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Life’s Begun at Thirty-One

Today is my birthday, so I am obliged to drone on about my vanquished youth. Yesterday I was 30, now I’m officially “in my thirties.” (Tic-toc-tic-toc, goes the biological clock. Some days, alarms go off.)

One card that I received from a family member included a cut-out magazine article of diet advice. That alone was enough to send me to the mirror, to inspect all those bodily areas that have thickened, dimpled, sagged, and wrinkled. I’ve been in denial for some months now, but I do believe that jowls are developing.

I remember when birthdays meant pure celebration. It was my special day, and I’d wriggle in the attention showered upon me by an adoring world. Presents! Cake! Acknowledgement that my existence matters! Gradually birthdays turned into milestones for self-reflection. Memories! Regrets! It’s all downhill from here!

I jest, of course, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you are no longer officially cute. I would evoke more pity if I admitted that I still think of my birthday as my special day, even though I spent the beautiful day in the office, hunkered down in a cubicle that is 20 feet from a window, hunched over a laptop, re-writing technical documentation that I wrote 3 or 4 years ago, and then came home to scrounge together a dinner of salad and hummus, which I ate alone in an empty house while trying to read the newspaper through my tear-welled eyes. I jest, sort of.

Since tomorrow is Mr. Pinault’s birthday, I can deflect any unease about getting older onto him, because we’re very literally growing old together. What a comfort, to know that he is legally bound to love me no matter how jowly I should grow.

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By Meredith – May 29, 2008

Tales from the T

Red Line, 8:08am. At Alewife station, while the train idles before starting its long journey to Braintree, the man sitting next to me sneezed “Achoo!”

“God bless you!” calls out a fleshy bushy-haired woman across the aisle. Her voice is so emphatic that I glance up from the New York Times to covertly scope her out. She is staring directly at me.

“I don’t know why I bother to say ‘bless you’ anymore,” she says airily, still holding my eyes with hers. “No one ever says ‘thank you.'”

The man who had sneezed, a 30ish man in a business suit, remains silent and slumped in his seat. I do not feel compelled to acknowledge her statement, though I fear she may turn to someone else and say, “I don’t know why I bother to complain about how no one every says ‘thank you’ when I say ‘bless you.’ No one ever says anything.”

I return my attention to my newspaper, only suddenly there was a tickling in my nose. I involuntarily began to inhale. My sinuses have always been highly suggestible, and now they ache for a sneeze. I struggle to circumvent the explosion by placing my finger underneath my nasal cavity, but it is too late.

“Achoo!” I sneeze.

The bushy-haired woman stares at me as she exclaims “Bless you!”

“Um, thanks,” I say softly. To give vigorous thanks may indicate approval of her rude comment. To give no thanks may push her to the brink of rage. Then, my sinuses release an unprecendented successive sneeze: “Achoo!”

Nobody says anything. Perhaps my thanks wasn’t grateful enough to earn a second blessing. Then the bushy-haired woman gave in, and lightly asserts “Bless you!”

“Thanks” I mumble. I would have loved if the original sneezer cried out “Bless you!” but he looks like he just wants to murder us all.

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By Meredith – May 28, 2008

Memorial Day Weekend

We spent the bulk of the Memorial Day weekend visiting my family in Pennsylvania, where we enjoyed especially superb spring weather, the kind that compels you to shock your skin with sunscreen-filtered sunshine, expose your senses to pollen and cut grass, and reacquaint yourself with insects.

In addition to various boating and canoeing activities along the Schuylkill River, we ran the 5-mile loop at Valley Forge Park for the first time ever. I have walked this hilly route many times over many years, but to run the steep grade changes required a foolhardy courage that I have always lacked. Hiking and XC skiing has given me the confidence to push my body to near-boundless limits.

Fine weather and extreme exercise aside, spending time in Valley Forge Park just felt right, given the Memorial Day holiday. During our run, I gazed on the expanse of rolling fields of grass cuffed by ribbons of bird-filled billowing trees. The fields are empty except for groups of grazing deer. There are walkers, runners, and bicyclists on the concrete trail, passing picnickers, blanket dwellers, and visitors to the various monuments throughout the park.

It is hard to imagine the horrors that these idyllic fields once witnessed. No battle was fought at Valley Forge, but over 2500 colonial troops died while encamped there in George Washington’s army during a harsh winter. They starved to death. They didn’t have proper shoes or clothes. They paid the ultimate sacrifice for a country that didn’t exist, for ideals that were undefined, for a man named Washington who was still just but a man.

Here, in Valley Forge park! Impossible to imagine! The weather is warm, the deer and birds are serene, and the only suffering and courage is knotted in the faces of runners as they ascend and descend the harrowing hills of Valley Forge. (Pictured below is me at the church in Valley Forge park, post-run).

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By Meredith – May 26, 2008

Stamps of Disapproval

The wedding invitations have finally been mailed, and not a moment too soon. I was a woman obsessed. For a solid week, I complained to anyone who would listen about how the United States Postal Service recently increased their rates from .41 to .42 without offering wedding-worthy stamp designs. This effectively left me to choose either a Forever stamp, a Flag stamp, a Frank Sinatra stamp, or a .41 stamp and a .01 stamp combination.

“Go with Frank Sinatra. He’s classy,” a friend advised, causing a lengthy discussion about Sinatra’s attitudes towards women.

I visited more than a few post offices, trying to track down the .41 cent stamps that were especially designed for wedding invitations. I heard rumors of another .41 stamp that featured spring blossoms. Finding none, I sent many postal clerks digging through caches of old stamps for any winsomely-themed stamp.

“I got a .41 stamp commerating the Chinese New Year. It’s a nice shade of red,” one clerk offered to my amused horror.

I wound up selecting the .41 cent “Pollination” series (here) paired with the .01 cent Tiffany Lamp stamp. The Pollination series proved to be semi-acceptable to my inner Bridezilla, except one of the pictures in the montage features a bat pollinating a flower. Oooh, the pollinating bat bothered me. I carefully sent the bat stamp only to guests whom I felt would be oblivious to stamps in general, or open-minded enough to delight over an invitation featuring a pollinating bat.

“What’s wrong with bats?” Mr. Pinault asked, causing an argument about whether a blood-sucking flying mammal that is associated with fictional characters of the night is a proper symbol of our love.

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By Meredith – May 26, 2008

All Now with Wings

This morning I trudge to the office in a drizzly cool rain, luxuriating in the knowledge that the only thing standing between me and a four-day weekend is 8 hours of technical documentation publishing. Uncommon weekday morning adrenalin surges through my body as Jane’s Addiction “Three Days” buzzs through my earphones. (I have made a concerted effort to acclimate my ears to new music, but nothing gets me going like the classics.)

I don’t mind intermittent foul weather. A gray sky can comfort the same as a blue one. Rain on my face can sooth the same as sunshine. If I minded the drizzle, the grayness, the cool wind at the height of springtime, then I’d have long lost my resolve to live in Boston and fled to the southern West Coast. Yes, I don’t mind going through life under an umbrella. But sometimes the gusty wind forces a choice: Should I struggle to maintain my umbrella’s protection? Or should I walk unencumbered, exposed to ferally flung pelts of rain? I bought my current umbrella at CVS under rain duress one day several years ago. Its brand name is “Raines.” This morning, I keep Raines folded.

I arrive at my office building with trickles of water seeping from my hairline. I savor the warmth of the empty lobby as I wait for the elevator. On my iPod Shuffle, “Three Days” careens to its climax: Perry Farrell sings “All now with wings” for the last time, and then, one of the greatest minutes of Rock and Roll ever, with the crescendo of frenzied guitar riffs, the bass and drums crude and resolute, and Perry screaming “Go! Rock! Get set, gohhhh” as the tension that has been building in the 10-minute epic explodes into sublime noise—

The elevator opens, and I’m mutually gaping at eight middle-aged men in casual button-down shirts of varying shades of blue and tan, who must have gotten on the ground floor because the arrow is pointing up, who it occurs to me are in the office for customer training. They forge a small space for me near the doors. I grasp for my tiny iPod deep in the crevice of my pocket, to turn it off, to stop the insane volume that I know is audible to this group of men, and finally my thumb presses the iPod’s round button and “Three Days” is silenced as I step onto the elevator and jab at my floor’s button. “Good morning,” I say cheerfully, and several “Good mornings” lurk in the elevator as the elevator doors close.

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By Meredith – May 22, 2008

In the News

The whole point of this website is to challenge my writing skills on a near-daily basis while paying tribute to my infinite vanity. The biggest challenge is when someone else dictates the topic about which I will write. So today I enlisted a volunteer to select three stories from BBC.com for my blog fodder. I bring you the first… and probably the last (see above-mentioned “infinite vanity” clause)… “In the News” Challenge.

Heart Breaker

A recent study of men’s health has shown a correlation between erectile dysfunction and coronary heart disease. The researchers concluded that “erectile dysfunction is a true harbinger of atherosclerotic coronary heart disease” probably because these men just plumb lose their will to live.

Men with sexual performance issues are urged to see their doctors and YouPorn.com. The study is regarded as important for vetting a discernible risk factor associated with heart disease, as well as explaining why every old man seems to be a dirty one.

Neo-Con Man

In Egypt, a con man has been sentenced to 1000 years in prison. The con man defrauded 500 working-class people out of $52 million since the early 1980s by promising to invest the money and split the profits with them, and then disappearing. After the con man dies, he will be mummified and entombed to serve out the remaining 980 or so years of his sentence in the afterlife.

The man’s family has reportedly appeared on television, blaming the victims for being naive enough to hand over their money. They then offered to sell their family’s shares of the Great Pyramid of Giza for the unbelievable bargain price of $1 million.

(At a) Loss Hog

Animal conservationists in India are planning for the recovery of the pygmy hog, the world’s smallest and rarest species of wild pig. Though the pygmy hog population stands at a precarious 400, recently 16 hogs that were bred in captivity were released into a wildlife sanctuary.

It’s been a long road for this little hog: “By 1964, the pygmy hog was thought to be extinct… Then in 1971, four pygmy hogs were recovered from a market… and that gave everyone cause for hope,” explains one scientist who has inexplicably dedicated his life to the survival of this tiny insignificant species of which absolutely nothing interesting or witty can be said except “I hear they taste like chicken.”

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By Meredith – May 21, 2008

Where have you gone, Ted Kennedy?

After suffering a seizure over the weekend, Senator Ted Kennedy of Massachusetts has been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor and “might have only a limited time to live”. I knew They would eventually get around to finishing off the Kennedy brother triumvirate. It’s the final piece in the conspiracy.

Ted Kennedy is one of my only living political heroes. I do not always agree with him or think that he is beyond fault, but he’s one of the few Democratic icons left in the United States who is still in office, carrying Kennedy blood, crusading optimism, and a semblance of wizened sageness. When he’s gone, who will fearlessly carry the banner in Congress for sensible Liberalism? Barney Frank? Joe Biden? Nancy Pelosi? Chris Dodd?

Speaking of maligant tumors poised on destroying the Democratic party… poor Hillary. Even though she ran an uninspiring campaign filled with unseemly political posturing and ploys, it’s hard not to feel a dull feminine ache as her once-inevitable nomination grows increasingly impossible. Had she not been riding on her husband’s slick oiled Democratic machinery and actually earned her political success through grassroots sweat n’ tears, I would surely be experiencing pangs of emotion from surges of sympathy estrogen.

Yesterday, while presumptive Republican nominee John McCain criticized Barack Obama’s “reckless judgement” on Iran during a non sequitur speech to the National Restaurant Association, his fellow Republicans in the House of Representatives met to re-brand their message to an increasingly hostile electorate. “Sobered” by a string of election loses, the Republicans plan to theme their new message of fiscal restraint as “The Change You Deserve” (here). The seven-point proposal features familiar conservative rallying points such as extending the existing welfare work requirement. How wonderful to see the Republican party return to its core message of scapegoating our most impoverished citizens. Where is Ted Kennedy when you need him?

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By Meredith – May 20, 2008

Miss Massachusetts USA: Pretty Teeth and All

The Boston Globe featured an interview with Miss Massachusetts. No, not Miss Massachusetts America, but the Miss Massachusetts USA, who distinguishes the dueling titular tits by saying “Miss America looks like a senator’s wife, while Miss USA, the title I competed for, is a sexy, modern woman.” (‘Senator’s wife?’ Couldn’t she have at least opted for the slightly less bitchy ‘senator’s daughter?’)

Apparently, being Miss Massachusetts USA is a “tough” job that involves a solid year of obsessive grooming and restraint from anything that may “compromise the crown.” Says our state’s foremost sexy, modern woman: “I have a dress sponsor, a hair stylist, and a dentist who takes care of my teeth to make sure it’s in the ‘pretty zone.’ I had a retainer that I had to wear all the time – yes, Miss Massachusetts has to sleep with a retainer. I had a personal trainer who came to the house; a nutritionist who handles my diet; a pageant coach who works on interview questions with me; a director and appearance manager.”

Wow. It really does take a village. I can’t decide if I’m more amused by her referring to her teeth as having a “pretty zone,” by her admitting to sleeping with some sort of retainer, or by the numerous grammar problems riddling her inarticulate responses despite having graduated with honors from Boston Univeristy and having a dedicated resource to coach her on interview questions. Later, she reveals her diet: “six small meals a day, like a cup of oatmeal and four egg whites. I’ll also have sandwich wraps or nuts on the run. I used to eat a lot of chicken, but you don’t carry around a cooler of chicken all day. Sushi is my new thing, although I shouldn’t be eating the white rice.” Is it possible to be both a sexy, modern woman and ashamed of including white rice in a bland deprivation diet? Will white rice “compromise the crown?”

As a child, I did have a recurrent fascination with the Miss America pageant, but I never aspired to look like them or become a pageant winner. I could tell that the women in the Miss America pageant were intrinsically different from me; they were more like my Barbie dolls, and in fact the annual pageant inspired a scenario that I played out with my Barbies, when they would compete pageant-style for the affections of Derek, the lone male in “Barbie and the Rockers.” (I didn’t know it at the time, but essentially, I invented Rock of Love.)

Beauty pageants now fascinate me on an entirely different level. After Jon-Benet Ramsey, Little Miss Sunshine, and Miss Teen South Carolina’s infamously incoherent “such as” answer, the tragedy of their elaborate, hollow pursuit is evident. Back in the 50s, these beautiful young women symbolized America’s virtues. Then, they symbolized society’s objectification of women. Now, as evident by Miss Massachusetts USA, they symbolize women’s objectification of society.

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By Meredith – May 19, 2008

Long Island Short Weekend

Last Friday afternoon, I arrived on Long Island via a car ferry from Connecticut during a torrential rain storm. On Sunday afternoon, I returned on the same ferry during a torrential rain storm. But every minute in between the ferries: Blue skies, with various degrees of harmless cloudiness. The type of heavenly, fresh weather that I thrive in.

It was my Bachelorette weekend, the first official matrimonial event as well as the first spate of meteorological good luck. And speaking of luck, how lucky I am to have such clever, fun, and good-looking attendants? We frolicked on the beach, in maritime forests, in bizarre Long Island supermarkets, and in the tasting rooms of wineries.

Did you know that Long Island has over 40 wineries? It makes economic sense that a traditionally agriculture community would develop vineyards to cater to the vacationing upscale folk who flock to its beaches and natural beauty, but I remain doubtful of the integrity of Long Island grapes. Although, I did taste a Merlot that almost changed my mind about all Merlots.

I promised the male strippers that I’d keep a bulk of the pictures private, but pictured below are two swans who swam past as we lounged on our semi-private beach, and a row of Long Island grapes destined to become heavily-oaked Merlot or Chardonnay.


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By Meredith – May 18, 2008

In the Grammar Scheme of Things: To Boldly Split Infinitives

In Middle School, when we learned what an infinitive was, I don’t recall if we were forbade from splitting it. It is one of those details that has dissipated along with geometry, sewing, and the rules of kickball in an irretrievable recess of my brain labeled “Middle School.” But I imagine that I was taught not to split infinitives, if only because the knowledge of this grammar rule is viewed as a talisman of a proper English grammar education.

Recently I read in Bill Bryson’s The Mother Tongue that the origins of this formerly-hardclad English grammar rule comes from the 19th century, when a few self-proclaimed authoritarians declared that the infinitive should not be split in English because it is impossible to split an infinitive in Latin. Bryson says “there is no logical reason not to split an infinitive,” while himself resisting the urge to gratuitously split.

Think of it: Generations of school children, academics, writers, editors and the general population wasted untold brain power on not splitting infinitives simply because the gone-and-good-riddance Latin language does not have two-word infinitives!

Pretty much every person who cares about this sort of thing knows that the “No Split Infinitive” rule is archaic. Depending on the context and usage, to freely split an infinitive may be correct or not to split may be correct. In terms of pure style and diction, I believe that a majority of the time, splitting an infinitive is not as pleasing. “My eye began to really hurt” is inferior to “My eye really began to hurt.” “To knowingly wink at him” doesn’t have the same rhythm as “To wink knowingly at him.” “I begged him to not eat” is awkward compared to “I begged him not to eat.” But sometimes, split infinitives are stylistically preferable. “She was inclined to not give a shit” is way cooler than “She was inclined not to give a shit.”

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By Meredith – May 15, 2008