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Disemployment Day #2 – A Day for Branding, a Break from Rambling

Today, I’m dedicating myself to building my shiny, new professional website. This is the space where I’ll showcase and market my skills as a writer—the polished, professional version of myself that knows how to weave words into compelling narratives and convincing pitches.

Meanwhile, this site remains the wild frontier, the digital home for my hodgepodge of neuroses, eccentricities, and musings on life that refuse to be tamed.

Since no one’s cutting me a check for being human, these are the FREE WORDS you’re getting from me today, folks. 

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By Meredith – February 21, 2008

Disemployment Day #1 – a Moment of Pause

My first full day of forced unemployment… or as I prefer, disemployment. I woke up at the same time as Mr. P, determined to keep up appearances and jumped straight into the shower. Mustn’t let personal hygiene slip into chaos, after all! But then, an unexpected wave of emotion hit as I glanced into my sock drawer. Last week, I’d hurriedly rolled my socks, convinced that I couldn’t waste precious time on such trivial tasks. Now, time is the one thing I have in abundance.

I spent a good part of the day fielding emails and IMs from concerned former co-workers, colleagues, friends, and family. Most carried the energy of a frantic scream, the kind where someone runs at you full speed, yelling right into your face. “BAHHHHH! LAY-OFF! RESUME, INTERVIEWS, REFERENCES, DECAYING ECONOMY! BAHHHHH! NETWORK! NETWORK! BAHHHHH!” My nerves hummed, strained by the chorus of panic.

A younger version of me would have jumped headfirst into the chaos—firing off resumes for half the jobs on Monster.com, listing possessions on eBay to scrounge up cash, already calculating how many loaves I could bake from industrial-sized bags of flour.

But today, on Disemployment Day #1, I took a different route. I rolled my socks properly, and made myself a decent cup of coffee. Because if I’m going to weather the storm of unemployment, it won’t be by flailing with the wind. It’ll be by standing still for a moment, breathing deeply, and knowing that not every second needs to be productive to have value.

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By Meredith – February 20, 2008

Laid Off!

This morning at work, the corporate grim reaper tapped my shoulder. Yes, my start-up dreams finally crashed and burned after the company’s latest round of fund-raising floundered in an increasingly tough economic climate, necessitating a 33% reduction in force resulting in the elimination of my position, hence…I was laid off.

I can’t say I’m surprised or even upset. Actually, I am a little upset that I was halfway through the arduous and incredibly invasive process of attaining a Top Secret security clearance from the US government for the job, and that everyone whom I glanced at in the past 10 years has been subjected to an interview by a private investigator regarding their knowledge of my activities and lifestyle. Sorry, folks! It was all a big, embarrassing waste of time.

So at 10am this morning, I walked out of the glitzy high-rise office building in downtown Boston probably for the last time. It was the Tuesday morning after a three-day weekend; I had been rearing to work. Although I had only been there six months, I felt jarred at the unexpected freedom and sudden permission to forget about everything I had been doing.

My prospects are much better than the last time I was laid off in 2001. For one thing, I currently have a consulting writing gig for about 10 hours/week to keep me occupied. I have a husband with a good job and health insurance. Even better, I have solid experience, references, and a portfolio.

I walked home on the bike path, my mind chewing on my options. Two leash-less dogs sprinted past me, romping in the crackling brush alongside the trail. I could hear their owner calling to them behind me, but the dogs did not heed his call. They yelped to each other, ducking and racing through trees and rocks, joyous, exuberant, and free. I felt happy to be there on the bike path to watch them.

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By Meredith – February 19, 2008

Bobaraba

This is the first President’s Day that I’ve had off from work in over six years. All this pent-up energy to give Washington and Lincoln their due accolades! But downpours of rain kept me inside most of the morning, watching old music videos like Sir Mixalot’s “Baby got Back” on YouTube and dancing around the apartment, shaking my healthy butt, reliving the glory days with what I believe history will judge to be the defining song of 1992: “Oh my God, Becky! Look at her butt! It is so big.”

The Ivory Coast is currently experiencing something resembling a “Baby got Back” craze with the song “Bobaraba,” which translates to “big bottom.” The video for “Bobaraba” features endless footage of Africans, men and women, shaking their butts in the camera (here for YouTube). According to the BBC, the song’s popularity has “spawned a black market in treatments claiming to increase one’s bottom size” (here), including bottom-enhancing injections and topical creams of questionable value and safety.

Didn’t the obesity “epidemic” begin around the early 1990s? Scores of books have been written about its causes and origins, but perhaps it can all be traced back to Sir Mixalot, himself a rather chubby little man, who gave women justification for ballooning their butts to be thick and juicy and unleashing an unconsciousness hunger for bottom-enhancing muffins, coffee drinks, and stuffed-crust pizza. “Baby got back! And sides! And front! And chins!”

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By Meredith – February 18, 2008

Bridal Veil Falls

The most sacrosanct rule of good writing is: Know your audience, and write for them. I flagrantly violate this rule every time I post about XC skiing because there are no XC ski enthusiasts who regularly read this website (as far as I know). I must pretend that my audience is interested in this arcane, snow-dependent sport, or that my audience draws inspiration from me, a past-her-physical-prime woman who overcame her utter lack of balance and fear of rapid downhill mobility to become a pretty darn good XC skier. Failing at either of those two avenues of appeal, I present to you… sexy pants.

This weekend, we skied at two XC ski centers on opposite ends of the Swank Scale. First, at the lower end of the spectrum, there was the Franconia Village XC ski center, which sums itself up nicely on its website: Most of the trails are single track in width, winding through the woods, over brooks and across meadows. We believe our single track trails create a very intimate feeling with the forest, unlike the larger double track commercial touring centers.

Indeed, Mr. Pinault and I interacted intimately with the forest as we slid on the uneven, semi-groomed trails weaving through it in 10-degree sunshine. We encountered the Bridal Veil Falls trail, and the name seemed terrifically prophetic because my father had gifted our weekend’s lodging partly as a honeymoon for our civil marriage. We quickly discovered the name “Bridal Veil” accurately described how the forest’s growth hung over the trail, covering our heads in frozen pine needles.

No biggie. If anything, the rugged trails highlighted how spoiled I am by the “larger double track commercial touring centers” like Waterville Valley, which is where we headed today. There is something to be said for intimate interaction with the forest, but there is also something to be said for gliding at top-speeds on a flat, even track without tree branches snagging one’s hair. V-room!

Pictured below is the sunset view from the inn in which we stayed… that’s Mount Lafayette on the left, which I climbed way back on my 29th birthday. Pictured on the right is the alpine skiing area on Cannon Mountain – I snapped this picture from a moving car on the highway.



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By Meredith – February 17, 2008

Valentine’s Villanelle

I was moved to compose a Valentine’s villanelle for my new husband. However, I was quickly encumbered by the dearth of words that rhyme with love. And I never noticed before, but nothing rhymes with poem. Despite the title’s promising alliteration, it quickly spun out of control, crashed, and burned. I present my failed effort here only for your amusement.

Valentine’s Villanelle
I wrote you a poem on Valentine’s day
To express the depth of my love
In the most romantic way.

Yes, sentimental verses are so cliche
But since it fits my emotions like a glove
I wrote you a poem on Valentine’s day.

Actually, villanelles are not an easy way to say
Things that I want to speak of
In the most romantic way.

“Bouquet, cabernet, souffle, sorbet…”
But not many words rhyme with love.
Umm…I wrote you a poem on Valentine’s day.

I guess villanelles are poor to convey
The esteem that I alluded to, above,
In the most romantic way.

And when my words may go astray,
Just give me a shove —
I wrote you a poem on Valentine’s day
In the most romantic way.

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By Meredith – February 14, 2008

Red

I didn’t wear red for Valentine’s Day, because I don’t own any red clothing suitable for a windy February weekday. Red is a color I should avoid, I was told once. With my ruddy-undertoned pale complexion, I best stick to cool colors – blue, green, maybe a bit of magenta or pink. Even if I had red clothing, I would not have worn it, for fear of looking festive. I am a career girl, to be taken seriously. I put on a green sweater, gray slacks, gray coat, and sprinkled myself with my sexiest perfume, Nina Ricci’s Premier Jour.

All day, my eye caught bits of red: The scarlet blouse of a gorgeous Asian lady in the restroom. The crimson tie of the security guard by the elevators. Clashing patterns of red-themed plaid on a bike messenger wearing a persimmon cap. A beaten candy-red windbreaker that is too thin for the frigid weather on an obese woman who I stride past on the sidewalk.

I read once that primitive instinct drives women to wear the color red to advertise their fertility when they are ovulating. This is simultaneously full and devoid of romance, for it affirms red’s stature as the most amorous color but reminds us that our modern-day notions of love evolved from the fancies of lusty cavemen.

On the train I sit across from a blond woman in a red beret, with red tights peaking out from under a red felt coat and red knee-high leather boots. She reads her Metro newspaper with a small smile, perhaps enjoying the bit of attention that her garish ensemble has garnished. I sneak peaks at her, thinking she is festive, she is fertile, and she is ruddy.

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By Meredith – February 14, 2008

And the Honeymoon goes to …

In the beginning of October, we will be honeymooning in Granada, Spain, which is in Andalucia on the southern tip… home of stunning architecture, flamenco music, great hiking, tasty tapas, and exquisite aromatic teas!

[Mr. Pinault lobbied hard for Greece, but I had my heart set on Spain. After much debate, we decided to compromise and go to Spain. Ha. “If you didn’t want a wife, then why did you get married?” is becoming a familiar refrain.]

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By Meredith – February 13, 2008

Le plus beau

Last night I listened to songs tagged “French” on Last.fm, trying to kill, with one stone, two albatrosses: the expansion of my musical tastes and the acquisition of French language skills. I heard some alarming French hip-hop. I heard a token Edith Piaf ballad followed by the avante-garde stylings of Brigitte Fontaine. I learned that Daft Punk was French. Then…

“Mr. P, come quick! It’s Carla Bruni!”

“WHERE?” Mr. P cried, racing into the bedroom. I pointed at the Last.fm widget playing Carla Bruni singing “Le plus beau du quartier” (which translates to something like the best-looking man in the neighborhood) and Mr. P looked amused but disappointed.

Carla Bruni is, of course, France’s newest First Lady, a 40 year-old former supermodel-turned-singer who regularly poises for ‘artistic’ nude photographs and has dated Mick Jagger and Eric Clapton. I expected Nicolas Sarkozy to do a lot of devisive things when he assumed office, but to divorce his wife and marry Carla Bruni seemed as probable as him invading Germany.

France takes pride in its view of sex as one of life’s basic pleasures. When I ribbed Mr. P about the Sarkozy-Bruni union, he initially defended Sarkozy for this reason and pointed to Carla Bruni’s vague ties to the art world. But then, like most French, Mr. P expressed bewilderment and disapproval for the actions of his President. Yes, Sarkozy deserves to have a personal life, but did he have to marry a supermodel so soon after his divorce? Not only does it hint of a world leader wasting his time and energy on his mid-life crisis, it has made him unseemly tabloid fodder.

And wow. What a crap singer Carla Bruni is. Like Belinda Carlisle without the passion.

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By Meredith – February 12, 2008

Drainpipes

Yesterday Mr. P and I were going into Boston on the Red Line. The train car was almost empty except for three young men wielding a camcorder affixed to a tripod. One of the young men had his face painted white with flecks of black, like a mime, though he had no other tell-tale mime accouterments. He sat down near us and his friends sat across the aisle and pointed the camera at him. Except for some whispering between the two cameramen, none of them spoke a word.

Normally I don’t stare at people on the T, but the video camera invited me to gawk unabashed at the trio. To my disappointment, the mime did not make any overtly mime-like movements; he sat motionless with his hands on his knees and slowly moved his head from the floor to the ceiling. Once he stood up and I braced myself for action, but he soon sat down and resumed his stoic posture.

The train picked up more passengers as it passed through Cambridge. At Park Street, the mime rose and glided through the doors, followed by his friends and the curious eyes of a dozen spectators. I turned to Mr. P and said what I had been dying to say the whole time: “Did you notice how freaking tight their pants were?”

Yes, to me, the incredibly tight skinny pants made a bigger impression than the white face paint or the camcorder. I couldn’t get over how snug the denim cinched their skinny legs right down to their flat Converse-like sneakers. It seemed a profound generational fashion statement, probably born out of cargo-pant-backlash, that I couldn’t relate to at all. Except when I’m skiing in my sexy pants, I like my pants roomy and grungy. Woe, I’m old.

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By Meredith – February 11, 2008