Rage Against the Vegetable Medley

The panacea to all of the world's problems, it appears from my semester of learning, leads to just one thing: The Organic Garden.

Power to the people, an end to big corporations, a mean to improve community health, empowering the elderly, fresh vegetables, improving urban aesthetics, efficient agriculture, sustainable economy, a breaking of dependence, cutting down pollution... chemistry, globalization, health, dining hall advertisements- all roads lead to the organic garden. That same being that made me fork over so much extra money for the cucumber in Hannaford (ok, I don't really know the price of cucumbers and can't tell you how much I was really ripped off, but it seemed really expensive), that same plot that makes the dining hall serve limited but decent and ultimately healthy meals on select days (I mostly skip those meals, but support them in spirit), that same idea, is going to save the world.

I wonder if they've tried planting tomatoes in Iraq. It's worked wonders for the Bo'. Sure we can only eat them when the weather is warm, but we sure are peaceful.

Thank God We're Not In Hell

I wonder if kids at other schools complain about freshly made blueberry pancakes served with a side of mixed berry sauce that holds real Maine blueberries...

(For the less learned and/or those West of the Mississippi, Maine blueberries are much smaller and way better for desserts than the grotesquely large blueberries of the normal variety.)

But back to the title. Thank God we don't go to a school that skimps. And thank God we're not in hell. Or else we wouldn't have any breakfast. Have discovered that the next best thing to three-hour-long dinners and two-hour-long lunches, is the hour-long breakfast. It's perhaps the best meal for conversation, because it is too early in the morning and the mind is too tired to wander aimlessly and be distracted, and there are less people to say 'hi' to, so you can focus on the folks at the table. Was very, very heartbreaking this morning to discover that there were in fact, no banana pancakes today, despite the misleading entry in the online menu (what? I don't check breakfast menus the night before, what are you talking about?). Anthony, too, was disappointed, as someone had apparently called him the night before to inform him of the banana pancakes and gotten him really excited to wake up. In fact, when the rest of the table discovered that the menu had promised banana pancakes, everyone was pretty despondent. Except for Ranwei. But that's because she's a freak. And she liked the blueberry pancakes. And was content with the fried eggs cooked to order. And pumpkin muffin. (Ok, that she wasn't so content with, it was low-fat and tasted 'airy.') And she couldn't see why I couldn't just be happy about my yogurt with peaches. And omelettes. And fine, the blueberry pancakes weren't bad either.
It's amazing the food and times you get to have when you shell out forty-thou to go to school. You get to put the stresses about take homes and exames and papers on hold and sit along the long, wooden tables of Thorne, a black tray in front of each person, sharing stories of kids being stabbed because they were running with scissors, of gossip about professors and of the importance of protective eye gear and dads with a sense of humor.
Imagine how much better it could've been, had we had banana pancakes.

One Day At A Time

Banana pancakes tomorrow! I cannot wait to wake up.

The Customer Is Always Dead

Yes, I have been away. Remember that old Xanga adage about how the number of entries decrease when I have better things to do? Yeah, well, that applies. Except by "better things to do" I mean "swamped with work." Honestly, the past couple of days have been stressful but also so freaking hilarious. It's too bad I can't share any of it. I can, however, tell you about Costco.

Costco loves its customers. And that's why they offer the best selection of everything in bulk. On the Costco webpage (too lazy to link it for you), you can find tabs for sports and rec equipment, wine and food, electronics, and yes, of course, the ol' casket and urn.

I don't know about you, but the question, "WHY, COSTCO? WHY?!" came to mind when I first saw that, along with Rege's concern of "Do I have to buy in bulk?" Well, to answer those questions, here are select highlights from Costco's Casket and Urn FAQ selection.


Q: Why is Costco Wholesale selling caskets?

As a service to our members.

Q: Can we choose other colors or options?

Not at this time. We have selected the most popular styles and colors, with the highest quality linings.

THERE IS NO SCIENTIFIC OR OTHER EVIDENCE THAT ANY CASKET WITH A SEALING DEVICE WILL PRESERVE HUMAN REMAINS


Q: How long before I receive the casket?

A casket ordered on Costco.com will be delivered within three business days (Monday through Friday, excluding holidays) from the date the order is placed (for exceptions see below). If your order is placed by 12:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time (EST), that is considered as one business day.

All purchases are subject to credit card approval before the order is valid. Credit card holds or declines can delay the orders beyond the stated delivery parameters.

Additionally, Acts of God, weather-related conditions and states of emergencies can delay delivery beyond the stated delivery parameters.

(That's golden, the lecture about Acts of God to families of the deceased.)

Some other great questions frequently posed:

Q: Can you order a casket for preplanning purposes? (Save when you buy in bulk!)

Q: What is the sales policy/guarantee? (As in return policy... shudder)

Q: Where do the caskets come from? (When a mommy casket and a daddy casket love each other very much...)

I heart Costco.

Oh Thank Heaven

I could really go for a trip to a 7-11 right now. Not the one downtown, but a Taiwanese one.

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone, and what can I say about it? I read 800+ pages of assigned reading, and then some more pages for my two term papers I am avoiding, all the while completely ignoring my Anal Chem duties. Played Operation for the very first time and racked up some dough. Made a great pun about dough that has since been forgotten, but was no doubt appreciated at the time. Shook hands with members of a band that had better become a lot more famous to keep my story from sinking into lame (I think I was at their house?). Many a cracks were made at the expense of George W., ethnic minorities, and each other. I love being brought together by put downs. Spent a great portion of the week in a purple fleece poncho, because it kept me warm and so long as I closed my eyes whenever I passed by the mirror, I didn't have to see that it was dotted with bright yellow flowers and quite easily the tackiest poncho I have ever seen. In two weeks, I have had three different turkeys, at least four different pies, but not a single minute of Al Roker or the parade. I'm a little Thanksgiving-ed out. Returning from break, I am no more well rested or well prepared than before, but for what it was worth, it was worth all the while. Am I really quoting cheesy songs from the 90's to wrap up my entries instead of thinking up meaningful conclusions? Good riddance, I think I am.

The Game That Dare Not Speak Its Name

One thing I heart about coming home, in addition to the food and the endless flow of shampoo, is getting to see my former Sunday School buddies. Tonight, the Lins were kind enough to invite the college kids over and we had turkey, stuffing, the works, as well as the most amazing sweet potato dish ever that had a fabulous pecan crust. But most of all, we played games, like Operation, Spelling Bee, and Jon and Eric Hurt Each Other With Stuffed Animals. And there's just something about when a group of likeminded Christians get together for Taboo...

Monica (Giving the clues): Uh... when you're eighteen... you can buy this...

Paul: Statutory!

Later...

Jeff: When you've been going out for a long time... when two people are in a relationship for a long time...

Eric: Going all the way!

Corrections

I confess. I was not entirely forthright in my last post. I didn't want to appear as a glutton, so only one of the three images I posted was a food item. But really, these were the three things I had in my mind as Walty lectured:

Treys in 2-D (Last of Three)

Things I Thought About Instead of
Listen to Walty's Lecture

Like Beads Of Blood

Rajiv: What's your class about?
Moi: Globalization. Imperialism of the white man. Sweatshop labor. The usual.
Rajiv: Well, somebody's gotta make them sweatpants.

True dat.

Treys in 2-D (Part II of III)

Three Pretentious Drinks
I Like To Order:

On the Subject of Bruce Lee

He is a good sport.
As is the art of kung fu.
I made a haiku!

Treys In 2-D

Three Sports I Like

Dear Boys Next Door,

Please use words to express your feelings and emotions. That's right, words. Not grunts. Not expletives. And certainly not shouts or loud whooping that catch me offguard as I'm trying to do my homework. You are giving me a heart attack. And please, learn to speak one at a time instead of all crying out at once because you can't really hear each other when you do that and have I mentioned that you scare the bejeebus out of me every time you do that? How many of you are there anyway? You sound a lot louder than three skinny boys. Please review simple phrases like, "I am glad he scored," or "wow, look at that pass," or even, "I am frustrated that he is not playing per my expectations today," and refrain from the simultaneous and spontaneous hollering you all feel compelled to rip. I hope, with simple daily practice, you will one day learn to channel your excitement and frustrations in healthier manners. And maybe my heart will 'ast me until then. Please, I implore you, use words. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Shaking in Terror, But Expressing It With Words

Catch It While You Can

I posted an entry for about an hour last night. Then took it off because I didn't like it. But not before Dusty, with his speedy Mid-Western fingers, commented. So now the world will never know what he said. Or what I said. And it's delicious. Just like corned beef hash. And biscuits. And gravy. Man, other than the whole too physically weak and lazy to do any work, and preferences for staying and waking up late, and possible allergies to animal dander and just dusty conditions overall, I would be awesome on a farm. Just plain awesome. Anyway, what was I saying? Not something snarky. I'm not that kind of person.

Perhaps We Should Swap Names

So I'm telling Little Boss #3 (Sarah) my name tag stories. And her refrain throughout the whole set is, "God, that must be so embarassing," and "That is so inappropriate for a sociologist to say."

Sarah: I feel you get made fun of a lot. Well, no. But professors like to make fun of you a lot.

Say Goodbye, Hello

Because the Bo' is an adorable small liberal arts college, we have things like The Bo' Hello Day, where every student gets a name tag in their mailbox and chances to enter raffles, enjoy popcorn and free pizza, all for wearing the name tag and trying to make campus a friendlier place. And because on top of an absolute geekoid and resident awkardity, I'm also a dork (mostly, I felt bad for the student gov kids that put this together), I actually participated in the day and wore a name tag all day, thus setting me up as an easy target... for professors.

So there we sat, Rege, Mac, and I, all in a row with our name tags on. Apparently, in our class of thirty, only one other kid had a name tag on.

(Professor) BSketch: (reading name tag) Hello, my name is- Why, hello Anthony (Rege). Why do you have that on? Oh hey, you have one, too. And Mike, too! What's this for? Why isn't anyone else wearing one?

Moi: (Feeling the scrutiny and silent snickering of an entire class) It's name tag day.

BSketch: What's name tag day? Why, what's the day supposed to accomplish?

Moi: We don't really know. This is the first one we've ever had.

(someone says something about bring back "the Bo' Hello," and getting to know each other.)

BSketch: That sounds wonderful. Now, who doesn't know Anthony? Raise your hand. (Awkward pause. Someone reluctantly raises a palm.)

BSketch: Ok, now Mike, you two switch seats so they can get to know each other. (BSketch then calls me out, as well as the two Mikes, by name, asking who in the class didn't know us and switching all of us around, so we can have ten minutes to get to know each other. V. cute.)

---- That was one sociologist's approach to name tag day. A chance for a social experiment, and a chance to raise the question of "what does knowing each other really mean," as well as a neat chance to students to interact. Contrast that with Band Man...---

Band Man: How's everyone doing? Again, I don't really care, just obligated to ask.

Class: (mumbles responses)

Band Man: Big Thanksgiving plans?

Moi: Do you care?

Band Man: With Thanksgiving? A little.

(At this point, Pritch gives the Band Man a name tag he made in the Union, where there were stations for name tag decoration. Also attached was a sticker of a globe, because the class is Globalization and Social Change. Band Man asks what the deal is, puts on the name tag, and we explain it...)

Band Man: So you're being bribed to socialize? That's great.

---Then, there was Riley... ---

Riley: Ah. You're one of those kids.

Moi: ?

Riley: The ones with the name tag. Who's putting this together?

Moi: Student government.

Riley: So you're a student government kid.

Moi: No, no, I'm just wearing the tag.

Riley: One of those kids, huh?

Moi: Um...

One day, they will see me as semi-intelligent, articulate, and respectable. One day.

Getting It On

It was an ungodly hour to be on campus. Especially to be in a dining hall. But I had a pre-frosh to drop off and needed some sort of warm liquid to run through my body. So I grabbed a cup. Held it under the drink machine. And pressed for Hot Chocolate. Nothing but gurgles. "I know," EB said, "Sucks, eh?" So I settled for coffee. As I was adding sugar, however, EB walked away, replaced by a new girl who, too, reached for the hot chocolate. Gurgle. Gurgle. "Yeah, I just tried that," I said, trying to sympathize the way EB had done earlier.

And here's the strange part- the girl then pressed this "On" button. And magical things started happening. The machine lit up. It gurgled some more. Then, when the girl pressed for hot chocolate, hot chocolate came forth. I kid you not, I saw it with my own eyes. It was amazing. And there I stood, awestruck, dumbfounded, looking every bit like I didn't know the button existed nor how it operated.

Our Space

Little Bosses #3 and #4, sometimes known as "Sarah" and "Dan," we all share an office space together. The office doesn't really belong to me, as I'm just the little student intern/brat that makes copies, but I don't like to dwell on that aspect. Without much experience in the "real world," (except those weekend marathons), we're just now understanding how we fit into office dynamics and politics, what our exact essences are as office-types.

As of yesterday, here's what we've got:

Sarah: Resident seat of deep embarassment.
Moi: Resident awkward-ity. (I know that's not the real world, genius, that's why it's special.)
Dan: Resident bitterness. (Striving to some day be a real Resident.)

I'm just happy no one sees me as embarassing or bitter. And no one has asked me to trim any ferns yet this year.

They Call Him Cheer

Band Man (addressing the class): Everyone have a nice weekend? I feel obligated to ask, but honestly, I don't really care.

I Ain't Afraid of No Professor

Many times, I think about my yesteryears and come to believe that I have become older, wiser, less easily intimidated, and certainly more beautiful. Then I step into reality and discover all is not so, well, except for the beautiful part. That's always true.

Last year, the Soc/Anthro department hosted several colloquiums, inviting professor candidates to present their research to a intimate group of faculty and students. Being young, short, and stupid, I checked one out, not knowing what I was getting myself into. That one fateful colloquium got me sucked in to a series of three lectures with three candidates. Most intimidating was the fact that only 1-2 other students showed up for the events while at least 4 professors showed up each time, and that after I had shown up once, I was expected to show my face over, and over, and over again. And you thought office hours were awkward. Worst part was that at the end, almost everyone asked questions regarding the lecture and I, too, was expected to raise something intelligent.

Now many moons and suns pass and once again, the department invited select students to meet professor candidates. Believing myself to have matured in my sociology, I decided to check one out again, thinking I knew what to expect. Unfortunately, present me is not much smarter than young me. And this time, I was the lone student in the group. I would not have minded that with an intimate gathering of the Soc folks (as most of them believe me to be their stalkers anyway) but the professor-to-student ratio in the room was 10:1. I was surrounded on all sides. And when it came for the Q&A time, the profs were viscious with their question raising it was impossible to get a hand in, let alone formulate some remaining intelligent question while they all one by one, asked the good ones. By the time I got my words in, I was the pathetic last kid with the weak question that may have vaguely been valid had I had a chance to speak up earlier (Professor the Sketch was expecting me to raise an intelligent question, so I had to have a stab at it). All ten professors had their eyes and ears fixed on me. And I'm pretty sure their attention wasn't worth it.

(Sigh) Now I'm that 'special' kid that shows up to random lectures I'm not supposed to. And tries to fit in by asking awkward questions. And they look at me with eyes of pity and confusion. Most intimidating hour ever.

(And to wrap up the session on an even brighter note, Chinese prof, who was also there, commented that after reading my lame card in poor Chinese thanking her for writing a recommendation on how strong my Chinese skills were, I should go back to taking Chinese language courses...)

Dearest Amy Grant,

Here's my wish. A room. A loft, maybe. Rustic wooden floors. Sparse, couches, big off white cushions and knobby, wooden arms and legs. On the couches sit Saul Williams. (If he wants to bring Mos Def and Talib Kweli along, he can; he doesn't have to. But if they come, I can tell Mos Def that my brother thinks it's a mistake he's hanging with Kanye and that I agree, or maybe he can tell him that himself.) Taylor Mali. And they just talk. Spewing words all over the place. And I'm right there with them, and my words, too. Ira Glass is there and he's eating meat and he's bringing out the best of the stories in all of us. And he's bickering with David Rakoff. In the background we have Low Millions except they're good looking and their songs are not repetitive but fresh and good, and good, and so good. And when their music tires, Saul will jam. And Julia Child is resurrected and flambeing those crepes that are so good for gatherings like this, and of course, whipping up some Taiwanese vendor style snacks. And we're all kicking it.

Of course, my tightest friends are there. And those of my friends that I would be tight with had distance and circumstances not separated us. Not so many that this gathering is crowded, just enough. Because this isn't a Who's Who of my heroes, this is just one wish, because you can't be greedy. Just one aspect of myself. The Paul Farmers and Mitch Duneiers and Oliver Sacks of the world will have to wait for another special, another intimate gathering.

Amy Grant, are you still with me? Because here comes the important part. This gathering, by just chilling together, will raise money not for causes, but for people. And my non-profit of choice, as always, is BP.

Sincerely,

Mostly Wishing I Didn't Have Three Papers To Write Right Now

Theater Review: The Sunday School Moppets Puppet Show

The Sunday School Moppets, in their first foray into theater, put on a brave attempt toward puppetry in their staging of "The Rainbow Fish," based on Marcus Pfister's acclaimed book of the same name. The show recounts the tale of a rainbow fish who learned to share his scales with others for happiness. (Though the show glossed over an opportunity to push deeper and examine the cost of selling out one's self, the physical and metaphorical stripping away of one's body for the happiness of self and others, of finding validation through others, and instead chose to focus on the benefits of sharing.)

Despite the best efforts of veteran Sunday School teacher and stage director Inge, "The Rainbow Fish" was a largely unprofessional, though noble, premiere for the Sunday School Moppets. Many of the actors were simply uninspired and appeared only to be mouthing lines at the prompting of parents offstage. Girl #3, starring as Fish #3, seemed bored and was unable to connect with the audience, frowning and sucking on her thumb for the majority of the show, often failing to let her Fish "swim." Girl #1, as Fish #1, who appeared inexperienced and frightened by the audience, largely stood immobile. The props, too, with poorly colored fish and tangled streamers, appear juvenile, as if slapped together by kindergarteners.

To the actor's credit, the show was not without its external disturbances, as one audience member and younger brother of the actors repeated climbed onto the stage in attempt to take the actors' attentions away from their roles. And despite the lack of spirit in the overall show and poor acting all around, the puppet show did have its highlights. The boys in the back, in their roles as Blue Fish and Octopus all put on solid performances as well as the charismatic Girl #2 (of Sunday School singing fame), whose fish always swam on cue.

Just like The Rainbow Fish, the Sunday School Moppets will have much to learn and much to mature before they can find happiness in the theater world.

No More Hairy Chest

Bam.
And the Slam is done.

First is worst.
Second is best.
Third is the one with the hairy chest.

I've graduated from hairy to the very best.

Pre Froshes of the World Be Still

Dear Pre-Froshes Invading My Campus-
Ok, I get it, I was once in your shoes, too. You deserve to be here, the whole point of these trips is for you to experience college, and you will learn one day, whatever. But as I recall, I was a quiet pre-frosh who knew my place in the world. And say, when I sat in on a class where the professors just announced that the latest test average was a 63 (out of 100) and the highest grade a 71, ("I don't want you to panic," the professor comforted, "nobody here is failing, everyone is getting at least a C-." Thank you, professor) I knew enough to say, be sensitive to the class by not asking excessive yet irrelevant questions and pretending I understood Anal Chem better than the poor, failing souls. Nor did I critique the offending professor once class ended and the professor walked out, especially if the class really likes the professor, all harsh grading aside. And furthermore, I did not complain that the class was "too dry" and "that professor didn't know what he was talking about, he focused way too much on thoery," to the glares of the upperclassman around you. Upperclassman that had tried very patiently to be nice, especially considering that the expressed concentration of the course was on theory. Because if you take out the theories of Anal Chem, you'd only have instructions on how to turn knobs on a machine and lots of tedious math regarding titrations that we no longer need. But most importantly, dear pre-frosh, I never took anyone's seats during their biochem class and refused to move despite many promptings to do so, thus disrupting a precious and sacred seating system.

Sincerely,

Post-Frosh

Our Favorite Jew

Liz, Schlotty, and I, who are involved in at least a dozen clubs between us, were talking about about bridging the connections between the Hillel (Liz and Schlotty) with the Bo's Chrisitan Fellowship (me) by doing community service (Schlotty and me) as we ended (and perhaps during) our Globalization class (Liz and me). We came up with some cute ideas, like a Bible trivia match (as Tommy pointed out, we'd rock the New Testament section) or, a themed event, possibly a dance, where we dress up as our favorite biblical characters. There was also talk of inving the Fellowship to the Hillel's annual latka party, which got me very excited as it brought back memories of that fateful night at the town Hannukah party, where the only way to get in was Erin telling them we were thinking of converting... (a fact I was unaware of this at the time).

Like Joshua and Caleb before me, I brought back everything I'd seen and heard back to the Fellowship. Well, actually, the slackers of the Fellowship who are "not in the loop anymore," (again, Tommy's words) and who occasionally share lunches at Thorne on Thursdays. That is, when we're not hiding behind giant pillars or allergically reacting to scallion. Anyway, I told them the ideas and we tweaked the concepts a bit:

For the biblical character theme party, we'd of course, all dress as Jesus, and if it should coincide with the latka party, we must remember to wish everyone a merry Christmas. In addition, how awesome would it be if one of the Hillel kids, as part of their costume, had a cross and chased Jesus around all night? I can't wait for our inter-faith dialogues.

Moi (to Liz): We should totally do something together! How come we haven't thought of this before? Have our groups ever worked together?

Liz: There was that discussion after Passion, but I don't think that worked out too hot.

Italian Stallions

They're so irresistable, they really are.
Today in the office, Big Boss (the littlest of them all) and son dropped by, and son, with his keen five-year-old eyes, immediately spotted the open bag of Mint Milanos and little dish of Starbursts and dug in.

Big Boss tried to stop him from taking the Starbursts, but he had already touched it so he couldn't put it back (it was grape anyway, which no one else wanted), so he got to keep it in his pocket. That clever child. And they each took one Mint Milano apiece. "Mm, these are so good." She exclaimed. "I know, that's why we opened them." (See, in the office, it's customary to wait a day or two when we find random food lying around, because it's probably meant for some student group meeting, but with Milanos, you can't wait for people to reclaim them, you've just got ot pounce.)

Minutes later, Son was going for his third (fourth?) piece of Milanos and Big Boss tried to stop him, firmly asking him to take his hands out of the bag, and reminding him that they were going home soon to have their own snacks. That almost worked- until he said, "But mommy, they taste so good!" "Iknow, but I need you to stop eating them," she said, but then, seconds later, added, "no, you're right. I can't argue with that. They are really good, aren't they? We'll each have one more piece."

Effective parenting: 0
Education Department (where Son's father teaches): 0
Pepperidge Farm: 1

Another Dose of the Tres

1. I check weather.com a good forty times a day. Not because forty is another one of those popular Biblical numbers and not because I'm obsessed with the weather, but because I don't pay enough attention. I go to the site, glance at the pictures, then move on with my business. Then I wonder if it'll rain and have to go back and check, because I did not care enough to find out the first time around. I glance at the weather pictorials and immediately forget them. I navigate away from the site. Then I wonder if it'll be cold. And I have to go back to the site. The cycle repeats for days. I have no attention span.

(Also, just noticed two little Sudafed pills sitting on my desk that I had meant to take this morning, and up until two seconds ago, had assumed I'd taken it. But no. I got distracted by the shiney computer monitor and forgot.)

2. I hate book jackets. When I read a hardcover, I must remove the jacket. Sometimes I put it back after I'm done. Most often, I don't. (I also systematically rip out all the little subscription papers in magazines before I begin reading.)

3. 85% of the time, I have my TI-86 with me.

Who Knew?

Remember the comedienne Margaret Cho? Or maybe you never knew her. Well, she's back, apparently, into that realm of semi-celebrity. And she has a blog. I'm not going to link it because I don't care for it that much and you all know how to use google. But surprisingly, she said some serious things that had some point. I don't agree completely, but I like what I see. I wish I had some other place to post her quotes, so this place won't become a soap box, but oh, who cares, it's not like anyone reads this. Cho writes:

I want to like [the Harajuku Girls that follow Gwen Stefani around], and I want to think they are great, but I am not sure if I can. I mean, racial stereotypes are really cute sometimes, and I don't want to bum everyone out by pointing out the minstrel show. I think it is totally acceptable to enjoy the Harajuku girls, because there are not that many other Asian people out there in the media really, so we have to take whatever we can get. Amos 'n Andy had lots of fans, didn't they? At least it is a measure of visibility, which is much better than invisibility. I am so sick of not existing, that I would settle for following any white person around with an umbrella just so I could say I was there.

It is weird being Asian American right now, because I don't exactly know what my place is. America is supposed to be for everyone, and people are supposed to treat me like I belong here, and yet you would never know that from watching tv or movies. I still get the questions about where I am really from. Then when I try to explain this feeling of invisibility to those whose every move and moment is entirely visible, they come back at me with, "Maybe Asian Americans don't want to be in entertainment!" Yes he really said that. I just screamed, because there was no other way I could answer without hitting him.

Even though to me, a Japanese schoolgirl uniform is kind of like blackface, I am just in acceptance over it, because something is better than nothing. An ugly picture is better than a blank space, and it means that one day, we will have another display at the Museum of Asian Invisibility, that groups of children will crowd around in disbelief, because once upon a time, we weren't there.

The Whiz

You know, I've been doing this for some twenty years now, of course I'm good at it...

Walking into the restroom at Druck, Lauren and I discovered that we spent so much time there we each had our preferred stalls...

Lauren (afterwards): Wow, I guess Joe was right, you really do pee fast.

Moi: Thank you?

Three Little Wishes

You know the old adage about how in college, of academics, fun, and sleep, you can only have two of the three? Well, that's an absolute lie. Definitely spent my weekend (and will continue the rest of my week) on academics and academics alone. And I'm pretty sure my grades will actually suffer as a result of this weekend and not be made higher. Last night, between Leash, Lauren, Vita-K, Matt, Mac, and I, we totaled nine hours of sleep. Lauren, Vita-K, and I were the winners, with three hours apiece, while Matt, Mac, and Lauren had none at all.

Then today, spent a good twenty minutes looking for my copy of Where I Was From. The irony that I did not know where Where I Was From was was completely lost on me.

And for all those hours poured into academics (not because I choose to, but because I have no choice), sometimes, I don't think I'm getting my bang for my huge bucks.

Consider these words of wisdom from my professors:

Band Man (board notes): Liberalization = Pregnancy.

Anal Chem Prof: Asymmetrical breathing is pretty hard to do.

The Page: Otherwise, the revolving door doesn't work, like Filene's Basement.

Walty: You could also bring a bag of sandwiches and Sean and I will explain to you the intricate differences between hoagies and grinders.

He's No Dog

As I type, there's an old man sitting across from me, using two fingers to type away on the keyboard in front of him. He looks very serious, and interested in what he's doing and he's contantly biting his lower lip. He ought to be at least 70-something and he very deliberately (and quite efficiently) pokes away at the keyboard, then once in awhile, looks up expectantly. I don't know what he's doing but he's having a grand ol' time (no pun intended, really, I don't think it works as a pun), and he's absolutely adorable.

I would write more, but I have to go pee. And then work on my problem (sets).

They're Every Song On The Radio

I have a new musical love. (If you saw their pictures, you'd understand why it's a purely musical love.) If only they had produced more than 8 songs and stopped rhyming radio with video...

It's still a week away, but I am counting down the days until the Sunday School puppet show. Absolutely cannot wait for crying little kids standing in front of the church holding puppets and looking lost. They're so adorable when they do that. Another exciting event at my small country church next week- refreshment Sunday. (aka, "Starving kids from the Bo' quickly ambush the tables of cookies and baked goods then leave as quickly as they came Sunday") It's my favorite of Sundays. Well, if not my favorite then at least tied with such memorable days as Communion Sunday and of course, Easter Sunday.

Another one of my favorites during church comes at the end of every Communion Sunday, like today. (Another communion with leavened Wonder Bread, what's up with that anyway?) The entire church stands in a circle and we all hold hands as we sing "Blest Be the Tie That Binds." And there's no fakeness and forced community or inauthentic cheer about it. No one sheds tears or schmoozes about how connected we are. No insincere hugs(I fear those the most). We all know to just gather around, as we do every month, as one body, hands held, and sing about the beauty of fellowship. When you look into the circle you see the entire church, holding together and singing. You see appreciative faces that are genuine and beautiful.

Wishing Upon A Sara(h)

I love them, but there are entirely too many Sarahs in my life, especially on Wednesdays. That's when I go from having classes with my favorite Sarah (Vita-K) to lunch to working for 2 Sarahs, to meeting then dinner with Sara, with food served by a Sarah, to review session and studying again, with Sarah. It's a little intense.

Sometimes though, I don't think the world gets enough Sarah. Especially Mounty. The world is not big enough for her embarassments. When she's not re-enacting getting her hair tangling with the long board, or wrestling pigs, she recounts humiliating stories from her childhood. Here is a story all about warm fuzzies. It all starts with an itching five year old Sarah, riding in the car, being driven home from kindergarten. Her mom noticed the itching and asked young Sarah what was wrong. A caterpillar was crawling from her arm, that's what was wrong. Well, her mother suggested, just roll down the window and throw it out. Sarah followed suit but moments later, was itching and scratching again. There was apparently another caterpillar. Intrigued, Mama Mounty pulled over and adjusted Sarah's sweater, only to discover her body was teeming with caterpillars. Entire upper body encased in crawling caterpillars hidden under her sweater. How did this freakazoid event happen? Well, you see, Sarah likes the way caterpillars feel on her body, all soft and squirmy. So young Sarah befriended many a caterpillar ('there were at least forty,' claims Mama Mounty), except she couldn't find the cute ones (if you believe there's sucha thing), no. Young Mounty pretty much pried open one of those nasty webs of mothy caterpillars that hang dead from trees (and only looks cool when they're being torched) and carefully applied them to her body, forming a gentle cocoon of writhing caterpillars on her small frame. Because she "liked nature." And yes, she did develop a terrible rash as a result.

My childhood pales in comparison. It was far too sensible and common sensical and filled with appropriate understandings of how one should interact with the insect world. We all need a little more Sarah in our lives.

Working Out The Salvation

One of these days, I want to get an email from someone that says, "Guess what? Remember that email I sent to you as one of seven lucky people that I love? Guess what!? It worked! All of my problems are solved the little girl was cured of all her cancer and I met my soul mate and Christ's love has spread to the ends of the earth and of course, a wondrous image flashed on my screen and I won the new iPod nano!" Honestly. That email better come. In the meantime, I'll keep deleting chain mail. I thought the trend stopped in, I don't know, 7th grade? But no.

Speaking of 7th grade behavior, the row of us were definitely passing notes all during biochem and afterwards, whispering and giggling about what we'd written about. Our orgo prof, we (by 'we,' I mean a crushed Beth) discovered, after weeks of speculation (by 'speculation' I mean Leash staring at his ring, thus making him uncomfortable and removing said ring for long stretches at a time, which led Lauren to wonder if perhaps he only wears the rings on special days in rememberance perhaps of a dead lover) finally confirmed that former orgo prof BLinton is indeed married. ("I bet she's tall," was Mac's first reaction.) The fact that that knowledge was material for a good two hour's worth of jokes and teasing shows you how absolutely tiny my world at the Bo' is, how sad our lives are, but also, how absolutely hilarious class can be when we gossip about our professors.

Puppet Love

The Sunday School kids at my church* are having a puppet show. How adorable is that? I cannot wait for Sunday.

*The term 'my church' is used very loosely. Here, it refers to the church I attend when I'm at the Bo', my quaint, little country church. By using that term, I am neither denying my roots and affiliations with a certain church in Massachusetts, and another in New Hampshire, and perhaps even the two in Taiwan, nor am I conceding that I belong to and identify with any one church over another. Man, I sound like a politician.