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The Solution to the Issue

Perhaps this has happened to you:

You’re sitting in a conference room, at your place of employment, listening to a band of co-workers discuss a looming issue that will result from the successful completion of a larger project… and you know what the solution to the issue is. Of course you know the solution, because you are the solution. It’s practically your job description.

Everyone in the room is waiting for you to raise your hand and volunteer 30 or so hours of your time to dedicate to the solution for the issue. Then, everyone will relax, the conversation will peter to a conclusion, the meeting will end, and you will return to your desk and check your stock portfolio.

But for some reason, despite being a somewhat exemplary employee who does not typically shirk from responsibility, you just don’t feel like it. You don’t want to have anything to do with this issue, and the thought of carrying out the tasks involved with the solution for this issue makes you want to go home and eat coconut oil-roasted almonds while watching streaming Netflix. That’s how you want to spend the precious time that you have been allotted on this Earth. Not by being the solution to the issue.

The innate nature of the issue requires you to take ownership of the solution, but cripes, can’t someone else do it? You sit there quietly as your co-worker volley the issue around the table, waiting for you to step up and spike the issue off of the table by volunteering to do what you are paid to do. Although several people at the meeting at higher-ranking, no one has the proper authority to task you with a project of this magnitude. Sure, they are dropping hints, glancing in your direction as they speak, repeating words that seemed honed to describe your core job responsibilities, but your name is not mentioned. Maybe it’s because they fear your reaction, maybe it’s because your boss died 3 months ago, or maybe it’s because you look aggressively evasive.

Finally, exasperation snaps you out of your silent rebellion. You say “Why don’t I…?” and then outline how you will solve the issue by doing what everyone has already agreed needs to be done. A slight sigh of relief ripples through the meeting’s attendants now that the stray action item has found its way to the proper home. Before you know it, a deadline has been set and progress checks have been established, the meeting is adjoined, and you leave the conference room, the new owner of an issue.

It’s moments like those that I wish I had pursued my dream of being a punk rock band groupie.

Posted in The 9 to 5.

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By Meredith – September 30, 2009

I’m Seeing Stars! (Tom Cruise & Cameron Diaz)

Usually, the office on a Monday is a pretty dull place. But, usually, Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz aren’t there.

Yes, today we were working alongside the Tom Cruise and the Cameron Diaz, who were filming a scene for their movie Wichita in the parking lot at the rear of our building in Boston’s Fort Point neighborhood. We spent our morning watching the Hollywood magic from the windows.

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That's Cameron Diaz in the Yellow Dress

Specifically, for about 3 hours, we watched Cameron Diaz (dressed in a flouncy yellow dress, her blond hair long and lank) rush off an MBTA bus and take off down the sidwalk…

Cameron Dia running off an MBTA Bus

Cameron Dia running off an MBTA Bus

… followed by Tom Cruise (wearing metrosexual casual clothes, groomed, clean-cut), who is pursuing her off of the bus but not giving her chase. They repeated this over, and over, and over again, with little breaks in between during which equipment was moved and extras were shifted.

Wow. Cameron Diaz’s job is every bit as monotonous as mine.

Tom Cruise & Crew

Tom Cruise & Crew

There are much better photos on the internet of the Wichita film set (here for one), but for some reason, my crappy pictures taken from my office window feel special.

I have friends in Los Angeles and New York who chicly complain about how the presense of a film crew in their metropolis can be disruptive to their lives. But we savor these disruptions here in Boston, which is a tiny speck of a city that aspires to global importance. Of course, we’d prefer to be disrupted by stars a little less washed-up than Cruise and Diaz, but at least director James Mangold (Walk the Line, 3:10 to Yuma, Girl Interrupted) holds some promise.

IMBD has this plot summary for Wichita:

An action-comedy that begins when a small-town woman (Diaz) has a chance encounter with a mysterious man (Cruise). He is either the man of her dreams or, perhaps … her nightmares. Amid shifting allegiances and unexpected betrayals, they are swept up in a whirlwind of globe-hopping adventure and world-changing secrets.

Wow, that sounds incredibly insipid! Unfortunately, now I have to go see Wichita, just to find out how the “getting off the bus” scene turns out.

Posted in Massachusetts.

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By Meredith – September 28, 2009

Scenes from a Pennsylvanian Excursion

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The remnants of a $12 Nathan’s hotdog lunch at the Molly Pitcher rest stop along the New Jersey Turnpike. Mr. P’s highly-functional metabolism can handle an inordinate intake of vegetable-based fatty, starchy, sugary, chemically processed foodstuffs; me, I had a liter of Fiji water for lunch to keep my endocrine system solvent.

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The world’s most unabashed Best Man giving a toast that turned out to be a roast, as he revealed trivial but cringing details about the happy couple, including the stunning realization that the Bride chews tobacco.

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During the Best Man’s toast, the bridesmaids looked ready to pounce on the Best Man and rip out his windpipe to protect their beautiful Bride, who was quite literally blushing.

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The Bride’s father dancing with his new son-in-law. It was hard to tell who was leading. There was a surprising amount of same-gendered dancing considering we were in Lancaster, PA.

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On the outskirts of Lancaster, there is a tourist attraction called the Amish Farm and House. It features an Amish home built in 1805 (shown above), a 15-acre farm that showcases Amish agricultural practices, an authentic Amish school house, and a cadre of antique Amish artifacts. It’s also now located IN TARGET’S PARKING LOT.

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Mr. P is about to discover the sticky sweet delights of genuine Pennsylvania Dutch shoo-fly pie at Dutch Haven. His pronouncement: “It’s better than I thought it would be.”

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Tucked in an obscure corner of Valley Forge National Park called Walnut Hill is a grand sycamore tree with sprawling limbs that have sank into the ground only to reemerge into sweeping arcs that are sturdy enough to support at least two men:

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By Meredith – September 27, 2009

Ted Kennedy’s Empty Seat and Stuff

Last  week at the hair salon, I was sitting in a chair and reading a magazine while I waited for my blondness to burgeon, and I couldn’t help eavesdropping on the youngish woman next to me banter with her hairdresser as her long brown hair was being installed with foil highlights. “Couldn’t help eavesdropping.” In fact, if my ears weren’t surrounded by caustic hair dye, I would have covered them with my hands to prevent eavesdropping on her various insipid serendipitous realizations that the world, in fact, revolves around her.

Foil highlights take a long time, and her small talk began to run dry. Then, “Isn’t all that Ted Kennedy stuff so sad?”

“What Ted Kennedy stuff?” the hairdresser asked.

“You know, about how he died?”

Yes, all that “stuff” about Ted Kennedy dying last month was so sad, but Massachusetts is moving on. Yesterday the State Senate approved a law that allows Governor Deval Patrick to appoint an interim successor to Kennedy’s Senate seat, a measure which may have some affect on national health care reform given the Democrat’s razor-thin two-thirds majority. Ironically, this law had been active up until John Kerry’s unfortunate Presidential bid, when Massachusetts began having nightmares about then-Governor Mitt the Mormon appointing some whacknut Republican to fill Kerry’s Senate seat, so a law was passed that unfilled Senate seats should remain empty until the special election. Perhaps we should feel more sheepish about passing blatantly partisan laws, but come on. Like we’re going to disregard Ted Kennedy’s dying wish. That’s how plagues start!

So, freed of that little snag, the real question is: Who is going to win the special election for Kennedy’s Senate seat in January? As of today, no Kennedys have thrown their gold-plated names into the hat, leaving the Democrats with the typical menu of options: Entrenched Massachusetts pols (Attorney General Martha Coakley, Congressmen Michael Capuano and Stephen Lynch), business moguls (Boston Celtics owner Stephen Pagliuca), and liberal fringe long-shots who everybody would like to see in the Senate but, for some reason, nobody ever votes for (City Year co-founder Alan Khazei).

For a brief, scary time period, it seemed possible that former Red Sox pitcher Curt Shilling might run on the Republican ticket. Really. Stop laughing, I’m serious.

By virtue of Shilling’s ability to throw a tiny ball really fast, with a high degree of accuracy, and while suffering a ruptured ankle tendon, Shilling had been encouraged to run for the US Senate by a number of Republicans for whom he has campaigned, included Senator John McCain (if McCain’s vision of Sarah Palin as Vice President didn’t testify to the man’s senility, surely this?) And Shilling seemed to be toying with the idea, perhaps intoxicated by the prospect of sauntering into the Senate, his three World Series rings sparkling in the dimly lit chamber, his wife Shonda firmly at his side… but ultimately even Shilling found the notion re-freaking-diculous. “It just did not make sense,” he admitted as he bowed out yesterday on an HBO talk show (here).

So right now, the smart money is on Martha Coakley. Of course, if Joe Kennedy decides to run, even the dumb money is on Joe.

Posted in In the News, Massachusetts.

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By Meredith – September 23, 2009

Modern-day Vagabonds

Thanks to the Governor of South Carolina, whenever I hear that someone is “hiking the Appalachian Trial,” I wonder if it’s a snarky euphemism for flying to South America to have an extramarital affair. “He’s having a mid-life crisis, and he wanted some adventure, and he needed an ego boast, so he decided to hike the Appalachian Trail.” It works on both levels.

According to the Wall Street Journal, the unemployment rate has spurred 100s of more people to hike the Appalachian Trail this year (here). And when I say “hike the Appalachian Trail,” I mean, um, hike the actual Appalachian Trail. The WSJ speculates that the rise is due to all of the disemployed bohemians who are too lazy to find a job, but not too lazy to hike 2,200 miles.

The WSJ article says that AT hikers budget $1/mile, although the AMC says $1.50/mile, and I’ve certainly heard of hikers spending more than $10,000 on their gear, food, the occasional hotel room, and travel expenses. Still, all in all, it’s probably cheaper to hike the Appalachian Trail than carry on an extramarital affair with a woman in South America (i.e., “hiking the Appalachian Trail.”) Because divorce can get expensive.

To finance their trek, some hikers venture off of the AT to do odd jobs and farm work for a few extra bucks. I’m sure the Wall Street Journal‘s readers were outraged to read about these hippies receiving under-the-table pay. All that tax revenue, lost to these evading long hairs. And they’re going to raise the capital gains tax to 20%!

As Jon Stewart would say, here is your moment of Zen:

“We thought there was a correlation between people who would hike the 2,200 miles and an incredible work ethic,” says the 40-year-old entrepreneur, a former Wall Street trader who, besides farming, also operates an asset-management firm. “Turns out those people tend to be athletic hippies, just looking to have fun forever.”

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By Meredith – September 21, 2009

First Anniversary

Today is our first wedding anniversary. That is, it is the first anniversary of the day when we exchanged our rings and ceremonial vows, not of our actual legal state-recognized wedding, which for immigration purposes actually took place in the dead of January in our living room with a kindly but wacky Justice of the Peace and thus is not something we feel compelled to commemorate.

Our first anniversary happens to fall on a rare day of calm in the metaphorical storm that has been the month of September. The sky was as blue and serene as it was on the day of our wedding, and we went to Crane’s Beach in Ipswitch, where we walked in the dunes, ate a picnic of paté, Tomme, and Bordeaux, and laid on our towels listening to the Patriots fumble against the Jets on our portable radio and watching the waves roll in.

We debated going out to eat, but decided to use the money that we would have blown at Chez Henri on a lavish home-cooked meal of foie gras w/ argula, slow-stewed wild boar (!!!), more delicious cheese, and a few sips of a nice vin rouge.

For dessert, we defrosted a piece of our wedding cake, as is the tradition. Sadly, my strict no-sugar no-flour diet prevents me from partaking of cake, so Mr. P must eat it for both of us.

“Is it still good?” I asked, watching him spoon the cake into his mouth with relish. (Not actual relish).

“Mmmmmm,” he said. “A little dry, but the icing! It tastes exactly like it did one year ago.”

“It does?” I asked happily. “That’s a good omen, right? If the wedding cake keeps, then our marriage will keep.”

“Mmmmmm,” he said.

“But only if we wrap ourselves in aluminum foil and live in the freezer,” I add.

Wedding Cake, 1 Year Later

Wedding Cake, 1 Year Later

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By Meredith – September 20, 2009

Smoker’s Wild

On our recent White Mountains trip, Mr. P and I were enduring a steep climb on Wildcat Mountain when we passed a young couple sitting on a rocky overlook. They both had long hair, earthy clothing, rugged backpacks, and lit cigarettes.

“Remember when we used to take smoking breaks on hikes?” I asked Mr. P when we were out of earshot.

“Yes,” Mr. P sighed, with a touch of regret, and a touch of wistfulness.

We recalled the pleasurable flow of nicotine-laced smoke pouring into exercise-primed lungs and envied the couple’s devil-may-care youth until we passed the couple a short time later as we made our way down from the summit. They were climbing up the steep trail, their gait stilted and maladroit, their breath labored and raspy. Oh, yeah. Miss those ciggies.

Yep, despite being a former hard-core smoker, I don’t have too much sympathy for smokers these days.  Second-hand smoke whiffs have ceased to be a guilty pleasure; I’m so far removed from the habit that I get annoyed when walking on the sidewalk behind a smoker, or entering a building flanked by loitering smokers. What gives these smokers the right to pollute my personal airspace with their cancerous, noisome scent?

New York City is considering a ban on smoking in city parks, playgrounds, and beaches (here). Banning smoking outdoors seems a tad harsh, especially in a city riddled with ozone and particulates, and I do feel a twinge of outrage on behalf of the civil liberties of smokers. Ultimately, though, now that the idea has been floated, I have no doubt that it will catch hold.

The New York Times did a light human-interest piece about other irritants that New York City could ban in parks (here) such as pigeons, cellphones, overflowing trash, and… dorky NYU freshman?

Some fashion faux pas should also have no place [in parks], said Victoria McNally, a sophomore at next-door New York University, as she did her Spanish homework on a nearby bench in Washington Square Park.

In particular, N.Y.U. first-year students should not be allowed to wear telltale lanyards affixed with keys and IDs around their necks, Ms. McNally said.

“It’s just kind of funny, because these 18-year-old kids are trying to look fashionable, like they’ve been here awhile,” said Ms. McNally, 19. “But they haven’t, and that’s how you know.”

Oh, that’s hilarious. And how long have you been in NYC, you world-weary 19-year sophisticate? Maybe… a year? Barf.

Posted in In the News.

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By Meredith – September 18, 2009

The Taste of …

Today during lunchtime, my co-workers and I mingled around a food festival in our neighborhood called ‘The Taste of Fort Point Channel’ (here). Anyone who sees the industry-seeped Fort Point Channel on a daily basis must have thrown up in their mouths a little upon hearing of this unfortunately-named event.

Anyway, after getting jostled in a seething crowd of peckish office workers, I declined to actually have a taste of the Fort Point Channel, and retreated to my new lunchtime gem: the salad bar with real bacon bits!

At the salad bar, I built a foundation of baby spinach, then stacked a cruciferous mound of semi-raw broccoli and cauliflower. After tossing in a generous helping of grilled chicken, I honed in on the fixins’. I bypassed the Chinese noodles, the sunflower seeds, the croutons, and found… the bacon!

A woman stood behind me, waiting patiently as I completely covered my salad with a thick layer of bacon. She was watching me, and her eyes grew as wide as her zaftig rump as I sneaked in just one more tongful of bacon than most pork enthusiasts would find prudent before shifting to a nearby counter to pop the top on my salad container.

She then began prissily began piling raisins on top of her assortment of beans and cheddar cheese. And I couldn’t resist watching her, with the incredulous look of slightly-disgusted wonder: Raisins. Retch.

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By Meredith – September 17, 2009

Pat Patriot Hikes Again

Tonight the New England Patriots will play their season opener against division rivals the Buffalo Bills. Questions abound: Will Tom Brady return to his brilliant, beautiful form? Will the Patriots’ rookie defense be effective? Will Terrell Owens shut the eff up, already?

More importantly, what’s up with those uniforms? Gone are the dark blue uniforms with the red piping and silver-white trim, emblazoned with the stone-faced “Flying Elvis” logo. To celebrate the 50th anniversary of Patriots football, the Patriots and the Bills will don replicas of the uniforms that they wore from 1961 until 1996 (here for articl

They’re so… red. Studies have shown that team wearing red have a slight competitive advantage, perhaps because the color harkens bloodlust and carnage. And the helmets are adorned with Pat Patriot, the relic mascot who enjoys a sentimental following in New England among those retro football fashionistas who disdain the slickness of the Flying Elvis.

Pat Patriot. Now there’s a mascot. A revolutionary minuteman who looks determined to shove that football in your end zone.

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By Meredith – September 14, 2009

Movie Reviews: Inglorious Basterds; Idiocracy; Betty Blue, The Director’s Cut

The weather was shitty. The husband was out of town. The mind, body and soul were weary. Yes, the conditions were primed for a movie weekend. It turned out to be a cinematic trinity of violence, foul language, and sex.

[Violence]: First, Inglorious Basterds. Wow. Quentin Tarantino has proclaimed this as his masterpiece, and while I don’t have the requisite film chops to confirm or deny his pronouncement, I will say that Inglorious Basterds is, by far, the most entertaining, ambitious, and gripping Tarantino flick I’ve seen (and I’ve seen all except Death Proof). The audacious plot involves multiple Hilter assassination plans, but the plot is secondary to the tense, often violent action as it unfolds. I loved it. Tarantino’s bally-hooed narcissism and bravado aside, he has made a clever, exciting, kickass movie that I want to see again and again.

[Foul language]: Idiocracy is a 2006 movie by Mike Judge that received little attention when it was originally released in a limited run (perhaps due to the foul language? perhaps due to the depiction of Fox News in the future?) but is growing into a cult classic with enough buzz that I finally Netflixed it. This is quintessential Mike Judge satire: It has all the pretenses of being dumber than Beavis and Butthead, but it’s actually quite subversive.

An Army hibernation experiment goes bad, and Joe and Maya, two average people, wake up in 2505 to find that they’re the smartest people on Earth due to the high birth rate of dumb people. The Earth is a dysfunctional, dystopian pop wasteland where the President is a former pro-wrestler, cabinet posts are won in contests, Starbucks is a sex shop, and the corporate motto for Carl’s Jr is “Fuck You, I’m Eating.” Everyone is a slack-jawed idiot who talks in foul slang, shuffles around Costco like a zombie, and responds only to the prospect of money, violence, sex, and fart jokes. Idiocracy is so ridiculous, so crude, so stupid that any elitist with a sense of humor will be tickled, because it seems so true.

[Sex] Betty Blue: The Director’s Cut reminded me of one of my cinematic mantras: Always, always check the running time! Especially if the title of the movie is appended by the words “The Director’s Cut.” This French movie was originally released under the title 37.2 le Matin in 1986 with a running time of 120 minutes, but the re-released Director’s Cut clocks in at a whooping 182 minutes. That’s an extra hour of watching Betty, an absolutely gorgeous French girl, descend into madness as her boyfriend Zorg smokes cigarettes, drinks shots of tequila, deals with writers block, and cops feels and kisses from Betty.

The opening scene is pure soft-core porn, as Zorg and Betty engage in stark, passionate sex that sets the stage for the ensuing 3 hours (although this scene is never trumped erotically). Zorg falls hard for Betty, who can be a sweetheart one minute and an abusive hellcat the next. Zorg and Betty drift to Paris, and then to a small French town, where Betty’s mental illness manifests in earnest. Betty Blue becomes darker, and sadder, and scarier. When the 3-hour long epic of sex, nudity, hedonism, and moods swings came to a close, I was exhausted. Such a tragic paradox: truly, the hottest girls are always the craziest.

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By Meredith – September 13, 2009