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Road Rash

I used to have no qualms about bicycling on Boston city streets. Then again, in my 20s I did a lot of reckless things, like go to work without a morning shower, eat cake for dinner, go 2 years between pap smears, forgo ear plugs at punk shows, rent cars without the extra insurance, order burritos on dates, smoke cigarettes, and talk to homeless people. But age confers wisdom, and fear. And while death, dismemberment, and disfigurement could just as readily occur as I cower in my home eating vegetables, whole grains and fish-oil capsules on my yoga mat, somehow my natural instinct tells me that perching my flesh and blood on top of a puny diamond-shaped frame and pedaling in the same cramped space as cars, taxis, construction vehicles, buses, duck boats, and jaywalkers is just batshit dangerous.

After many years neglecting the plight of his city’s cyclists — who can forget when he disbanded the Bicycle Advisory Committee? — Boston Mayor Thomas Menino is concertedly trying to make Boston a “bicyclists’ haven”. What brought about this change of policy? Was it because Menino finally headed the advocacy groups who complain how city cyclists are regularly harassed, hurt, and even killed? Is it because cycling is good for the urban and global environment? Is it because Boston just can’t accommodate any more cars? No, it’s because Menino has finally put his fat ass on a bike and discovered, “Hey, cycling in Boston is pretty effing scary.”

In response to this epiphany, Menino appointed Boston’s first ever “bike czar,” a former Olympic cyclist who “wants to make big changes, but is focusing first on simpler projects, like adding bike lanes and encouraging more people to ride, by awarding businesses that encourage cycling.” Yeah, before you make any changes to the traffic patterns and laws that imperil cyclists, just flood the streets with cyclists! Like war, when soldiers are used as cannon fodder to attain a greater strategic aim. Every cyclist’s death will bring a little more public awareness.

Personally, it’ll take a lot to get me back on a bike as a mode of transport in Boston. I need bike lanes that rival the size of car lanes; real crackdowns on double-parking, speeding, and reckless driving; a ban on driving while handling a cell phone; and a major attitude adjustment among drivers who think it’s okay to ‘threaten’ cyclists with their 2-tons of metal. Maybe they should all follow Menino’s lead and try getting on a bike.

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By Meredith – May 13, 2008

Hooters of Horror

Yesterday, Mr. P and I went hiking at the Blue Hills Reservation south of Boston. It was our first hike since last October, and the 400-foot “hills” seemed like a gentle way to reacquaint our rock-stepping muscles before heading back to the 4,000-foot Whites. I babbled nonstop as we trotted over the rocky terrain. It was a perfect day—abundant sunshine, tempered by a cool breeze. About a mile and a half into our six-mile loop, we were descending a hill when we reached a steep, smooth rock slab.

I stepped past Mr. P to scout my route down—when:

“HISSSSSSSS!”

A harsh, guttural sound erupted inches from my left ear—like a snake crossed with a demon cat. My body locked in instant panic. I spun toward the noise and found myself less than a foot from a pair of huge, furious eyes, boring straight into mine.

I screamed.

Not a cute gasp. A full-throated, primal scream. And if you think you wouldn’t have, you’re lying to yourself.

I staggered backward, arms flailing, expecting to be mauled by whatever this face-ripping creature was. Mr. P, equally alarmed, assumed it was a rabid raccoon. I was convinced we’d just pissed off a badger.

But no.

It was an owl.

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A large, furious, unblinking owl. It stood its ground, clicking its beak and bobbing its whole body in a hypnotic display of warning. Its wings spread and rotated forward in a wide defensive arc, and every feather on its body was puffed out in a threatening halo. Honestly? Majestic. And terrifying.

Mr. P immediately began taking photos. I stood off to the side, bent over, trying to reassemble my nervous system.

The owl may have been guarding a nest, though I find it hard to believe any bird would set up camp directly on a busy hiking trail. If this is how she greets every passerby, she must live in a state of near-constant existential crisis.

As a devoted Twin Peaks fan, I can’t ignore the deeper implications. In Twin Peaks lore, owls are not what they seem. Which means my body is now likely marked for spiritual possession. Should I begin dancing compulsively or my hair turn white overnight, someone needs to call the FBI. Immediately.

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By Meredith – May 12, 2008

Mother’s Day 2008: Anna Jarvis and the Doom Buggy of Sentiment

Today on NPR, I caught a short segment about Anna Jarvis, the founder of Mother’s Day. (The fact that she hailed from West Virginia played neatly into their coverage of the state’s upcoming presidential primary.) Anna Jarvis, never a mother herself, spent years campaigning to establish Mother’s Day as a holiday honoring the “truth, purity, and broad charity of mother love.”

And after she succeeded, she promptly lost her mind.

Jarvis was horrified at how quickly the holiday was commercialized. She launched public crusades against those who sullied her vision, engaging in feuds that make today’s Twitter wars look quaint. Once, she saw a “Mother’s Day Salad” on a restaurant menu, ordered it out of spite, dumped it on the floor, and walked out. Absolute legend.

Sure, she acted a little nuts. But her aim was noble: “a day of sentiment, not profit.” She loathed the popularity of greeting cards, calling them “a poor excuse for the letter you are too lazy to write.”

Ooof. That one stings. I did send my mother a nice card. I even signed it. Underneath someone else’s words.

So in the spirit of Anna Jarvis—here’s something more honest.

Below is a photo from my family’s trip to Disney World in 1982. We’re on a ferry boat. That’s my mom in the sunglasses (which, by the way, are back in style). Next to her: five-year-old me, my sister Laurie in a Phillies cap, and our older brother Brian.

It was my first trip to Disney, though my mom likes to remind me she went on Space Mountain while pregnant with me during the previous family trip. Which explains so much.

What I remember most—aside from the rides—is the tantrum I threw at the hotel when my parents insisted I take a nap while my siblings went to the pool. I howled in the lobby, hysterical, swearing I didn’t need a nap. Which is basically the toddler equivalent of a drunk person insisting they’re fine to drive. I ended up sleeping like a corpse. And when I woke up, it was like everyone had forgotten my meltdown. No guilt, no grudge. Just clean slates and chlorine-slicked siblings.

That night, we went back to the park and rode the Haunted Mansion—my mom’s favorite. I remember curling up beside her in the Doom Buggy, ghosts swirling, graveyards glowing, and me, utterly safe.

That moment—goofy, fabricated, bought-and-paid-for by corporate magic—is one of the warmest in my memory. Which, yes, probably would’ve driven Anna Jarvis nuts.

But I like to think she’d make an exception.

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By Meredith – May 11, 2008

The Really Modern Bride

My wonderful sister gifted me with a subscription to Modern Bride magazine, and I’ve been receiving it since January. I’ve developed a love/hate relationship with the magazine. It does directly cater to my current mindset by offering loads of neat-o ideas about weddings. For example, it has inspired me to wear light blue nail polish to take care of the “something blue” adage. Hurray!

But Modern Bride also leaves me with the sense that everything I’ve chosen to do, wear, serve, and mail is wholly inadequate. Everything in its pages is basically unattainable to average brides like myself who’d rather save for a mortgage than spring for a $3,878 platinum-plated clutch or a $13,650 gold, pearl and diamond bangle with “old world appeal.”

Mr. P peers at the pages of Modern Bride over my shoulder. “That’s a nice dress,” he’ll say, pointing a cathedral-length satin ballgown with a diamond-encrusted bodice. “Eh, it’s a little showy,” I’ll insist, picturing my actual dress, currently on order, which he hasn’t seen yet and hence I will decline to describe at this time.

I’ve come to understand that Modern Bride is positioning itself as Cosmopolitan for brides, a view that was reinforced by an article I stumbled upon this morning during breakfast. One minute I’m reading a Q&A about what to do if your Groom doesn’t like your dress, the next minute…

Wedding-Night Sex Moves the banner headline screamed. Surprise him with these hot new positions. “Omigod!” I exclaimed, putting down my cereal spoon. It was a pretty shocking juxtaposition, because Modern Bride is all about white dresses, flower girls, and flowers. I began reading aloud to Mr. P: As you leave the reception, you’ll likely be rehashing every detail of your big day. Your new husband, on the other hand, will probably be thinking about one thing and one thing only: hot, steamy wedding-night sex.

As he laughed (probably picturing himself thinking about wedding-night sleep), I scanned the five sex positions that Modern Bride describes in uncomfortable, meticulous, scientific detail. “Nothing new here,” I yawned. I was shocked, though. I guess these are the salacious details that one won’t get from a wedding planner.

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By Meredith – May 9, 2008

The Most Laugh-Out-Loud Quote from Today’s NY Times

The newly-elected Conservative mayor of London is Boris Johnson, an infamous and controversial figure in British politics whose trademark dishelved hair is an apt symbol of his “buffoonish… bumbling, self-deprecating persona”. He is best known for making sensational gaffes (for instance, writing that the country Papua New Guinea is best-known for “cannibalism and chief-killing”) and then duly issuing public apologies. These antics happened so regularly that the media suspects he courted controversy to forge his celebrity, a view that was reenforced by the relatively blooper-free mayoral race in which he narrowly defeated the popular Ken Livingstone.

Yesterday Mayor Johnson announced that one of his first acts as mayor is to ban the drinking of alcohol on public transportation in London. At first I didn’t understand… did he mean to ban alcohol from being served in commuter trains? Because surely they don’t allow people to sit in the Tube or on a bus drinking beer. I mean, this is London after all, one of the cradles of Western civilization, and in 2008, they still allow public drinking?

Apparently, yes, they do, at least until next month. Still, Johnson’s plan is not without its critics. The leader of a transportation union claimed it would be difficult to enforce, saying “Perhaps the mayor will come out with his underpants on over his trousers like Superman one Saturday to show us how it should be done”.

Wow. The thing is, I don’t think that’s just British wit, I think that’s a genuine challenge.

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By Meredith – May 8, 2008

Celtics Explosion

Last night Mr. Pinault and I ventured to the TD BankNorth Garden to see the Boston Celtics take on the Cleveland Cavaliers in Game 1 of the Eastern Conference semi-finals. Pictured below, that’s a burst of fireworks from the pre-game show. It sort of freaked me out. If 19,000 people had to quickly evacuate an indoor sport arena due to a haywire pyrotechnic display, exactly how many of them would be trampled to death?

Only my most grizzled readers may recall when I was a devout Celtics fan about four or five years ago. But I stopped paying attention when Danny Aigne became General Manager, and he traded all the players that I loved and annually allowed the team to fall to new levels of suckiness. Sure, a “real” fan would have kept watching, but life is too short to spend it crying over the woes of a NBA team.

This season, with the acquisition of Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen to assist veteran warhorse Paul Pierce, the Celtics’ years of re-building have finally came to fruition, and they finished the regular season with the best record in the league. Still, I never resumed my Celtics enthusiasm, unlike Mr. Pinault, who has been promising/threatening for the past few months that if the Celtics made the playoffs, we would go to a game.

Hence, last night. Oh, to be back at the Garden in the nosebleed balcony section, my stomach full of Budweiser and pre-game pizza from Ernestos in the North End, surrounded by working-class white Bostonians who have no quelms about chanting “USA! USA!” when non-American players on the other team take free throws. At least we were in a relatively quiet section, filled with pensive young men who watched the Celtics stumble and trip their way to victory with their elbows on their knees, silent except for peroidic intense hand-clapping and the occasional curse. These guys weren’t dancing around to get on the Jumbo-tron. They weren’t going to relax until victory was assured for the Celtics in the final seconds of the game.

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By Meredith – May 7, 2008

Tales from the T

Red Line, 8:45am. I’m running late today, which by the standards of the 9-5 existence, actually means on time. After two stops, the train is jammed, as I am too, in my seat, due to the immense width of a woman who had burst onto the train in a frenzy for the empty seat to my right. “Courtney,” she waved and called out to a young black man who had boarded the train like a normal person. He stood in front of her, grasped the pole, and stared at his newspaper. “Somedays I get a seat, if I hurry,” she told him, and he nodded.

She is in her thirties, with short and sexless brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Her voice has an odd, slurred quality that hints at a developmental disorder. “What do you do for lunch?” she asks the man as she settles in the seat. “Oh, I go out with the kids, someplace around the school…” he said in a quiet voice that trailed off.

“I bring my lunch every day,” she boomed. “To save MONEY.” She is rummaging through her bulging purple backpack in such a way that her chubby limbs rub against me without mercy. It was as if she didn’t realize I was a person. Finally she pulls out a clear plastic bag filled with what appeared to be generic Fig Newtons. She fed them whole into her mouth.

“Are you going on vacation this summer?” she asks the man in between cookies. He softly says he is going to Los Angeles to visit a friend, and then to Philadelphia to visit family. She chews while he talks. Crumbs fall on my right arm. “I’m going to Florida,” she announces. “But I haven’t bought the tickets yet.” She polishes off the last of the cookies and rummages through her backpack again. I’m inching away from her, impinging on the seat of the slim woman on my left, trying to lessen the effects of her soft elbow in my side, her knee knocking my knee, and her stalwart cushion of hip flanking my thigh. She pulls out a bottle of juice and chugs it.

The train has reached Central Square and it is totally full. I’ve been staring at the same article in the New York Times about Iran suspending negotiations with the US, and I’m unable to mentally digest it nor physically turn the page to try another subject matter.

“What time do you have to be at work?” she asks the man. He answers something about classes starting soon after 9. “I have to get to work at 9,” she says. For whatever reason, she begins jiggling her massive left leg. My whole body begins to shake, and finally I allow myself to give a fitful, annoyed sigh to register my discontent. She appears not to notice and continues her nonsensical leg movement.

At Park Street, the train empties out a bit, and I decide to stand up rather than allow this woman to continue her oblivious molestation of my person. When I stand up, I notice that the entire right side of my body is sweating. I spend the remainder of the day feeling sullied and gross.

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By Meredith – May 6, 2008

Was Not Was

I was not ready to wake up. The downside of perpetual three-day weekends is, of course, Monday. It’s as if everyone else started partying at the designated Happy Hour, but I’ve been slugging margaritas since noon. I jump higher; I fall harder.

I was applying my deodorant after showering when my mind became stuck on the euphemistic phrase for when a person’s body odor is perceivable: their “deodorant failed.” I felt a twinge of empathy for deodorant, overwhelmed by excessive perspiration that surely it was not formulated to handle. And the 99% of the time when deodorant succeeds, it doesn’t get a lick of glory.

I was walking on the bike trail to the subway station behind a man in a natty business suit. His pace was a bit slower than my normal cruising commuter speed, but not slow enough that I was willing to spazz-walk in order to pass him. His suit jacket’s shoulder pads were extremely excessive. He was around my height with a neat boyish haircut, and I could just picture the knobby shoulders that naturally sat parallel to his ears. But his shoulders pads were about twice the width of his hips, resulting in comical bodily proportions not unlike an extremely gaunt woman with breast implants.

I was crossing the Fort Point channel to get my lunch. The channel’s water level was at peak height. There was a solitary duck in the channel, diving under the water for long periods of time. I grew anxious while waiting for the duck to surface. What is he doing down there, anyway? There’s no plants or animal life in the Fort Point Channel. There’s razor blades and industrial waste. Where is he? Ah, there he is, whew. NO! Don’t dive again, you stupid fucking duck!

I was yawning in mid-afternoon when a co-worker approached my cubicle. Wouldn’t you know it, the first time ever this co-worker ventures to ask my opinion, and I’m in the throes of a sustained yawn. My arms are raised in the air as I stretch my arched back across my chair. My jaw is so wide open that it cracks when I clamp it shut. Actually, it was the first break from staring at my laptop that I had taken in nearly three hours, but I looked like a cat whose just been roused from a day of napping in a sunny field of grass.

Do people still have existential crises, or did Apple cure them? Anyway, I think I was having one, and then the workday ended, and I forgot about it.

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By Meredith – May 5, 2008

Pennies from Heaven

I decided to cash in our bursting bowl of non-quarter coins using an automated Coinstar machine. Mr. P poured the coins into a large Zip-Loc bag (or, as he called it, “Zip-Zap” bag) and I lugged the bag across town to the single-most depressing Stop and Shop supermarket in eastern Massachusetts. Many of my previous Coinstar trips have been foiled by machines in need of maintenance, so I was thrilled to see the Coinstar appeared to be in working condition. I emptied my bag into the coin receptacle, began feeding the coins into the slot, and watched the coin tally ascend.

When the total neared $9, the satisfying tickling of processed coins was replaced by violent mechanical groaning from within the Coinstar. Many Stop and Shop customers stopped and stared at in alarm. The odd noises reminded me of a gorging all-you-can-eat-buffet-goer who, already in the throes of indigestion, is determined to squeeze in a chocolate pudding. Soon the troubled Coinstar gave up, and a message flashed across the screen: “This machine is unable to continue this transaction. Your coins are safe! Please seek the assistance of a store employee.”

Relieved over the safety of my coins but still annoyed, I went over to the customer service desk and explained the situation to a sinewy red-headed woman in her 40s whose name-tag said Kelly. “I bet you jammed it,” Kelly said in a twangy generic White Trash accent. I followed her back to the Coinstar. Kelly printed my voucher for the $9.40 that Coinstar sucessfully processed, then opened the Coinstar’s front cover with a key. “You put foreign coins in here? Can’t put foreign coins in here.”

Probably some Canadian money lurked in our coin jar, though previous Coinstar machines just returned the Canuck change without comment and certainly without malfunction. “Oh, okay,” I said. “Yep, see all these foreign coins caught in here?” Kelly muttered as she picked coins from an internal filter and placed them in front of me on the Coinstar’s receptacle.

“I don’t think all of these coins are mine,” I admitted as the pile grew. “Well, they are now, if you want them,” Kelly said, closing the Coinstar. She said I could start over and walked away, muttering warning about foreign coins like some sort of xenophobic protectionist.

When I commenced feeding the Coinstar, it immediately emitted the same disturbing noises. Exasperated and sheepish, I gathered my remaining coins and left the store. Though I didn’t begin to put a dent in the Zip-Loc bag of change, I had $9 of paper currency and a swelling handful of foreign coinage.

Of the foreign money that Kelly gave to me, the vast majority was Canadian. There was a hodgepodge of Euro and Mexican coins. Pictured below are the three most interesting coins. On the left is a Chinese Yuan, which I have never seen before. In the middle is a German coin from 1920 featuring Beethoven, issued by the city of Bonn. And on the right is a religious talisman, with both sides featuring an angel. I suppose it’s a guardian angel pocket coin, meant to protect the bearer. How these coins ended up in a Coinstar is delightfully bewildering.

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By Meredith – May 3, 2008

Marriage Hitches

Five things I’ve become more conscious of since getting married over three months ago:

1. The power of the word ‘husband.’ In society’s eyes, the next best thing to being a man is being legally bound to one. At first, the words “my husband” felt strange on my lips, but then I noticed the effect that it had on people. For instance, when I first met a neighbor — a mother with young children — she noticably warmed to me after I mentioned “my husband.” In a restaurant, when I sat alone at a table and told the waiter I was waiting for “my husband,” he softened his determined hurriedness and brought me a breadbasket. Even people who I’ve known for years seem a little more respectful of me when I mention “my husband.” It confers a stability and maturity that “my boyfriend” just can’t.

2. Wedding rings. As a single girl, I never checked out people’s left-hand ring fingers. I noticed rings incidentally, in the same way that I’d notice watches. But as a married woman, I routinely check out people’s ring fingers. In fact, it’s my favorite new subway game.

3. My husband’s diet. “Did you eat anything green today?” “Don’t you want eggs instead of waffles?” “More bok choy?” “Do you really need that much sugar in your coffee?” “Do you want some banana in your cereal?” “No, we would not like to see a dessert menu.”

4. Surnames. According to this nifty interactive widget that shows the 5000 most common surnames in the United States (here), I’ve gone from having the 37th most common surname to one that is completely off the charts. Yes, my last name is less common than Booher, Baeza, and McGinley.

5. Life’s cruel brevity. Maybe it’s just the newlywed talking, but I can’t imagine life without him, and I’m prone to anxiety concerning his physical well-being. When he’s due home from work, I’ll fret about a siren in the distance. When he goes out for a run, I’ll beg him to be careful. And me, what if something happens to me? I picture him alone and in grief, and it tears my heart apart and makes me determined to live forever.

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By Meredith – May 2, 2008