Skip to content

Slow news day

This time of year is known as a slow news season because everyone’s on vacation, including most of the media, and those who are left to man the newsdesks know that no one is reading newspapers or watching the news, so they report ridiculous stories like how a runaway tractor carrying potatoes “mashed” a car in Germany, how people would rather barbecue burgers with Barack Obama than with John McCain how bird experts are concerned about the decline of the piping plover along the New England coasts, or how George W. Bush wants to send more troops to fight the Taliban in Afghanistan. You know, real fluff stuff that has no or little bearing on housing foreclosures, fuel prices, major league sports, or Britney Spears’ career.

Well, me too. I’m having a slow news day. Here are some of the highlights:

1. I bike to the T today in a knee-length skirt. I highly recommend biking in skirts to any woman who feels the need to affirm her femininity.

2. In the office, I am the first person to use the Ladies Room on my floor (as evident by the blue-colored disinfectant in the toilet).

3. At 10:30am, I drink some white tea with one sugar — my favorite mid-morning “pick-me-up.”

4. I learned a new word: Colophon

5. I narrowly avoided getting drenched in an afternoon thunderstorm as I bike back home from the subway in my knee-length skirt. Feeling: Smug, even more feminine.

Posted in In the News.

Tagged with .

Comments Off on Slow news day

By Meredith – July 2, 2008

Black Fly Pie

I love hiking in the mountains because it continues to thrill me long after I’ve returned to my workaday life, which is filled with pastimes that simply make existence bearable: Reading the news, walking on the bike-path, shopping, going to restaurants, going to the movies. These activities provide fleeting escape, comfort, or amusement, but nothing matches the exhilarating exertion of climbing a mountain, the meditative calm of nature’s sanctity, and the sense of accomplishment upon attaining a summit.

And even if hiking in the great outdoors doesn’t inspire lasting awe, the bug bites will endure as a remembrance for a couple of days. Bugs have always been attracted to me. Maybe it’s my tender ivory skin, my dull reflexes, some unique chemical scent that signals me as delectable insect fodder, or maybe bugs are like cats in that they are always drawn to the person who likes them least. Maybe my extreme bug aversion is a losing tactic; I should start courting bugs to come, frolic in my vicinity, and rest their weary thoraxes upon my supine forearms.

On last Saturday’s hike, I achieved a bug bite on my ear, an oval bump nestled in between the helix and the antihelix that has swollen the antihelical fold into an angry purple contusion. I suspect that it’s a black fly bite. Black flies are somewhat storied in northern New England, where they thrive during May and June. They are smaller that normal flies, but none less vigorous in flight, and apparently have quite a capacity for blood. For a time, I dared not venture outside in New Hampshire or Maine in early summer for fear of being swarmed. I had heard stories about black flies devouring live cows.

But while black flies are pesky, they’re not that bad. The black fly bite on my ear is slowly de-swelling and lacks the exquisite itch of a mosquito bite. I am particularly sensitive to mosquito bites, which can swell to unbelievable mass and often demand fingernail attention a week after sting.

My paranoia of mosquitoes is acute. I always wear long sleeves and pants in the woods, even if sweat is pouring down my body. When buying insect repellents, I ignore any bottle featuring pictures of families enjoying a bug-free picnic, and go straight for the pictures of dark, foreboding deep woods that provides jungle-level protection. If it doesn’t have 30% DEET — the highest allowed by law– then you might as well rub apple juice and Calvin Klein’s Obsession on your body and run through the woods named and blindfolded.

Posted in Existence.

Tagged with , .

Comments Off on Black Fly Pie

By Meredith – July 1, 2008

Crying Over Spilt Milk

An article in the New York Times explores how a new boxy-shaped, spout-less gallon milk jug is being received by customers of Sam’s Club and Costco. The boxy jug’s design is environmentally-friendlier, easier for retailers to stock, and more efficient for dairy producers to deliver. The end result is fresher, cheaper milk for consumers. Win-win-win-win, right?

Wrong, if the bitter and enraged Sam’s Club shoppers are representative of the typical American consumer (and, let’s face it, they are). “I hate it,” one woman says. “It spills everywhere,” says another woman, a homemaker who is pictured attempting to pour milk from the boxy jug while rolling her eyes and smirking, as if to say They call this a milk jug? What kind of game is being played here?

Sam’s Club is even giving lessons to shoppers on how to pour milk, emphasizing that it works better if “rock-and-pour instead of lift-and-tip.” Despite repeated reminders that the milk is fresher and better for the environment, plus the added bonus of no longer having to expand energy lifting the jug into the air, consumers remain rueful and suspicious of this strange new milk.

Still, the numerous benefits of the boxy jug may mean that it is the gallon milk design of the future, and Americans better get used to this newfangled way of pouring milk. In fact, with packaging re-design in the works for virtually every aspect of our way of life for greater efficiency, they better get used to a lot of things. The era of milk jugs with convenient pouring spouts is coming to end. Will we persevere?

Posted in Americana.

Tagged with .

Comments Off on Crying Over Spilt Milk

By Meredith – June 30, 2008

The WTF Mountains

Yesterday we bagged 3 White Mountain 4000-footers in a single hike: Mounts Tom, Field, and Willey. POW POW POW.

First, we took the Avalon Trail (1 mile) to the AZ Trail (1 mile) to the Mt. Tom Spur Trail (.5 mile) to the summit of Mount Tom, where we joined a small cluster of fellow hikers lamenting the lack of views due to thick cloud cover. Then we hiked back on the Mt. Tom Spur Trail (.5 mile) to the Willey Range Trail (1 mile) to the summit of Mount Field, where we lunched on bread, cheese, and cherries and, again, lamented the lack of a view. We continued on the Willey Range Trail (1.5 miles) to the summit of Mount Willey (shown below, left, with me getting downright punchy). Finally, we hiked back on the Willey Range Trail (1.5 miles) to the Avalon Trail (3 miles), which we took all the back to our car. Trip stats: 10 miles, 6 ounces of cheddar, 5 hours and 45 minutes, 3 peaks, 1 baguette, 0 views.

As Mr. Pinault astutely pointed out on our way home upon seeing a certain bumper sticker, the first letter of the mountains form the acronym “WTF,” guaranteeing that I’ll always think of the hike as the WTF hike. As in, “WTF? I can’t see anything because of the clouds.”

Posted in 4000 Footers.

Tagged with .

Comments Off on The WTF Mountains

By Meredith – June 29, 2008

Mounts Tom 4051′, Willey 4285′ and Field 4340′ June 28, 2008






Posted in 4000 Footers.

Tagged with , .

Comments Off on Mounts Tom 4051′, Willey 4285′ and Field 4340′ June 28, 2008

By Meredith – June 28, 2008

In My Town

Yesterday I took a mid-evening jog on the Minuteman Bikeway, a 10-mile paved path that transverses the center of my town and provides not only recreation but genuine transportation for thousands of cyclists, walkers, joggers, and rollerbladers, many of whom (including myself) use the path to access the Boston subway at Alewife station.

Of course, I enjoy the path more when I’m not using it to commute to work. I enjoy it in the morning, when it is quiet except for the hurried exerciser, the early-bird commuter, and the gaunt old man who drops torn pieces of bread onto the path for swarms of sparrows to devour. I enjoy it in the afternoon, when elderly residents and mothers with baby carriages use the path to access adjacent supermarkets and pharmacies. I enjoy it in the evening, when gangs of white-collar cyclists don tight jerseys and spandex and zoom past pokie exercisers, straggling commuters, couples heading to the town center for dinner, and — my hero — the old lady who walkes with a metal wheeled walker affixed with a large stereo radio that blasts talk radio (I call it the “iPed.”)

After I do 5 miles on the path, I head for home, jogging past the large parking lot in the town center. In the summers, on Wednesdays, from 1pm until 6:30pm, there is a farmer’s market. I have only been to this particular farmer’s market once. It features typical farm vegetables, scrubbed and trimmed to resemble supermarket produce and placed alongside high profit-margin, desirable yuppie commodities like goat cheese, olive oil, and baked goods. I found it inferior to the farmer’s market that I frequent in Cambridge at my former co-op, where you can find 5 different varietals of bok choy, hydroponic herbs, and more strains of tomato than most markets have of apples.

But whatever, that’s Cambridge. This is the next town over, geographically closer to the farms but philosophically light years away. Farmer’s markets are still new and exciting to many residents, even if they only buy corn and strawberries because they have no clue how to cook swiss chard.

The time is approaching 6:30pm, and the farmer’s market is still packed with shoppers rushing to make purchases as the workers load up their trucks. Suddenly, I find myself blocked by an immense black SUV that is parked on the sidewalk at one of the parking lot’s entrances/exits. The unoccupied SUV is facing the parking lot, as if someone pulled into the parking lot, stopped the minute they were off of the road, and hopped out. I cannot get around the SUV in either direction — in the front, some unwitting cars are blocked from exiting the parking lot, and in the back, there’s the speeding rush-hour traffic coming off of Mass Ave.

I stand there, wondering why, why someone would leave their SUV on the sidewalk. Then a casually-dressed woman in her 50s walks to the driver’s side, carrying a pint of strawberries. She waves at the cars trying to leave the parking lot with a dutifully sheepish grin. She starts up her tank and backs up into oncoming traffic, causes a chorus of horn-honking that nearly blows out my ear drums, then takes off down the road. I wish I had asked her what the hell she was doing, but I knew: Her titanic motor vehicle was simply too massive to drive in the cramped, busy parking lot, but she really wanted some farm-fresh strawberries. There’s a metaphor there, for sure.

Posted in Americana.

Tagged with , .

Comments Off on In My Town

By Meredith – June 26, 2008

GUILTY

Today Neil Entwistle was found guilty of murdering his American wife Rachel and 9-month daughter Lillian. Ever since the murders in Hopkinton, MA, and Entwistle’s immediate fleeing to his native England, Entwistle’s guilt has been a foregone conclusion in the minds of most Bostonians, an opinion bolstered by the unseemly details that emerged in the trial and breathlessly reported by the local news: “Today in court, stunning revelations!… Entwistle was financially broke… he was trying to use the Internet to have an affair… he searched on the Internet just days before “How to kill with a Knife”… He changed his story, again!… When Neil cries in court, it looks like he is laughing diabolically!”

On Monday, after 12 days of witnesses and evidence, the Prosecution rested. In a shocking display of confidence, the Defense immediately rested without calling any witnesses, and posited in the closing arguments that Rachel shot her daughter before committing suicide. On Tuesday, the jury was in the second day of deliberation while the local news fought to justify the story’s continual top-billing: “Today in the Neil Entwistle trial, the jury asked the judge a question!”

When it comes to high-profile court trials, I refrain from making judgments about the guilt or non-guilt of the accused. I’m not on the jury, forced to consider every piece of evidence; all my knowledge has been filtered by a sensationalistic media that ferrets out the most tabloid details. Half the time, the information that the media presents isn’t even ruled as admissible evidence.

But with Neil Entwistle, there was never a doubt in my mind that he is guilty. I am strangely elated by the conviction. I look at Neil Entwistle and I see a monster. When I discussed the Entwistle trial with Mr. P during dinner the other night, my confidence in his guilt bothered Mr. P, who defended Entwistle against each point that I raised:

“Okay, so he claims he came home and discovered them dead. Why did he flee to England if he wasn’t guilty?”
“Because he was afraid everyone would think he did it.”
“Oh come on! If you came home and found me murdered, would you not call 911, not call my family, and just hop a plane to France?”
Silence. “It’s hard to know what I’d do.”

Okay, that’s fair. But Neil Entwistle had motives:

“He was unemployed and in debt. They were living beyond their means.”
“Babe, that’s half of America.”
“He placed personal ads on internet sex websites.”
“Again, half of America.”
“He did an Internet search for ‘how to kill with a knife’ only 4 days before the murder.”
Silence. “I’ve searched for some pretty random things, myself.”

The same tawdry evidence that convinced the public of Entwistle’s guilt made Mr. P suspicious of a witch hunt. But in the end, what convinced Mr. Pinault that Neil Entwistle probably did kill his wife and baby girl was old-fashioned evidence, including DNA and Entwistle’s own contradictory statements. Me, I would have convicted him on the grisly Internet searches alone.

Posted in In the News, Massachusetts.

Tagged with .

Comments Off on GUILTY

By Meredith – June 25, 2008

Spontaneous Combustion

Today during my lunch break, I took a semi-aimless walk along the waterfront of the Boston Harbor. Near the World Trade Center, a long line of people waited to board the high-speed ferry to Provincetown. Most people had various assemblages of luggage. Most people wore bright, summery clothes. Most people looked content.

An insane thought flashed in my brain: I should go to P-town, too, right now, on this ferry! The stray impulse began to blossom into a fantasty, and then steamroll into a full-blown scheme: I have my wallet, phone, and sunglasses. I could call the office and say “something came up.” I could be in P-town in 90 minutes. I could walk to a hotel in the center of town. I could rent a bike. I could buy new clothes. I could go to a straight bar, order a dinner, and watch a drag queen sing Celine Dion songs while sipping port wine and eating beet fries.

For too long, my window of opportunity for spontaneity has been cracked open about an inch, just enough so that a meager flow of fresh air is discernible when one bends before it, but not wide enough to reduce the overall stuffiness of the room. Little impulses here and there, like “Let’s go out to eat tonight!” blurted at 7:30pm when last night’s leftovers loom in the refrigerator. Like an impulsive trip to the bookstore. Like a sudden spousal kiss while walking down the street. Nice things, whimsical things, but not truly spontaneous things…

Like jumping on the 1pm ferry to P-town. As the passengers boarded the ferry along the gangway, I imagined what would await me in P-town: the scenic bike trails, the laid-back populace, and idyllic lesbian hotel that I stayed at last summer. But I made no move to the ticket window, and soon abandoned my dockside vigil to return to my office. A funny thing happens when you grow up: Anything that could be considered truly spontaneous is also probably irresponsible, but only if you actually follow through with it. Spontaneous reveries are restorative, affirming, and free.

Posted in Massachusetts.

Tagged with .

Comments Off on Spontaneous Combustion

By Meredith – June 24, 2008

Anarchy in the UK Punctuation

I sometimes half-joke that my books have been translated into 2 languages. It’s a true statement, but ultimately a joke because the books are computer manuals, and their translation into French and German is a business endeavor with the goal of globally expanding the usage of our software programs. You see, my bragging is actually a pitiful attempt to delude myself and others into thinking that my written output warrants translation because it is crucial to the universal human condition, not crucial to increasing shareholder value.

So it brings me great, conflicted pleasure to announce that my written work is now available in UK English. Today I perused the translation and found myself confounded by a few things. For example, instead of “When the checkbox is checked,” it says “When the tickbox is ticked.” I don’t know what the hell is up with this “tickbox” shit, but I still hesitate to count UK English as a whole other language, so maybe I can say that I’m translated into 2 1/2 languages.

Reading the UK translation is entertaining, because who can look at words like “italicised”, “organisation”, and “favourite”, and not titter about the phonetic proclivities of those barmy Brits? But spelling is not the only rhetorical delta in the UK version. To my surprise, the UK translation changed the punctuation style from “close” to “open,” which violates one of my fundamental grammatical rules for Technical Writing: Always, always use close punctuation!

For all the non-grammar nerds who are still reading this, “close” punctuation means to liberally use commas, hyphens, and other marks, while “open” punctuation means to eliminate all but the essential punctuation. Some examples:

“one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer” is close punctuation, while “one bourbon, one scotch and one beer” is open punctuation

“Click this, and then click that” is close punctuation, while “Click this then click that” is open punctuation

“post-modern” is close punctuation, while “postmodern” is open punctuation

“i.e., the baby” is close punctuation, while “ie the baby” is open punctuation (and, in my opinion, downright sloppy)

The English have always leaned more towards open punctuation than Americans — for example, they have long dropped the usage of the useless period (or full stop, as they call it) on “Mr and Mrs” — but I bristle to see technical writing that uses open punctuation. Not only does it illustrate the creeping informality of language, I believe close punctuation aids the user’s comprehension, and establishes an authoritative, trustworthy tone. As you may now be noticing, I write this entire website with close punctuation. Because I’m an American, and I believe in commas, hyphens, and the pursuit of semicolons.

Posted in The 9 to 5.

Tagged with , , .

Comments Off on Anarchy in the UK Punctuation

By Meredith – June 23, 2008

Race at Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg

Today I cheered on Mr. P as he swam one-half mile, biked 12 miles, and ran 3 miles in the Webster Lake Triathlon in Webster, MA. Webster Lake is also known as Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg, which has gained worldwide attention for its farcical linguistic excesses, including 9 instances of the letter A (“more than any other word in the English language”, says Wikipedia here, although I’ll challenge its Englishness) and a stunning 15 G’s.

During the race I waited by the transition area with the rest of the spectators and watched minor chaos ensue due to the poorly-planned course. First, the swimmers had to run barefoot on a half-mile of concrete to get from the lake to their bikes. There were no signs routing them onto the cycling course, no signs routing the bicyclists back into the transition area to drop off their bikes, and no signs directing them onto the running course. Confusion reigned. There were four yelling and pointing volunteers: A man and three pre-teen girls. At one point, the girls were yelling and pointing “To the right! To the right!” not realizing that their right was actually the athletes’ left.

Mr. P finished admirably, especially considering he is in the most competitive age group. As usual, he kicked ass in the swimming, fell behind in the cycling, and held his own in the running. I know I just posted a picture of him yesterday, but I really like the before-race (below left) and after-race (below right) juxtaposition.

webstertri1webstertri2

Posted in Massachusetts.

Tagged with , .

Comments Off on Race at Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg

By Meredith – June 22, 2008