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Tales from the T

Red Line, 5:30pm. “Mommy, look! Blue!” howled the little brunette seated next to me, staring at my fingernails with wide incredulous eyes.

I smiled at the child and her mother, a long-haired woman with sensible clothes and an array of tote bags slung over her thin frame. All week I’ve been conscious but uncaring of my fingernails, painted a pale blue to fulfill the “Something Old, Something New” adage that brides must abide by lest they meet with an unspecified ghastly fate. I culled the idea from Modern Bride magazine, which didn’t have a suitable suggestion for updating the “sixpence in her shoe” guideline that I wound up flouting anyway because I wore sandals.

“Yes, doesn’t it look pretty?” her mother said, smiling back at me with a resigned look that said My darling child just won’t shut her pretty little yapper.

“No! Blue is for boys!” the little girl declared.

Her mom tittered dryly. “Yes, but boys don’t wear nail polish, do they?”

The little girl looked stumped, and began examining her own nails, which bore chipped glittery pink paint. I smiled at the mother, willing to pardon the politically incorrect parenting I had just unwittingly participated in, and turned my attention back to the New York Times. And then I couldn’t stop picturing Ben Bernanke and Henry Paulson painting their fingernails.

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By Meredith – September 25, 2008

When it Champanges, It Champours

Let us now extend extra congratulations to my husband Mr. P, who in addition to having recently acquired a foxy new wife, has a new job! Today he accepted a generous offer for a challenging technical leadership position from one of the largest private universities in Boston. He first interviewed for the position in June. We have waited for the job offer with bated-turned-raspy breath, and constantly jinxed his luck by telling everyone “He should be getting the job offer any day now.”

Well, today was the day, and there is a ticker-tape parade happening in my head. Not only is the position an intellectual step-up, not only are the people awesome, not only are the benefits terrific, but this is job security. The economic apocalypse is nigh, and Mr. P’s present position is about as stable as a three-legged chair. So I am relieved that he will sinking into a cushy La-Z-Boy to ride out the next 15 years of economic stagnation that will result from the Bush Administration’s calamitous reign. As the Greater Depression dawns, there is no greater job security than working at a ginormous well-endowed private university with extensive continuing education programs to which all of the out-of-work corporateers will flock.

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By Meredith – September 24, 2008

Abatement of Bridal Adrenaline

I was surprised by how easy it was to quit drinking coffee. Just trade the black joe for white tea; endure a week of headaches, lethargy, and mild confusion; and get thy buzz from life! For the past three months of caffeine abstinence, the odd temptation has struck, mostly induced by olfactory allure of certain coffee shops that I doggedly frequent despite being a treasonous tea drinker, but I’ve never really experienced a full-blown craving.

Until today. I woke up to my 6:30am alarm after my first deep night of sleep in over a week. I spent a good two minutes deducing which day of the week it was before last’s night Monday Night Football game jogged my internal calendar. On my way to the shower, I sustained 3 collisions with various architectural obtrusions, including a knee-to-toilet impact that caused involuntary whimpering and an instantaneous bruise. At breakfast, my white peony tea went down like flat tepid water. I somehow stumbled to the office, sat at my desk, and pounded on the keys in time to the pounding in my head.

I wanted a rancid punch in the mouth. I wanted the blood in my skull to run as slippery as mercury. I wanted my eyes to dance the crazed waltz of insomniacs. I wanted my heart to beat against my breast like a spunky knock on the door. I wanted coffee, black as midnight on a moonless night, rich as a piece of Belgium dark chocolate, and hot as Hell.

(I staved off the urge by eating several Sour Patch Kids. Honestly, the prospect of drinking coffee after having purged my body of all caffeine spooked me. I remember drinking coffee as a teenager with no caffeine immunity and totally spazzing out. Like, talking so fast I would bite my tongue and scream-singing television theme songs.)

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By Meredith – September 23, 2008

The Eiffel Tower of Weddings

I could ramble endlessly about my wedding, which finally took place this past weekend. But in the spirit of brevity, I’ll cut straight to the point: having a somewhat traditional wedding was, for me, like visiting the Eiffel Tower.

Hear me out.

Last summer, I visited the famed Parisian landmark with low expectations. I was ready to dismiss it as an overhyped tourist trap but quickly found myself enchanted. At first, the approach was uninspiring, and climbing the stairs to the second platform triggered ten minutes of vertigo so intense I was sure I’d pass out. But then, standing there, gazing out at the stunning panorama, I suddenly saw it for what it truly was: a masterpiece of engineering and a celebration of the very best of Western civilization.

In much the same way, as my wedding day approached and my life became consumed with preparations, I started to doubt whether the event could possibly justify all the time, effort, and money invested by myself, Mr. P, and our families. I recalled a coworker’s advice: “I wish I’d eloped instead. Sure, the wedding was nice, and we have the pictures, but we could’ve put that money toward a house.” Her words echoed in my mind as Friday’s festivities began, even as I enjoyed the time with family and friends. I couldn’t shake the sneaking suspicion that I’d gathered everyone out of obligation—because tradition demanded a ceremony and reception, and society expects it.

Then came Saturday afternoon. As the organ swelled and my father walked me down the flower-strewn church aisle, I felt the same rush I’d had on the Eiffel Tower. A wave of vertigo, the simultaneous urge to cry and faint, and a deep desire to cling to Mr. P and never let go. The pastor’s voice—familiar to me since childhood—rose above it all, steady and grounding. In that moment, as we exchanged vows surrounded by family and friends, it became clear: this was the best day of my life.

Yes, the cake will be eaten, the flowers will fade, and the dress will be carefully packed away. But the memory of that moment in the church—of pledging my love and life to Mr. P, of feeling bound to him in the most profound way—will endure. The joy of knowing we’d made our families proud, the sheer beauty of the day, and the unshakable confidence that I’d never looked better in my life—these things made every second of planning worthwhile.

Even the updo was worth it. (Photo below, courtesy of one of my wonderfully attentive bridesmaids. In the name of humility, I’ve chosen to share the least glamorous shot of the day.)

updo

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By Meredith – September 22, 2008

Pre-wedding Jitters, Lasagna, and Unplanned Blogging

As I lathered up in the shower this morning, my eye caught a suspiciously large wart on the thumb of my left hand. Panic surged. My mind spiraled into a vortex of doom: How could this happen just three days before my wedding? I haven’t had a wart in 25 years! How fast does Compound W work? Is it too late to buy bridal gloves? And, if I do, how on earth will Mr. P manage to slip the ring on my finger?

Then, clarity hit. The wart wasn’t a wart at all—it was a soap bubble. And just like that, I realized I’m losing it.

For the past week, my cravings have been utterly deranged. Not for some amorphous indulgence, but for very specific junk foods. Yet, I’ve dutifully adhered to my usual policy of avoiding anything my great-great-grandmother wouldn’t recognize as food. Breakfast has been toast with Neufchâtel, though my heart longs for a big, neon bowl of Fruity Pebbles. At lunch, I chop through salads, bread, and hummus while daydreaming about a buttery mound of spaghetti with just salt and butter. (Granted, my great-great-grandmother probably wouldn’t have known what hummus was, but surely someone’s did.) I snack on plums to quell an ache for Doritos and Reese’s Pieces. At night, I’ll sit down to a rustic French dinner with a modest cheese course, but I’m secretly dying for something deep-fried and lacquered in sweet-and-sour sauce, capped off with Ben & Jerry’s featuring chocolate-covered pretzels.

Today, I finally caved. I marched to a cafeteria-style lunch spot in downtown Boston, the kind of place that caters to construction workers and unrepentant carb enthusiasts. My coworker calls it the “Quantity Café” because, well, they prioritize quantity over quality. I was the lone customer without a bike messenger’s neon vest or an industrial neck tattoo. My eyes hovered over the gooey, doughy pizza—sold by the quarter-pie—but I opted for the cheese lasagna instead.

Lasagna! My long-lost love. I walked out of the Quantity Café clutching a $4 slab of lasagna the size of my forearm. To fit into the takeout container, they’d sliced it into two pieces. Who knew that layers of ricotta and mozzarella pressed between overcooked noodles and practically void of tomato sauce could be so… satisfying? Not nourishing—let’s not kid ourselves—but deeply satisfying. For the first time in a week, I felt calm. Perhaps because my blood sugar promptly tanked, leaving me too drained to worry about whether all those empty calories were heading straight to the backs of my upper arms.

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By Meredith – September 17, 2008

The Pre-wedding Post

This may be the last post until after my wedding next weekend. Anticipatory inquietude gnaws my mind. And there are errands galore, some that may make for amusing blog fodder. Like, I could regale you with a scathing recount of yesterday’s trip to David’s Bridal on a frantic hunt for accessories, during which I saw scores of girls in their early 20s, all either trailer-trash rail thin or fast-food chubby, sashay around in gaudy dresses while their adoring entourages squeed about how flattering that neckline is. Maybe I’m just bitter because my own bridal dress shopping experience was as solitary as a nose pick. If my neckline is woefully unflattering, I only have myself to passive aggressively resent.

Yes, all these bridal observations are so delightful. Unfortunately my writing energies are stretched thin these days. Both my full-time job and my consulting job are entering “produce or die” phases in the product lifecycle. The workload of a technical writer is like this: Twiddle thumbs, twiddle thumbs, twiddle thumbs… Incoming, HOLY CRIPES. Then come the 11 hour days, the desire to punch strangers who walk too slow on the sidewalk, the sense that my keyboard is taunting me: Feed me words, missy. Feed me! Is that fastest you can type?

Nervous. I’m a little nervous about the wedding. All eyes will sit on me as I portray the serene, blushing bride, ensconced in all the traditional trappings of matrimony. I avoid spotlights and rarely crave to be the center of attention, despite what the rampant exhibitionism on this website may suggest. The last time I was the focal point of a large gathering of people was 5 years ago during an office Halloween party, when my angel costume landed me as a finalist in the costume contest. Coincidentally, I also wore white.

I have carefully constructed a facade of bridal innocence to cover-up the mental and physical sullying by the passage of time. I’m more fearful that what everyone tells me is true: That your wedding day is the fastest day of your life. It is over in a blink of an eye. I’m scared that when Mr. P and I grow old together, we’ll remember the solid year of wedding planning, we’ll have the pictures and mementos to ponder, but the happiest day of our lives will be a blur. Even couples who love each other as desperately as we do must be scared for the wedding to be over, and real life to begin.

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By Meredith – September 14, 2008

100% Chance of Love

Now that my wedding day is within a 10-day window, I can freely and obsessively check Weather.com’s 10 Day Forecast for the all-important wedding day weather prediction.

Currently, the forecast for my wedding day is 74 degrees, partly cloudy, with a 20% chance of rain. Encouraging, especially since the day falls during an apparent spell of dry weather in Southeastern PA. But obviously “mostly sunny” would be preferable to “partly cloudy,” because I know that partly cloudies have a tendency to turn into mostly cloudies, foggies, rainies, and then the next thing you know…

tornado

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By Meredith – September 12, 2008

Blood, Sebum, and Tears

Everyone has a mental dictionary, where our brains go to put personal connotations to words. For example, my definition of pain used to be “that searing sensation in your eye when you prepare a hot pepper for dinner and, later that night, remove your contact lenses and essentially deposit one million Scoville heat units into your eye via the oils that cling to your finger despite repeated washing.”

Tonight, the word pain has been redefined in my mental dictionary to mean “undergoing behind-the-ear pore extraction during a facial by a pint-sized Russian grandmother.” (I wanted to ask her why she felt compelled to brutally squeeze the gunk out of the pores on the fold of skin behind my ears, but my mouth was frozen in a silent scream.)

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By Meredith – September 11, 2008

Gabba Gabba Grey

Outside of South Station this evening, I saw an elderly man wearing a Ramones t-shirt. I first zeroed in on the shirt: Black, with a stark white Ramones banner above the iconic eagle logo. Good condition, but not brand-new. Then I zoomed out and took in the man: 75 (give or take 5 years), tall for his age but shorter than me, with a shock of gray hair that has held onto his wrinkled skull reasonably well. Standing and walking on his own. Again, good condition, but not brand-new.

Other than the shirt, the elderly man wore a geriatric uniform of roomy tan cotton shorts that grazed his kneecaps, white socks pulled to mid-calf, and loafers. Given this context, my first thought was that he found the shirt at a Salvation Army or a yard sale, saw the bald eagle seal, and thought the shirt made a statement of patriotism. Never mind that the eagle is holding a baseball bat instead of arrows and a scroll that says “Hey, ho! Let’s go” instead of E Pluribus Unum. These are confusing times, after all.

But maybe he was a Ramones fan. If someone between the ages of 30 and 50 wore a Ramones shirt, that person would look exceeding lame. A man over the age of 70, however, is at an age of profound wisdom and insight. He has seen it all, done it all, and chooses to glorify the Ramones above all else. He was suddenly the coolest guy in Boston.

ramoneslogo

Posted in Culture, Massachusetts.

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By Meredith – September 10, 2008

Smoking on the Pike Bath

Yesterday I was power-walking on the bikepath, enjoying the dulled late-summer warmth and the subdued sunlight at 6:15pm. The bikepath passes behind the A-town High School and affords a view over the well-groomed athletic field, which is encircled with a burnt-orange track and flanked by aluminum bleachers. There is a chain-link fence separating the bike path from the shrubbed valley that leads to the high school premises, but an unofficial passageway has been forged for entry and egress, and local students are often seen milling on the bike path after school hours.

Four such young men sit on a wooden guard rail alongside the bikepath, and as I walk past them, a potent smell of marijuana fills my nose. I slyly glance at them through my sunglasses. They look like good kids, insofar as they have short hair and preppie clothes. One is talking very rapidly as I pass. The others stare slack-jawed at their hands or at the ground. Cyclists whiz by to the left of me, and one stoned lad looks up and jerks his head to follow the motion.

Don’t they know that marijuana smoke clings to the air like a swarm of gnats? You may be wondering how I know what marijuana smells like. Well, the truth is, I found out in 4th Grade on the school bus. There was a back-seat loud mouth named Mike K., who one day declared “This bus smells like pot smoke.” Everyone on the bus, including the bus driver, took a deep breath. I took several, memorizing the smell that had been identified as pot smoke, knowing this knowledge would serve me well in life.

(Oh, that Mike K. He must have had quite a home life. Another day he announced out of the blue “I hope I marry a screamer instead of a moaner.” He repeated this several times, an 11-year old boy obviously proud of his grasp of this adult terminology. I sat in the front of the bus with my book, parsing the statement. I knew it had something to do with sex because of the word “moaner.” But “screamer?” Why would someone scream? And why would he have a preference?)

Back to the bikepath. I believe whole-heartedly that marijuana should be legalized. Our country wastes an untold amount of resources on prohibiting marijuana in order to save kids like these from the scrounges of a drug that is less dangerous than alcohol. Meanwhile, the medical establishment is happily pumping these same kids full of psychoactive substances, and we’re telling them with straight faces “Don’t do drugs.” Are we effing serious?

But regardless, I’m still bothered by these boys, brazenly smoking weed on a bikepath that’s choke-full of old people, young families, and yuppies with cell phones. I had the urge to teach them a lesson by leaning over them and whispering, “Whadya kids smoking? Don’t you know you’re surrounded by narcs!” And then I’d run around the bike path, screaming “Get me some doooooooooowners!”

Posted in Massachusetts, Nostalgia.

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By Meredith – September 9, 2008