Why not get in touch with your inner French and celebrate by enjoying a nice hunk of camembert with a glass of young beaujolais, or by reviewing the philosophical writings of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, or by brazenly attacking a prison and freeing the inmates?
And if you’re truly feeling joie de vivre de esprit de corps, you may want to consider assassinating a member of the haute bourgeoisie, because the only good capitalist is a headless one. (Ah, to have lived during a time when ‘crimes against liberty’ was a capital offense. )
We were in Whole Foods. Mr. P was harvesting oysters, while I picked some kale. A woman and a man shuffled past me, canvasing the expansive produce section with neutral expressions. Definitely, these were MWEs (Meat with Eyes.)
“What do you want this week?” the woman asked. “Peppers? Lettuce?”
“Oh, you know, the yush,” the man brayed. The ‘yush,’ as in ‘usual.’ Might also be spelled ‘yuge.’ Kinda rhymes with ‘douche.’ I rolled my third eye and wandered to the onion display.
Apparently onions are part of yush, because the MWEs appeared behind me. “How many onions do think we should get?” the woman asked. Dear me, is this woman capable of making a grocery-related decision without consulting the douche?
“Oh, you know, it depends if we fire up some fajitas this week,” the man said, and then inexplicably added, “Pow! Pow!”
I decided that this man was possibly the most annoying man ever and fled to the safety of the Chinese vegetable section. And that’s why we ate bok choy tonight.
Today I went to my boss’s funeral. Hm, such a bizarre thing to say — “my boss’s funeral.” I googled that exact term and the first hit was a joke:
Going to my boss’s funeral tomorrow morning. Gonna wear a black tie. If there’s a cold snap I’m gonna wear trousers too.
The rest of the hits were a mess of teases, taunts, and tributes.
It was a beautiful Sunday, the type of day that, had we not been attending my boss’s funeral, would warrant a trip to New Hampshire to bag another 4000-footer. If my boss had been the type of nightmare boss who infringed on my personal happiness, I would grumble “Stupid dead boss, always making me work.” But my boss was a kind man who never begrudged anyone of a fulfilling work/life balance.
My relationship with my boss was actually rather distant. He was my manager for only 16 months, ever since I returned to the company after leaving for a brief and inauspicious dalliance with a start-up. We got along well, but our relationship was nonsymbiotic: I didn’t need him in order to do my job, and he didn’t need me in order to do his. Entire days would go by where we wouldn’t have a need to talk professionally. And he was so focused on his work that the opportunity for personal discussion arose infrequently. We talked about sports, mostly: skiing, jogging, his Tae Kwon Do achievements. But I liked him, as everyone did, and he liked me, as he did everyone.
Since my boss was the President of his temple, the funeral was well-attended. The eulogies were touching tributes to a man who was respected for his quiet intelligence and gentle leadership, as well as his devotion to his family. 46 years old, in excellent health, with such a full life… how it is possible? It is difficult for anyone to comprehend. I wish I could end this post on a comforting note, but the whole situation is bewildering. Today I went to my boss’s funeral, and it was a beautiful day, and tomorrow I will return to the office.
Today I arrived at the office at 8:45am, 15 minutes later than usual (10 minutes I blame on the MBTA, and 5 minutes I take full responsibility for.) Although my workplace is flexible with arrivals and departures, I like to maintain a facade of punctuality, so I noted with relief that my boss’s office was dark and his door was closed.
My tardiness would not be noticed, but I noticed my boss’s tardiness because he’s usually in by 8am. I checked my email and saw no “Working from Home” email, so I figured his commute was particularly beleaguered. I fetched my tea and began the day’s project of redesigning the online help system by pecking gently at various CSS files.
About 20 minutes later, my department’s Vice President whisked by my desk: “Meredith, could you head over to the other side of the floor? I have an announcement to make to everyone.”
Dread gripped me as I stalked across the floor to stand with the other members of my department. Last time this grim gathering took place, it was to announce cost cuts, downsizing, and layoffs. That’s when I thought of my boss’s absence… could it be? Did my boss get canned? No, impossible. He’s well-liked and well-regarded, and he’s been at the company for nearly 4 years.
The department VP, a woman who I’ve known for about 6 years, stood in front of us. “I have some very sad news to share with you. [My boss] passed away suddenly last night.”
I overuse the adjective “stunned.” I realized that today. I say that stunned me, this stunned me, and usually I’m talking about occurrences that are not in fact stunning but surprising. This, though… to learn that my boss, who was 47 years old and in excellent shape, who jogged every other day, hiked mountains with his family, and just received a black-belt in Tae Kwon Do, who just yesterday had sent me emails about screenshots that he needed, had died… I mean, shit. I was stunned. I’m still stunned.
Apparently my boss had collapsed suddenly while warming up for Tae Kwon Do class with his teenaged son. And died.
I wish it had been layoffs. But no, the department VP stood there, crying for the sudden death of the man who had been a good friend and colleague. No one else made a sound. We were all stunned.
Soon I found myself back at my desk. The enormity of what happened hit me, and I quietly started to cry. I felt the need to go through my Inbox and delete all of the hundreds of emails that he’s ever sent to me. He was my boss, I was his only subordinate. What do I do? How can I sit in the office while feeling such profound sadness? Who do I tell that I’m leaving work early? I look at my boss’s office, and I see his door is closed, and his office is dark.
Today the Meat Fairy paid a visit to our home, leaving a potpourri of farm-fresh grass-fed goodies from Vermont in a cooler on our front porch.
Where’s the beef? Why, it’s in our freezer, along with the veal, the pork, and a 3-pound lamb shoulder roast. (I need ground pork recipes, stat.)
13 Pounds of Beef, Pork, Lamb, and Veal
Plus, 2 dozen of the most magnificent-looking eggs I’ve ever had in my refrigerator. All different sizes and shapes, with sturdy shells and beguiling individuality.
Good Eggs
It was difficult to select just one of the meats for dinner, for it seemed an excellent opportunity to try out that recipe for veal cutlets served on a bed of hamburger topped with nitrate-free bacon and garnished with a pork chop, but I decided to stew the beef chuck, which is the prettiest beef chuck I’ve ever seen.
Beef Chuck
We have exactly 1 month before the Meat Fairy returns with another trove of meat, and then another the next month, and the month after that… By the time our meat CSA ends in December, we should have more than enough meat in our freezer to give to our family and friends as Christmas presents. This year, ground veal for everyone!
The New Hampshire Division of Parks and Recreation runs a remarkably efficient system. To secure a campsite at one of their bucolic campgrounds for a holiday weekend, reservations must be made more than a month in advance. Payment is due up front and is nonrefundable, so even if the weekend forecast is full of thunderstorms and only a fraction of campers actually arrive, the park still comes out ahead. iley.
Given how endemic rain has been in the Northeast this summer, canceling never crossed our minds. Besides, at $29 a night, it felt too modest a sum to surrender outright. More importantly, we’re determined to finish our remaining eighteen or so White Mountain 4000-footers by the end of 2009, an ambitious goal that will require not only better luck with the weather, but also some flexibility in our social and professional lives.).
On Friday, we knocked off Mount Waumbeck, a straightforward 4-hour hike that rewarded us with rays of sunshine.
Summit of Mount Waumbeck, July 3, 2009
On Saturday, we decided to hike Mount Cabot, the most northern 4000 Footer. Our campground was nearby so it would save us some driving. Mount Cabot’s most accessible trail is closed so we drove to an alternate trail in Berlin, NH, near the town’s fish hatchery. About 2 miles from the trail, we passed a gate with a sign saying that the gate was only open from 8am to 4pm daily. Fearing we would be locked in, we decided to park outside the gate and hike the extra 2 miles to the trailhead, which would bring the day’s total to 13 miles.
On the way to Mount Cabot’s trailhead, it started to rain and we donned our rain gear. The guidebook had described our route as a “wet” trail even in dry conditions, so the rain effectively turned the trail into a stream.
At Mt. Cabot’s False Summit, 1/4 mile from the True Summit
Luckily there is a small cabin at the top of Mount Cabot to provide shelter for hikers in inclement weather. We decided to have our lunch in the cabin and met 2 gents around our age who had planned on camping at a nearby lake but then decided to spend the night at the cabin.
Lunch in Mount Cabot’s Cabin, Soaked to the Bone
On the way back to the car, with only 1 mile to go until the road, we reached the most difficult water crossing of the day, a brook raging with rainwater about 3 feet high, with no options to cross except via a fallen tree. And while stepped gingerly across the tree, I slipped and fell into the brook.
Before I fell into the river, my only dry piece of clothing was my underwear. So, when I emerged from the river completely dripping wet, I took some consolation in the fact that only my underwear had really gotten wet. More upsetting was my left arm, which was covered in scratches and bruises.
I thought falling into the river would be the last bad thing that would happen to us that day. But no, the kicker was when we walked 2 miles on the road back to our car at 6 pm and found that the gate had not been shut at 4pm like the sign warned. It was open.
So we returned to the campground and felt immeasurably better after taking hot showers and changing into dry clothes. The weather cleared up a bit for the evening’s Fourth of July festivities at our campground, and Mr. P got to play with his first-ever sparklers.
I composed a rather chewy blog post two nights ago about how our home currently does not have internet. I thought that I would be able to share my outdated torment with the disinterested world yesterday, when our internet was to have been restored, but the internet’s ghastly puppeteers at Verizon denied me the chance to air my cathartic rant by not showing up at our house during the agreed-upon service window of 8am to 12pm. Yes, the cable guy didn’t show up… must you be such a cliché, Verizon?
Our lack of Internet all started with Mr. P’s mortal rage towards RCN cable company, who had provided us with uninterrupted cable internet service for 18 months but hiked their rates on a near-monthly basis until we were paying $56/month for internet alone (we forgo cable TV and phone service). I didn’t care — honestly, I’d pay $100/month for internet — but our domestic IT infrastructure is solely Mr. P’s domain. I do the cleaning and the bulk of the cooking and shopping, and I don’t care as long as I never have to configure a wireless router or devise a data backup strategy for our digital pictures. It’s one of the perks of marrying a geek, aside from the grateful adoration and the mind-blowing sex.
Anyway, Mr. P decided to switch to Verizon, which is cheaper since it is modem-based and our phone landline is unused. The Verizon cable guy came to our house last week, bada bing, and we had adequate internet until last Monday night when it just stopped working. And when Verizon stood up Mr. P yesterday by not showing up to fix it, Mr. P’s mortal rage shifted from RCN (who now doesn’t look that bad) to Verizon.
“We’re switching to Comcast,” he decided.
So, our household will continue to be internet-barren until next week. But since we’re camping/hiking in New Hampshire over the weekend, we won’t miss it. Although… it’s hard to feel comfortable anywhere knowing that there’s no internet waiting for us at the house. It’s like there’s no food or hot water. It doesn’t quite meet the definition of home.
Yesterday morning I sat on a train at Alewife as it idled for 3-4 minutes before commencing its run down the Red Line. Totally engrossed in the New York Times‘ coverage of Bernie Madoff’s 150-year prison sentence, I barely noticed the tall, broad-shouldered man in a blue suit sit next to me until I saw him pull a folded Wall Street Journal out of his briefcase.
I glanced at his newspaper and he glanced at mine. Despite our evident ideological differences, there is an unspoken respect between commuters who read real newspapers (as opposed to the free Metro newspapers that hired derelicts distribute near the turnstiles, which provide news in primary-school-level factoids that make USA Today look hard-hitting.) We’re rare. Maybe once a week I’ll sit near a man (almost always a man) who is reading a NYTimes, a WSJ, or a Boston Globe. We’ll appraise each other, like we’re members of an exclusive, learned society that could be called People Who Give Shit about What’s Happening in the World.
[Theoretically, reading a newspaper is no better than reading news online, but in practice, people who read news online can click the articles they want to read, and it’s human nature to crave soft news about how a 2-year was strangled by a pet python or if Michael Jackson’s ex-wife will fight for custody. People who read reputable newspapers will turn a page and find an article about how China is lending Zimbabwe millions of dollars to prop up its dismal economy or an editorial analyzing Obama’s health care plan. It’s not fun to read, but it’s what’s in front of you.]
So the man in the business suit gestures at the Bernie Madoff headline on my New York Times. “150 years!” he says.
“It’s incredible, isn’t it? I mean the whole thing is just…”
“Incredible,” he finished.
And over the course of our 25-minute train ride to downtown Boston, the man in the suit and I had a wonderful conversation that started with a gushy rehash of the incredible Madoff scandal, continued to the discovery that we live 3 streets away from each other, delved briefly into politics before quickly swerving to our respective professions. He said that his company might have a future need for a technical writer, so he gave me his business card. I wasn’t surprised he was in finance, but I was sort of awed that he was a Vice President at one of the most prestigious investment banks in America.
That’s the cool thing about this random encounter with a fellow newspaper reader on the subway. Had I known when we began talking that he was a VP at a prestigious investment bank, I would have been completely tongue-tied and awkward even though I’ve been avidly reading about Bernie Madoff in the newspaper for months. As it was, I held my own in the conversation and it was effortless. Thank you, New York Times, for the knowledge you have bestowed upon me, and the good impression you have helped me to forge.
Michael Jackson won’t be really, truly dead in my mind until I fling a fleck of dirt upon the leviathan’s coffin in the form of a half-baked blog eulogy.
Last Thursday, I learned of Michael Jackson’s death in the locker room as I changed for my after-work yoga class. A nearby young woman was talking on her cell phone and eavesdropping was inevitable when I heard her say:
“Yeah, he’s dead… I know, I didn’t even know he was sick… Yeah I can’t believe it either… Okay, just wanted to tell you he died! Have fun tonight.”
From her cavalier tone of voice, I gathered that the deceased about whom she bantered was either a celebrity or the non-furry pet of an ill-regarded friend. As she interfaced with her cell phone to make another call, my ears perked:
“Hey it’s me, did you hear about Michael Jackson?”
Ah, of course. Michael Jackson. Which other celebrity’s death would be major enough to warrant calling all your friends and indulging in a moment of incredulousness before going to your power yoga class? No sadness, no regret, just a strange twisty emotion bordering on gossipy curiosity and distant nostalgia.
In the 1980s, I was a Michael Jackson fan. Not a mega-fan, but certainly the Michael Jackson mania that swept my peer group afflicted me as well. I remember going to a sleepover birthday party and jumping around to “Thriller” for literally hours with a dozen other sugar-hyped young girls who were equally desperate to achieve Thriller zombie dance perfection.
But I wasn’t hooked by Michael Jackson’s glove or leather jacket or dancing, for I was too young to comprehend coolness on that level. No, it was his voice and that music, that poppy happy soulful infectious music. After my Sesame Street songs, my Sunday school songs, and my lullabies, Michael Jackson was the first popular music act that I listened to (followed closely by Cyndi Lauper and Madonna). And he set the standard so high that no pure pop music act has come close to capturing my adoration the way Michael Jackson did.
But as time wore on, Michael Jackson just couldn’t keep pace with his own coolness. I believe my disillusionment started around the release of Dangerous with that video for “Black or White” where Michael smashed cars and grabbed his crotch. I mean, grabbing your crotch in public is never cool. Neither is excessive plastic surgery, child molestation allegations, or marrying Lisa Marie Presley. Just… not cool.
Okay, so Michael Jackson might have been tragically misunderstood. His father might have been a tyrant who prevented him from having a real childhood. His accusers might have been lying money grubbers. His public might have been disloyal. His handlers might have been manipulative and self-serving. He might have been died in debt, balding, terribly sick and terribly afraid of disappointing his fans. But he was Michael Jackson, and for a time he was undisputedly the coolest mother-effer in the whole world. End of story. Now beat it.
