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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

Adieu

We leave for France tomorrow. Normally, around this time—while I’m frantically tossing clothes into a suitcase and daydreaming about crisp baguettes—a wave of guilt hits. I feel sheepish for returning to my husband’s homeland with no more command of the French language than the last time. But this time feels different.

Last month, I had an epiphany: I genuinely want to speak French. It wasn’t just another item on my list of things I should do, like eating more kale or reading financial advice columns. It was a revelation, much like the one I had when I quit smoking—it had to be something I decided I wanted. For three years, I’d told myself I should learn French. The social pressure was constant. Friends and family would ask, “So, do you speak French yet?” I went through the motions: adult education classes, language CDs, French movies, even that Bastille Day street party that did absolutely nothing for my language skills.

But one cannot learn a foreign language from occasional exposure and half-assed commitment. It requires immersion. And though I can badger Mr. P to speak only in French to me, he will understandably refuse when I can neither understand him or respond in a timely, coherent, or pleasant manner.
So I am finding other ways to immerse myself in French.

First, I bought a set of CDs called SmartFrench. “Learn French from native speakers,” the tagline on the package says, which I showed to Mr. P. “Look, I bought CDs so I can learn French from native speakers,” I said wryly. The goal of SmartFrench is to increase listening comphrehension. It essentially plays the same excerpt from an interview six times, instructing the listener to listen, or repeat, or follow along in the booklet, or take note of particular phrases. SmartFrench is teaching me very little vocabulary, but it’s tuning my ears to pick up words in French conversation.

Second, I started downloading French language podcasts onto my Shuffle. No more music for me: It’s always Louis with my daily French Pod, or the French Coffee Break, or the French Word of the Day. The podcasts are improving my vocabulary. Like, for the past week I’ve been listening a podcast about the people in Amsterdam who hid Anne Frank’s family. “Je cache et aide les jeunes filles juives.” I announced this morning to a startled Mr. P. (Translation: I hide and help young Jewish girls.)

Third, I’m back on the flashcards. But instead of writing “Shoes” on one side and “les chaussures” on the other, I’m writing entire sentences, dialogues, and famous quotes, like “Dans toutes les larmes s’attarde un espoir” (In all the tears lingers a hope, Simone de Beauvoir) and “Le jour est paresseux mais la nuit est active” (The day is lazy, but the night is active, Alphonse Daudet).

And finally, speaking French to Mr. P. I realized that if I wanted him to engage with me in French, I’d have to lead by example. He still answers me in English most of the time, but he corrects my pronunciation and grammar. And as I improve, I hope it’ll feel less like a linguistic novelty to both of us and more like the natural exchange it’s meant to be.

So, tomorrow we’ll step off the plane, and for the first time, I’ll feel like I’m carrying more than just a suitcase. I’ll carry phrases, fragments, and a real desire to engage, not just exist. I may not be fluent, but I’m ready to try. Because maybe, just maybe, this trip will be the one where French becomes not just his language, but ours.

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By Meredith – February 25, 2009

Roll-on? Hell-no!

A few months ago I was prowling the aisles of CVS when I spotted a shelf full of roll-on Lady Mitchum deodorants marked with special clearance price tags. Lady Mitchum happens to be my one and only brand for underarm odor and wetness protection. I am totally devout Lady Mitchum. So I grabbed one roll-on dispenser of Lady Mitchum. Only one? These are hard times, and if a body can save a few bucks by buying in bulk, why not two, three, or even four?

Well, the roll-on dispenser gave me pause. I prefer compressed powder, although clear gels are also acceptable. I haven’t used a roll-on in over a decade, and frankly, I was disturbed by what I perceived to be environmentally-unfriendly product design. Yes, I know that commercial deodorant as a concept is not exactly Green, but there is something especially evil about choosing a deodorant dispenser featuring a plastic ball whose sole purpose is to evenly distribute the creamy product throughout the armpit area. It seemed egregiously 1980s in its wastefulness. So my inner miser had to content itself with merely one roll-on Lady Mitchum deodorant on sale.

After weeks of use, I have discovered several fatal design flaws in the roll-on deodorant concept.

For instance, how can the user comfortably tip the bottle so that the roll-on ball is adequately infused with deodorizing cream? I understand that roll-on deodorants function much like ballpoint pens, which must be held upright. Easy to do when writing with a pen, but how so when applying deodorant?

How can the user tell how much liquid deodorant is left in the bottle? More vexing, how can the user tell when there’s no more deodorant left? Yesterday I was getting ready for bed when I caught a whiff of my underarm. Woo-ee, my deodorant failed. This morning, I discovered that it failed because there was no more left. I had been rubbing a dry roll-on ball under my arms, possibly for days or even weeks. Who knows how long, because as Sarah Silverman points out, you can’t smell yourself.

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By Meredith – February 24, 2009

Not-so-Well-Endowed

Conventional wisdom holds that our most venerable higher education institutions are immune from economic downturns, because even the most impoverished financial magnate, industry titan, or political power broker can pony up (or Ponzi up) a few hundred thousand dollars to send Junior to the Ivy League.

But it turns out that the financial crisis has humbled even Harvard University, which may lose over 30 percent of its $36 billion endowment by June 2009. Since Harvard derives about 1/3 of its operating income from its endowment, the university is forced to shore up some more cash. Aside from the token layoffs, pay freezes, and tuition increases that will hit most other private colleges, Harvard is reconsidering its expansion in the Allston neighborhood.

This reversal of fortune comes after years of buying up chunks of Allston real estate, often secretly and without community input, in pursuit of a grandiose 50-year plan that involved basically devouring Allston. Harvard won over outraged Allstonians with a flurry enticing amenities like bike paths, cafes, boutiques, theaters, and gardens.

But last week Harvard announced that the university has halted construction work on the science complex due to the economic crisis, leaving Allston blighted with empty property and in doubt about their neighborhood’s future. Residents are suddenly desperate for Harvard to come to town with the promised public art installations and spraying fountains.

It’s tempting to smirk about Harvard’s financial woes, but I really only pray for the miraculous recovery of their ridiculous endowment. I miss the sense of security that living down the road from Harvard confers. I always reasoned that even if my career imploded and my professional prospects dimmed, I could always show up at the Harvard employment office and get a job, say, as a silver-ware polisher in the dining services, or as a chambermaid in the dormitories.

Incidentally, during his stand-up act last Saturday, Norm MacDonald mentioned that he used to be intimidated when he worked with Harvard alumni on comedy shows, but then he realized that most of them weren’t smart, they were just rich. “If I was born stinking rich and I never had to do any work and I still had all this money, I’d think I was pretty fucking smart, too.” So now, maybe Harvard’s feeling about 30 percent less smart.

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By Meredith – February 23, 2009

Norm MacDonald’s Stand-up

Last night we saw Norm MacDonald at the Wilbur Theatre in Boston. Norm was introduced to the rowdy crowd of mostly 20-30 something white dudes as “the greatest Saturday Night Live Weekend Update anchor ever,” an assertion that I take issue with, although I cannot deny the excellence of his Bob Dole impression (that episode when Bob Dole becomes a member of the Real World is one of my all-time favorites.)

So, what’s Norm MacDonald like these days? Older, predictably. He talks slower, almost slurred, sometimes not in full sentences, a regressed parlance that even native English speakers found incomprehensible at times (let alone the poor French). Sometimes Norm would get lost in his own discourse, hilariously. He cursed quite a bit. “When I was little, my father said that people curse because they don’t know a lot of words, so I started cursing, because it was just easier, easier than reading a dictionary.”

The subject matters of Norm’s act were random, but the prevailing theme seemed to be stupidity: Norm’s stupidity, the media’s stupidity, America’s stupidity. Yet Norm was never angry, just… confused. “Why do we behave differently when we eat in restaurants?” he rambled. “When I’m cooking a pork chop at home, and I’m waiting for it to cook, I never start eating bread… from a basket… with butter.” The audience was in stitches.

Another bit: “My friend’s an alcoholic, and he says he has the disease of alcoholism. Well, I have to say, out of all the diseases that you can get, alcoholism is a pretty good one. It’s the disease that means you’re drunk all the time. It’s better than, like, bowel cancer.”

And another: “Boston is one of the six good cities in this country. Every where else is a shithole [crowd cheers loudly]. You go to some of these places, and you ask, ‘what is there to do here?’ And they say, ‘Well there’s the Galleria.’ I know what’s at the Galleria to the square foot. They’re so proud, ‘Oh we have 4 Gaps.’ So proud! ‘4 Gaps? I’ll alert them back East.'”

And my favorite: “What’s with that word, ‘ID’? The I stands for ‘I’, and the D stands for ‘Dentification.'”

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By Meredith – February 22, 2009

Today’s Teens: Still Getting Drunk

It’s February vacation, a week-long holiday for schoolchildren that is especial to Massachusetts. I’ve never heard a satisfying justification for February vacation. “Kids need time to be kids,” says a co-worker. “You know, do other things aside from school.” I wholeheartedly agree that children should not be overly-confined to classroom, but isn’t that what Winter vacation was for, only 6 weeks ago? Or Spring vacation, only 6 weeks away? And what about the 3-month long Summer vacation? Come on Massachusetts, isn’t February vacation just an excuse to take the family skiing?

Perhaps my unfavorable opinion of February vacation is influenced by the hordes of teenagers who swamp Boston during this week, wearing their most fashionable gear and just generally acting like children in an urban playground. I see them piling into train cars, all the girls talking in giggles, all the boys talking in grunts. I’m so bothered by their sheer youth.

On my evening commute:

“I, like, so don’t want you to go over there tonight,” a teenaged girl with shiny long straight brown hair, tight jeans, and super-bulky Uggs confides to her slightly-superiorly preened clone.

“I know, but, like, it’ll be okay,” the Alpha girl says.

Beta sighs. “I just don’t want you to be at that apartment without me. Like, something really really bad could happen, like last time. I’m going to be so worried about you all night.”

Alpha is not having it. “Last time was totally different. Like, I’ll be okay, I swear” she says.

Beta sighs, again. “God, I’m going to be so worried. Just remember, I have my car, so if anything, anything goes wrong, please call me! Please, please, please call me! And if I’m not too drunk, I’ll totally come pick you up.”

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By Meredith – February 20, 2009