hear two ‘tween girls talking as they took a shower together. Kids around this age have yet to develop self-consciousness, and they either don’t realize or don’t care that other people can hear them.  “Do you know about hair and periods?” one girl asked the other. “Yes,” the other girl said hesitantly. “My mom told me all about hair and periods,” the first girl said. “But that’s all she told me. She said she would tell me about sex when I get hair and periods.”

The adults at the pool are a little better. At least, they are quieter and don’t gawk at each other’s bodies. Usually when I get to the pool, I have to ask someone if I can split a lane with them. This is a delicate task, as there seems to be very few “average” swimmers like myself. They are either propelling themselves through the pool with shark-like velocity or floating in the center of the lane like a clump of seaweed. Once a rather large elderly woman got in my lane and began sidestroking across the pool. In the time it took her to go 25 yards, I did about 75 yards. Both her body and her swimming style made it difficult to pass her without slowing down and skimming the side of the lane line. Once as I passed her, her gigantic leg whipped out like some sort of primordial sea monster, nipping the side of my thigh with its claw.

The strong swimmers don’t like to share lanes, and will — deliberately or not — ignore anyone who is attempting to ask them to split a lane. What are you going to do, grab their big toe as they flip-turn?

But my own worst enemy in the pool is, of course, myself. With no television or music to distract me, no instructor or coach to motivate me, and no clock or counter to free my mind from the tedium of counting laps, it is difficult to choose the pool over, say, yoga class or a stationary bike with the Bravo channel. Because when I’m in the pool, the only thing to do is obsess over how time I have left in the pool.

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By Meredith – February 1, 2010

Intelligent Falling

Have you ever been web surfing, and you stumble upon a completely ludicrous news article, and you’re all, like, “Omigod, what is this? What’s going on? Why does this exist?”

That actually happened to me twice today. The first time, I was confusedly reading Evangelical Scientists Refute Gravity With New ‘Intelligent Falling’ Theory before belatedly realizing that I was reading the Onion. (My eyes totally glossed over the masthead, and I’ve read things about Evangelicals that are tons crazier.)

Then, I read this BBC story about how women prisoners in the US are sometimes shackled during childbirth to kept them from “escaping.” Which has all the tragedy and absurdism of an Onion story, but none of the sweet, soothing satire.

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By Meredith – January 31, 2010

REI Garage Sale: Stake your Booty

The quarterly REI Garage was held today at 10am at all Boston-area REI stores. Ah, is there any shopping event more gratifying to thrifty outdoorsy types than the infamous REI Garage Sale, where returned, overstocked, and slightly-damaged merchandise is sold at cut-throat prices? Whose throat would you cut for $30 snowshoes? Well, hopefully you’re not that deranged, but perhaps you would brave single-digit temperatures and sub-zero wind chills in order to queue up for the store opening. You may be even willing to camp overnight to secure a top position in the line and truly show how committed you are to the procurement of cheap sporting equipment.

We arrived at exactly 9am and were surprised that the line was already halfway around the building despite it being 6 degrees. The crowd dwarfed the line at the REI Garage Sale that we attended last spring. I guess word about the REI Garage Sales is steadily spreading, and pretty soon it won’t even be worth the trip to Reading, because the crazies who camp overnight simply run into the store and hoard as much gear as they can get, leaving slim pickings for the several hundred people who follow. And since one hour is just about the limit that I’m willing to stand in line in order to pick at broken, ugly, and/or used crap, I might as well sleep in on Saturday.

But not today. The doors opened and the line poured into the store. I was looking for ski boots, and when I didn’t immediately see any, I became disoriented and wandered around tables full of tents, backpacks, cycling accessories, and other items that I don’t need. I finally ended up in the shoe section, the most chaotic place in the store, with scores of men, women, and children rummaging frantically through the boots, sneakers, and slippers. Some people blindly grabbed what they could. Under these conditions, it is a miracle that I spied a pair of perfectly new winter North Face boots that were exactly my size. No, not a miracle, but fate, because if there’s one thing I lack in my winter wardrobe, it is a rugged pair of snow boots. And North Face, too! I don’t necessarily fetishize North Face, and in fact I resent how mainstream fashion has co-opted North Face gear for their everyday “going to the supermarket” wear, but North Face boots with a price tag for $9.86 are something I’ll get excited about.

$10 Boots

After finding the boots, I ducked over to the women’s clothing racks, which were predictably mobbed. Sifting through the hangers and inspecting each item of clothing was not an option, so I quickly grabbed a half-dozen things that looked like something I might wear. At this point, I’ve only been in the store for about 8 minutes and already nothing is left. I found a quiet place in the store and inspected the clothing in my possession: Oversized sweaters, used hiking shirts, an XS sports bra. Crap. I threw everything back on the rack; it was like tossing guppies into a tank of piranhas. Those maniacal women  simply absorbed everything.

So I made out with my $10 pair of North Face winter boots. And Mr. P? Well, he somehow came away with $30 snowshoes and boots. I wonder whose throat he had to cut for those.

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By Meredith – January 30, 2010

A-Mused

Since I listen to the Alt Nation station on Sirius satellite radio, it could not escape my notice that “Resistance” by the British group Muse is a really hot song right now.

Which is astounding to me, because it’s the most ridiculous song ever. And I don’t think this is my inner-old person bucking against new-sounding noises that are so strikingly unlike the music to which my grizzled hairy ears are accustomed.

If you’ve never heard the song, imagine if Freddie Mercury & Queen teamed up with the Killers and they wrote a Spinal Tap-style definitive arena rock anthem while high on marijuana. The lyrics just kill me:

Is our secret safe tonight
And are we out of sight
Or will our world come tumbling down?
Will they find our hiding place
Is this our last embrace
Or will the walls start caving in?

Love is our resistance
They’ll keep us apart and they won’t to stop breaking us down
Hold me
Our lips must always be sealed

I mean, that is so much gooey industrial grade cheese that I can’t help but to wince. The portent piano intro and sweeping sound effects coupled with the defiant guitar arpeggios and impassioned vocals do truly beg the question: what or whom is this unknown “they” that warrants such ardent resistance? And is it possible that everyone who relates to this song enough to jump up and down with youthful “They’ve got the guns, but we got the numbers” enthusiasm has already succumbed?

Kids today. In my day, we didn’t shirk from naming our oppressors, and we certainly didn’t resist them with (sneer) love.

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By Meredith – January 29, 2010

Fire Drill

I had one of those mornings. And no, the omitted adjective is not “terrific.”

At the beginning of the New Year, I rearranged my weekday routine so that I’d work 9:30ish to 6ish (instead of the punishing 7:30-4 schedule on which I started my new job). This new regime allows me to stay in bed later, to pop over to the gym in the mornings, to miss a bulk of the insane after-work traffic that plagues my commuting corridor, and to stay late at the office like a diligently good do bee.

I greatly looked forward to the prospect of staying in bed for an extra 50 minutes, but what I never realized (because I woke up at 5:50am) is that our next-door neighbor starts his Audi at 6:15am every morning on the dot. Since his driveway is right under our heads, the sound of the engine kicking alive functions very much like an alarm– the kind you want to throw across a room, or perhaps leave a threatening note on.

So, after waking up at 6:15am, I laid in bed to soak up a few more minutes of idle respite before staggering to an upright position and pulling on my swimsuit. I packed my breakfast and lunch, brushed my teeth, and bid good day to my husband, (who also wants to kill the Audi) and then go out to my own car. And what greets me when I turn on the car? “Give Me Back My Man” by the B-52s. Eff me!

When I get to the gym, I realize that I left my goggles and swim cap at home. So I had to tie my hair practically in a knot and swim backstroke. As I’m swimming, a woman asks if she can split my lane with me. “Sure, no problem, but I’m warning you that I’m only swimming backstroke,” I said. “So I might have a hard time staying on my half of the lane.” I admit I was trying to ward her off, but it didn’t work. She gives me a look as if she just caught me peeing in the pool and gets in anyway.

I swim leisurely backstroke for about 40 minutes, until my neck develops unbearable pain from holding my head rigid to keep from straying out of my half of the lane. My shoulders are feeling the backstroke, for sure. I abscond to the whirlpool in the women’s locker room, luxuriating in hot pulses of bubbled water. Surely this would be the highlight of my day.

And then, wouldn’t you know? Fire alarm. The women’s locker room is filled with a shrill clamor that barely resonates above the din of showers and hair dryers. A woman pokes her head out from the sauna, looks at the strobe lights emanating from the blaring alarm unit on the wall, looks at me neck-deep in the whirlpool, and goes back into the sauna.

Two things go through my mind. One, isn’t the whirlpool the safest place to be in the event of a fire? And two, does anyone expect all of the naked, semi-naked, and bathing-suit clad women to go outside in 20-degree weather unless an actual fire is bearing down on them?

I stay in the whirlpool, closing my eyes, closing my ears, and dreaming of dreams.

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By Meredith – January 28, 2010

Flight of the Bumbles

When I joined the community orchestra after many years of dormant viola practice, I was expecting it to be, you know, easy. Minuets, fugues, a Gershwin crowd-pleaser, maybe an orchestral adaption of a popular tune, maybe a John Williams musical score. I certainly did not expect this:

Why I don't have time to blog anymore

Even if you have no musical training, I’m sure you can look at that piece of music (The Moldau by Smetana, here) and instinctively sense its difficulty. Look at all that black ink. In classical music, black ink = hard. Let me add that there are 6 more pages that look just as black as this and that the whole shebang takes the orchestra about 16 minutes to play. It very nearly qualifies as cardiovascular exercise. Work those fingers, work that bow, work it, work it.

When I play at home at the fastest tempo I can sustain, it takes me about 21 minutes. My fingers just can’t move that fast. My eyes blur. My bow slides. My viola squeaks in protest. I tell myself that it’s good training, that if I can play this, I can play anything. Yes. Yes. I just need to master this within the next month, in time for the concert, and then I can go professional. Or I’ll wind up like that guy from Shine…

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By Meredith – January 26, 2010