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Tremblement de terre

All my life, I’ve wanted to be in an earthquake. Yes, I know earthquakes are deadly and destructive — one of Earth’s consequential revenges on the parasitic creatures that pilfer her largess and upend her symmetry — but I’ve always wanted to experience the earth quaking. In French, the term for “earthquake” is tremblement de terre, a similarly behooving term for what is happening: the trembling of earth. It is scared. It is beholden to abnormal forces. Our normally-comely and gracious planet is out of control. It’s like when Britney Spears shaved her head, only on a much more monumental scale. It is a taste of apocalypse.

Plus, earthquakes always sounded fun, so long as you avoid getting buried in a pile of rubble or incinerated in fire caused by a disrupted gasline. Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, like a weathered trampoline. Of course, if I really wish to experience recoiling ground, I should move to California and egg on the Big One. But Boston still does afford enough perks that I can resist the San Andreas siren song and remain in mostly faultless New England.

And then… today. A rare opportunity. A 5.0-magnitude Canadian earthquake occurs 300 miles from Boston today at 1:41pm (here). I know exactly what I was doing at 1:41pm: I was preparing for a 2pm meeting about Microsoft Word templates for the Content Development team by reviewing the previous template-less documents on my laptop while drinking a cup of hot ginger tea to help digest the pork-and-cabbage that I had for lunch.

The earth quaked, the earth trembled, and I didn’t feel a freaking thing.

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By Meredith – June 23, 2010

Bleu Blanc Blah

Need I say more?

After today’s beyond dismal World Cup performance — both on and off the soccer pitch — we couldn’t get the French flag down fast enough (I don’t think it will be seeing the light of day anytime soon.) If any of my neighbors ask me about it, I’ll claim it was a flag for the Netherlands.

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By Meredith – June 22, 2010

Gentleman’s Farm

The garden is thriving in our narrow patch of dirt in the backyard. It’s been nonstop lettuce and kale for the past week, and we’ve nary put a dent in the mounting green globules that have flourished from seed under our careful attention.

Baby Kale and Lettuce

Baby Kale and Lettuce

Lord Amherst once said, “There are three easy ways of losing money – racing is the quickest, women the most pleasant, and farming the most certain.” Pope John XXIII (ruled 1958-63) riffed on a similar theme, saying “Italians come to ruin most generally in three ways, women, gambling, and farming. My family chose the slowest one.”

Indeed, what with all the money we’ve spent on soil, seeds, fertilizer, gardening equipment… and all the time we’ve spent on planting, watering, weeding… we could’ve easily and more cheaply gone to the store and bought some freaking cabbage.

Lettuce and Cabbage

It being mid-June, everything is green like spring, except for the red chard, which burns like blood and wine.

Swiss Chard

The majority of my ancestors probably spent their lives indentured to agriculture, praying, coaxing their crops to harvest. We cultivate for hobby, and then complain when the bumper crop of lettuce enslaves us to salads for a solid month.

Next Round of Lettuce

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By Meredith – June 21, 2010

The Lost Ball at Crane Beach

We wiled away the hot, sunny Saturday afternoon at Crane Beach (here) with hundreds if not thousands of other blissed-out beachgoers. After frolicking in the waveless, chilly but bearable water in the low-tide sand flats, we beached ourselves on our chairs, opened magazines, closed eyes, and innocuously spied on our neighbors as the encroaching tide compressed the crowd into a narrowing strip of flesh-congested sand. Yes, it’s summer.

Camped next to us was a frenetic family of five — three single-digit aged boys, a rail-thin mother who moved like a cagey hawk, and a pot-bellied father who periodically roused himself from his sun stupor to weakly discipline his boisterous brood. Within the first 20 minutes of their arrival, the boys went swimming three times, started to build a sand castle, got reprimanded for inadvertently squirting strangers with a water gun, finished a bag of Teddy Grahams, buried a towel in the sand, and had the aforementioned water gun taken away from them. The boys howled as their father slipped it under his beach chair, saying repeatedly “Your actions will have consequences.” Their mother tried to distract them with grapes before they remembered they were at the beach and scrambled into the water.

After about an hour, their father emerged completely from his torpor and was goaded by his exhausted wife to take the boys into the water to play catch with a basketball-sized inflatable ball. Not two minutes later, one of the boys returned to inform his mother — who was attempting to bask in the sun, desperately — that “Dad overthrew the ball, and he’s not going to get it! He’s just letting it go!”

Everyone within a 25-foot radius of the boom-voiced boy looked out to the ocean to see said-Father walking towards the shore as the ball floated towards the boundary buoys.

“I CAN’T believe he’s NOT going to GET MY BALL!” the boy said in a shrill voice dripping with contempt. His mother acted utterly disinterested in the loss of the ball, probably because they were literally wallowing in a pile of cheap plastic toys including several other balls of various sizes.

I was bothered by the environmental implications — we’re lucky enough to be enjoying pristine sea water on a beautiful beach, and this fatty but otherwise able-bodied guy can’t swim less than 20 feet to prevent a sack of petrochemicals from littering the ocean? Man, if you’re not a part of the solution, you’re a part of the goddamn problem.

Perhaps Mr. P was thinking the same thing, or perhaps he saw a challenge. “I’m going to get that ball,” he said quietly to me as he grabbed his goggles and strode to the water in his Speedo. As he shuffled slowly out into the cool water, he passed the father and his other two sons coming back to their towels.

“It’s your fault! You overthrew the ball!” one boy said, pointing a finger at his father. “Dad, you’re a jerk!”

The father reacted with a sharp “Don’t talk that way to me!” but then proceeded to defend himself, explaining that the ball was moving too fast to retrieve and it was too dangerous. (I cannot imagine what would have happened if me or my siblings called my father a jerk, but I suspect we wouldn’t be staying at the beach very much longer.)

“But THAT guy is going to get it!” another son said, pointing to Mr. P as he steadily swam towards the ball, which was almost passed the boundary buoys.

“He IS going to go get it!” the oldest boy said. I don’t think they knew that Mr. P was the guy sitting next to them on the shore, but suddenly, their father looked pretty weak. Mr. P is a pretty strong outdoor swimmer, and their father was ripping into a bag of potato chips.

Mr. P periodically stopped swimming to spot the ball, which had floated past the buoys. Not wanting to get whistled at by a lifeguard, he turned around and started swimming back to the shore. With no hope of getting the ball back, the boys started demanding that their father buy them another ball that afternoon.

I ran out into the water to meet Mr. P as he came in. “Good effort,” I told him. “Although you really made that other guy look weak in front of his kids.”

We were in no rush to return to the beach, to the familial squabbling and the hot glare of the sun. Mr. P chased me around the water with his cold wet arms, until I became accustomed enough to the cool water that I let myself be caught. Then he gave me his goggles and suggested that I swim around for a bit while he headed back to the beach.

“Tell them I’m going to get the ball,” I called. “And then tell them ‘finder’s keepers, losers weepers, brats.'”

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By Meredith – June 20, 2010

Gender Guesser

A colleague was praising my writing style. “It’s very clean and neat, like a machine,” she said, laughing slightly at her unusual complement.

“Yes, it, uh, well 10 years of technical writing plays a part,” I said. “Quite frankly, I think I’ve turned into a robot.” Laughing again, a little too heartily.

Actually, I might have turned into… a man. I’ve been playing around today with the Gender Guesser (here), a text analyzer that predicts the author’s gender based on word usage and grammatical choices.

I’ve plugged 5 pieces of writing to the Gender Guesser and it keeps saying I’m a man — with sometimes up to 75% certainty.

To test its validity, I tried some other people’s writing. I did some from the nutty English bloke at 27b/6 (here), and found 3 out of 4 tests identified him as a European Male.

I tried some of the editorial rants from Jezebel (here), which were mostly judged as “weak female” (a wording that would enrage the Jezzies).

I tried some posts from Sarah of Que Sera Sera (here) (though I had to dig a little for some substantive posting, as girlfriend’s been lacking lately) and it was all female. And she’s, like, one of the funniest bloggers ever.

I tried this very post, and the pronouncement was… too few words.

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By Meredith – June 18, 2010

Enigmatic Pelota

What I don’t understand about the World Cup: When I watch the Spanish-language broadcast on Univision, every other word is “pelota” (ball). But when I watch ESPN at the gym, the English-accented announcers never, ever use the word “ball.” I mean, why would you need to? “He passes to him… He kicks… He blocks…” The ball is so central to the game that it does not bear mentioning. Except, apparently, in Spanish.

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By Meredith – June 17, 2010

Blood, Spit, and Plaque

Most of the worst jobs involve other people’s bodily fluids. Bathroom attendants, porta-potty servicers, amusement park vomit janitors, urinalysis technicians, prostitutes, Bikram yoga teachers who must touch sweaty body parts to make adjustments, facial tissue testers, bathroom tissue testers, animal inseminators…. you couldn’t pay me enough. Unless you were paying me six figures and giving me frequent wine breaks. But why would you do that? There’s a recession going on.

I thought about all the horrible jobs involving bodily fluids during my semi-annual teeth-cleaning at the dentist, as the hygienist violently scaled and planed my teeth with a sharp metal pick. “Your gums look fabulous,” she told me, and I tried to look modest — a hard emotion to convey with a wide-open mouth.

“But right here, near these two teeth, you have a significant plaque build-up,” she explained, digging away. “I think it’s because these teeth are misaligned, so a pocket of plaque formed that flossing just can’t get to it. Let me show you.”

She lowered the mirror attached to the overhead light, and to my infinite horror, my mouth was completely bathed in blood, which gushed from the plaque pocket like a Gulf Cost oil leak. Mr. Thirsty sucked away at the pool of spit and blood that formed under my tongue as the hygienist showed me how loosely connected the gums were to these two teeth. Then, she proceeded to gut them… without raising the mirror. Fascinated, I watched as she scooped away at the inflamed, bloody gums without hesitation or loathing.

I had a new respect for this woman and her profession. Here is this middle-mannered, forty-something woman, one minute inquiring about my summer vacation plans, the next minute disemboweling my mouth… all in the name of dental hygiene.

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By Meredith – June 16, 2010

Buy Local Hot Yoga

The good news: A yoga studio just opened about three blocks from my home. Joyous ommmms. No more hyper-stressful rush hour odysseys into Somerville or Cambridge, my eyes glued alternately to the unyielding bumper of the car in front of me and the clock. Ten minutes until yoga class… nine minutes… will the gridlock let up? Will I find parking? Will there be any space left in the class? Will the class afford enough relaxation to cancel out the damaging levels of stress necessitated by getting to the class? Wouldn’t it just be healthier to go home and watch Seinfeld re-runs?

The bad news: The yoga studio that just opened about three blocks from my home is a hot yoga studio that heats classes up to 100 degrees. Just in time for summer! I’ve taken enough Bikram yoga classes to know that vigorous yoga in a hot, humid room causes me to literally sweat rivers. Of course, that’s the point — the profuse sweating supposedly helps flush toxins out of the body (and if you believe that, I have some magic anti-cellulite cream I’d like to sell you).

This yoga studio seems a lot like Bikram Yoga, what with the heat and the same sequences of poses, but this isn’t a Bikram-certified studio. Rather, the owners seem to be renegade Bikram enthusiasts who saw a gaping hole in the hot yoga market and decided to open their own place… and make the wife the chief instructor. If opening a coffee shop is the secret ambition of every coffee shop denizen, then opening a yoga studio is the parallel dream of yoga junkies. “Imagine… I could just hang out and do yoga and sweat as much as I want, and make money for doing it!”

The pursuit of money is, of course, a secondary goal to the pursuit of enlightenment, but money is a necessity. The studio has only been open a week and I’m already worrying about its existence based on the two classes I’ve attended. The Saturday morning class consisted solely of me and a similarly-aged man who seemed to have traveled from a distance out of personal loyalty to the owners. The Monday night class consisted of me, a Bikram veteran, and an older woman who had trouble holding many of the poses and spent much of the 90-minute class cowering in child’s pose.

I can’t blame her, really. The co-owner was instructing on Monday night and I instantly disliked her for her smugly-serene drone and how she forcefully adjusted me into deeper poses (unlike the Saturday morning instructor, who would reassuring massage us with supportive hands). I mean, is it really healthy to goad people into intense exercise in 100-degree heat? Frequently she would instruct us to hold a pose “For five… four… keep your lower belly tucked in and the outer edge of your left foot grounded. Three… Make sure your hips are squared to the front of the room. Two…direct your gaze at the ceiling. Keep your shoulders down and your fingers spread open. Create space between your fingers. Every pose should create space…” And I’m there, sweating pouring down my face, my legs, my chest, willing her to say “One” so I can release the pose and mop myself up with my sodden towel. It was about as relaxing as jogging on an endless desert road.

“Take breathes without an agenda,” she instructed, causing my next breath to have a very distinct agenda: To stifle a giggle. At the end of the class, she beamed into our sweat-soaked faces and proclaimed, “It’s been very special practicing with you all today.” Special? Was it the way that sweat cascaded down my back as she made manual adjustments on my shoulder muscles? Or was it how I resisted her attempts to fiddle with my perfectly fine Warrior II?

I’ll support my local hot yoga studio, but in definite moderation, because July and August are upon us. If I want to sweat, I’ll go outside.

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By Meredith – June 15, 2010

World Cup, Day 3

Cruelly, the weather is great on weekdays, and sours on the weekends. The seasonally-cool intermittent rain is a good excuse to stay indoors and watch the World Cup.

Is it just me, or is America beginning to take notice of the World Cup? No, you’re right. It’s just me, rooting in earnest (and ultimately in vain) for Algeria to prevail over Slovenia (the only country in the world with “love” in its name.)

Since we don’t have ESPN, and since I don’t feel comfortable hanging out in bars at 10 in the morning, we must watch most of the games on Univision, the Spanish-language channel. I’m trying not to absorb too much Spanish because it screws with my French retention.  Every other word is “La pelota,” which happens to be the first Spanish word that I learned in middle school. But I’m rapidly learning other words, like “falta” (foul), “cabezazo” (ball hit with the head), and “Ooooooouuuuuuuuhhhhhhh!” (missed attempt at a goal.)

Yesterday’s big US versus England game was on network television. It’s not often that Mr. P will be all “Rah, rah, America,” but apparently the world of soccer is the only place where the USA is less objectionable than England… probably because the English want it so bad. (12% of English fans would give up sex for a year to see their team win the World Cup, here). Because England hasn’t won since 1966, they feel entitled to win… which is why the NY Post headline today read “USA Wins 1-1.”

Yes, England is a better team, and the USA was lucky to score a goal off the bobbling, buttery hands of English Goalie Robert Green. But make no mistake: Luck is a personal attribute like any other. To have good luck is no different than having a loud voice, a bad temper, a proclivity for sweets, or the ability to kick a soccer ball. You can’t win a World Cup solely on luck, but you certainly can’t win a World Cup without it.

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By Meredith – June 13, 2010

Pour Yourself a Cup of World

Eight years ago, one Sunday morning at dawn, my then-boyfriend and I were awaken in our Allston apartment by hundreds of singing, drinking, jubilant Brazilians in a pharmacy parking lot across the street. They were waving Brazilian flags, dancing to music blaring from car radios, and repeatedly and randomly cheering at seemingly nothing.

“Did Brazil, like, win a war?” I asked my boyfriend, who seemed intent on pretending that mini-Carnaval wasn’t occurring 100 feet from our bed.

“World Cup,” he muttered, squeezing the pillow over his ears. “Fucking soccer.”

That morning, I sat on the fire escape for hours with coffee and cigarettes, contemplating the frenzied crowd as they celebrated Brazil’s 2-0 win over Germany in a match that took place in Japan. I had heard of the World Cup before, but this was the first time I understood the enormity of the World Cup. As America slumbered, indifferent and surfeited on their own major league sports, the rest of the world was captivated…by soccer?!

Four years later, I was in no danger of having my sleep interrupted by World Cup victory parties, because I was in France. Mr. P and I would stroll the deserted Parisian streets after dinner on fine summer nights, listening to the cries and yells that wafted from the apartments onto the street. Then, when the game would be 2/3rds over, we’d return to the hotel room to watch the rest of the match. Before Mr. P’s head exploded.

And now, again. The World Cup is upon us.

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By Meredith – June 10, 2010