Disarticulationess

It's senior year. So on the one hand I think, I can't believe I still accidentally address the faculty and staff here as dude, man, and hey, especially my professors and employers. And that I needed to break this habit three years ago.

On the other hand I think, I'm sleep deprived, lazy, and we're more than halfway through senior year already, might as well just ride it out, man, and chillax.

H-E-Double Hockey Sticks

Moi: She plays lacrosse, no wait, maybe field hockey? Maybe it's field hockey...

Roommate Amy ( not to be confused with me): Does she play with the stick with the net or does she just play with the stick?

Moi: I know what a lacrosse and field hockey stick look like, thank you.

Over the Hill and Through the Woods

(On the phone-)

Tim: Hey, you going to Lance's thing?

Moi: What Lance's thing? I guess I wasn't invited.

Tim: Um. This is awkward. ... Want to go anyway?

And that was how I got to Lance's birthday party this afternoon. Though I was not part of the "like a hundred people" he invited (Tim's words), I still managed to get in and enjoy a refreshing break from writing personal statements and papers. Sure, the guest book caught us by a bit of a surprise since we had already used up all our nice words for Lance in the awesome card we got him, but the food spread was amazing. Warm brie pie (so there's pastry crust instead of the normal icky stuff), smoked salmon, good mix of cheeses and crackers, and quiche with tomato and basil- all the right things for a mid-afternoon snack.

Tim, Brianna, and I, the Bo' contingency of the party, sat in a corner by ourselves, chatting, but mostly devouring plate after plate of smoked salmon (with capers, cucumbers, and dip).

("Amy" talking with her friend "Suzanne"-)
in quotes because I'm not sure if they're their actual names

"Suzanne": I don't eat smoked salmon either.

"Amy": Look at Tim, he's eating it.

"Suzanne": They're all eating it, all three of them. They really like that stuff, huh?

"Amy": Of course they like smoked salmon. They from the Bo'.

Words Do Not Begin To Describe

Mother just called me about my senior pictures.

Moi: The pictures are for you, not me, so it's up to you if you buy them or not. I'm not a part of this.

Mother: The picture makes it look like you're pregnant...

Moi: Then don't buy the pictures. They're your pictures to keep.

Mother: It's just that I know you're a lot better looking than this.

Moi: If you don't like them, don't buy them.

Mother: Maybe we'll get them professionally done next time. Your high school ones turned out so nice.

Moi: No, they didn't. That's why we always use mine from sophomore year of high school. You complained about my senior pictures for months (something about how my 'buddy shots' with Lenny [who's a girl] made us look like nervous lovers...).

Mother: Oh. Maybe I'll get the cheapest package then. But none of these four look any good.

Moi: You could stop telling me how bad they looked and just not buy them. The pictures aren't for me, they're for you.

Mother: It really looks like you're pregnant...

We Worshippers of the Sun Send Our Greetings

That was what the postcard I bought yesterday said. And it perfectly represented my day. But I cannot show it to you because I cannot upload any pictures. I left my cord at home. Along with my headphones, Lightning Reaction game, and espresso machine. As the days go by, the list keeps getting longer.

And as the hour goes by, the day keeps getting colder (but our anticipation grows greater and hearts warmer, because each passing hour also brings us closer to next week's episode of Grey's Anatomy).

I had a marvelous day yesterday, despite having freezing eyeballs for most of the day. Have your eyes ever hurt from the cold? Meghan and I picked the perfect day for strolling down Maine Street, on a day when temperatures straddled between positive and negative single digits, and the wind chill always made it feel ten degrees colder. We decided to sample hot chocolates from a few local establishments. Along the way, I learned how to skillfully drink hot chocolate from bendy straws. (Patience is the key.) We unanimously decided that The Station had the chocolatiest and hottest hot chocolate around. No contest. We even went back and told The Station, fully expecting the folks there to say, "Thank you, do you want some more? It's on the house!" They didn't.

Still, it was a great day. I did school work and work work, met with a professor and a lot of friends. I ate a Grand City sandwich, smothered in sweet cranberry sauce from a can and lots of mayonnaise, as I watched Meghan interview on the phone and get a job, a win-win for the two of us in a span of fifteen minutes. I don't understand how I ever got through any of my previous Fridays, going to classes and labs. What dreary days those were.

Wayback Machine Goes Into the Bedroom 1.1

I spent my time in China in other people's houses. Starting in Shanghai, and moving to Beijing, then finally, the bulk of the summer in Ningxia, I stayed in, and visited, a lot of homes. I saw the homes of expat families, homes that looked exactly like they would in a gated community in the States, and I saw the nice, but smaller apartments of single half-pats and middle class urban families. Then I went to Ningxia. There was a country home with a three-car garage and there were the houses without plumbing, or even an outhouse of their own. In the city, there were big apartments and small apartments, new, old, warm, cold- I saw them in every style, shape, and size. These here are pictures from Tien Tien's house. She turned 15 in August, lives in the countryside, and we hung out together for much of the summer. I taught her some English and in turn, she was my 'cultural broker,' to borrow a Fadiman term. Here, she's waiting with her friends for a few more classmates to show up for her birthday. They caught a ride with her aunt and went to the park in the city for her birthday. She's the one in yellow, trying to dodge out of the way of the camera.

This was one of her bedrooms. The second floor of the house has three bedrooms. While her parents claim one, Tien Tien's older sister and her switch between the two rooms depending on mood and weather. They are by no means well-off, or even middle class, but it's one of the nicer houses I'd been to in the countryside.

Wayback Cribs 1.2

This, was my digs in the city. Where my luggage and I slept and made an attempt at privacy (the door locked, but it didn't help that most people had the key). The bed looks vast and inviting now, but there was no mattress on the wooden box, just a very slight padding of cloth. That, however, did not stop at least six other people from sleeping on the bed that I claimed for most of the summer. Whenever I came back from trips to other relatives' house, I'd find the room slightly different than how I had left it. It was a sweet, spacious, and simple room, with nothing else than my books, clothes, toiletries, sunscreen, and secret stash of bottled water and potato chips. What you see is pretty much everything I had, atrocious purse included.

The room was also the only place I felt really comfortable using Dakota the Computer. This was the only place I really unloaded it (except for a couple of rare instances) to take notes, transcribe, and when the goings got tough, watch a few DVDs. The rest of the time, Dakota the Computer was locked away in an unassuming backpack and locked in the room. Note how the luggage got the desk space, Dakota the Computer got the very comfortable chair, the only nice chair in the whole apartment, and I got the crappy, slightly cracked stool.

Madame Speaker?

At work today, acting in my capacity as student coordinator of the ASB program, I had to send out stern emails to students who had not turned their stuff in. I would've made it longer and nicer, but we were pressed for time and I had to seem official.

I guess I pulled it off a little too well. A sophomore sent me a contrite email of apologies and addressed me as "Ms."

Date with the State

I'm sorry, but the title of this entry suggests that it's more interesting than it really is.

In a few short months, I will be a "well-educated" person with "higher learning". Not so well educated that I would know what I want to do with the rest of my life or even have a degree that would help me toward achieving that goal, but educated nonetheless.

So naively, I believed that with my education and mastery over the English language, and aided by extensive experience in dealing with automated voice systems, wrangling with phone companies, and being in on-hold limbo, that I would be well-equipped to deal with the United States government. It's not like I had done anything wrong or was making a difficult request. I had all the information they were going to ask me and a simple question: why hadn't my mother received her interview notice yet when the rest of us had?

It took ten minutes of navigating through the menu just to find the magical menu button that would lead to talking to a real-live person (they're precious commodities nowadays, everyone's looking for them in their phone calls). After another ten minutes of waiting (much better than the fifty minutes they subjected me to last time), I finally got a live one. A very nice lady that told me that she couldn't answer my questions, because she doesn't handle naturalizations.

"But I followed the menu that said-"
"I know."
"Then why can't you-"
"I'm sorry, but I don't handle this."
"Could you transfer me to someone that can?"
"No."

What she could do, however, was to send me back to the main maze of a menu and tell me exactly what to press- 2 (wait for the menu), 2 (wait for the menu), 6,- now do NOT enter your case number- 2 (wait for the menu), then finally, 4.

Of course! Do not enter my case number when they ask for it. It makes perfect sense that following the directions led me to be transferred to the wrong line. And yet, even after these 'explicit' directions, I still struggled with the phone menu, listening to the same options over and over again and hitting all the wrong keys. It took another five minutes for me to be put on hold again.

At long last- a polite, kind, and most wonderful of all, a live voice. Who told me that I couldn't get an answer until it's been more than 180 days (we're only at 113) since the documents have been filed. So even though Brother and I have gotten our notices already, Mother has to wait for another two and a half months before she can start figuring out if it got lost in the mail or if there's anything wrong with her case. I can't even imagine what the experience would have been had I not been able to understand English as well, did not have 45-minutes to devote to being on the phone, or had a genuine crisis that needed to be addressed.

BSketch: Would you say the process is frustrating? Humiliating? Eye-opening?
Moi: It's all those things.

The state of our Union is strong. God bless America.

The Veil

My ex-roommates. I lived with them. And apparently, that's all I did. I didn't make any impressions in our time together.

Sophomore Year Suitemate

Moi: Didn't we take [Johnson's marvelous Urban Soc class] together?
Mao Bilbao: Yeah! Isn't that how we met?
Moi: How we met!? We were living together that year!

Sophomore Year Roommate

Rio: Where're you guys heading?
Susan et Moi: Class.
Rio: Now?! At night?! That's so weird.
(Pause to explain to Rio and Lisa that there are plenty of classes offered between the hours of 6:30-9:30PM most nights of the week.)
Moi: It's really not that weird. I take an evening class every year. In fact, I had one when we roomed together.
Rio: REALLY!? I did not know that.

Freshman Year Roommate

Susan: So I was talking to Nick the other day and he said that you won some English award?
Moi: Um... yeah, that was a long time ago though.
Susan: How come I didn't know about this?
Moi: I don't know. It was when we were roommates freshman year. (Also when we were in the same English class together)

Freshman and Sophomore Year Roommates, Together

Susan: Since when're you a lefty?
Moi: I've always been a lefty? And check this out-
(Start writing with right hand to show off...)
Susan: Did you know that she's a lefty?
Rio: No. Oh wait, now she's writing with her right hand. Ooh, maybe she's ambidexterous.
Moi: I am ambidexterous!

(To be fair, I've had two or more classes together with all of these roommates, classes where we've sat together and where I've taken notes by them, with my left hand, day after day, week after week, but apparently, all for vain.)

Brain Drain

Ever been in the shower and all the sudden realize that you've forgotten which way the knob turns for more hot water and which way it turns for cold? I hate it when that happens because it usually means that it's about to get real cold real soon. My shower at the Bo' has two knobs and they both turn different ways. Sometimes, it can get confusing. Most of the time, it gets down right chilly.

Had my first dining hall meal of the month. It was weird walking in and realizing that I did not know more than 50% of the people there. Also weird that they shuffled the cereal lineup so the graola is much farther down than before. I didn't get up to talk to anyone. A few people stopped by, said a few hellos, but mosty I just laughed with Oy McCoyne. People are still trickling back on campus, so I'm optimistic that things will change, that this was just a fluke. I can't even begin to imagine a Bo' where I don't know most of the people I see.

What a Friend I Have

I come from a family of love.

Mother (to Father): Do you have any friends?

Moi (to Mother): Do you have any friends?

Mother: Of course, I do. I have lots of friends!

Father: Friends? Or slaves?

Mother (chuckles): The thing is, I have friends like that wherever I go.

Father: Those poor friends.

Breaking It Off

After a month at home, I am now back at the Bo' for my very last semester (if all goes well). So winter break, I bid you goodbye.

Goodbye to transcribing (yes!), sleeping late, delicious junk food of all sorts, starving around dinner time, Beauty and the Geek, reading dozen+ books on China, sudoku puzzles, Brazilian bbq, endless homework, errands with Mother, lounging in pj's, and my red LL Bean coat.

Hello to a semester without the Band Man or the sciences, (with Riles and BSketch and Scottish Writer Lady instead), but with Wednesday sushi, White People Food, Figuring Out What to do with My Life, Applying for Many and Hopefully Finding a Job, Concluding My College Career, an amazingly flexible (but busy) schedule, and of course, writing The Nightmare That Will Hopefully Result in an Honors Thesis. I can't wait to get started. In fact, I have some interviews to translate into English right now...

Honorable Mentionables

Remember, Gentle Reader, when we read these entries, we are to judge my mother, not me.

Among the few things I'd like to buy before I go back to the Bo' (winter jacket among them), I mention underwear...

Mother: Don't you have plenty?

Moi: They keep disappearing.

Mother: Your underwear disappears?

Moi: Fine. They don't disappear. Still.

Mother: I don't see what the matter is. Other people get along perfectly well on just one pair.

Moi: Who, exactly, is fine on one pair of underwear?

Mother: People.

Hazy Daze

My house is smokin'. And it's not because my family is hot. We are, but- ok, only I am, but we're getting side tracked here. In the past week, Mother, Father, and I have all took our turns burning something on the stove. And even though Brother is now on the West Coast, I fully expect him to ruin one of our pans within the next two days. Tha'ts just the kind of hot streak we're on. Came back from New York and realized that I could not fall asleep because the smell of burning was deep within my room. At first I suspected smell-residue from restaurant grease then realized that I haven't worn my pajamas to the restaurant in quite awhile. Also didn't seem likely that Mother's chicken fingers incident would have a lingering smell so strong that I'd smell it five days later. Turns out, Father had almost burnt down the house a couple of days earlier. Turned a pot on and just let it go. The smell of burning is now noticeable in every single room of the house. All two and a half baths included. The only upside to this is that I can now blame Father's burning of the pan for every new cooking mistake I make. Did you burn something today? (Say, stir fried eggplants, tomatoes and beef?) No, Dad, that's the smell from that time you almost burnt the house down. An ultra-convenient, crispy, delectable scapegoat.

Cold Facts

I went to NYC to learn about homelessness. And learn I did. I'll spare you, lone reader, of all the gritty details and just give you a bullet summary of what went down. It seems that everything was cool about the trip except for the weather, which worked out great since I lost my winter jacket on the train ride to the City. I am such a responsible adult.

• Folks doing this thing called 'street to housing,' where advocates prowl the streets for homeless people and offer to help them get housing: Radically cool.

• Being recognized as a super slaw scooper by soup kitchen coordinator: Cool as whip.

• Actually knowing what homeless advocates are talking about because I'd read studied the matter: V. cool. Going out late at night to count the homeless population for a survey project with those same advocates: Even cooler.

• Being asked to explain why McDonald's is 'bad' by professor who taught me why: Not as cool as you'd think. Put on the spot to define 'hegemony?' Also not that cool.

• Catching ImprovEverywhere in action, hanging out with Band Kid (she is 3 years old and doesn't judge me for taking pictures of The Eyeball fighting with other toys- she finds them fascinating), meeting yet another Illustrious Alum Making a Difference, good cheesecake, holding hands and singing O Freedom with predominantly minority congregation: Cool, cool, cool, mm mm cool, and righteously cool.

• Riding a freaking Segway: So cool that it went right off the charts, back to uncool, the slid into cool again only to go off the chart twice more, before finally settling the dial back into ultra, uber, cool to the nth degree.

A separate entry on my grub crawl adventure with TChu, EAR, James the Giant Freshman, and Oy McCoyne through midtown to come. First, more judgement on food from Father.

Father: So you went to New York, saw some poor people, then went out for fun and spent all this money on food?

Moi: Mm hmm?

Father: Doesn't that make you feel guilty?

No, no it doesn't.

New York Minute

Going to NYC, with the Band Man, Woman, and Child, on Band Aid.
Will be back before you know it.

Let Go The Lego

I love kids when they're stupid and silly. Elise is four and a half years old; she goes by the nickname of Xinxin (like shing-shing). Yesterday, when her mom asked what she was so busily doing upstairs, she said that she was cleaning. Curious how Xinxin would 'clean,' her mom walked upstairs to check. She found her daughter in the bathroom, surrounded by bloody tissues and Legos. Alarmed, she asked a very frantic and busy-looking Xinxin what was going on. Her story is that she was playing with her Legos and picked one up "to smell." But "smelling" the Lego caused it to be lodged in her nostril. So she picked at her nose to pull it out. She kept picking and picking and her nose started bleeding, yet the Lego piece wouldn't come out. It went on for so long that she started wondering if perhaps the Lego wasn't in her nose but had actually dropped on the floor, so she started looking for the Lego piece all over the room, but couldn't find it anywhere. Did she drop it? Should she keep picking her nose? And was it ok to freak out? Elise was confused and a little frightened.

After some calls to the doctor and her dad at work and a little while later, Xinxin was in the emergency room. The hospital setting seemed to have calmed her down drastically for she was very cheerful and giggly her whole time there. Her nose was too little for the films to determine whether there really was a Lego piece stuck far up her nose so the doctors had to try something novel: they blocked out Xinxin's free nostril and told Xinxin's mom that she had to cover Xinxin's mouth with her own mouth, completely, and blow very hard into Xinxin's mouth. The nurses were told not to laugh at the sight of Xinxin's mother giving her a mouth-to-mouth. Alas, those doctors don't spend all those years in school for nothing. A couple of blows later, the Lego piece that Xinxin really did apparently 'sniff' up her nose popped right out.

Be careful, gentle readers, the next time you take time to smell the roses.

The Good Fight

We had hot pot for dinner. Hot pot is my favorite family meal. It brings us closer together.

Moi: Say you killed someone, was sentenced to death and about to die, what would your last meal be?

Father: That's such a negative question. Why don't you say it more positively, like if you were persecuted for preaching the gospel, was sentenced to death and about to die, what would your last meal be? Doesn't that sound better?

I said (if I were persecuted for preaching the gospel, sentenced to death and about to die) my mom's sweet and sour ribs would be one of the many things on the menu...

Mother: What if I'm already dead?

Moi: Then it'd be doubly sad, wouldn't it?

Later...

Father: Why're you always talking about food?

Shopgirl

I haven't done much this past week. I solved a couple of dozen sudoku puzzles. Made a pillowcase out of an old t-shirt. Sent out my first job application to a job I'm not sure I want but I better get. Other than those sad details, cannot recall much of my week. Should have done more readings, transcribings, and laundry, as well as hang out and work out more, but failed to do all of them.

Oh. Mother and I also spent $146 on groceries. I'm pretty sure we just went grocery shopping last week, but we were in Chinatown and couldn't help ourselves. Mostly her. I just bought junk food not available elsewhere (or at cheaper prices than the local Asian grocer), like Men's Pocky and Grill-a-Corn. In Asian supermarkets, all my beliefs about buying local, buying fresh, and buying in season get tossed. I don't care how much my food has travelled and the pollutions they've caused, I don't want to know about the working conditions of the people that made them, or even the conditions of those that work in the supermarket and I try really hard not to care how fishy the supermarket smells (it smells of actual fish): they have those Japanese chocolate-filled crackers in the shape of Koala bears and those remind me of my years in the Sri Lankan textiles industry.

My only consolation for the ridiculous amount we spent on food was this adorable old couple. They both had heads of white hair and progressed slowly through the aisles at about the same rate as Mother, always consulting each other and deliberate about their choices. They left with three carts of food versus our one filled-to-the-brims cart. When the cashiers teased them, the old man explained that they hadn't been in Chinatown in a long time. They live all the way out in Concord and don't often make the trip. To all the astonishment over why he bought so much food, he smartly quipped: "Now I can open my own shop back home."

Wayback Machine Goes to a Wedding

Spending so much of my break transcribing and reading about Chinar, I felt it was time to take another trip in the Wayback Machine. These two, while not the best done, are two of my favorite pictures from Chinar. They were taken at a distant cousin's wedding. A real rural wedding ceremony, which is hard to catch these days. It came in August, toward the end of my stay, and about three hundred people attended the event. Surprisingly, I knew a good amount of them by then and spent much of the day greeting the distant relatives. I hate doing it, but by August, I got really good at addressing people, saying hi and looking like I'm pleased to see them. I even got to explain to the poor bride who some of the random relatives were. It's really a shame that she couldn't recognize her husband's grandfather's cousin's or her husband's great uncle's grandchildren. Here, above, a few of the guys are hanging out outside, under the shades, away from the heat and noise of the crowded reception. It was a rare chance for these men, who are from different generations and families, who don't normally get to see each other, to talk about the weather, the price of watermelons, and how everyone's kids and grandkids are doing. While they shot the breeze outside, most of my cousins were huddled in another aunt's house right next door, playing cards and mah jongg. (Spellcheck won't help me spell mah jongg, so it'll just have to be this way.) Below, the bride is taking a brief moment to rest before facing the crowds outside. She changed into a red dress for the reception, while her room is in gaudy shades of red and pink for the wedding, since red is the traditional colour of prosperity.

Osh B'Gosh

One of the top new finds of last year was the short-lived BBC series Posh Nosh, recommended by Tim. I can't believe I didn't know about it until being back. The series is deliciously drenched in British pretension and humor.

On Jerez vinegar: "A Spanish sherry wine vinegar, aged in oak cask for eight Spanish years, which are slightly longer than English years because of the siesta."

A Patron to Remember

Vietnamese waitresses remember me. But just as the PuMan takes notice of me because of my frown when I can't get the words out fast enough, Sharon can't let go of my barking antics of fourth grade, and [insert third droll example to make this 'balanced good writing'], they remember me for all the wrong reasons.

For the second time in as many weeks, my parents, their friends, and myself went to the place we affectionately refer to as 'the Vientnamese noodle place' for lunch. Sat at the same sized table not quite big enough for a party of five, facing the same lunch-hour crowd. We had the exact same appetizers and pretty much the same food. I remembered to add 'no cilantros' this time to my usual order of 'iced coffee and #19 with meatballs' (aka what will definitely make my last meal menu should I ever kill someone and get caught). We're no Dustin Hoffmans but you would go back to the exact same restaurant and endure the cramped spaces with your parents and their friends all over again if it meant savoring that divine combination. One thing was different though. Today, all the waitresses carefully doted on us, delivering everything delicately and gingerly clearing away all the dishes as soon as we were finished. Because they finally wanted to reward our years of loyalty with prompt service? No. As one explained, "we don't want you to spill iced coffee all over yourself again." "Oh hey, they remembered!" My parents cheered. Yeah, I remember, too. Every time someone opened the door last week, the breeze would come in and a few more of my nerve endings would die.

On the calendars the waitresses gave us:

Mother: Hey! They took these from Super 88 [the chain of Chinese supermarkets in Boston.] It says 88 right on the calendars.

Mother's Much Brighter Friend: I think it's because this restaurant is called Pho 88.

Mother: Is that why you always refer to this place as 88? I always thought you were just confused.

(For the record, we've been going to Pho 88 on and off for about ten years.)

Not on Bread Alone

I can have a favorite finger (left index, hell yeah), and perhaps one day, my favorite child. But I cannot pick a favorite food. I will instead attempt to approach that impossible choice with my year in junk food here, anything but the main course. Because if I was forced to live a world without soups, salads, and mains, I think I'd be upset but able to cope, if only my finger foods stay by my side.

Savoury? So in. Milanos? So 2005.

1. Crisps (not chips, though cracked pepper Kettle Chips are delightful). Being in the motherlands meant access to all sorts of wonderful flavours I don't normally see in the States, especially flavors that involve chicken. In a summer full of goat, them Capico crisps and other Chinese junk food really maintained eating as a joyful activity for me. Eating it secretly (for breakfast, for lunch, for whenever) with my half-niece made it all the more awesome.

2. Grill-a-Corn. I re-discovered this with Vita-L in the Chinese stores of Eddie Bert and ever since, have been absolutely obsessed with them this year. They're the most delicious corn snacks on God's good earth. Like Cheetos but without the disgusting cheese flavor. In its stead are wondrous, grill-flavored magical taste particles that delight the tongue. (Ok, I like the disgusting cheese flavor, too, but Grill-a-Corn of all flavours is a gazillion times better.)

3. Chinese breakfast foods. You don't open the pantry or pour some milk for breakfast in Taiwan. You step into the street. The pastries, the pancakes, eggs, fried dough, dumplings, soy drinks... possibilities are endless and most likely greasy.

4. Brioche. The French and other civilized people pronounce it bri-oh-che. The Brits, bri-AH-che. Either way, fantastic bread that reminds me of Chinese rolls.

5. Haribo's Tang-Fastic pack. Best shared with small groupers over a movie. Or alone with a movie. Or just alone. They're tangy and fantastic.