'05 For Fighting

Big Adjustments:
1. Aleve pills changed their shape and I did not notice until recently. They're circular now. They used to be oval. But still that shade of pale blue.

2. 7:30am. Rise and shine. During the past semester, I rarely slept past 8 am on the weekdays. It was sickening, even to myself. I didn't enjoy rising early, but I always had a paper I had to finish because I bailed too early the night before.

3. I'm older than I was last year. By a year.

4. The mass. Biggest fluctuation since my horizontal growth spurts in junior high. (In those years, I'd grow by maybe a quarter of an inch the same year I'd gain twenty pounds. It was really weird.) If I was on friendlier terms with Excel I'd plot the mass changes. And I would say that the plot looks like a rollercoaster ride, if only I enjoyed rollercoasters and they did not make me dizzy or ill.

5. Mailboxes. We live on a busy road. And somehow, of all the houses along this busy road, our mailbox gets damaged the most. We replace them more often than babies do diapers. Every time I go home, there's a different one. Today, ours is gray and metal.

New in '05:
1. The gadgets. This was the year of the cellphone, the shuffle, and the digicam, spread out at the beginning, middle, and end of 2005. I was a latecomer, but I have finally joined the world of technology. Now if only someone would teach me about this information super highway.

2. Professors. And academics. We saw more of each other than necessary. So much more. Dinners. Lunches. Coffee. Classes. Office hours. Review sessions. Colloquiums. Dreams. (Nightmares) Every year, I promise myself the academics will not be as bad as what I had endured the previous semester. And every year, I lament that this was my "hardest semester yet." This, was no exception. But through it all, I drew my strength from the shining green light at the harbor- the hope of Scotland.

3. Would you like fries with that? Cooking for myself for long stretches of time. Having my own kitchen. Making real dishes beyond sandwiches, pasta, and leftover medley. I hope cooking is still fun by the end of next year, after a semester of living in a 'self-catered flat.' (Luke: That means you have to cook for yourself, you know that, right?)

4. Respect, utter respect, for the kilogram and the people behind its making. And within that same journey, realizing that sometimes, a scotch glass really is a great short cut. And cake pans. Those two containers together can really rule the world.

5. Backpack. Ditched the Eastpak of WA (and half of my Bo' career) for a green, not-big-enough- for-the-biochem-binder-but-then-again-what-was, Puma backpack. I think there's a Morrocan flag on it?

Runner Ups Who Have Had A Big Year:
1. Women writers. I hate that distinction as much as Christian musicians or socially conscious corporations, but all the ones I've fallen for this year happen to be women. Guess they're just better people. Lorrie Moore. Flannery O'Connor (again) Alice Munro (much deeper, in recent days). You add to that a little of Sybille Bedford and newfound understanding for Didion, and well, that's a lot of admiration and a lot of stories to read.

2. Milanos. Only the double chocolate and mint ones. And they're especially great when I get to give them away. Best way to spend extra Polar Points ever.

3. Orientals. Huge year for them (well, they are industrious and they do make good use of their years). And that term.

4. The idea of awkwardness. I was reluctant to list it because it's in overuse, but really, that's the word that best sums up my year and half of the folks I know. Don't worry. Awkwardity has been sealed up, quarantined, and shipped off into a safe location. We'll try not to mention it for a few days.

You know what? I don't really want to make five of these things, so we'll just wrap it up here, a'ight? I'll see you next year.

In A Day's Work

Laundry. Shower. Dishes. Two train lines. Two subway lines. Two missed chances. Two presents. Hurried out of a diner. Bought a paper. Read two. And The New Yorker. Caught a movie. A sitcom. And a drama. Rented DVD's. Kicked butt in Boggle. Got whupped in Boggle. Cooked dinner. Set up new camera. Snapped poor photos. Checked out a book. Bought a book. And a sweater. Picked out quality potty training videos (with live action!). Scanned through many old books. Plates. And a chest. A reunion. A farewell. A debate about gay marriage. Passion fruit juice. Corned beef hash. Home fries. Sunny side up. Ham sandwich. Sauteed onions. Bean curds. An old man soiled himself. Giraffes appeared before us. A British couple was visiting. Little kids shrieked with delight at the moving of the train. Shattered a cup. Opened a bottle. Had two bowls of soup. Asked for directions. Guided the lost.

Meandering blog entry. And that, was my Wednesday.

Well, That Cleared Things Up

The past week has been a week of intense, one-on-one hanging out. That is all very convenient because a. I get to really catch up with friends but most importantly, b. I get to recycle my stories over and over and over again. I think I'm growing rather sick of myself. But as always, very fond of my friends.

Next year, friends, we shall have sweater parties.

(On Dame Judi Dench)

Moi: She was also in Harry Potter, wasn't she?

Amy: Did she play the professor?

Moi: I don't really know, maybe. I've only seen the first one... yeah, she probably did.

Amy: Did she play the woman professor?

Moi: Did that really narrow anything down for you?

(On my family's transformation into the stereotypical suburban family)

Moi: So now we've got a minivan and an SUV, it's pretty ridiculous.

Punty: But you're still not white.

Nope. At least we've still got that, Punty.

Awkwardity, Part 4.6

Awkward Andy once discovered that his photo was used, unbeknownst to him, as the photo for the facebook group "Why Is My Life So Awkward?" It's one of my most cherished awkward stories. But in these past few days, nay hours, I fear that I may accidentally discover that my picture is being used somewhere to replace his. Or maybe for a "Why Is My Life So Pathetic?" group.

Discovered last night that it was difficult to do laundry without laundry bag. Searched the entire house and garage many times. Nothing. Called the school this morning. Had security search through my apartment. And it turns out that in my haste to leave my fair little Bo', I had left my laundry bag (dirty clothes included) at school. Yeah, it was real fun talking to security about the emergency (I fly out next week, desperately need dirty clothes). V. cool.

Chelsea was generous enough to agree to "road trip" with me up north. I thought, "hey, why not invite Emily along" and called "Emily" from my cell. Unfortunately, Emily Hubbard lives in Memphis, TN, and could not join me on the road trip. It took me quite a few minutes to figure this out. Again, v. suave.

I am afraid to go on living, to talk to people, to step out of my house; scores more of embarassment are just out there, waiting to pounce.

This Land Is My Land

Just returned home to find that three toddlers have set up camp in our den. (We call our den the 'library' because we consider our book collection that impressive.) The three most adorable kids in their age-range from our church, Lucy, Timothy, and Elise (not Lenny, but Elise- they call her Xin-Xin). Timothy was teaching the Care Bear how to ride the stuffed dalmatian. Elise was drawing up floor plans. And Lucy looked up at me with one of those "What're you looking at" looks and announced to me that that was their home. "Oh, this is your home?" I asked, amused and also a bit bemused. "Yes, this is our home." She said again, this time backed by her other two flat-mates. Michael, who is five and considered himself too old to join in their antics, was playing on the computer nearby and looked almost embarassed by their house setting.

Our product placement of the day comes from the good Mainers of L. L. Bean.

Father: It's raining pretty heavily outside. Did your new jacket hold up ok?

Moi: Yeah, completely dry. Look at how the water beads. It's amazing.

Guest: Is this a new jacket?

Father: Yes, she bought it with her own money.

Guest: With her own money? I would have guessed it as a Christmas present from you.

Father: Well, I practically did buy it for her. I drove her there.

And that, is how Father says 'Merry Christmas.'

When All Is Said And Done

If I had just a penny for every time a child acted inappropriately during church service, I would have a scholarship in my name at the Bo'. And I would get not one, but two gyms named after me. And endow the CSRC. I would demand that anxious little student interns at the admissions office point out my building on my campus map and threaten to withdraw my money if the map she uses was not up-to-date enough to include my building. I would not sign up for Common Good Day ahead of time but show up at registration, the day of, and expect to be placed "away from the convalescents." But first, the church service-

I don't know how they do it in the South, those long, all-weekend, all-day revival services. We've had elaborate church services three days in a row this week and I'm absolutely pooped. (Did a shoddy translation job, btw...) Some highlights from the Christmas eve service:

The skits being drowned out by the cries of scared children (when the lights of dimmed), children who, moments earlier, were quite lively and shouting "Happy Jesus!" into the microphone (the two-year-old had not yet learned how to say 'Birthday,' it turns out, and could only manage 'Happy Jesus.')

The adults performed a skit in mime. I didn't really understand it. Except that there were a lot of bottles of 'prop' beer and the acting on that part, was very convincing, almost a little too much so.

Favorite line from the skit: Hey, Christians celebrate Christmas, too! Who knew?

Oh, the sheep and the shepherds. The preschool and K-5 children were split into sheep and shepherds, with the more mature kids, who were actually capable of memorizing lines, being the shepherds and the trouble makers the sheep to be watched. The shepherds spoke into the microphone on cue and sang when called upon. The sheep were the delinquents, those too unruly or too shy to perform normally. They hit each other and paced around on stage and generally didn't know what was going on. Christopher, a sheep, pulled his sheep ears down so far that they were over his eyes and served as a visor. They did al, however, sheep and shepherds, sing "Jesus Loves Me" beautifully, until they were dragged off stage. Literally. The sheep were being pulled off by angry teachers. It was awesome. I don't think I need to tell you who I loved more, sheep or shepherd.

A malfunctioning projector turned group singsperation time into uncomfortable solo for theMan Leading Service. Without the projected lyrics, no one knew the words to 'O Come O Come Emanuel' except for Man Leading Service, who had the words in front of him. So he sang (at times unsurely) all the verses by himself while we all stared at him and tried to hum along. Awesomest impromptu solo ever.

To Lenny J. Charles

Fairest Ms. Charles,
For Christmas, I hope your mother teaches you how to use the telephone.
Then you may call me.
Or perhaps I you. I don't know.

Unfaithfully Waiting

Gnashing of Teeth

As a sociology major, I fully support equal wages, women's rights, and all that liberation jazz. I understand the whole second shift thing working women have to put up with and generally think housework should not be relegated to the womenfolk. I believe that women's rights means more than equal pay and in many ways, men and women shouldn't be treated equally. But fairly.

However, I also believe in a child's right to be fed.

As in, I have been home since Monday night and Mother has only cooked twice since then (more like 1.5, since the first meal was just a composite of leftovers she had made before I arrived home). And we've gone out to eat only once. Even if we take breakfast out of the equation (and how can you, when it's the most important meal of the day?) that still leaves a lot of meals and a lot of gaps. Five, to be exact. I am hungry. I need sustenance. Somebody feed me. I would eat the leftovers that usually populate the fridge, but unfortunately, I've already eaten them clean. They were all I had to go on for five days. I have also had to cook for myself. And would happily continue to do so except a) lethargy and weakness, resulting from malnutrition, are keeping me from lifting the heavy pans and b) the kitchen is occupied and cluttered with foodstuff to be used for tomorrow's (or Monday's?) feast and I cannot get a foot in. Have resorted to sitting in front of the computer, bitterly chomping on a bag of Pocky sticks. Mother spotted me as I foraged the cupboards for other foods of substance (she had given away the bag of Sandies cookies I had bought) and offered to 'cook.' Ramen noodles or frozen pre-cooked potstickers? Those were her best offers, standing amidst a kitchen full of chicken and vegetables, soups and sauces. The irony of this hunger in the land of plenty, of course, was completely beyond my weary, feebled body, along with many other essential nutrients.

The Bell Tolls Not For Me

Because I'll never die.

No, wait, that's not how it goes. But my wings have been revoked (schveet). I traded angel-hood for leading the youth group last night. Wasn't so much a trade as I was apparently already off the hook (I would've been an off-the-hook angel, but that's another story), but I hung out with the youths anyway. Never ask youths to be creative. When asked to come up with a name for an imaginary sibling for the Name Game, one said Zephaniah Habbakuk, the other, Zechariah Habbakuk. (And only because I put a 7-syllable limit. These little Bible smaht weasels.) Now all's left of Christmas duty is a translation gig tomorrow morning that requires standing on the stage throughout the whole service, looking pretty. And probably translating.

Wipe That Smirk Off

Growing up in the church is a dangerous thing. Come some major event or holiday, you're apt to be thrust into a play with really lame lines.

Some memorable parts of years past: Girl New to Sunday School. Girl Taking Part in the Exodus with Family. Poor Girl Who Has God. God (my favorite). Eve (most shudder inducing). Girl Whose Brother Wrote the Skit and Was Thus Fed Cheesy Lines As A Joke.

This weekend, to add to that list, I have been suckered into playing Gabriel. Yes, Gabriel, the man angel.

Now what did I tell you to do with that smirk?

Disappointments With Radio

When you find out too much about something, when you worship someonething long enough, when you set up an impossible standard, eventually, there are bound to be illusions. (ok, unless you're worshipping God; He's still good on His promises.) There are bound to be disappointments. There are bound to be moments when you have to accept the fallibility of the idol. Because after all, you can't have idols. (Look at me trying to sound philosophical late at night, pumping out nonsense.) What I'm trying to say is, I just found out that Ira Glass doesn't even watch PBS, ok? It's taking a little to get used to. That's not as disheartening of course, as finding out that he watches the Gilmore Girls. Not saying that that's not a fun show (couldn't bring myself to write 'great'). And that Luke Danes is not beautiful. But come on, you're the producer of an NPR show and you're a boy. In this case, you only need two strikes to make it ok for me to judge you while enjoy watching the same TV shows you do. I had such high hopes for you, Ira Glass. And sometimes, I watch PBS.

For Will, And Anyone Else That's Confused

If you're just joining us for the first time (and most likely the last time), some things you might want to know:

You might not know me as that picture on the right. But more as that short little Asian kid stumbling across the quad in a heavy backpack.

You might not know me as a retired Sri Lankan textile worker as my profile suggests, but as a student and/or lackey, I mean student intern, at the CSRC.

You might not know that earwax fascinates me. Or that I refer to my school as "The Bo'." But know me as a clean, hygienic kid interested in helping people, writing, sociology, and at times, chemistry.

Have I just been living a complete lie then? Am I witholding any other truths from you? In the words of the now disbanded Dispatch:

you might think that this is easy for me
but there's a lot of things you don't know
you don't care, you don't want to see

Yeah. I'm sorry that didn't actually clear anything up. But quoting song lyrics are always easy ways to end blog entries. And I promise, in a few weeks, this place will be swimming with anecdotes and pictures from my time abroad. So just sit tight.

This Guy's Got Everything

And that guy is Richard.
A crown. A faire. And a restaurant. It's amazing.

Richard's pork marsala, I have decided, is my favorite dish in the entire state of Maine. It's that good. I know, Richard's is a German restaurant and marsala one of those dumbed-down American Italian dishes. That's not the point. It doesn't matter what the dish is supposed to be it is delicious. Which is really too bad considering how many vegetarian, non-red-meat-eating, kosher-observing friends I have. Who am I kidding? I don't even have that many friends to begin with, let alone pork eating ones. But that just means more sweetly tender, thin slices of wonrously seasoned pork for me. And don't even get me started on the buttery rolls Richard's has. You think if I shamelessly plug them some more, we can work out a deal where I transfer all of my board there? Imagine a semester's diet of just meat, cabbage, and ale. Oh wait, that's what I'll be eating in Scotland.

And now, an example of a restaurant that does not try hard enough:

China Chinese Restaurant. I understand that starting a new business is daunting. Catchy names are hard to come by. And well, that strip in Brunswick does not have the best track record for any kind of business. But honestly, did you have to name your new Chinese restaurant China?! There wasn't one other word you could think of? You're taking whack Chinese restaurant names to a whole new level when you call it China Chinese Restaurant.

Feeling Very Paul Simon

The Red Face

Tam: Did you not get the memo? Asian revolution.

Moi: I thought we didn't like communists. Didn't they oppress us?

Tam: You are sooo listening to the wrong story.

Oh, Tam. He is so wise when I am so naive about world affairs. Or any affairs for that matter.

True Confessions...

...of a dangerous hand.

I definitely ate my roommate's mint chocolate chip cookie.

Shh...

If I Could Sleep Right Now...

Sometimes, deep in the recesses of my little shuffle, an unfamiliar song appears. This is mostly due to the fact that I have the saddest, whackest iTunes collection ever and am embarassed by most of the songs that somehow work their way into my limited playlist. Tonight, however, the stranger's voice was a welcome one. An unexpected surprise, cooing in my ear in a non-creepy way. And so I trudged on among the slush albeit much drier, still heavily weighed down by my impossible backpack, but tonight, singing along. If I could fly right now-

Kosher Noshers

There's this kid I just heart on campus, Schlotty. Schlottso. Schlotts. She's just so Schlotteriffic. Full of Schlottarama. We had some good times handing out cookies and milk to random people the other night, all on behalf of Habitat, of course (or as Mounty calls it "Habs for Humes," the nastiest sounding nickname ever). One thing I appreciate about Schlotterbee is her ethnic perspective. It's just so refreshing to meet kids from other backgrounds and learn about their cultures, you know? That's what college is all about! We've got to celebrate our diversity! Over the course of the semester, as we've planned and dined and raised funds together, the two of us- a Jewish kid from suburban Massachusetts and a retired Sri Lankan textile worker from suburban Massachusetts- we've learned a lot about crossing cultures previously so foreign.

Moi: You know what I could really go for right now? Some cream and lox. I haven't had that in the longest time. Isn't that right up your alley?

Schlotts: I guess so?

Moi: Oh. Cheeze blintzes right now, that'd be awesome. And potato latkes. I love them. And uh... matzo ball soup? Hey, whatever happened to that latke party you were supposed to have?

Schlotts: We had it on Monday.

Moi: Way to invite the rest of campus.

Schlotts: We didn't know there was such a demand? At the party one of Liz's friends came up from [some lesser school in one of those warmer states down south, like MA or something] and she was asking about our Holiday Dinner [that dining services so wondrously dishes out every year]. She was like is this a Christmas dinner or a real holiday dinner? And we thought about it. And said, well, they serve pork. And they don't serve latkes. So...?

Moi: But did you see the star of David cookies!? They were so good! And they didn't have a Christmas goose (just duck). So the way I see it, we all lose out during the holidays.

P.S. Props to the Bo' for ignoring all Sabbaths and having finals Friday, Saturday, and Sunday (And even Monday, for the special 8 Day Adventists...).

Tards and Turds

Woke up with a song this morning. And so, when I tumbled myself toward that uneasy awakened state, Shadow Stabbing along the way, I sang to myself. As I sat in front of my desk, waiting for Dakota the Computer too, to wake up, the song continued to play and I let myself nod along with it, moving to the beat of the song...

nrmL: Are you ok?

Moi: Yeah, I'm just singing a song in my head.

nrmL: Oh. No offense or anything, but you looked like those mentally challenged people that's been at the center too long that rock themselves to calm themselves down. You know those people who are always mumbling to themselves and nodding? You looked exactly like that when I turned around.

Top of the morning to you, too?

Er, the title lied. There's no turd in the story. Except here's a picture of a guy juggling elephant dung. Honestly, who of us hasn't had the urge to just pick them up and juggle?

Sing A Sad Song

Oh, Powter, I hope you'll be more than a one hit wonder. I really do. And I really that like that one hit.

There I was, walking back to the apartment this afternoon. The sky was pelting down a rain/sleet/hail combo and in addition, I was weighed down by a heavy backpack- thank you 1,000-page biochem text, thank you 300-page biochem binder, and thank you biochem notebook. Down below, my feet were navigating through a slick and dangerous ice-slush-snow-ice-dirt-ice combo and up above, my mind was still trying to process the 4-hour final I had just walked out of. It was early Friday night. All around campus, people were packing and celebrating. And I still had three more finals to crank out. So there I was, walking, trying to figure out why I was suddenly wading, ankle deep in water and chunks of ice, thinking of how wondeful life was. Hey, at least my Bean boots are dry, I thought. And just when that trace hint of optimism bubbled up in my weary soul, it came. I looked up, about to smile at no one but myself, and suddenly, SPLAT. A car zapped by a puddle just fast enough to wipe that smirk off of my face. The entire front of my body was sprayed. It was one of those moments straight out of the movies, except it's funny in the movies, and something great happens in the end, and in my case, I'm back in the apartment, ready to start my anal chem take home. Yipee kai yay.

Splitter Splatter

Yesterday was not nrmL's birthday. But yesterday was nrmL's surprise birthday party. And boy was she surprised. (Former roommates: perhaps you should take notes on this) That wasn't even the only surprise of the party. Many were surprised to discover that the vanilla yellow cake had strawberries in the middle layer. And later discovered that they weren't strawberries, but melted down candles. "How?" I hear you faintly calling, gentle readers, "How did the candles get so small? And how did they get to be in the middle of the cake?"

Well, if a candle is lit long enough, it melts into a pool of wax and sinks deep into the cake. LoJo, former roommate of nrmL, was the brilliant mind behind the whole thing. She was also the mastermind behind the party, about three weeks before nrmL's actual birthday. LoJo reasoned that since nrmL had thrown her such a wonderful surprise birthday party last year (again former roommates: I want to see notepads and pens out, and furious scribbling), she should do the same for nrmL this year. And since nrmL had somehow magically had all the candles lit when LoJo arrived for her party, LoJo would do the same for nrmL. There were many flaws in that logic. The first being: while nrmL knew exactly when to light the candles because she knew when LoJo was arriving, LoJo did not. We all tried to stop her from lighting the candles but it was impossible to pull that little pyro away from the matches. And so the candles were lit. And slowly, we watched, as each melted down, and sizzled, and the top layer of frosting bubbled, and it was a nasty pool of goo and wax, and candle stubs, and wicks, and many sunk down deep into the cake. All the while, we not-so-silently cursed Greg (boyfriend of nrmL) for his inability to drag nrmL away from the television screen. We had already delayed the party once because it conflicted with a holiday ABC Family special chick flick that nrmL was determined to watch. And last night, his best lie to get nrmL back into the apartment was that he really wanted the grasshopper cookies nrmL just bought. And he had to have it. Right away. Yeah. So that wasn't very clever on Greg's part. But at least we know he's an honest fella.

Nail, Meet Coffin

Favorite new saying-

Vita K: Be there or be racist.

Favorite new question-

But do you have any friends? It works at the end of pretty much every statement. Just ask Band Man. Speaking of which, ran into Ellie today. I badly needed to talk to her. After Monday's lunchtime fun, I had to double check that I did not just blow things out of proportion. I needed her to check that what I think happened and what I think was said really did happen. And unfortunately, she checked out my story:

Ellie: Yeah, he did ask you that. And he did say that he knows you work really hard. It was pretty awkward. It really was.

Moi: We had concentrated so much on how embarassing you were toward the end, that I had forgotten about the awkward friend thing.

Ellie: No, yeah, he definitely asked you that. That was weird.

(Later, talking about finals)

Ellie: I've been looking at baby names.

Moi: Good for you?

Ellie: Well, they're Hebrew names. So they're biblical.

Moi: You're practically doing devos then, huh? It's like having your quiet time.

Ellie: It really is.

Favorite standard unit of measurement (SI Unit):

The kilogram.

We Can Drink Like Royalty

(I don't know what's with all the shoutouts to LJC either.)

We now interrupt my regularly scheduled studying for a public service announcement:

For the last time, people, I will examine the anatomy of the glow, the flush, the Chinaman curse. Nobody ever seems to comprehend when I do, but I'll give it one more shot. It is not a sign of drunkeness; it is an enzyme deficiency. I don't even drink, but if and when I do, and I know I get those red splotches and eventually look like a lobster when that happens, I always have to explain myself. As I explain, people always like to pitch in with their own interpretations and anecdotes and accusations that I'm 'wasted' and 'hammered' and 'trashed' and somehow, the explanations get whacker and whacker and everyone always claims it's science. (Ah, the religion of science, the discursive control of science- another topic for another day.) Well, I'm studying for (read: procrastinating from) my biochem and part of that involves reading an article on alcohol metabolism. And well, I felt that I couldn't just withold this knowledge from everyone, I had to share it with the world.

For the last time, people, the scientic facts (parentheticals from me):
"Approaching 50% of Japanese and Chinese are unable to produce ALDH I (a form of aldehyde dehydrogenase), a deficiency not observed in Caucasian and Negroid* populations. Deficient individuals exhibit significant levels of acetaldehyde in the blood when levels in normal individuals are negligible and the familiar 'flushing response' which accompanies alcohol consumption in many oriental** subjects, is observed. Symptoms include peripheral vasodilation (hence the flushing), a marked increase or decrease in heart rate (it's great how specific science is), difficulties in breathing and general muscle weakness. (This is where I want y'all to pay attention now) This abnormality does not appear to affect the overall rate of alcohol elimination. (So I am not drunk any faster or slower than you, nor am I getting slowly poisoned by alcohol.)

But, wait, what about those people that say alcohol makes them sick because of their race? Patience, young one.

"Genetic variants of ADH (alcohol dehydrogenase), common in Japanese subjects, cause a similar syndrome, but in this case abnormally rapid oxidation of ethanol leads to elevated acetaldehyde levels... When ethanol is consumed, acetaldehyde levels rise, again resulting in flushing and choking sensations (and also causing nausea, headache, and symptoms often associated with hangovers.)"

*Yeah, not the most PC of articles. Apologies all around.
**Yeah, have I mentioned that scientists are racists? And even then, the 'o' isn't capitalized.

In conclusion: I flush. I miss ALDH I. But I don't get drunk any faster. (Not that I ever drink enough to get drunk, but if I did, it'd be at the same rate as any other really short girl.) The ADH mutants do. And I don't know what's up with the difficulties breathing part.

Ok, back to our regularly scheduled biochem cram.

This entry brought to you by: Clive Bullock at The Culturally Insensitive Department of Sciences at the Roehampton Institute. (In their/his defense, they're Brits and their PC ideals are a little different.)

Still Dirty Trio

Dear Boys Next Door,
Honestly, how often do you need to vacuum?
I understand now that you're only vacuuming because it appears that you're having some cracker crumb issues. Some suggestions: do not drop crackers onto the floor. When they do spill, pick them up by hand. Do not stomp all over the crackers as you have the past two nights and pulverize them with the heel of your winter boots the way you have all grown fond of doing. And, because I'm a helpful neighbor, here's one more suggestion: in the future, consider sweeping instead of vacuuming.
I know our days of sharing the apartment are coming to an end and next year, I'll think back nostalgically about how I can recognize only one of you and how we exchange awkward greetings and how nice all of you are, how you are generally quiet on the weekdays and good stewards of the apartment, no matter how many drunk freshmen girls you have over. But to get me to that point, I need you to help me finish this semester. That means less vacuuming and more putting the crackers in your mouth, where they belong.

Sincerely,

Dusty P. Abshire

Get Swiffer

Lowest Highest Point

That's Delaware. They've got the lowest highest point (Lenny J. Charles shoutout).

So I guess this is moi: 1 and Dusty: 0? Since the best he could come up with was "irresponsible use." (That's Dusty, as in Dusty Abshire, as in Dustin Paul Abshire, the only Dusty there is.)

I didn't even have to play my "but English is my second language" card, or my "that's why I'm still a student" card, or "does it really make you feel good winning arguments against little girls?" card. Because I was right. And that's why I'm going to be gracious about it...

Lowlight of the day (however young it is)? Oh, I know. Lunch with Band Man (and Ellie, to make it funny). Lunch with your professor is just the sort of thing that my wee little liberal arts school likes to promote, creating a community among academics and all that good crap. So, being the good kid that I am, I figured I'd try it out before I left the Bo' and head to Scotland for the year, soak up some good tight-knit atmosphere vibe before getting lost in the mean streets of Edinburgh. And as a buffer against awkwardity, I dragged Ellie along.

Which was great, until the conversation turned something like this:

Band Man: So do you have a good group of friends on campus that you always hang out with? What sort of group do you hang out with?

Moi: Are you asking me if I have friends? I have friends, Band Man.

Band Man: Well, I know you work really hard, and you work a lot at the CSRC, but are you happy? Do you have a good group of friends?

Moi: Are you asking me to name all my friends, Band Man?! Yes, I'm really happy. And I swear I have friends. Just ask Facebook.

Band Man: If they're majors then I'll probably know them.

Moi: Uh... Amy Lee? Leash Wong? A lot of them aren't soc kids. Science nerds. Do I have to list all of them? (Doesn't help that all this time, Ellie is saying, "No, she really doesn't have any friends.") Well, there's this tension between your class and my friends. (Explain past birthday debacles).

Professor/advisor questioning existence of my social life. Wow. Lowest point ever.

Questions for The Dirty Trio

Dear Boys Next Door:
Good God, what is possessing you to vacuum so late at night during reading period? Can't you just live in filth like normal people? And why is there so much to vacuum in your tiny apartment? It's taking you a very long time. Wrap it up already, man, the sound of vacuums make me really tense. I associate it with cleaning the house moments before guests arrive and my mother yelling at me to put away the clutter in the den and at the same time hurry up with the vacuuming and chop the scallions. The noise of the machine- that just sounds like more yelling. So please, go swiff it or something.

peace, and

Let It Go Dusty

Sunrise, Sunset

That Ellie is alive is a testament to God's grace. And that God badly wants her alive. This is a woman whose babysitter read as she drove. The babysitter didn't talk on the cellphone or put on makeup, she read novels. This is also a woman who had, in one semester, been hit by a car, had her room broken into, narrowly missed a hurricane, and also escaped when random stranger tried to drag her into an alley. And have we mentioned that she believes in Superman?

This morning, there was a lot of snow to clean off of Ellie's car so it'll be of use for transporting us to church. It just so happened that her car was prepared for winter conditions in Maine as she produced a lacrosse stick and a small broom for clearing the thick, packed, inches of snow off of her car. Awesome.

Not as awesome, of course, as the Sunday School advent candle lighting. Honestly, the Sunday school kids should go on tour, visiting college to college with their wondrous blend of wry and physical comedy. They have perfected the art of aloofness. Hope has, at least. Today, when it was the Sunday schoolers' turn to light the advent candle, she gave an angry pout throughout the whole reading of the passage and mostly wandered away from the group to play with the tinsel decorations. Girl #2 joined Hope and soon, they ruined the display. At that point, Mother of Hope escorted the two girls back to the middle of the stage and there they stood quietly, but not nicely, as both looked incredibly bored and unimpressed by the congregation staring at them. They mostly spun around in circles. While all this was going on, of course, Sunday School Teacher was reading about Jesus. But I wasn't paying attention. I was too busy laughing at the random boy who dashed offstage for no apparent reason and ran through the pews until he reached the back door of the church. And stayed. Then there was the actual candle lighting itself. (At CBCGN, the pre-lighting prep itself was a challenge as no one had matches or lighters with them and everyone assumed 'the church' would just have one. Many frantic calls were made and drawers rummaged through. Who would bring matches to church? Why else would you ever use matches if not to light candles?) The entire class of girls (as boy had run off into the woods) all held the candle together and lit the purple ones, then rose, one by one. During the entire lighting, Girl #3 kept whispering, "Can we light the white one?" The white one- as in the Christ candle in the middle reserved for Christmas eve. No, girl, you can't. And each girl was all too enthusiastic about blowing out the lighter candle and in their great excitement, kept blowing out our hope, peace, and joy. But they were not saddened by the loss of such virtues, as it provided the chance for them to once again light the candles. Then blow them out. Then repeat the process. Over. And over again. Thank God that his hope, peace, and joy for us are way more consistent than the candles.

Pot's Still Illegal

The season of advent is upon us. It's a season of expectation and preparation. And not a day goes by now when I do not wait anxiously for the coming of finals. This time of the year, apparently, has taken quite a toll on me. If I hear one more person tell me that my voice sounds stressed, that I should go get some more sleep, and that I look like I've had a rough week, heads will roll. On the floor. Around and around.

To provide a brief reprieve from all of my studying and apparent stresses, let us look back on my days of youth and merriment and fondly recall the day I turned 21. I was so young then, and the morning so young too, sitting in front of the computer as the clock turned to midnight, cranking ou the Band Man's 20-page term paper. (Yes, the Band Man, you shall recall that I had missed the surprise birthday party last year studying for his final. He hates that I live on, year after year.) Fast forward many more hours of typing and too few hours of sleep and daylight came as a blur of a time of frosted donuts! letter from Kenya! visa! ping pong! tote bag! Rege's birthday! before I knew it, we had come upon the evening of my first 21st (I know the !'s are jarring and hard to read and hurt the eye, but that's how it felt as I went through the day, too). They refused to throw me another surprise party, citing past incooperation, so we got together for dessert. It was then that time decompressed and slowly stretched out and life became comprehensible again. There were good friends and fancy pants restaurant and a patronizing wait staff and maybe a little bit of a flush. Joe didn't trust the restaurant because the menu offered no pictures. And my wallet kept getting stolen when it came time for the check. Afterwards, when time was supposed to blur again as I drowned myself in now-legal booze, I went to BCF instead. Time dragged out slowly, staying up with me late into the night as I once again sat in front of the monitor, painfully pounding out a lab final and presentation, and once again getting too little sleep. Such was the recklessness I displayed on my twenty-first, so naive, so young, so fearless- going to classes, turning assignments in, doing homework, going to work, going to fellowship, and feeling ok about it because my friends were there every step of the way. Well, mostly I was just too tired to feel differently.

BraveHeart

Ever have a feeling that you're one of those stories people always tell? That you're Christmas party material? Yeah, Big Boss (the littlest of them all) has that feeling, too. Well, we have a feeling that she is at least, she's one of those stories people tell when they share horrible first dates, and we're also pretty sure her story would be one to win, every single time.

Hunting, you see, is one of those empowering, one-with-nature, bonding rituals that people everywhere, except in civilized societies, practice. Oh, did I just impose some suburban Massachusetts ideals on to this discourse? I think I did. Anyway, Big Boss once went hunting withThen-But Not Now-Boyfriend. TBNNB told her about the beauty and sanctity of taking the deer's heart and some crap about fellowship with nature and using all the body parts and respecting the deer, thanking it for its sacrifice mumble jumble. Point was, this was all especially beautiful if you ate the deer's heart fresh upon its death. TBNNB made a bet with friends that Big Boss would do it. And Big Boss, when asked to, took a bite of the raw heart and swallowed.

Fastforward a few years. On a first date, Big Boss goes hunting with Date. I don't understand why she's always killing deer either, but whatever, they shoot a deer and it dies. Big Boss asks, "Oh, aren't you going to cut the heart out?" Date, because he is a sensible man, is a little creeped out. Big Boss, remembering the words of TBNNB explains the beauty and fellowship spiel. Date goes along with it, cuts the heart out. Big Boss, not knowing when to stop, and presuming that all hunters believed in this sanctity and heart biting, proceeds to ask, "Aren't you going to eat it?" Date hesitates. Big Boss grabs the heart and takes a bite. Date is freaked out and never calls back.

Upon hearing that story, we all feared Big Boss a little bit more.
And just because I'm feeling generous, here's another Christmas story kid, and her name, as is quickly becoming familiar at The Wonder Years, is Ellie. She's a special senior in college.

(So we're at lunch, Band Man doesn't believe I have friends, but whatever, we're talking about movies and television shows we like...)

Ellie: When I watch TV, I can't just sit there and watch. I have to do something. So I color when I watch TV.

Moi: And what do you color?

Ellie: Coloring books.

Band Man: Like Dora and Clifford coloring books?

Ellie: Yeah. Well, I can't draw, so I just color. I'm really good at it.

That's Just Nasty

I hate ethnocentrism. It ruins discussions of one of my greatest loves- food. (which often ties with, if not slightly surpassing, that of the Trinity, family, and friends)

The CSRC staff, because they/we are adorable, and because it is the best place in the world to intern, treated its three student employees to dinner last night. We went for Thai, to the great delight of Boss #2 of 4 ("Sesame"). We ordered Thai, to the great chagrin of Sesame. Apparently, she only liked Thais for their ice teas and not any other part of their cuisine.

With two Californians that don't like tofu at the table (oh, and they also don't like animals, the environment, states' rights, smoothies, or anything else Cali), we launched into a long discussion about eating. Inevitably, nasty tales of the things we've been offered and things we have seen came up. For me, it went something like this:

"In Fiji, they roast whole pigs." Check. I've seen and eaten from a (couple?) crisply done whole pig. Most excellent and tender pork ever.

"When they eat fish, they eat the whole fish." Check. To do anything less would be wasteful.

"We had this friend, who offered us marrow, and it was one of those times when you just couldn't say no..." Check plus. I love sucking marrow out of the big bones when my mom braises beef or lamb. Did Thoreau not say I want to eat deeply and suck the marrow out of cow? No, not quite?

Tongue. Giblet. Tripe. Chicken feet. Urchin. And the list goes on. And every time someone tosses out a new food I nod my head and say, "Yeah, I love that stuff!" Then realize that the expected response was, "What? They eat that?"

I'm not an exotic eater. I'm not adventurous. I don't like trying new things either. I'm picky. I'm spoiled. I'm easily creeped, too. But these are the things I grew up with. They are the commonplace in my world. And they're so good. Unlike ethnocentrism. Which is so bad.

If I Had A Nickel

For every hour of sleep I'd gotten in the past two days

Every cut on my finger

Every page I had pounded out and passed in this week

Every time I put on a cow costume this month

Every donut I ate on Thursday

Every library book I had returned this week-

I would have three dollars and twenty cents. You do the math.

Blest Be The Tie That Binds

Elder Brother: Hey. Happy birthday.

Moi: Hey, happy birthday to you, too.

(Pause)

Moi: I'm on the phone right now.

Elder Brother: Ok. Bye.

Moi: Bye. Happy birthday.

Look Up More

It's written in the ceiling. Just look.

I'll admit right here and now, folks. I heart Ellie. She was driving to the airport yesterday to pick up Kim and I decided to tag along. A few minutes into the ride, Ellie turns to ask, "Do you know how to get to the airport, by any chance?"

"Um. No. Do you?"

"No. I knew there was something I was supposed to do before I left."

(Silence)

"Do you have a general idea at least? Are we just driving?"

"I've never been to the airport here. Probably should have looked it up before I left."

And so phone calls were made, and Mac, though he sucks at clotting, sure was helpful in getting us there. We only got slightly lost once. Ok, maybe twice. But that's not because we can't read signs but mainly because we were busy exchanging Sunday school stories. I'm sorry to admit defeat but, she really had me beat.

In her younger days, the pastor's son, who, in Ellie's mind, could tell no lies because a. he was the pastor's son and b. he was beautiful, had told her in Sunday school that among the many people at Jesus' resurrection was Superman.

Ellie: I was like, "no, he wasn't." And he was like, "yeah, Superman was there." And I believed him. It just made so much sense the way he said it.

Moi: How old were you!?

Ellie: Too old to believe that Superman was at the ressurection. But really, I really believed him.

That story brings endless smiles to me, thinking of Superman hanging out with Jesus and Ellie. And of course, the pastor's son. Ellie described him as, "You know how in Sunday school teachers would ask if anyone has ever sinned? Well, he would raise his hand every time and say that he's never sinned."

Actually, I take back my love for Ellie. I think I heart the pastor's son.

That's Bike

Somebody explain the title to me and I will pat you on the head. No, that's not very bike to do.

So, have discovered that Riles, as I'll call her, the advisor for my summer research (not general advisor, that's the Band Man, although that's more of a title than anything else), the most friendly professor on campus and one who loves to talk, one passionate about student research and very encouraging and supportive of such endeavors- all in all, a woman I very much respect and appreciate- turns out Riles is deadly afraid of bikes.

Not so impressed with advisor anymore.
Very much reconsidering a switch.

Here's how it went down. She's had bad experiences with them. She had, most impressively, been in not one but two serious bike accidents. "I think it's because I walk very fast," she said of her run ins with the two-wheeled machines of death. Both were actually serious accidents, not just the scrapes and bruises the Barmettlers get from their altercations with bikes. The first time, Riles was not just knocked over, but appartently knocked unconscious. It's too bad that all the bystanders, after making sure she was alive and got up, just let her walk away, and no one thought to take her to the hospital. Because she was very confused. Moments later, Riles bumped into a friend who noted that she looked disheveled and confused and asked what was wrong. "I think something happened," Riles said, "but I don't know what. Something big happened to me." "Why are there tire marks on your back?" "I think that has to do with the something that happened to me. But I don't know what. Let me just sit here a minute and figure it out." "No, you can't just sit here, you need to go to the hospital." "If I could just sit down, I could figure it out..." Luckily, concerned friend won out over Riles. And she got the stitches she needed. And has since (we think?) recovered, though now with a rational fear of bikes. She's constantly looking over her shoulder in the quad and stepping aside.

Now imagine if instead of a bike, it was the Bat Mobile that got her. Twice. And she walked away to tell it both times. How cool an advisor is she?

We Need To Talk

Huzzah.
Just finished the last of a series of three soc candidate colloquiums. This time around, things looked hopeful. For a second, it appeared as if the faculty to student ratio would be a little less then 10:1. But when that the dust had lifted and men* saw what had occurred, there were ten professors around me, and I the student nerd. Now quick, tell me what great work of literature I just alluded to.

Oh nevermind.

Point was, it was excruciating and now it's over. Just one more obligatory coffee/chat with a candidate and we're done for the year. I am free to not think up analytical questions about people's dissertations. Speaking of which, the purpose of all this awfulness and processing and hobnobbing with faculty is that the Bo' is hiring, folks. So, if you or anyone you know happens to be a soc professor already, perhaps in a city of about 67,000, just put word out there that the Bo' is looking to make an offer. Perhaps the Bo' will not hire whoever you may or may not have had in mind, and perhaps that person will not want to come to the Bo', but that person sure will make the colloquiums more interesting, and really, that's what's most important.

In case you couldn't decipher my meandering thoughts, our theme today is, as usual, excruciating awkwardity. When something needs to be said. When you've got to break it to somebody. Our program today, in three acts.

*and women, this is a soc talk, after all.

Act I
"Listen, I think there has been a mistake." No.
"There's something I have to tell you." No, that didn't sound right either.
"I'm going to tell you something and you're not going to like it. But I need you to not judge me."

And there Mark was, early one morning, pacing to find the right words. It was 1:45 am. He had a prefrosh with him, a crew recruit keen on observing their practice. The crew team, noble masochists that they are, meet at the Polar Bear at 5:30 each morning for their practices. Mark, anxious that the recruit only had one chance to go to practice, felt the pressures and responsibilities of waking the prefrosh on time. If I oversleep, he thought, I'd blow it for this kid. And so, when he awoke at 1:31 am, in his altered state, Mark was frantic. He thought it was 5:31 am, and that they were already late. Quickly, he dragged the prefrosh out of bed and the two of them made a dash for the Polar Bear. Along the way, en route to the restroom, Mark saw his roommate. "Hey, you're up already!" Mark exclaimed in surprise, as he's normally the only one up at 5:30. In fact, Mark found it odd that he kept bumping into people all the way to the Polar Bear. "This is weird," he kept saying to the prefrosh, "there usually isn't anyone up at this hour." Things got more odd, of course, when they reached the statue. And waited. And waited. And no one showed up. Finally, Mark, who, along with the prefrosh, was watchless, decided to check the clock in the crew van. It blinked 1:45.

There he stood. This prefrosh, checking out the Bo'. Evaluating. Judging. Considering whether he should apply. And there Mark stood, this sophisticated, college upperclassman. Dear God, he thought, how do I beging to explain our stupidity?

Act II
Tam, like the good nerd that he is, is on great terms with most of his professors. They love his artwork, they love his thoughtful analysis, and they love his good grades. And so, he felt no hesitations joking around with them. Coming back from the summer, he ran into a professor he had had, who was pregnant.

"When's the baby coming out?" He said, jokingly pointing and poking at the bulge of her stomach.

"I already gave birth. I'm having a hard time getting back in my original shape."

Um. Congratulations?

Act III
We have a routine. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, the crew eats together after biochem. We eat in one of the long tables in the Dark Room. We always announce, ahead of time, who's eating that day and who's not, who has to run to lab, who has to go to work, who has time to hang. The row of us, we keep clear tabs on everyone and we respect the system. So last week, when I knew I was eating lunch with Band Man, I announced it to the group ahead of time. Many a jokes were made at my expense. (How else are jokes made?) But I took it in stride. All was well.

Today, however, 10 minutes before heading into class, an email message from Band Man. Can we reschedule? Of course we can. It was totally understandable. And we quickly found another time.

All I had to do now, was break ik it to my friends that I'll be eating with them. Because I got ditched. At the last minute. By my professor.

My Life Is A Mess

And by life, I just mean apartment.
As I glance around the room, I see that I've left the cutting board on the kitchen chair. Again. The pan of last night's mac and cheese is still on the stove. My desk is covered in papers, tissues, and index cards. And the floor? There's a candy wrapper there, lying very close to a band-aid wrapper, and not too far away from my gianormous biochem binder, smack dab in the middle of the walkway, the biggest safety hazard/stumbling block to hit the road since, well, whatever else people crash into.

But soon, everything will be cleared out. There'll be no trace that I was ever here. (Except for the door frame, of course, where I'll declare that I heart JC with a pocket knife engraving. And perhaps the desk. And bedpost. And wherever there's wood available.)

It's In The Beard

nrmL (which, for those who have forgotten, stands for new roommate Lisa, though she's not quite new anymore) teaches Sunday school at the local church. She teaches very young children who are, apparently, very sure of their own erroneous biblical knowledge. (Very much like all of us and our biblical knowledge...) Today, Lisa taught the story of Moses, with Mount Sinai and the desert and the commandmants and all that good stuff. (It was also, apparently, the last story of the Old Testament unit? They go from Moses straight to Jesus. All in all, a very efficient Bible framework.) The Sunday school children, however, were unbelievers. That's not Moses, they declared, that's Noah. They remembered him, they said, and he's Noah. nrmL tried to correct the little heretics and reminded them that Noah was famous for his ark and the animals, but the children would have none of it. They knew their pictures, and Noah had a beard that looked just like "Moses." Their faith in themselves was unshaken. They knew, with certainty, that that was a picture of Noah, not Moses. A picture, after all, is worth a thousand words.

Dinner And A Geek

A group of us convened tonight for the second gathering of dinner with our former orgo prof. Yeah, we stay in touch with our chem professors, what'chu gonna do about it? The second time around, the sarcasm got much sharper, the food tastier, the hanging out a lot less awkward, and overall, it was pretty awesome. I admit it. I had fun in the pub with my nerd buddies. My favorite was his revelation that his lowest science grade in college came in Orgo I. And it was a nasty grade, too.

Moi: (explaining how the SAT system has changed since 'back in the day'...) Yeah, how was it when you were young?

(Totally innocent question, right? He's in his early thirties, so it mustn't have been that long ago, and I was just plain curious. But these profs, they know nothing but sarcasm.)

BLinton: Well, you know, we had rocks. We carved our answers with them.

Somebody: Was it hard?

BLinton: They had rocks in different shapes we had to recognize. You had to pick which one was the circle, for example.

Moi: The circle? Oh? They'd already invented the wheel by then?

BLinton: Yes, but it was a very new invention, so most people didn't understand it yet. That's why it was on the final exam, very last question.

Moi: Very tough, huh?

BLinton: Yeah, most people didn't get it. It was hard to grasp the concept.

A simple "I don't remember how it was" would have sufficed, smart mouth.

PHAT Farm

Anal Chem professor has a flower farm during the summer. How adorable is that? "I only moonlight as a chemist," he says, explaining how he spends the summer months with his flowers. He even has his own fleece that advertises the farm. I swear, if chemistry was so hard, labs so tedious, and my grades so dismal, the Chem Department would easily be my favorite on campus. And if they could work in a social justice component into it, man, I'd be in love.

Moi: So how long have you had the farm?

Prof: Ten years. Before that I was a legitimate chemist, and did that year-round.

Vita-K: When people ask what you do for a living, what do you say?

Prof: Depends on the time of the year and who's asking.

(Responding to remark that he was a hard grader, a remark, we'd like to note, neither Vita-K nor I made, because failing tests aside, we really like him.)

Prof: But you don't know if I'm a harsh grader yet because I haven't given you a grade. I've just made marks on your tests.

Moi: In lots of red. And with glee.

Prof: Glee, well... no. But with great enthusiasm, yes.

The Second Language Is Mightier

If I ever do have kids, they're so learning a second language. And a third. And proficient knowledge of a fourth, if I can help it. Knowing a language other than the dominant one is so helpful when it comes to say, misplacing a mother's loving yet embarassing note to you in the Student Union, letting it lie there for all to see, pick up, and ultimately turn into the info desk where you know the kid on duty had looked through at least once. It's only loving and not embarassing is no one else can read what it says. Thank God for making all those years in ESL worthwhile.