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The No’easter

Another Nor’easter is walloping the mid-Atlantic, and this time Boston was forecast to receive its fair share of snow. At first I heard it would be 4 inches, beginning in later afternoon. Then it was 8 inches, beginning at noon. And yesterday, I heard a foot starting at 6am.

Instead of my typical childish excitement over the snow, I was dismayed over the timing… ironically, because today I was to visit an elementary school that uses my company’s software. But the doom-filled forecast prompted the school to close, and my boss urged me to stay home to avoid the mess that the local news was promising would materialize shortly in the region.

So I stayed home. No snow as of 10am, 11am… noon came and tiny flakes started to fall, but the flakes turned into non-accumulating freezing drizzle by 1pm.

For about five minutes, I slipped into unproductive “snow day” mode: I tried watching Jerry Springer. “Lesbian Sexcapades.” Apparently Jerry has stopped giving his guests chairs? Sadie and Heather, two strippers who met on the job, team up to dump Heather’s boyfriend because he refuses to participate in threesomes. He appears on stage in a business suit, pleading with Heather to give up her wanton lifestyle. The two ladies share a passionate same-sex kiss (on daytime network television!?) and the disposed boyfriend stalks off the stage in despair. “What are you gonna do now, ladies?” Jerry asks, and the two ladies immediately peel off their body socks and begin squirting glow-in-the-dark paint on ach other as the stage lights dim, and they cavort and roll around while the audience howls in approval.  Okay. Time to be productive.

One of my quiet New Year’s Resolutions is to learn how to use Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator (I have the entire CS3 suite installed on my Mac and it only ever gets used to resize photos and make CD covers). It’s a quiet resolution because it seems like one of those good-intentioned vows of self-improvement that never comes to fruition, but now I have a genuine need to use both programs for my work.   So I spent a few hours on the Photoshop tutorial. I learned the mechanics of the lasso (if not the art), as evident by:

2:30 pm, it’s drizzling, still no accumulation…

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By Meredith – February 10, 2010

Drink Apple Cider or Die

A fierce debate is being waged in New Hampshire. Two opposing factions are facing off, staring each other down, digging into the trenches for what may prove to be a long bloody public debate fraught with emotion. Is it health care? Taxes? Gay marriage? A state law that would finally require all motorcyclists to don helmets?

No, this battle is brewing over the declaration of New Hampshire’s official state beverage (here). Last week, a statehouse hearing was held over Senate Bill 1206, which would name apple cider as New Hampshire’s beverage. A group of elementary school students from Jaffrey testified on apple cider’s behalf: it’s regional, it’s nutritious, and it would be unique among state beverages.

Opposing the bill are a group of hell-raisers from Giford, who contend that milk should be New Hampshire’s state beverage, despite the fact that 18 other states have already annointed themselves with milk. Milk supporters claim that milk is healthier than apple cider and that it plays an important part of New Hampshire history — weak arguments that do not completely divert suspicions that this counter-movement is the work of a powerful milk lobby that seeks any advantage, however token, in this challenging economic environment for dairy.

I am totally opposed to milk becoming New Hampshire’s state beverage. First of all, when I think of New England dairy, I think of Vermont. Second of all, when I think of New Hampshire, I think of freezing my butt off in the White Mountains in all seasons of the year. Never once have I climbed a mountain and wished for a glass of milk.

I studied the list of state beverages on Wikipedia. Many of the milk states are places that I’d never associate with milk production. For example, New York (no Cosmopolitian or the Long Island Iced Tea?), Kentucky (despite being known worldwide for its bourbon) and both Carolinas (moonshine). A deadlock evidently occurred in Nebraska, which has two state beverages: milk and Kool-Aid (invented by an industrious Nebraskan who engineered it into a powder to save of shipping costs, a feat that was still not enough to overcome milk’s electoral grip).

Perhaps the lamest state beverage is Indiana, which inexplicably chose water. Hear ye, hear ye! Our state beverage is water! Oh, I’m sure Indiana had some rationale — austerity perhaps, or wanting to pay tribute to the most vital of all beverages, or maybe water was the surprise upset darkhorse victor in a showdown between Sprite and lighter fluid.

There are a number of All-American beverages that have yet to be claimed. Who wants to be representin’ for Slim Fast, Crystal Light, Jolt cola, and Tang? Iowa has yet to chose a state beverage, so I’ll proffer corn syrup.

Massachusettes opted for cranberry juice, even though we’re only the second largest producer of cranberries (Wisconsin is the cranberry king, but they, of course, are a milk state). Cranberry juice is the logical choice, which is one of the reasons why I like living here. Massachusetts selects such duh state emblems — the state flower is the Mayflower, the state fish is the cod, the state dog is the Boston terrier, the state dessert is the Boston creme pie, the state muffin is the corn muffin, and the state cookie is the chocolate chip (invented at the Toll House restaurant in Whitman in 1930). Hear that, America? The chocolate chip cookie is ours, so just back the fuck up.

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By Meredith – February 9, 2010

Blogging Super Bowl XLIV

No, I didn’t actually know that Super Bowl 44 = Super Bowl XLIV. I had to look that up. My grasp of Roman numerals isn’t very firm, but then again, I learned them in elementary school. If it was really that important, I would have received a refresher between then and now.

I missed the pre-game show… on purpose. Hey, minus the commercials, the time outs, the re-plays, and the commentary, the game of football lasts one hour (4 15-minute quarters). It’s bad enough I’m watching to whole 4-hour Super Bowl bonanza, I’m not going to abide by the 100-hour pre-game show.

I turned on the television in time for Queen Latifah’s soulful rendition of “America the Beautiful,” which was infinitely better than Carrie Underwood’s strained rendition of the national anthem. I’m gonna honor America by pushing the boundary of my lung capacity!

Lots of advertisements for movies that come out in the summer. Yeah, I’ll put it on my calendar.

I love watching NBA players hawk McDonalds. Such blatant hypocrisy — as if eating that crap will foster the ability to elegantly dunk basketballs — surely only accentuates the importance of proper fuel for athletic performance.

In the Super Bowl, the pre-game coin toss is billed as the “Coin Toss Ceremony.” With a special coin! The Saints call heads and win the toss. The NFC has won the coin toss for 13 straight years, which is as statistically improbable as Peyton Manning deciding to run the ball himself.

Nearing the end of the first quarter… the Saints look weak. The Colts look strong. The Saints are beginning to look like that the ain’ts.

Monster’s commercial featured… a fiddle-playing beaver.

I have no idea what GoDaddy.com does for a living, but their sexy commercial with lesbian overtones totally compels me to find out.

“‘The Who’ will rock the Super Bowl Bridgestone Half Time show,” says the teaser advertisements during the first half. I can hear kids across America asking, “The who?”

After a devastating Drew Brees sack, the Saints eeked out a field goal and got on the board, making the score 10-3. And then… the Saints go for it on 4th down and get stopped one yard away from the end zone. “This game sucks,” Mr. P declared angrily, storming into the kitchen to see to his Super Bowl Stew.

Whoever is in charge of Budweiser’s ad campaign should be reassigned to QVC, because they show an aptitude for selling crap to dumb people.

I liked the CareerBuilder commercial about “casual Fridays,” where casual=underwear. I like it because it makes me imagine all my co-workers coming to work in their underwear. Which would be hilarious.

Dove soap for men? What next, Old Spice for women?

I was disappointed by the Doritos Half Time Report. I was expecting the cadre of football experts to be, you know, eating Doritos in between all of the yak, yak, yak.

What can I say about The Who half-time show? I mean, damn, they’re pretty old to be rocking and rolling and singing about wasted teenagers. Maybe if we blind the audience with excessive flashing lights, they won’t notice we’re 65 years old. And while I do like all of the songs they played, I just don’t like watching any performance when I suspect that the band’s clothes were chosen by a multi-generational panel.  But whatever. My father just turned 67 and he digs out neighbor’s driveways from epic snowstorms in his spare time.

The onside kick by the Saints at the start of the 3rd quarter was pretty brilliant. I loved the ensuing chaos on the field, and couldn’t believe that the players didn’t start brawling and punching in frustration. What restraint!

My attention during the 3rd quarter was totally decimated by dinner — Mr. P’s Super Bowl Stew, which is lamb and veal bits slow-cooked in a Le Cruset along with olives, dried prunes, Parmesan rinds, onions, broth, and olives — and the subsequent sips of post-dinner wine distracted me completely. Before I knew it, it was the 4th quarter and the Colts were leading 17-16. Is it just me, or do the commercials lag around then? Is America too busy digging into the Papa Johns and Budweiser that they were enticed into buying during the 1st quarter?

It turned out being a decent football game. When the Saints pulled ahead 24-17 with their touchdown/2-point conversion, and the prospect of a Super Bowl overtime became very real, I was still convinced the Saints would lose it. But then… the Manning pick. The Saints pulled ahead 31-17… where they stayed, the victors.

Loved the Audi TDI commercial, with the Eco Green police. Almost as sweet as watching Peyton Manning trot off the field in total defeat. Thank you, Saints.

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By Meredith – February 7, 2010

Super Bowl: the Battle of the Vailglorious

I haven’t blogged about football much this year, probably because my beloved Patriots haven’t moved me to the emotional highs that they have in years past. Or the emotional lows; I wasn’t phased when the Patriots lost games this season, because losing was entirely within my realm of expectations, whereas in previous seasons, I was so convinced of their supremacy that any demonstration of the contrary simply crushed my whole system of faith. The acceptance that Tom Brady is not so God-like without a good defense and that Bill Belichick is not an evil genius had been gradual, buffered somewhat by the 2008 season in which Matt Cassel took over as quarterback for an injured Brady.

But despite the Patriot’s dismal playoff performance, I have still enjoyed the post season thus far. The two NFL teams that I despise the most played each other, prompting intense soul-searching during which I realized that I hate the Jets a little bit more than I hate the Colts. Because New England’s rivalry with Indianapolis has always been gentlemanly: fierce opponents, but with respect for each other’s abilities and unspoken gratitude for the excellent match-up. But the Jets are a fundamentally inferior team of whining tattle tales with a crass fair-weathered fan base who would rather party in the concessions area than watch their team play football. Even if the Jets had a perfect record, they would still be LOSERS.

So I found myself cheering for Peyton Manning and the Colts for three uncomfortable hours. And I can’t say I love the Saints, who roundly trounced the Patriots with gloating pridefulness earlier this season. But when I found myself contemplating a Colts-Saints Superbowl match-up, there was only a tiny bit of hesitancy before throwing my insignificant mental support behind the Saints. Strangely, there is no real underdog this year, although the Saints probably qualify as such by virtue of their playoff inexperience.

Honestly, I don’t care who wins as long it’s not the Jets. God, I hate the Jets.

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By Meredith – February 7, 2010

Snow Envy

So the Mid-Atlantic region was hit with another major snowstorm (after last December’s Christmas Interruptus), this one so epic that it has been dubbed “Snowpocalypse” and “Snowmageddon” — not exactly catchy monikers that roll off the tongue, but it shows more creativity than “the Blizzard of 2010.” The snow is reportedly heavy, it’s wet, and it just won’t stop falling from the goddamn sky.

And here in New England, we saw nary a flake of snow. We observed our southern neighbors’ flustered frenzy with amused jealousy, like an insecure jock watching the head cheerleader flirt with a nerd. When’s the last time she showed me that kind of attention? Oh sure, we’re had a few inches there, a snow squall there, but 30 inches wasted on that wimpy Washington? He’s not equiped to handle it, let alone appreciate it.

Here in New England, we’d know exactly what to do with 30 inches.

Today we went XC skiing in southern New Hampshire. Pitiful, really, that we’re reduced to skiing on 2-3 inches of icy granules — about as fun as taking a leisurely stroll on a highway shoulder — while, meanwhile, the state of Virgina has run out of shovels.

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By Meredith – February 6, 2010

Surrealistic Cubicle

Last year, everyone gave us calendars for Christmas. My mother-in-law, my sister, my father, and my friend all gifted very nice paper calendars for us to mark the cruelly relentless passage of time. Additionally, since we never get calendars for Christmas, we had already bought a calendar in early December to start tracking the January appointments and events that had already begun to accumulate.

So, with calendars to spare, we’ve been hanging them up everywhere. I decided to hang one in my cubicle, and I chose the Salvador Dali calendar from my mother-in-law. The Dali calender seemed to strike the right professional note of being creative almost to the point of madness. Also, I wanted to see if my office had any eccentric art buffs who would point out the irony of a calendar featuring the work of a man who rejected time as being an irrelevant constraint, as evidenced by his infamous theme of melting clocks (showcased in the month of January, incidentally.)

But just in time for President’s Day, February features Dali’s work of Abraham Lincoln. Actually, it only looks like Lincoln from 10 feet away:

Up close, it becomes a picture of Dali’s wife Gala contemplating Mediterranean Sea, completely bare-assed.

It’s elegant, it’s artistic, but it’s a nude butt. Since we are an education software company, and since I’ve worked there less than 3 months, I showed it to my boss and asked her if I should cover her up with a Post-It. She laughed and jokingly suggested a grape leaf.

The Abraham Lincoln picture has attracted some attention. My co-workers are amazed at how a portrait of Abraham Lincoln morphs into a completely new painting when you get up close, although I always cringe as they inspect the painting up close and realize they are staring a women’s naked buttocks. I brace myself for surprise, indignation, perhaps outrage and a sexual harassment suit. But invariably, people simply wonder what statement Dali is trying to make about Abraham Lincoln. “That Lincoln was actually a very beautiful woman,” I explain.

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By Meredith – February 4, 2010

Here She Comes, Mrs. Fringe America

Like Paul Revere riding his horse through moonlit Massachusetts towns to alert the sleeping citizenry that the British army has mobilized, today the local Boston press is sounding the alarm: Sarah Palin is coming! Sarah Palin is coming!

Yes, today in an op-ed piece in USA Today, Sarah Palin said a whole buncha things, including that on April 14 she will step foot in our stalwart Blue-State liberal stronghold (future President Scott Brown not withstanding) as one of several appearances in support of the Tea Party Movement. Palin is joining forces with the Teabaggers in order to propagate “a vision that promotes common sense solutions to out-of-control spending and an out-of-touch political establishment.” Isn’t it funny how Palin subtly warps the meaning of “common sense” to mean “vague notions with no basis in reality that sound good when spoken in a folksy accent?”

I guess it was only a matter of time before the Queen Bee conservative wingnut commandeered her hive. Going rogue, indeed!

I will not go into an in-depth analysis of the Tea Party movement, a once-fringe band of angry conservatives that is steadily gaining mainstream support. Although I disagree with most of their platitudes, and although it scares the bejesus out of me to think of all the gun-carrying lunatics who identify themselves as  “a soldier in the cause” (to cull Palin’s term), I believe that public protest is a sacred American right, and I wish that mainstreams liberals had been half as demonstrative of their outrage during the Bush years.

Since Palin will be visiting Boston just in time for Patriot’s Day, I just wanted to take issue with the Tea Party movement’s name, which is obviously meant to conjure the Revolutionary-era event in which Bostonians dressed as Indians dumped tea into the Fort Point channel. The popular notion is that the colonists were protesting high taxes, but actually, they were protesting taxation without representation within the British parliament. And, Teabaggers, unless you’re a resident of Washington DC or one of our little pseudo-colonies, you do have representation. So if you’re unhappy with pork-spending stimulus socialist spending, vote for someone who agrees with you. And if that person loses the election, that’s called “democracy.” This is not a monarchy, a dictatorship, and it’s sure as hell not Nazi Germany. So stop promoting your anti-government agenda under the guise of “patriotic indignation” when it is, in fact, pure anger.

I might have to go and see Sarah Palin throw some tea in Boston, just to guage if the people coming out in support are really upstanding citizens who are sick of Washington’s ineptitude, or if it’s a bunch of New Hampshire hicks.

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By Meredith – February 3, 2010

Pool Schmool

I’ve been honoring my self-commitment to swim at the pool twice a week, although some weeks I double-count my weekend sessions. Although I still enjoy swimming, my initial enthusiasm for the pool has waned somewhat, as the monotony of tallying countless laps sets in, as my hair becomes chlorine fried, and as I grow annoyed with the pool crowd at my gym.

On the weekends, the pool is crammed full of screaming children. Why do all kids shriek, yelp, and holler when they’re in a pool? I mean, these look like the type of well-heeled youth who can control themselves in school, church, and restaurants, so why do they suffer an utter breakdown in self-discipline during their swimming lesson? Kids, this isn’t little Debbie Jones’s pool party, this is a serious nautical facility. So stop flailing around in mock distress or trying to surf on your kickboard before I dunk you.

Even worse than kids in the pool are the kids in the locker room. The women’s locker room is bad enough on weekday mornings — you can’t move an inch without blocking some rich bitch’s view of herself in the mirrors — but changing my clothes in front of a bunch of 8 year olds is a wee uncomfortable. They look at everything with a frank, probing curiosity. There I am, fresh from the shower and preparing to put my bra on, and there’s a prepubescent staring at me. Our eyes met, and she doesn’t look away! She just keeps looking, like “Let’s see what you got.” God, kid, why are you making me be a pervert?

Last Saturday I was soaking in the whirlpool, which is adjacent to the showers. I could hear two ‘tween girls talking as they took a shower together. Kids around this age have yet to develop self-consciousness, and they either don’t realize or don’t care that other people can hear them.  “Do you know about hair and periods?” one girl asked the other. “Yes,” the other girl said hesitantly. “My mom told me all about hair and periods,” the first girl said. “But that’s all she told me. She said she would tell me about sex when I get hair and periods.”

The adults at the pool are a little better. At least, they are quieter and don’t gawk at each other’s bodies. Usually when I get to the pool, I have to ask someone if I can split a lane with them. This is a delicate task, as there seems to be very few “average” swimmers like myself. They are either propelling themselves through the pool with shark-like velocity or floating in the center of the lane like a clump of seaweed. Once a rather large elderly woman got in my lane and began sidestroking across the pool. In the time it took her to go 25 yards, I did about 75 yards. Both her body and her swimming style made it difficult to pass her without slowing down and skimming the side of the lane line. Once as I passed her, her gigantic leg whipped out like some sort of primordial sea monster, nipping the side of my thigh with its claw.

The strong swimmers don’t like to share lanes, and will — deliberately or not — ignore anyone who is attempting to ask them to split a lane. What are you going to do, grab their big toe as they flip-turn?

But my own worst enemy in the pool is, of course, myself. With no television or music to distract me, no instructor or coach to motivate me, and no clock or counter to free my mind from the tedium of counting laps, it is difficult to choose the pool over, say, yoga class or a stationary bike with the Bravo channel. Because when I’m in the pool, the only thing to do is obsess over how time I have left in the pool.

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By Meredith – February 1, 2010

Intelligent Falling

Have you ever been web surfing, and you stumble upon a completely ludicrous news article, and you’re all, like, “Omigod, what is this? What’s going on? Why does this exist?”

That actually happened to me twice today. The first time, I was confusedly reading Evangelical Scientists Refute Gravity With New ‘Intelligent Falling’ Theory before belatedly realizing that I was reading the Onion. (My eyes totally glossed over the masthead, and I’ve read things about Evangelicals that are tons crazier.)

Then, I read this BBC story about how women prisoners in the US are sometimes shackled during childbirth to kept them from “escaping.” Which has all the tragedy and absurdism of an Onion story, but none of the sweet, soothing satire.

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By Meredith – January 31, 2010

REI Garage Sale: Stake your Booty

The quarterly REI Garage was held today at 10am at all Boston-area REI stores. Ah, is there any shopping event more gratifying to thrifty outdoorsy types than the infamous REI Garage Sale, where returned, overstocked, and slightly-damaged merchandise is sold at cut-throat prices? Whose throat would you cut for $30 snowshoes? Well, hopefully you’re not that deranged, but perhaps you would brave single-digit temperatures and sub-zero wind chills in order to queue up for the store opening. You may be even willing to camp overnight to secure a top position in the line and truly show how committed you are to the procurement of cheap sporting equipment.

We arrived at exactly 9am and were surprised that the line was already halfway around the building despite it being 6 degrees. The crowd dwarfed the line at the REI Garage Sale that we attended last spring. I guess word about the REI Garage Sales is steadily spreading, and pretty soon it won’t even be worth the trip to Reading, because the crazies who camp overnight simply run into the store and hoard as much gear as they can get, leaving slim pickings for the several hundred people who follow. And since one hour is just about the limit that I’m willing to stand in line in order to pick at broken, ugly, and/or used crap, I might as well sleep in on Saturday.

But not today. The doors opened and the line poured into the store. I was looking for ski boots, and when I didn’t immediately see any, I became disoriented and wandered around tables full of tents, backpacks, cycling accessories, and other items that I don’t need. I finally ended up in the shoe section, the most chaotic place in the store, with scores of men, women, and children rummaging frantically through the boots, sneakers, and slippers. Some people blindly grabbed what they could. Under these conditions, it is a miracle that I spied a pair of perfectly new winter North Face boots that were exactly my size. No, not a miracle, but fate, because if there’s one thing I lack in my winter wardrobe, it is a rugged pair of snow boots. And North Face, too! I don’t necessarily fetishize North Face, and in fact I resent how mainstream fashion has co-opted North Face gear for their everyday “going to the supermarket” wear, but North Face boots with a price tag for $9.86 are something I’ll get excited about.

$10 Boots

After finding the boots, I ducked over to the women’s clothing racks, which were predictably mobbed. Sifting through the hangers and inspecting each item of clothing was not an option, so I quickly grabbed a half-dozen things that looked like something I might wear. At this point, I’ve only been in the store for about 8 minutes and already nothing is left. I found a quiet place in the store and inspected the clothing in my possession: Oversized sweaters, used hiking shirts, an XS sports bra. Crap. I threw everything back on the rack; it was like tossing guppies into a tank of piranhas. Those maniacal women  simply absorbed everything.

So I made out with my $10 pair of North Face winter boots. And Mr. P? Well, he somehow came away with $30 snowshoes and boots. I wonder whose throat he had to cut for those.

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By Meredith – January 30, 2010