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Pressing Words

Well, blogging via WordPress is very strange, so strange that I’m typing this in TextEdit (the Mac version of Notepad) to avoid the distracting bells and whistles of the WordPress user interface. Writing is fickle. It does not adapt readily to a change in process. It’s not like when you start a new job, and everything is so shiny and new that energy, creativity, and enthusiasm abounds. It’s more like going to the toilet in a foreign country.

I remember when I made the transition from longhand to digital writing. I missed the feel of the pencil in between my fingers. I missed scratching out words and scribbling in new ones.  I missed flipping through a hard-back notebook in search of a blank page, reading random snips and passages that I had jotted down in fits of inspiration. “It’s over,” I thought. “Writing is dead.” It only took a month before I was playing the keyboard like a concert pianist, and my handwriting began to disintegrate to resemble runes.

But if the move to WordPress is disorienting to me, I can only imagine how completely confused you are, Dear Reader. For when you read a blog, you are not just taking in words, but fonts, colors, spacing, layouts, and other formatting as well — the face for a writer’s voice. And suddenly, my face has morphed from something green and clodgy into something slick and grayscale.

I’ve been steadily porting over content from the old site into WordPress. This morning it took me about 45 minutes to  do the entire month of August 2006, which was an eventful, photo-filled month. I don’t remember writing half of this stuff. What a little pip I used to be! Is it strange to say that I’m inspiring myself?

Posted in Miscellany.

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*Cough, Cough*

Ummm… is this thing on?

This is my first post on WordPress. After 6 years of blogging via a primitive hand-coded HTML webpage, this is a little freaky. The WordPress user interface is sleek and crowded, with an array of buttons and links flanking the actual writing area, which accommodates 10 lines of text at one time.  It’s intimidating.  On the toolbar above the writing area, there is a button, “Show/Hide the Kitchen Sink.” I’m petrified to click it.

My words may have been fine and sweet for HTML, but this is WordPress. The big league.

So anyway, for 6 years I’ve really focused on blogging for the sake of writing. I viewed blog ornamentation like comments, tagging, trackbacks, etc. as being distractions to my writing. I can’t say exactly why I’ve changed my mind/given in and moved to WordPress, but I’ve known for a while that it was inevitable, and every month that I delayed the move resulted in another HTML page with a block of 28-31 separate pieces of my writing, hand-coded into my archives and essentially lost to posterity.

Might take me a while to get off the ground with WordPress. I would like to try to move my precious archives to this site and back-date each entry, a process that could take another 6 years. Stay with me.

Posted in Miscellany.

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Whiteface and Passaconaway – The Birthday Bears

When most wives ask their husbands, “Honey, Saturday is your birthday, so what do you want to do?” the plans probably involve grilling enough meat to feed a small army, donning scandalous lingerie, or begrudgingly sipping light beer at a sports bar while hubby watches football with a chicken wing dangling from his hand.

Mr. Pinault on Mt Passaconaway

Me, I found myself on an 11-mile, 7-hour forced march across two of New Hampshire’s 4000-footers: Mts. Whiteface and Passaconaway. It had been almost eight months since our last peak-bagging adventure, so I was keen to check a few more summits off our list. That said, 11 miles is a bold ask for hiking muscles that have spent the better part of a year in hibernation. By the time we reached the wooded summit of Mt. Passaconaway, I was toast. But this wasn’t a treadmill with a stop button, and sadly, the White Mountains don’t run a shuttle service.

The Gulf between Whiteface and Passaconaway

The trek between Whiteface and Passaconaway is a grueling gauntlet, and I gamely tried to keep my grumbles to myself—after all, it was Mr. P’s birthday. That resolve only wavered when we scrambled up cliff-like boulders near Whiteface’s summit. Then, I allowed myself a solid whine.

On the Blueberry Ledge Trail

When we finally made it back to the car, I thought the adventure was over. But no, not 1 mile from the trailhead, we saw a car stopped in the middle of the road and the occupants staring into the woods with cameras blazing. We slowed down, thinking a moose was going to jump in front of our car at any moment, but no!

Instead, we spotted two baby black bears climbing up and down a tree, crying out for their mother. They were impossibly adorable, their tiny forms silhouetted against the forest. I briefly entertained the idea of hopping out to snap a closer picture, but then reality (and the very real risk of mama bear’s wrath) set in. Mr. P, ever the tech-savvy adventurer, captured a quick video from the car (here) and proclaimed it the best birthday gift ever.

And with that, we drove off, weary but content—another unforgettable birthday in the books, complete with peaks, scrambles, and bears.

Posted in 4000 Footers.

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Mounts Passaconaway 4043′ and Whiteface 4020′ May 30, 2009

Posted in 4000 Footers.

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Cake, Candles… Blow!

Today is my 32nd birthday. Earlier this month, when I realized that my birthday would be falling on a Friday and that I’d have the day off, I was pleased. After all, going to work on your birthday is about as pleasurable as eating saltines for dessert. But now, at home alone, bereft of my co-workers’ companionship and staring down a mounting heap of consulting work, it’s a little depressing. I was sitting on our 3-season veranda, re-working some legacy Quark files when the leaves on the trees suddenly began to murmur with the sounds of a fresh light rain. Rain on my birthday? But, it never rains on my birthday!

Mr. P gave me my present this morning: Earrings, white gold and diamonds, small delicate hoops, elegant and understated. I hugged him and kissed him, very much gratified after last year’s present of nothing (he took my protestations of “I don’t need anything for my birthday” seriously, which will never happen again). Tomorrow is his birthday, so I lap up the spotlight while I can, for there will be no carry-over specialness. But I like that we have adjacent birthdays. We share them, like we share everything.

32. People who are older than me tell me “32 is young! You’re young!” But I am wise enough not to tell them, “You’re only saying that because you’re old!” The biological clock is ticking. Oh, it’s ticking. 32 is the age that a woman’s fertility begins its rapid decline, and each passing month sounds a new alarm. I eye mothers on the street and on the subway, and they all look younger than me. What have I done? Why did I wait? Biologically, 32 is way past prime.

The house needed cleaning, but I ignored it and went to yoga. Ommmm… I read the New York Times. I listened to French podcasts. I answered emails and phone calls. I ate hummus and tapioca pudding for lunch, and then wayyy too many Kinder sweets brought home from Germany. One of my loser stocks jumped 12% for seemingly no reason so I sold 200 shares and felt relief, then regret, and then nothing.

I wanted to hug my mother and father, and thank them for giving me life.

I studied my face in the mirror as I got ready to go out for dinner. It’s an older face, but no, it’s not old. I can still see a plumpness in my cheeks, a gleam in my eye, and a girlish pleasure in my smile. I can see who I was yesterday. I can see who I’ll be tomorrow.

Posted in Miscellany.

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Cologne, Germany — Part 3

I hit the bottle pretty hard at the wedding. That is, the bottle of Gerolsteiner, because at that point in the trip my body was parched from the traveling and the lack of an adundant drinking water source. Our hotel sold 1/2 liter bottles of spring water for 3.50 euros (beer is cheaper). Water was made available at the breakfast bar, but the glasses only held about 3 ounces of liquid. These little shots of hydration just didn’t quench me; I wanted to take repeated greedy gulps of water, and so I found the unlimited availability of Gerolsteiner at the wedding to be pretty much the most awesome thing ever.

So I woke up the next morning feeling pretty good. We were due in Cologne at 11am to meet up with the family and take a tour of Cologne’s old city, including the inside of the Cathedral. I liked this secular stained-glass window, which was installed in the 1970s to replace a window damaged in World War II. The colors were randomized by a computer:

Cologne Cathedral

This is the Glockenspiel on the Rathaus. The man sticks out his tongue at 1 o’clock, but I was too slow with the camera:

Rathaus Glockenspiel

The Beer Bike went by, albeit incredibly slowly. What a country!

Bier Bike

After the tour, we went out to lunch with the extended family. If you ever have the opportunity to accompany 30 French people to a traditional German brauhaus, well, I highly recommend keeping your camera on hand so you can capture the stunned faces when they are served the pork knuckle that they inadvertently ordered. Bon appetite!

Pork: It's whats for Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner

Pork: It's whats for Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner

After saying goodbye to the extended family, we walked around our hotel’s neighborhood, trying to digest the heavy lunch before another family dinner. Every 1/8 of a mile, we came upon a poster of a heavily-retouched Angela Merkel promoting a public appearance. Angie, you sexy demogogue, you!

Angela!

By Sunday, frankly we had had enough of walking the busy sidewalks of Cologne, and decided to head out into the country for a walk. Mr. Pinault scanned the map and found a lake surrounded by a park about 45 minutes away. “Let’s go there,” he said, and so we did:

German Lake

The wildflowers were simply stunning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen as many wildflowers as I saw in Germany.

German Wildflowers

So, that’s it. I totally loved Germany and all the Germans that I met. They’re sporty, intellectual, outdoorsy, environmentally-conscious, and they love hard rock! The only flaw is that they speak German and they eat way too much pork (although honestly, when we walked past outdoor restaurants, I saw way more salads than pork knuckle).

Posted in Trips.

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Half-Assedly

I had a choice tonight: either write this post, or do my French homework. Or I could post my French homework and do a half-assed job at both, which is my general philosophy in life: Do it all, but only half-assedly.

My homework is to pretend to arrange for housing while on a vacation in France:

  • Mon mari et moi recherchons un petit appartement qui se trouve dans la ville (My husband and I are looking for a small apartment that is in the city or town)
  • Nous avons besoin d’une chambre avec un grand lit. “Grand American”, pas “grand Francais”. (We need one bedroom with a big bed. “American big”, not “French big.”)
  • Je prefere avoir une vraie douche, pas d’une baignoire avec un tuyau. (I prefer to have a real shower, not a bathtub with a hose.)
  • Hauts plafonds! Tres hauts plafonds! (High ceilings! Very high ceilings!)
  • S’il vous plait, nous ne voulons pas de mimes. (Please, we do not want any mimes.)

Posted in Existence.

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Save the Timber

Sigh. I didn’t post anything on this website yesterday, a weekday rarity for me. Usually I can whip up something even if it’s the literary equivalent of a jelly sandwich (sloppy and missing something), but yesterday my attention span buckled under the heft of my brain’s ponderosity. 

I wanted to rant about the Sierra Club, the grassroots environmental group that sends me thick envelopes on a semi-annual basis, extorting me to become a member. Last week’s envelope had a message scrawled on it: “Take a stand against the timber industry!” Really, Sierra Club? Really? You waste reams of paper sending untold thousands of people bookmarks, address labels, and polar bear stickers along with double-spaced treatise about how a $35 membership will save Planet Earth… and you want me to take a stand against the timber industry? 

Maybe you can’t make an omelet without cutting down some trees, but… I hate the Sierra Club. I apologize to any Sierra Club members out there, or any living thing or plant that has actually benefitted from the efforts of the Sierra Club, but oh. Nothing burns me more than looking through my mail and seeing a fat piece of wasteful junk mail from the Sierra Club. 

I forget exactly when I received my first Sierra Club mailing. I remember being sorely tempted to join for whatever Sierra Club schwag they were dangling as a membership gift, so it could of been 8-10 years ago, when I was going through my Proclivity for Free Crap phase (around the time I joined PBS for a free tote bag).

And despite changing addresses 8 times in the past 10 years, the Sierra Club’s thick envelopes continue to follow me. Is it my AMC membership? My REI membership? My Trustees of Reservation membership? Has the Sierra Club drilled a GPS device into my brain so that my migratory patterns can be tracked?

Anyway… yesterday I was going to scan and post a photo of the Sierra Club envelope along with the relevant content of this post, but the envelope got lost in the stack of recycling-bound paper. This totally deflated my enthusiasm, and I gave up on the Sierra Club. I ended up scrunched up in a ball on my bed, snuggling with my husband as strange hot winds gusted against the bedroom blinds.

Posted in Americana.

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Love in the Time of Swine Flu

The Guardian UK published this picture of a couple in Mexico kissing goodbye for the day, wearing surgical masks to give themselves an illusion of protection from the outbreak of swine influenza that originated in their country and is currently spreading globally.

I think there’s 2 pandemic survival lessons to be learned from this photo:

  1. Trust no one!
  2. Ladies, it really does pay off to color coordinate your outfit with your surgical mask. The matching hairband makes the whole outfit pop.

swineflu

Posted in In the News.

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The Verboten Topics

The hardest thing about this website is not the actual writing of the posts, it’s brainstorming the topics about which to write. I read recently in a technical writing blog that all blogs should have a “mission statement” upon which all of the posts can “rally around,” to enhance the audience’s comprehension as well as facilitate the writing process by providing focus. Although I loath the use of corporate lingo to describe non-corporate activities, I must concede that rallying around a mission statement would enhance and facilitate this goddamn blog.

I’ve thought about this before: “For now on, I’m only going to write: Fiction and poetry! Reviews of perfume samples! Satirical news stories! About bread!” But I’m reluctant to pigeonhole myself into one subject area. What would happen if I only wrote reviews of Boston-area freshly baked bread, and I cultivated an audience of people who were interested solely in Boston-area freshly baked bread, and one day I wanted to rant about some Lance Armstrong wannabe nut on the bike path?

So I don’t want a mission statement, but I do have a mental list of verboten topics. These are topics that I refrain from writing about on this website, mostly to spare you and myself from the inherent boredom that these topics inspire. Like the weather. Seriously, I could write all day long about the weather, but how sucky would that be?

For the past 3 days there have been no posts because all I want to write about are these topics. So I figured, why fight it? Why not just group all of the verboten topics together, write a bunch of boring shit, and get them the hell out of my system so I can focus on a more substantive topic… like a review of a perfume sample?

Verboten Topic #1: The Weather

Truly Boston only has 10 days a year of good weather. These 10 good weather days feature blue skies with no or minimal clouds, temperatures between 68 and 78 degrees, still or breezy winds, and not a trace of humidity. Bostonians treasure these days because the other 355 days, we are either freezing in gelid winter or sweating in humid summer.

For the past 3 days, Boston has erupted into an elated springtime euphoria over a bout of unseasonably sunny, warm weather. It was not perfect weather. Friday was pleasant but windy, Saturday was pleasant but hot, and today was downright torrid. Yet I loved this peculiar warmness, because it is April, because it occurred over a weekend, and because it reminded me that I need to get a pedicure.

Verboten Topic #2: Dreams (of the Nighttime Varietal)

Did you know that a woman is more likely to have vivid dreams and nightmares during the second half of her monthly cycle, when the hormone progesterone surges through her body? My acupuncturist calls them “progesterone dreams.” On Friday night, I had 3 nightmares in a row. The first one involved a vague threat that I defended myself against by grabbing knives from a long wooden block. The second one I was trying to flee a brick building with my sister but all of the entrances were blocked. The last one I woke up trying to scream, convinced that someone was breaking into the house. My screams came out in whispery yelps that failed to stir my husband, and even though it was only 5:30am I gave up on sleep, for it was obviously not a place where my brain wanted to be.

Verboten Topic #3: That Nice Walk I Took Today (with pictures)

Given the spate of good weather (see Verboten Topic #1), I took 3 nice walks this weekend.

On Friday, Mr. P and I enjoyed the evening warmth by walking around Spy Pond (shown below) and watching youth baseball games (does this look like a woman who is about to have 3 horrible nightmares, see Verboten Topic #2?):

verboten1

On Saturday, I joined the crowds on the local bike path and then took a solitary hike through the meadows (shown below):

verboten2

And today, Mr. P ran the James Joyce Ramble 10K (shown below at finish line — no, the time on the clock was not his time) and I walked the corresponding 4.5 mile walk, which features James Joyce readings by costumed actors (shown below, a very demure woman):

verboten3

cimg3574

Posted in Existence.

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