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Helmets

In addition to causing me to crave simple carbohydrates and say inappropriate things (see yesterday), stress also turns me into a stark-raving worrier.

Natasha Richardson’s tragic ski-induced brain injury and subsequent death severely rattled me. I, too, took a few spills on the bunny hill while learning how to ski just 2 short weeks ago. What is the statute of limitations on brain trauma? Could a bruise be lurking under my skull, silently hemorrhaging, slowly vegetating?

“We’re wearing helmets for now on,” I told Mr. P.

“For skiing?” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“No, for everything. Driving, walking, showering, sex, sleeping. All the time. We’re never safe.”

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By Meredith – March 19, 2009

Fruity Pebbles

The software development process — that is, the process by which software is developed — is both cyclical and iterative. I won’t bore into your brain with the nitty gritty, but a byproduct of the fluidity is that engineers are changing the software right up until the release. So, as a technical writer, I spend the last 2 weeks before a release in total documentation frenzy: Changing old content, writing new content, keeping track of unresolved issues, putting my face in my hands and crying, and secretly praying for a show-stopping bug that will push the release date back a few weeks.

Yes, it’s crunch time at work.

When I stress out, I tend to crave very particular foods. Today’s hankering was for Fruity Pebbles cereal. Screw you, oatmeal! I want my carbohydrates to be as simple as I wish life were!

Since confinement to the office left me unable to avail myself of Fruity Pebbles, I instead consumed massive quantities of Zen tea from Tazo (“a harmonious blend with lemongrass and spearmint”). When I wasn’t hunkered over my laptop or skyping co-workers for information, I was getting Zen tea in the kitchenette and getting rid of Zen tea in the bathroom.

Zen tea sounds as if it’s calming, soothing, a real aura stabilizer, but I have my doubts. Today’s low point: During a meeting, a co-worker evoked the maxim “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” I piped up: “Try using a chock collar, or kicking it.” Woah! Where did that indirect condonation of animal abuse come from? Was it the lemongrass?

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By Meredith – March 18, 2009

Greenheart

*Somehow* we ended up with Boston Symphony tickets on St. Patrick’s Day.

“This is just about the least Irish thing we could be doing,” I said to Mr. P as we mingled in Symphony Hall with our pre-show glasses of wine (beer is not served). “It’s about as Irish as growing bananas.”

We were surrounded by the usual seething crowd of moneyed gray-hairs as they relentlessly hobnobbed in the minutes before the start of the concert. “We’re spending St. Patrick’s Day with people who probably made their fortunes while oppressing Irish. We’re listening to Mozart and Brahms. And I’ve only seen one green tie out of all the 100s of ties here! And look at that guy! He’s wearing an orange tie! In Boston, that’s a political statement!” I said, pointing with my eyes at a particularly dour gent wearing a gray suit with an orange necktie. “I’m going to punch him.”

“Pinch him?” asked Mr. P, who had just this morning learned that non-adherents to the St. Patrick’s day dress code get pinched.

“No, punch! With my big fat Irish fist!” That’s an exaggeration. My fist is neither fat nor Irish. In fact, as far as I can tell from my known lineage, I’m more Scottish and German than Irish. But being trapped at the symphony with my fellow WASPs really riled whatever inner Irishness I do have. I am, after all, Green at heart.

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By Meredith – March 17, 2009

The Lawyers Fought the Law, and the Lawyers Won

Way back in late 2007, I thrilled over the images and stories coming out of Pakistan, where the nation’s lawyers were engaged in violent protests over then-Pakistani president General Pervez Musharraf’s decision to dismiss the Supreme Court’s Chief Justice Iftikhar Chaudhry. Under Chaudry’s rule, the court had made rulings against governmental corruption and human rights abuses, and Musharraf feared that Chaudry would interfer with his plans to run for another term in office so he placed Chaudry under house arrest. Thousands of black-suited Pakistani lawyers boycotted the courts and took to the streets in protest of Musharraf’s illegal action. They threw eggs and stones, they were beaten and jailed, but they were resolute.

I love these bad-ass Pakistani lawyers. The incongruity of seeing men in 3-piece suits with ties, clashing against riot police, was such a stirring image. Normally, protesters in foreign countries are wearing the garb of foreigners. But not only were the Pakistani lawyers wearing Westernized clothing, they were wearing the most improbable attire in order to violently disobey against the arm of rule within their country: A business suit!

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Today the Pakistani government, under new President Zardari (widower of the assassinated political hero Benazir Bhutto), has announced that Chaudhry will be reinstated as Chief Justice. Said a leader of the protesting lawyers, “No country can progress without an independent judiciary and the government — by restoring the chief justice and other judges — has also realized it, and we think it is a big success.”

Such a bad-ass!

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By Meredith – March 16, 2009

The Running of the Green

Today Mr. P and I ran the Ras na hErieann 5K running race in Somerville. The race’s website claims that it is “the most genuine Irish race this side of the Atlantic… a celebration of traditions dating back centuries.” Yes, because when I think of Ireland, I think of 5000 ruddy-haired people wearing green-feather boas, hats shaped like beer mugs, and headbands with shamrock boppers as they parade around town via a quick gait of sustained strides, sweating and grunting as the onlookers chant “Beer! Beer! Beer!” to motivate them to the finish line. Ah, tradition.

I finished the 5K in just under 30 minutes, not a bad time considering the crowd congestion as well as a digestive issue with my morning oatmeal. Immediately after finishing the race, I joined a stampede of runners for the free post-race hydration (sadly, only water and a drink called owater which contains all these electrolytes, antioxidants, and other ingredients that won’t get me shit-faced).

Honestly, the coolest race t-shirts ever: Black with a green and orange celtic knot across the front. I think 50% of the runners were only there for the t-shirts. The other 50% were excited by the prospect of the post-race craic, which was a pub crawl through Somerville that probably got pretty wild pretty fast considering everyone’s stomach was empty and it is the Sunday before St. Patrick’s Day. Copious drinking is obligatory, because otherwise, one’s pride in their ethnic heritage may be questionable.

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By Meredith – March 15, 2009

Just another Frantic Friday

I thought I had coined a new witty catchphrase, “Just another Frantic Friday.” I was so pleased with my cleverness. But a quick Google search revealed that roughly 1000 webpages have pre-dated my creative genius. It’s true, I guess: Everything has been done.

My Friday started off poorly. I was in the office kitchenette, making my morning tea. I placed a tea bag in an empty cup and then positioned the cup under the hot water nozzle on the coffee machine. Unfortunately, I did not position the cup very well at all, and released a torrent of nearly-boiling hot water on my right hand.

Yelping, I hastily stuck my hand under running cold water. The co-worker with whom I was chatting broke off his diatribe about bagel prices and said, “Jesus Christ! Why’d you do that?”

Now, like most people, when I’m trying to deflect attention from my failings as a human being, I’m prone to sarcasm. But that’s probably still not a good excuse for snarling, “Jesus Christ! Because my freaking hand was cold!”

Scalding my hand was a highlight of my Friday, because at least I’ll be able to laugh about it, some day.

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By Meredith – March 13, 2009

Shepard Fairey at the ICA

Thursday nights are free at the Boston ICA (Institute of Contemporary Art), and since my office is a 10-minute walk from the ICA’s new-ish top-heavy building along the Boston Harbor, I felt compelled to go see the much-buzzed-about Shepard Fairey exhibition.

Why the buzz about Shepard Fairey? 3 reasons:

1. Fairey’s work is fun, sexy stuff with widespread appeal. Fairey’s a notorious street artist who, as an art student in 1989, touched off the notoriously viral “Andre the Giant has a posse” sticker campaign. His subsequent OBEY GIANT campaign serves as an inspiration to guerilla marketers everywhere (and we love that type of thing is Boston!) In addition, Fairey is a prolific producer of accessible art featuring revolutionary symbols, pop culture icons, subversive slogans, and Orwellian propaganda. At the ICA, there was a gallery of portraits of Fairey’s musical and cultural heroes: Joey Ramone, Glen Danzig, Noam Chomsky, Malcolm X, the Godfather, Ian MacKaye, Flava Flav, Iggy Pop, and dozens of others. Comparisons to Andy Warhol are mandatory.

2. Fairey entered mainstream consciousness with his iconic red, blue and white Obama HOPE portrait, which got him in legal trouble with the AP, and then vice versa. Here’s a video of Fairey talking about the wrangling…

3. Fairey was arrested by the Boston Police Department last month as he made his way to the ICA for the opening night party of this exhibition. Fairey’s crime? Vandalism! According to an article in today’s New York Times, Fairey might face over 3 dozen vandalism charges that accuse him of pasting his work on public and private property all over Boston, work that was apparently meant to complement the exhibit.

Before I saw Fairey’s work at the ICA, I was sort of hardened against his methods. Is it anti-art, stodgy, and uptight of me if I think public space should be kept clean and free of individual artistic expression? Because what if everyone decided to graffiti, paint, and sticker anything they desired? What makes Fairey’s artistic expression special enough to transcend common vandalism?

But maybe Boston’s purintanical zeal is wearing off on me, because the ICA exhibit swayed me that Fairey’s message is important and relevant. Fairey’s point is that so much of “public space” is already covered in commercial advertising. What gives the corporate juggernaut the right to invade public space… just because they paid for it? They didn’t pay me or most members of the public. Fairey has said about people’s reaction to his work, “‘Obey’ is offensive to their sense of independence. It makes them question.”

“I think the arrest was a publicity stunt,” A young man with pink dreadlocks speculated to his posse as we gazed upon a huge mural featuring a collage of red stenciling and newspaper. To which I wanted to posit, “His whole career is a publicity stunt.”

It was a cool, impressive exhibit. There were literally 100s of pieces, too much to take in at once, so I will be going back. And… have you ever seen a museum art label saying “From the collection of Lance Armstrong”?



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By Meredith – March 12, 2009

The March of March

The morning weather forecast said 50 degrees, so I popped on a dress, imagining myself twinkling around in balmy spring-like sprinkles.

Unfortunately my exultant brain parried the detail about wind-driven rain with gusts up to 40 miles per hour.

Nothing snuffs aspiring femininity like a storm-force wind coming off of the Boston Harbor, determined to upend one’s skirt. My right hand clutched an ineffectual umbrella, while my left hand gripped the hem of the skirt, cinching its fabric into a secure fit over my bottom. Like some kind of body sock.

Saving me from total discomfort was my new REI Madrano Jacket, acquired at last month’s REI Garage Sale for a cool $19.83 (retail $129). The jacket certainly lived up to its billing as combining casual good looks and weather-ready performance for city dwellers and urban adventures. I’ve never felt so sophisticated and flirty while sustaining such voracious windspeeds. And who knew a hood could be so sleek and flattering? I have a winter coat, I have an autumn coat, I have a spring coat. And now, I have a March coat.

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By Meredith – March 11, 2009

Tales from the Tube

I met a lot of people in Europe. I even encountered myself. ~James Baldwin

Last Friday night in England, we took the train into London for dinner. The journey took more than 1 hour and was overall efficient and pleasant, though rather expensive by American standards.

Since we were taking the reverse-commute route, the 5:15pm train was only semi-full. The commuters were smartly-dressed and weary-faced. The weather that day had been stupendous by English standards, with partly cloudy sunshine and a warm wind that smelled of spring. A lovely day to resent tourists who obviously did not spend their day peering at computer screens in climate-controlled indoor environments.

How interesting it is to observe other cities’ rush hour train commuters in the midst of their plight. This particular train system is a novelty to me, but I know that it is routine for them. They have ingrained knowledge of seat configurations, automated announcements, train stops and the duration separating them. They have preferences for particular train cars and favorite seats on that car. They do not worry about missing their stop or being unable to find their fare card when the conductor appears. Some keep their belongings politely within their allotted space, while others leave things strewn around them like a makeshift fence.

They do not stare at other people; our chatty group of 4 interlopers, if we enter their consciousness, we are given a glance and then ignored. Instead, they have their diversions: Books, magazines, newspapers, MP3 players, phones, laptops, sleep. Except for the occasional hushed phone call, they are solemnly intent on passing the time until they reach their destination.

A man with a pushcart comes through the aisle with snacks and beverages. He has beer, wine, and whiskey! The novelty of drinking libations on a commuter train is tempting, but we pass. Drinking on a commuter train seems like a habit of the broken and the desperate, even for a tourist.

It gave me great comfort to witness this familiar rat race being played out in a foreign country. Boring commuters are universal, and all over the world, people are wallowing away their lives on trains.

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By Meredith – March 10, 2009

Back from “visiting family”

We returned from our France / UK vacation trip yesterday. “What was the purpose of your trip?” we were asked by various immigration officials with various English accents in various countries. “Visiting family,” I said gravely, making the trip sound exponentially more chore-like than it really was. Poor me, visiting my in-laws, who just happen to live 50 feet from a ski lift in the French Alps, and in England, in charming Kent county.

Today was my buffer day between vacation and work, an essential limbo phase to reduce the impact of jetlag grogginess, to tend to post-vacation errands, and to savor the relaxation just a little bit longer.

So all day I’ve been mentally writing this very blog post, floundering as I typically do after a vacation hiatus. Which of the past 10 days’ adventures should be the pivot on which the vacation hinges? It needs to be of general interest and hold the potential for wit, creativity, and literary merit. It needs to convey a gamut of emotions, from spiritual satisfaction to rip-roaring fun. And it cannot involve cheese.

Possible contenders include:

1. Returning to where I first learned XC skiing 4 years ago and totally ripping up the trail, then moving onto technically and physically more challenging routes…

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2. Relaxing in the cozy confines of our new condo after a hard day of skiing, to drink beer, eat chips, and turn zombie-like while watching French game shows.

Here’s Mr. P, rocking his one-piece skiing outfit in the condo.

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3. Going Alpine skiing with Mr. P and his father, and making them proud of my nascent ability to downhill ski as well as amazed that I survived that incident in which I took off straight down a slope, Bode Miller-style, as they both yelled at me in alarmed French. Like I understood them.

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4. Being approached by a precious young French girl, 6 years tops, on a beginners slope. She apparently had enough of trying to get her ski instructor’s attention, and so asked me something about helping her ski down a hill. Sweetheart, you’re asking the wrong adult. I barked nervously “Je ne comprends pas. Je ne parle pas francais” (“I do not understand. I do not speak french”). The surprise in her blue eyes was already turning into trauma by the time I fled the area.

This picture has nothing to do with the little girl, but I totally loved the pure Frenchness of these skiers and feel compelled to post the picture.

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5. In England, watching my “Terrible” 2-year old nephew in the throes of repeated crying jags and tantrums, and feeling guilty for thinking how cute he was when he sobbed uncontrollably.

I will not post a picture of him, but here’s us at Leeds Castle in England…

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6. Doing biathlon at the nordic center in Peisey-Vallandry. Is there anything cooler than saying I fired a .22 caliber rifle in a championship biathlon stadium in France? How about I fired the rifle after XC skiing myself into exhaustion and still managed to hit the target?

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I can’t decide which experience was the defining one. So I bring you… cheese. Here is the cheese from our raclette party, before and (sigh) after.

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By Meredith – March 9, 2009