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Two Nefarious, Hilarious, Burglarious Burglars

The Boston Police Department blog reported an incident in which two men were caught using bolt cutters to steal bicycles from a residential property. The suspects tried to convince the police that they thought the bicycles were “junk” and were not trying to steal anything. The BPD blog wryly comments, “It should be noted that the bicycles were chained and had a combined value in excess of Eight-Hundred-Dollars.” Zing!

My eye caught on one item tucked in the laundry list of criminals charges that the suspects face. In addition to Larceny and Breaking and Entering, the men were charged with “Possession Of Burglarious Tools” for wielding the bolt cutters.

As an avid, frequent employer of adjectives, I am thrilled, charmed, and intrigued to learn a new adjective: Burglarious [ber-glair-ee-uhs]. That’s my new favorite word. Since I sense the opportunity to use “burglarious” will be few and far between, I have begun brainstorming possible usage scenarios. Besides tools, what else can be burglarious?

1. Acts 2. Intentions 3. Investment Bankers 4. Politicians 5. Burglars

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By Meredith – February 4, 2009

Hands Off My Testosterone

“Good news!” Mr. P beamed, walking into the kitchen as I sauteed some red swiss chard in garlic and onions. “Mass General is going to pay me $1000 to be in a medical study, if I qualify!”

“Hmmm…” I said. I had seen the letter addressed to Mr. P with the Massachusetts General Hospital insignia when I got the mail. The envelope evoked suspicion. “What kind of study?”

He began reading from the letter. “‘The study lasts 16 weeks. You will be given an injection every 4 weeks to lower your testosterone level.'”

“Wait, what?” I cried. “No, no, no. No. You are not getting any shots to lower your testosterone. No. Way.”

“But they give some participants a ‘topical testosterone gel.’ And everyone gets a daily pill that ‘prevents testosterone from being made into estrogen.'”

“No way!” I said. “Give me the letter.”

“But babe, it’s $1000!”

I snatch the letter out of his hands. “Good, we’ll have plenty of money to buy you some nice bras.”

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By Meredith – February 3, 2009

And so it is, it’s Groundhog’s Day

This morning at breakfast, while reading Google News, Mr. P teased me about what the locals do for fun on February 2 in my native state of Pennsylvania.

groundhog

“Well, if you lived in Punxsutawney, you’d be bored enough to yank a groundhog out of its hibernation hole and force it to make weather predictions, too,” I say. “Punxsutawney is just down the road from East Bumblefuck, so they’re amendable to engaging in tribal rituals rooted in ridiculous folklore. Did you know that the people of Punxsutawney maintain that Phil the groundhog is immortal? And that Phil speaks to them in some special groundhog language that only they can understand? The rest of Pennsylvania humors them like an adult indulging a child who is playing make-believe.” I take a breath. “Is it any wonder that I moved to Massachusetts? I am too snobby to ever be comfortable in Pennsylvania.”

Obviously I still harbor residual bitterness towards my home state because of the past election, when Pennsylvania had well-publicized difficulty voting for a black man, and I labored to draw distinctions between the more-enlightened urban areas of and around Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, and the rest of Pennsylvania. The town of Scranton has been mythologized in Mr. P’s mind as the epicenter of working-class undecided racists so much so that he perversely demands to visit Scranton every time we go to Pennsylvania, a fancy that I’m tempted to indulge so long as I don’t have to get out of the car.

As I’m walking to the subway, I mentally compose a rant about Groundhog’s Day and then I realized, why waste the effort? Why not just tap into the scathing wisdom of Bill Murray?

“A thousand people freezing their butts off waiting to worship a rat. What a hype.” –Bill Murray, Groundhogs Day

Is it sad that I relate much more to Bill Murray’s character when he’s cynical and nasty, before the space-time continuum glitch transforms him into a warm and generous human being who presumably thinks the groundhog ceremony is one of life’s delights?

“Seer of seers and prognosticator of prognosticators.” And what is it? A groundhog that predicts if winter will continue for 6 more weeks. That’s sort of lame, isn’t it? Wouldn’t a real seers of seers, prognosticator of prognosticators be able to, say, tell us the cure for cancer, break the code of the Voynich Manuscript, or share some hot stock tips?

“I’ll give you a winter prediction: It’s gonna be cold, it’s gonna be grey, and it’s gonna last you for the rest of your life.” –Bill Murray, Groundhogs Day

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By Meredith – February 2, 2009

The Most Romantic 10K Ever

Today we ran the Super Sunday 10K in Boston’s Seaport district (aka the South Boston Waterfront, aka “Hey, when did they replace the warehouses, fish factories, and generalized urban blight with luxury lofts, 5-star hotels, and gourmet restaurants?”)

The race was co-sponsored by Legal Seafoods and the Harpoon Brewery, both longtime residents of the Seaport district. The post-race perks included free clam chowder and beer. Who knew that salty, gritty, shellfishy, creamy goo immediately after running 6.2 miles could be so yum?

Runners could either sign up for a 5K or a 10K. The races started at the same time, but us 10K runners/suckers would do two laps of the course. Before the race, we studied the map and Mr. P pointed out that the course would pass by the site of our first-ever kiss along the Boston Harbor in front of the Courthouse. This prompted a moment of subdued cooing.

I am not fast and I do not have marathon-worthy endurance, but I’m the Queen of Pacing Myself and Knowing My Limitations. Since winter is my dormant running season. I planned to jog easily for the first 3 miles, then see what I had left. So I wasn’t surprised when the race began and dozens of people charged pass me. I knew I’d be seeing some of them again at the end of the race.

supersunday

Mr. P went ahead of me, and I maintained a steady 10-minute mile pace for 3 miles before stepping on the gas. I felt pretty good and began passing people. After mile 4, as I approached the loop around the Courthouse, I spied Mr. P on the other side of the road. He had just finished the Courthouse loop.

“Huh! It’s my babe!” he shouted, and suddenly did a U-turn to run alongside of me.

“What?” I cried. “No! You’ll have to run around the Courthouse again! What are you doing?” But of course I knew what he was doing. We neared the site of our first kiss, and he leaned over and we kissed twice without breaking our stride.

“Go on, go!” I said, and he pulled ahead of me. My wonderful husband ran an extra 1/4 mile just to commemorate our first kiss. Elation seized me and my legs moved without effort, my lungs breathed without struggle, and my entire body warmed to the memory of that cold winter night four years ago, when we stumbled out of a bar to look at the luminous cityscape reflected in the harbor and to lock lips with our destiny.

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By Meredith – February 1, 2009

REI Garage Sale

Today was the quarterly REI Garage Sale, which is a members-only sale of returned and overstocked merchandise at un-freaking-believable prices. For instance, at the Garage Sale last November, Mr. P and I walked away with 2 pairs of backcounty skis and boots, 1 pair of Alpine skis and boots, 2 pairs of high-quality womens hiking boots, and a few random items of clothing, all for about $120. With deals like this, the normally peaceful REI customer will get in touch with his inner stampeding consumerist.

The sale started at 10am and we arrived at 8:40am to get in line. About 40 people were ahead of us. Mostly college kids, all outdoorsy types, placid on the surface but each one salivating at the thought of cut-rate sporting goods, clothes, and accessories. A small group had spent the night camping in a tent to secure the first place in line. One of the campers milled around in cut-off jeans, as if to say “I spent my Christmas break hiking mountains in Alaska, so camping in 15-degree weather in suburban Boston is like a trip to the tropics.”

After securing a place in line, I headed to the neighboring Dunkin Donuts to fetch breakfast. A father and pubescent son walked by with a box of Munchkins. “Dad, what’s going on?” the son asked, staring at the line. “Guess there’s a kayak sale,” the man said in a voice dripping with derision. Damn kayakers!

The line grew and grew until it wrapped around the building. Finally at 9:55am, an REI employee announced that the doors would be opening and then pleaded for calm. Mr. P and I had planned to rush to the shoe section at the back of the store, but the first thing we saw was a pair of Rossignol XC skating skis — the perfect size for me (Retail: around $200 with bindings, Garage Sale: $49.83). Mr. P then grabbed himself a pair of backcountry ski boots and a pair of classic ski boots (Retail: around $70 each, Garage Sale: $15.83 each).

We split up. I happened upon of a table of bags and immediately grabbed 4 of them (a common Garage Sale tactic is to snatch first and look later. It’s obnoxious, but so are the college dudes who hoarded all the snowshoes). I ended up keeping only the Sherpani Vida backpack (Retail: $80, Garage Sale: $12.83). I collect backpacks like other women collect purses. “How many backpacks do you need?” Mr. P asked. “But this one is slightly bigger than my brown backpack, and smaller than my black backpack,” I explain. “And it’s so cute!”

The closest thing to pandemonium at the Garage Sale was at the women’s clothes rack. I waited until the frenzy abated and then found an REI Madrona Jacket (Retail: $129, Garage Sale: $19.83), which bills itself as combining “casual good looks and weather-ready performance for city dwellers and urban adventures.” Windproof at up to 60mph… now that’s a coat for Boston. The discount tag explained that the jacket had suffered “water damage” in the store, but I found no damage. How can a rain jacket sustain water damage, anyway?

Meanwhile, Mr. P found a pair of rechargeable Motorola walkie talkies (Retail: $50, Garage Sale: $18.83) and a pair of slightly-used Asics running shoes (Retail: around $80, Garage Sale $9.83). By then, about 45 minutes after the doors had opened, the Garage Sale was winding down. Everything worth getting had been snatched up. Latecomers picked through the Garage Sale remainders, the weirdly-sized shoes, damaged goods, and white elephants like quilted ear covers, sports-themed Christmas ornaments, and yoga calendars. I got in line with our stuff and Mr. P continued to scavenge the store for deals. And that’s how we ended up with 2 large quick-drying camping towels (Retail: $16 each, Garage Sale: $7.83 each).

How stoked am I? Next Garage Sale, maybe we’ll pitch the tent in REI’s parking lot and get some sweet camping gear.

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By Meredith – January 31, 2009

Movie Review: Slumdog Millionaire

Mr. P had the opportunity to see Slumdog Millionaire several weeks ago. “Was it, like, the best movie ever?” I asked him later that night. He shrugged. “It was good,” he said politely.

Just good? Everyone swears that Slumdog Millionaire is the best movie ever! An array of cinematic awards… serious contender for the Best Picture Oscar… glowing, glowing four-star reviews about this feel-good fairy-tale masterpiece, and my husband merely says it’s “good?”

So today, I decided to go see it for myself. And I agree it was good. But I’ll go as far as to say it was pretty good.

Despite being filmed in Mumbai with a fair amount of Hindi sprinkled through it, Slumdog Millionaire was the purest Hollywood movie that I’ve seen in awhile: the black and white morality, the heart-string tugging by both cute kids in squalid poverty and the fulfillment of fated romance, the preposterous coincidences that mount with every passing scene, and the consummate predictable, happy ending, replete with a villanous character’s ultimate sacrifice and thus redemption. At some points I had to restrain myself from yelling “Really? Really?” in the nearly-empty movie theatre (the only other people at the matinee was an elderly couple who sat 2 rows in front of me, staring straight ahead and motionless for the duration of the 2-hour film. It was like tailgating a Buick).

Slumdog adherents will say the fantastical plot was the point, and that suspension of disbelief is an essential component of cinema, and that its unrealistic themes shouldn’t overshadow the fact that it’s an uplifting, riveting, ambitious movie. And I agree… it was pretty good.

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By Meredith – January 29, 2009

Missed Missives

Not only do I hold the URL for my maiden name, but I also hold the coveted unadulterated “Meredith Green” Gmail address. Since it’s a common enough name, about once every two weeks I will receive emails that are not meant for me. There’s a Meredith Green in Washington DC who is the frequent recipient of church-related evites. There’s another Meredith Green around Atlanta who has an extensive network of girlfriends and colleagues who frequently flub her email address. I usually just delete these emails, for several reasons. #1: I would feel uncomfortable admitting to the sender that I read an email that wasn’t intended for me. #2: Strangely, it’s not one person who is repeatedly sending me the misdirected email, it’s many people once. And dishonorable #3: It’s sort of fun to read other people’s emails, especially when there’s no guilt involved.

Today I received a dozy of a misaddressed email. The subject, “Winter Extreme Retreat,” excited me… until I saw that item #1 to pack is a Bible. Suddenly “extreme” has a menacing tone to it. The email was apparently directed to a religious mother named Meredith Green located in Alabama (some of the CC’ed emails were for a school district in Alabama).

Hmm. I don’t think I could let my child/children go on an overnight trip with a woman with such a poor grasp of the written language. After all, grammar is my religion, and she’s obviously not a believer.

Subject: Winter Extreme Retreat

Just a reminder to have your child/children at the church on Friday no later than 4:00 p.m. Get them a snack and a drink for the ride to Troy. They will need to bring money for Saturdays ride home we will stop to get a snack and drink. We hope to be home by 7:00. If we are going to be later we will have the children call from my cell phone. They may bring there cell phone, i-pod, video games, they will need to leave them in the bus. Items to pack are Bible, a change of clothes, p.j., sleeping bag, towel and wash cloth, toiletry items, we will be sleeping on the floor in the Family Life Center. If you need to get in touch with me my cell # is 334-216-xxxx. I am very excited about our weekend together. I know the kids are going to have a great time. Thanks for letting them go.

If you have any other questions, please feel free to e-mail for call me at the church 289-xxxx.

In His Service,

Janice Holemon

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By Meredith – January 27, 2009

Tales from the T

I snared a seat on the evening rush-hour Red Line. Two burly men in full-length black wool overcoats and business suits stood in front of me. While the rest of the train endured shoulder-to-shoulder forced intimacy with strangers, these men enjoyed an aura of space around them. Their booming voices and imposing statures coupled with their drunken lurchings and frenetic hand motions staved off any interloping contact.

It’s not common to see visibly inebriated businessmen on the subway at 6:30pm. I mean, this is Boston. Everyone knows the only proper method of transport when you’re besotted by spirits is taxi, so that you can hide the shame of your dirty dirty drunkenness from everyone except the nonjudgemental, equally-wasted taxi cab driver.

“You don’t wanna know and I don’t wanna tell you! You don’t wanna know and I don’t wanna tell you!” the man with purple scarf was saying over and over to his friend, who murmured back to him with the demeanor of an earnest drunk. I took note of the purple scarf because it swung not six inches from my face as he clung closer to the railing above our heads.

Then, loudly and annoyed, he half-yelled “Man, don’t make me toot my own horn!” and his friend shushed him and made calming overtures as they both darted looks around the train, as if suddenly aware of their captive audience of 100 silent people.

A laugh swelled in my throat. I’ve always loathed this saying, “toot my own horn,” for it strikes me as both vaguely sexual and scatological. But hearing it said with boozy bravado coupled with drunken anger was a real treat. It almost made up for being tormented by the purple scarf for the duration of my ride.

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By Meredith – January 26, 2009

Fondue Me

Predictably, we spent a bulk of the weekend XC skiing. I could post some photos of us skiing, posing and freezing in the scenic woods of New Hampshire, but the litany of XC skiing photographs on this website is becoming an ode to my vanity.

And besides, XC skiing isn’t all about the skiing, the nature, and the sexy pants. It’s also about the fondue. Yesterday, as we were ascending a black-diamond trail gravely called Criterion, I was calculating how many burnt calories would result from our 4 1/2 hour day of XC skiing in 15-degree weather. Based on standard calorie charts and my own gut instinct, I’d say 500 calories per hour just for the activity, plus another 250 just because it’s freaking cold outside. That’s about 2500 extra calories that I need to consume lest my trademark pear shape lose its curvaceousness. That sounds like a job… for fondue!

Mr. P whipped up a batch of his traditional Gruyere and Emmenthal fondue with white wine, cornstarch, Kirsch, and a half-clove of garlic “for digestion” (as if a mere fleck of garlic all but guarantees the smooth digestion of a half-pound of cheese.) His fondue has improved markedly ever since he scaled back on the amount of wine from a half-bottle to a cup.

“No cheese course tonight?” is my standard joke after we’ve finished the fondue and moved onto the cleansing plain green salad. But the satiety factor of fondue is incredibly high, and soon after the salad our cheese-stuffed stomachs call for reprieve, our legs demand to be horizontal, and our eyes refuse to remain open.

fondue4

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By Meredith – January 25, 2009

1 Year Anniversary #1

Today is the 1-year anniversary of Mr. P and mine’s civil marriage ceremony, aka Wedding #1. At first we were unsure if we should commemorate this day since all that happened is a Justice of the Peace came to our house, said a few profound things in our living room, and then signed our marriage license. It feels more natural to celebrate Wedding #2 on September 20, the day of our church ceremony and reception.

Then we decided that our marriage certainly has enough ardor to warrant 2 anniversaries per year (at least, for the first year it does.) We’re divvying up the days so we’ll each be responsible for planning an anniversary. Hereupon, Mr. P will take charge of January 23’s festivities, because 1-23 is so catchy that he’ll have no problem remembering the day as the years go by. I’ll do 9-20, a date that the wedding planning had already etched permanently in my consciousness.

Did you know today is widely acknowledged to be the most depressing day of the year (although some sources claim 1-24 is actually more bleak)? I’m glad that I have an anniversary to help assuage the melancholy… unless, of course, Mr. P should ever forget…

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By Meredith – January 23, 2009