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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.

penniesfromheaven

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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

China Pall

Today I got an email from a grassroots political group who, I believe, got my email address when I signed a petition in Central Square three years ago. They send me a weekly summary of their leftist position on a current issue, followed by an impassioned plea for immediate action!!! I’m tired of clicking the checkbox to delete their missive every week, so I opened the email in search of “unsubscribe” instructions. The email explained their desire to orchestrate a wholesale boycott of the Beijing Olympics in protest of China’s human rights record, especially their treatment of the Tibetan monks. China… Olympics… Tibet… hot issues these days, I know, and the complexity prevents me from forming a truly educated opinion around the matter. But, when I break it down in my own head:

Was it a mistake to allow China to host the Olympics in the first place? Yes. Do the Olympics “legitimize” an oppressive Chinese government with an appalling human-rights record? Yes. Should America boycott the Olympics, the opening ceremony of the Olympics, and support the taunting of the torch relay team?

No. These actions would fail to fundamentally affect China or makes any headway for Tibetan freedom. At the very least, it makes China more headstrong. At the very worst, it calls America’s own human rights abuses into question. We execute mentally retarded people, we stick 1 percent of our adult population in prison, and we have committed an atrocity in our bungling the Iraq War. Yet if China talked of boycotting our Olympics, we would laugh our asses off.

You know what would really hurt China is if America stopped buying stuff that was “Made in China.” Where’s that boycott? Is it just easier to say “Oh, we’ll boycott the Olympics, but we’ll continue to support China by purchasing apparel, electronics, auto parts, toys, decorations, food, and the endless array of useless crap that they produce?” If someone could organize a realistic boycott of Chinese-made goods that would not preclude me from buying nearly every modern-day necessity… now that’s an e-newsletter I’d stay subscribed to.

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By Meredith – April 29, 2008

Realty Reality

The real estate downturn is finally affecting Massachusetts, and prices for single-family homes have plunged 11 percent. Many people are booing, but we are cheering! Prices should continue to slump well into 2009, when we will be ready to pounce into a home of our own. Yes, I’m dreaming big. I even dare to envision a yard.

Ever since I moved to Boston almost ten years ago, I’ve kept one eye on the real estate market. (Sometimes, when in a pique of nesting, both eyes). I’ve watched it rise to dizzing heights where the only residences within my household’s means were crap properties in towns where I would never, ever live. $250k for a 90-year old “fix ‘er upper” in working-class exburbia. $300K for a 2-bedroom factory-converted condo in the heart of Chelsea — the ceilings are so high that they confer a sky-like atmosphere that will recreate the outdoor experience on days when the gunfire is too heavy to leave the condo.

Last year, moderate-sized single-family homes in the inner-ring of the Boston suburbs started at $500k. How depressing, and confusing. We are two computer professionals who are relatively frugal, with no kids, no pets, and one car. But as of last year, the only place in semi-fashionable Waltham that we could buy was an 800 square-foot condo located a half-mile from the vibrant downtown. If we can’t afford those $400k two-bedroom high-rise condos along the Charles River, then who can?

The subprime mortgage crisis cleared up a lot of my confusion. It never occurred to me that some of the people buying these places actually couldn’t afford to. Lenders were giving money to people with poor credit and a high risk of default. Even more incredible, people were accepting unmanageable mortgages with adjustable rates on the wild hope that the housing bubble would continue to inflate indefinitely. The lenders are blamed for the subprime mortgage debacle, for deceitfully representing mortgages as being zero-risk. But ultimately, many people assumed risky mortgages that they couldn’t reasonably afford.

I have little sympathy for people who use credit cards to live beyond their means, but it’s hard not to feel bad when people lose their homes for engaging in essentially the same careless financial behavior. Homes are the staple ingredient in the American Dream, essential to the social fabric of any modern society. They anchor families within a community. I have a hard time accepting the notion of a home being an investment that can gone horribly awry. Then again, I have a hard time accepting that the median home price in Cambridge is about $500,000. Realty reality is smacking a lot of people in the face.

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By Meredith – April 28, 2008

Bridal Extraction

Wedding magazines and books often feature timelines to help plan the details of one’s event. These checklists are pretty standard. For instance, most recommend choosing a wedding date 1 to 2 years before the wedding — a self-referential paradox, incidentally. I read a dozen near-identical timelines, looking for something I may have missed, and then I came across a line item in the 6-month to 9-month time range that I had never seen before: Begin pre-bridal skin treatments.

Now, I was blessed with many enviable physical attributes — working brain, good health, perfect height, sturdy calf muscles — but my skin has been a long-life source of anxiety. After my pimple-plagued teenaged years, it has steadily improved, either because my hormones are abating or I’ve found a regime of organic skin care products that have quieted the storm, at least that can be seen from a distance. But to achieve flawless bridal pores, it seemed worth trying out monthly facials. To someone who does her own manicures and sometimes skips the post-haircut blow-dry to save $10, it seemed an unconsciable extravagance. Three months later, I’m addicted to facials.

For anyone unfamiliar with what exactly a facial entails: It begins soothingly enough, with an array of clean-smelling lotions and scrubs, hot wet towels, and light massage around the face and neck area. A facial steamer is trained on the face for about 5 minutes, and it feels wonderful. Then, the extraction begins.

My first extraction, I was completely ignorant to what was about to happen. Imagine my shock when the facialist began squeezing the pus out of my pores by means of intense finger pressure. Horror quickly replaced shock, and then pain set in. Gasping pain. The facialist is lucky I didn’t kick her. My only conciliation is that I couldn’t see the junk that was being extracted. After she finished and applied a face mask, she left the room for ten minutes, and I can only imagine she was retching in the bathroom.

I’ve since read up on extraction and found out it’s a controversial procedure, with some claiming it damages the skin and causes breakouts, but the results for me have been marvelous. Extraction. I thrill on the word.

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By Meredith – April 25, 2008

Prairie Chic

“Your shirt, it reminds me of something,” a work acquaintance said to me today.

I glanced at my shirt, which I had already studied for several minutes in the mirror this morning thinking “Hm, should I really leave the house wearing this?” It’s a button-down shirt of an unusual rusty pink color, with puffed and cuffed long-sleeves and a high neck with limp lapels that tie into a floppy bow beneath the neck. There is also a bizarre configuration of superfluous darning stitches just below the shoulders in the front. The light cotton material is perpetually creased, and its sack-like fit confers both old-fashioned modesty and present-day “Made in China” cheapness. It’s a ridiculous shirt, and not in a ridiculous fashion maven way.

“What do you mean?” I asked, as if it were the most normal shirt in the world.

He looks pensive, appearing as though he is conjuring the something that my shirt reminds him of, but I have known this person long enough that I can tell he is weighing the ramifications of what he wants to say.

“It reminds me of those polygamist women in Texas,” he says. “Very frontier styled, you know what I mean?”

I did, immediately and painfully. “It’s from H&M,” I said lamely. “I think the prairie look is in.”

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By Meredith – April 24, 2008

Participle Slapstick

Heading out the door this morning, shoulders bearing the brunt of upcoming day in a bulging backpack, arms carrying curbside recycling, one hand holding a paper bag that threatens to rip from the weight of the wine bottles within, other hand holding a paper bag that threatens to burst from the density of newspapers within, feet stepping onto the welcome mat, body bracing the storm door ajar, forearm pressing the bag of paper against body, freed hand shutting the front door.

Stepping away from the front door, failing to move. Realizing backpack’s cordage is caught on storm door’s internal door handle, jostling backpack blindly in attempt to free self from door handle, failing to move. Continuing to jostle backpack, stepping away, failing to move. Defying logical solution to put down paper bags to manually free self from door.

Losing grip on bag of paper. Bending knees to force bag of paper against body. Dropping bag of paper. Dropping bag of wine bottles. Falling backwards. Hanging from backpack attached to storm door handle. Crashing to ground as backpack cordage magically detaches from storm door handle.

Checking sheepishly for witnesses. Freeing self from backpack shoulder straps. Standing. Gathering spilled paper. Gathering wine bottles. Picking up paper bags. Walking to curb. Depositing bags in curbside bins. Recycling.

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By Meredith – April 23, 2008

Tim and Eric Awesome Tour

I’m not surprised that the most famous person to come out of my hometown is the Eric half of the infamous comedy duo Tim and Eric. Honestly, I don’t remember who won the “Most Likely to Succeed” award for Eric’s high school class, which was one year above mine, but it was probably some smarty-pants with straight A’s who burnt themselves out in college and was too socially maladjusted to do anything but become an accounts receivable clerk. Knowing what I know now, I see that Eric possessed many of the attributes correlated with future success: He was smart, creative, ambitious, well-liked but not crazily popular, quite tall, and, according to my best friend AS, a phenomenal kisser. He was also opportunistic. I remember him driving me and a group of 6 other girls to a Sonic Youth concert in his station wagon and charging us $5 a piece. Yep, he is definitely showbiz material.

Over the past year, I’ve watched bits of the ‘Tim and Eric Awesome Show’ on YouTube and signed up for their mailing list, which last month alerted me that the nationwide ‘Tim and Eric Awesome Tour’ was coming to TT the Bear’s Place, a music club in Cambridge. I managed to buy tickets for last night’s show before it sold out in, like, a day.

While squeezing through the packed crowd in TTs to secure a good spot to stand, I saw that the bulk of the spectators were in college, dressed like punky hipsters, and expressing fresh-faced fanaticism about Tim and Eric. Mr. Pinault and I were visibly on the higher end of the age range and were dressed like old office-working dorks. I didn’t get it: This was comedy, not a rock and roll music show featuring a band of dirty noisy primitive teenagers. Are all the other 30-year olds safely tucked in their condos watching South Park on their LCD televisions while the college kids lap up the gritty amusement on the streets? Is humor really generational?

But I understand why Tim and Eric’s unique brand of comedy is popular with the younger set: Tim and Eric are not political but exude subversion; they appear to be simultaneously trying very hard and not trying at all; they seamlessly meld animation, music, and multimedia effects in their act; and they do funny dances. As people get older, they become conditioned by mainstream humor to always look for the punchline. They don’t want uncomfortable, edgy, open-ended humor anymore than they want to leave the house on a cold day without their hat and gloves. Kids today, they don’t seem to mind the cold. And they want to rebel against society’s conventions by laughing at stuff that no one over the age 25 finds funny — like Tim and Eric.

Personally, I find the majority of Tim and Eric’s sketches to be funny, maybe because I got a trickle-down taste of Eric’s bizarre sense of humor as a teenager. First and foremost, no one can play out a scene of intentional awkwardness like Tim and Eric. Their scatological and sexual sketches are so puerile as to be actually quite sophisticated. Their parodies of commercials and products are also spot-on, and range from subtle (discussing how much they love Shrek) to over-the-top (Child clowns, B’owl). And Tim and Eric are masterful at beating a dead horse until it comes back to life.

After the show ended, I considered sticking around to see if Tim and Eric emerged from the backstage area. If I approached Eric and said “Hey, I’m from Audubon. I went to Methacton,” I’m positive he would have remembered me. Eric probably would have said my name without me saying it, maybe ask what I was doing in Cambridge, maybe exchange a bit of hometown news. My worst fear, and the reason why I left without trying to see him, was that he would have brushed me off by saying “Hey, yeah, thanks for coming out! Buy a t-shirt!” and then walk away to jabber with his legion of fanboys. After all, he is now a very, very cool kid.

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By Meredith – April 22, 2008

Marathon Monday

Yesterday I mentioned some typical Patriot’s Day festivities that really get the local citizenry sputtering with pride, like men costumed as British soldiers marching on Massachusetts Avenue past the Starbucks, sushi joints and yoga studios while colonial militias yell, shot fake muskets, and encourage onlookers to join in the fun: Come on, kids, let’s all tell those British to get out of town!

Today, instead of watching “living historians” march down the streets, most Bostonians were watching thousands of skinny marathoners run down the streets. And the only thing we love more than historical re-enactments is our marathon! See, Boston knows that its marathon isn’t the biggest running race in the world, and that the weather is prone to being imperfect, and that the logistics of getting to the starting line are famously tricky, and that it’s not a “fun” course feted with live music and hors d’oeuvres. But the Boston Marathon is the world’s oldest annual marathon and by far the most prestigious, making it a nice little simile for the city’s place in the world. Little, foul-weathered, cramped, boring, enduring and prestigious Boston.

Like maybe half of all working adults, I don’t have off work for Patriot’s Day. It’s a State holiday that provides a 3-day weekend for government employees, teachers, and many people who work for Massachusettes-based companies, but I have never been so blessed. So I missed watching Robert Cheruiyot of Kenya and Dire Tune of Ethiopia win the Men’s and Women’s event respectively (here).

That’s another thing about Boston that the marathon represents: Our willingness to welcome people from foreign countries to come to our city and do great things. Some ignorant folk do make catty remarks about the unflagging dominance of African runners in our most venerable sporting event, but most people are proud as hell that the world’s elite runners come to Boston to win. Whether its sports, academics, industry, arts, or commercial services, we know that Boston can only be enhanced by our foreign visitors… unless they are trying to enforce the rule of King George III, and then we will chase them down the street brandishing guns.

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By Meredith – April 21, 2008

Patriot Games

Today my town had a re-enactment followed by a parade to celebrate Patriots Day, which is a holiday officially observed tomorrow to commemorate the Battles of Lexington and Concord. Patriots Day is only recognized in Massachusetts, Maine, and oddly enough Wisconsin — a state that needs to borrow reasons to celebrate. Patriots Day is also Marathon Monday, but I’ll reserve that topic for tomorrow’s post.

My town is midway between Boston and Lexington/Concord, and in fact the bike trail that I walk and run upon is roughly the same route that Paul Revere took to warn the colonial Minuteman army that “The British are coming! The British are coming!” The next day, British soldiers arrived in Lexington and Concord and were quickly overwhelmed in battle by Minutemen. When the British retreated back to Boston, they marched through my town (then known as Menotomy) and individual homeowners joined militia to fight against them, resulting in what has been called the Jason Russell House Battle. In fact, more blood was shed in Menotomy than another other town during the whole battle.

Given my town’s historical significance to Patriots Day, obviously something extra special has to be done. I knew that a parade was planned, but I never imagined that the British’s march through Menotomy would be re-enacted with the help of dozens of costumed British and Colonial re-enactors. The official event description:

“The Menotomy Minutemen along with re-enactors from all over New England will be recreating the Jason Russell House Battle starting at 12:30pm on Sunday, April 20. British troops will march down Massachusetts Avenue from Arlington High School while being harassed by Colonial minute companies. They will then attack the Minutemen defending Jason Russell and his home.”

Which is pretty much what happened this afternoon. I give the re-enactors credit — they made history come alive — but it was more infinitely more bizarre that I ever imagined, like being a sentient object in someone else’s dream. I’m just glad they didn’t use live ammo.

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By Meredith – April 20, 2008