Scarlet Stain

Maybe some people just shouldn't wear white, even between the months of May and September. Every time I've worn my new white shirt, I've stained it almost immediately. Today, I confused my shirt for the napkin on my lap and wiped my greasy fingers on it. At this rate, I'm just surprised that there isn't snot on the shirt.

The over-sensitive automatic toilets at work always flush as I enter the stall. Which always makes me want to pee even more. But I always feel like I should wait until it's done flushing. Out of courtesy for the toilet.

When I grow to be very old, I hope that I, too, can find a research assistant who I can both befriend and torment by not following directions and keeping her on the phone to chat about alternative medicine and my eating intolerances, neither of which have nothing to with the study that I am currently enrolled in, the very one that I have already messed up twice.

A Guide to Recognizing Your Martyrs

I've been getting a lot of mileage out of the martyr question (don't worry, T Chu, your stoning is still the most outstanding) and a few days ago, I asked it to Mother, who preferred getting shot. It's a legit answer, but seemed quite modern, plain, and just a tad disappointing, so I told her about Nate, who wanted to jump off of a building...

Moi: ... but I told him that that wasn't really martyring.

Mother: Well, if he was in a cage and someone pushed him off of a building, that would be martyrdom.


***

Hesitating to cross the very broad street on Friday, with its many lanes and many cars, I took a moment to just let the heat beat down on me and stare with resignation and all the cars that were going places while I stood still. Then out of nowhere, a bike whizzed past me. "They can't run over all of us at once," he said, "come on!" And he led me through traffic, like a black knight in shining armour.

BP Reunion Debrief

I was not coerced into writing this post in any way.

(Nate Dawg, Jackie, and Dwighters)

The summer of 2004, which I spent with the Boston Project, was one of the best times of my life. That summer, I was pushed to grow, serve and forge relationships in an incredible way. When the summer came to an end, I worried about how quickly the experience would fade from me and when the ties I'd form with my co-workers - people who cut bagels (Katie) and split oranges (G-Pak) for me- would fray. After all, what common ground did we have other than those ten tiring weeks together? How far could inside jokes take us?

My questions were answered yesterday, when I hung out with a few BP vets. Turns out, even outside of BP, there were plenty of things we could talk about and do together, like making out. We also traded Alfredo recipes (don't trust the Mennonites), toured Joey Fatone's crib, ran around in the pouring rain, caught pneumonia, and shared inappropriate zoo stories. Below are some pictures from my super fantastic earth boggling and mind shattering BP Saturday, pictures that I was not obliged or pressured to post here in any way...

(P.S. Dusty, your friend Dwight is alive and well. I saw him with my very eyes. He is a little pink though. I couldn't tell if he was feverish, sun burnt, or if that was his natural complexion.)

Nate takes the most flattering of pictures.

Katie, censored by the Triscuit box.

I don't know why Nate only took pictures of busts and bottoms, but inside those jeans lie a very special band aid.

Would somebody please pay attention to the boy?

T Travelogues

On the train ride home this morning, gazing out the window and marveling at how speed and grass meshes together into one green blur, I caught sight of the man in the seat in front of me. Halfway to our destination on the half-filled train, he was using the window as a mirror to pop his pimple. It seemed like a private moment, so I looked down and went back to my book.

When I ride the commuter rail and subway for my commute, I cover pretty long distances so finding a seat is almost never a problem. Even though I always manage to snag a seat, I still worry about crowds because crowds mean people without seats. And people without seats tend to look forlornly at people with seats. I never know who I'm supposed to give up my seat to, afraid of offending people by my acts of omission as well as commission. There are a few safe bets though: oxygen tanks, preggers, and those that walk with canes. Those people will always be grateful. Everyone else becomes one tricky haze and I generally try to avoid eye contact in those situations. Today though, I gave my seat to a lady that I instinctively knew didn't deserve one: She was well dressed, maybe late-50's, but very healthy- healthy enough to walk toward the empty seats in the back if she really wanted. After flailing around for a couple of stops, the woman decided to stand next to my seat, an arm on the back of my seat and another on the seat in front of me, completely shielding me from the aisle. She looked ridiculously out of place, dangerously close to me, but generally forgivable until she opened her mouth. "I'm sorry but I'm about to kill myself," she said. Not a suicidal cry for help, no. But an over dramatic suburban woman who compares the experience of riding public transportation to that of taking her own life. I got up just so she would stop talking to me. I told her she could have my seat, tried to ignore it when she told me that my mother taught me good manners in the most patronizing manner possible, and moved toward the back of the car, to hang out with the oxygen tanks, preggers, and those that walk with canes.

It's Where the Strangers Are

As I'm about to turn into my driveway tonight, Father tells me to watch out for the other cars in the driveway, as there are quite a few. Why? I ask. Why are there cars here and whose cars are they? Oh, it's just that Mother has about ten people over, that's all. It's a farewell dinner for a family I'd never met. I don't mind the guests much but you see, some of them have reproduced and have children. Children not of the adorable bumbling variety, but school age ones that shriek and tell each other boring stories and try to sound grown-up by commenting that she is watching her favorite show and that "nothing good is on" when I could see that clearly, baby girl, you have landed on the Spanish channel by chance and really have no idea what's going on, children that answer the door to my house shouting "Do I know you?! Do I know you!?" at my guests. And the saddest thing of all? She actually knows them better than I do.

Day-O

There is now a little sign on my cubicle wall counting the number of mess-up free work days since. It now stands at 0. Though it should probably be in the negatives to account for multiple screw ups in one day. At least the supervisor liked my dress. (I told you I cleaned up well.) And from the looks of it, free lunch on Thursday!

Post Script:

My what a difference a year makes. I'm about a year older and dozens of millions poorer than Ms. Lohan, but- not to toot my own horn or anything- so, so, so much wiser. I may be a screw-up at work, but I've never been arrested twice, or gone to rehab twice, or caught with a "small" amount of cocaine.

Favorite line of the People* coverage:

"The driver who called police turned out to be the mother of Lindsay Lohan's personal assistant," said Padilla. "Just prior to the chase – but I'm not sure exactly how much time prior – the personal assistant had quit."



*So I read People today, whatever. Back off, I've had a long day.

Old Unfaithful

Don't know why, but from the park where the concert was on Friday night, was a very clear view of a Greek flag flying proudly in the beautiful summer sky. Lowell has the highest concentration of Cambodians in the US and apparently, a small but loyal number of Greeks, too.

Kids 'R' Us

Passed a baby boutique today with a sign in the window that said "european children," annoying lower case and everything. I wonder if that's where Wolfgang got his new daughter.

As a research assistant, I see very, very, very few patients because most of our studies aren't clinical. Today, however, I had a chance to get out of the office and into a clinic only to be stood up by my subject. This, however, afforded me the chance to get about as close to watching a full soaps episode as I've ever gotten. I only stuck around for 40 minutes, but there was a bomb explosion, abduction, seduction of a naive Irish nun by Italian man, flashback parallels, reading of other people's letters, people being arranged to meet by unknown hands and of course, the classic memory loss and unrequited love. I don't know how people keep up with all this. Those 40 minutes took a lot out of me.

It's always edifying when people at work refer to your cubicle as a pigeon-hole. Or remark on how your $40+ K-a-year tuition prepared you to label envelopes all day. But then there are those glimmers of sheer joy at work, like today, when I discovered that my computer could now print double sided and Caitlin- the other new hire- shared in my excitement. Knowing that I could now cross asking for a new printer/computer off of my Christmas wish list? That was a life affirming moment that just made my day.

Loose Talk

Mother: But you're so good at schmoozing.

Moi: No, I hate schmoozing and obligatory chit chat. I can do it but I don't like it.

Mother: You're always doing it to me.

Moi: What do you mean? How do I schmooze with you?

Mother: When you come home from work, you always say hi, ask me about my day, say 'how are you doing?'

Moi: Um, that's not schmoozing. I was genuinely curious about how you were feeling. Because you are my mother. That's what families do, Mother. They talk with each other without expecting anything in return.

Footloose

Dear Barefoot Girl Standing in Line of the Parking Garage Bathroom:

Who are you, Britney Spears? Ew. Ew. Eeeeeew!

Sincerely,

Bound Feet



(Context: Went to a Nickel Creek concert last night (Claire, if you're reading this, I went to a Nickel Creek concert last night! I am becoming just like you) and all over the park were barefoot crunchies, being smelly and unsanitary. People, we've had foot gear for literally thousands of years, why eschew all that human achievement now? Jesus wore sandals. We should all follow his example. I understand the need to feel the earth when you're on some pristine green lawn or walking alongside the beach, but streets of Lowell? Parking garage? And again, public restroom? What exactly are you nostalgic for- tetanus?)

The Anniversary

It's been a little over a month since I started my semi-grown-up employment. So far, work has been trickier and less funny than I had imagined, but also much more manageable. I would offer more introspective thoughts but I'm just giddy with the realization that I may not be lactose intolerant after all. Went on a really random work field trip yesterday that took me some really nice Nutella gelato. There was no stomach upset at all, just some brown stains on my new shirt. I didn't mind the little stain so much until my supervisor said, "That's rather embarrassing, especially on a white blouse," which was a good cue for me to know that I should be embarrassed.

The division is full of people who are givers of life, not just through their work but their extracurricular activities as well. In the year 2007 alone, seven new babies were born/are expected to be born. That's about 1 in 3 division members, including one doctor who was afraid to go home to his very pregnant wife last night. They had planned on going away from the weekend but he had just realized yesterday that he was on call for the weekend.

(On the baby plethora phenom)

Nice Old Stat Lady: You guys should watch out that you're not next.

Moi: (sigh) Fine, I won't sleep around then.

(Saying that line was one of those moments when the world comes to a halt and I realize that instead of conversing, I was watching an image of my foot being engulfed by my mouth. Luckily, Nice Old Stat Lady was much funnier and more understanding than anticipated. She just laughed heartily and nodded.)

The Special Commute

The 7:18 train was delayed this morning. And when it did show up, it was shorter than usual. I felt silly riding on the short bus. But it was a really long short bus because it was a train. That was almost poetic of me.

Some notes to self:

A. However delicious Vietnamese coffees are, you are too old to be drinking espressos with dinner.

B. When a supervisor says that a doc has "interesting detective work" for you, do not get overexcited, as the doc only wants you to call medical records. People who work in medical records, by the way, are "just angry paper pushers who are really anal," which was probably why the doc had you made the call in the first place.

C. Stick with pack lunches from Mother, however 4th grade they make you feel. There are apparently rats all over the hospital cafes and office buildings.

More Mad Martha

Some more photos from this past weekend (and my what a glorious weekend- baking on Friday, dehydration Saturday, then Brazilian barbecue + shopping + lobster on Sunday. Short of a Sox-Yankees series and/or meeting Jesus, can you think of a better combination?).

That's Amy, being slowly buried in the sand and eating my shorts.

Christina, who had a tiring afternoon slowly covering Amy with sand. She also takes the cake for my new favorite sacrilegious question: what's your preferred method of martyrdom? That is, of course, if you are willing to die for your faith. Some people aren't:

Sarah: Oh, I've already told God, I ain't martyring. I prefer massages and pedicures.

And some people aren't quite familiar with methods of martyrdom:

Nate: I'd like to jump out of a building.

The girl in yellow in the middle was totally posing. And pulled it off much better than these two fools.

Supervisor: Starting tomorrow [when a new research assistant with my initials and last name is starting], can we change your name to Peaches to make things easier?

Moi: Why do I have to change? What about the new kid?

Supervisor: 'Cause she's older than you. Now, I'm thinking sort of a Cher thing, no last name, just Peaches. Is that OK?

Respect just follows me wherever I go.

And Not a Drop to Drink

Went to gorgeous Martha's Vineyard yesterday. But what's a day hanging out with childhood friends, riding bikes, sitting on the beach, and seeing Bo' folks without a little embarrassment? Boy, was yesterday embarrassing. I had always assumed that 'dehydration' was slightly made up, that drinking your water was up there with flossing and taking vitamins- crazy, healthy stuff for weaklings or really intense folks. I mean, isn't thirst usually a good indicator of whether you should have water or not? How could people not have enough water in them? I had gone through a summer of landscape work at BP, and went to the deserts of China, all without any hiccups, but as I learned yesterday, even someone as young and relatively invincible like me (i.e. pretty out of shape) can fall prey to dehydration. Yesterday, after biking for only about a mile, Nate and I stopped so my wondrous Puma bag could be strapped to his bike (Maria: Thank God you have that backpack, I'd never recognize you without it.) All was well until I stood up and suddenly felt lightheaded. Then things looked splotchy. Then I told Nate I wanted to sit down. Then I stood up again because sitting down seemed weak. Then I couldn't see. Then I stood still for five minutes holding onto my bike trying to compose myself and not freak out Nate too much or crash down onto the road. All I could process at the time was that the world was fuzzy and my arms tingly. Then slowly I could see again. At that point sitting down didn't seem so unreasonable. And Nate made me drink lots of liquids. After some more humbling resting, my weakness left me and I finished the bike ride, albeit much later than everyone else. Lesson here, boys and girls, is that having enough fluids in your body is much more important than having a bathroom nearby because holding your pee in is a lot easier to do than trying to make your eyes see when you're blind from dehydration.

Can You Not Hear Me Now?

Lately, I've come across quite a few people who go to such great lengths to scold what they consider impolite behavior that they come off as enormous jerks.  Yesterday, I was talking on the cell phone with Emily when the elevator door opened.  I hadn't expected three other people to already be in the elevator, waiting to ride down, but I didn't think it would have been right to just hang up on Emily.  So I entered, talked in a much softer voice, then smiled sheepishly and apologetically at the three already in the elevator.  I also mouthed a 'sorry' to all of them.  This, however, was not enough of a sign of contrition to my fellow riders.  When I told Emily, "I'm flexible, so whenever you come will be fine," one of the ladies on the elevator looked at me and said, "Congratulations!  I'm glad you're flexible!" and laughed obnoxiously.  The elevator ride got extra awkward from then on.  And I couldn't exactly explain to Emily what was going on.  The lesson here, boys and girls, is that being rude is much more socially unacceptable at any time than small faux pas like talking on your cellphone in the elevator, especially when you already look like you're sorry.  And you're only trying to set a time to meet.  Because being nosy isn't neighborly.  I don't think the lady would have dared talked to me like that if I was older and looked like I might be a doctor.  Stupid youthful complexion.

Say Hey Kid

I wish I was smooth like Willie Mays. Or that I could hit a ball. But no, not me. Instead, when people in my office, nice and friendly people who I don't quite know yet, bump into me in the hallways, bathroom, and on the street and nicely say hi to me and call me by name, all I can utter is "Oh, hey!" and walk away. It's only moments later, when I'm all by myself again, that I remember that it's during those encounters that I'm supposed to generate friendly chatter. That's how relationships are made and where friends come from. Sometimes, I forget these things. And now I have an office full of people who think I'm brusque, avoids people in the office, and am only capable of producing monosyllabic greetings.

Being socially awkward, however, still beats being fired- a topic I probably shouldn't joke about just yet.

(yesterday)

Doctor Man: Hey, can you do me one more favor?

Moi: No.

Doctor Man: Well, then you're fired. It's pretty simple.

Moi: Awn. Fine. I'll do it. Don't fire me.

(this afternoon)

Doctor Man: Good job on those graphs you sent me.

Moi: Oh yeah? So I'm not getting fired?

Doctor Man: No, probably not.

Moi: Yes! Safe for the week!

Doctor: Well, the week's still young. It's only Wednesday.

I hope I make it through Friday.

Who Was and Is and Is to Come

Dear Future Me:
Am I going to be responsible for this? These classes/labs/lectures are rather boring and there's no way I will need to know how to use these programs in real life. I think I'll pass notes instead. My lab partner/friend/stranger sitting next to me is probably taking all of this down.

Sincerely sleeping through this,

Past Me


Dear Past Me:
You stupid, stupid, fool. Why didn't you learn how to use SPSS properly? Or figure out Access? Or even bother writing down how you're supposed to craft proper lab reports and lit reviews. Had you had any sense to do just one more iota of work, my life now would be so much easier and so much less of an embarrassment. Did $160,000 buy you nothing?

Sincerely pissed,

Present Me


Dear Present Me:
Yes, time travel has been made possible. Fret not and work hard not, I am coming to fix everything.

Sincerely and speedily,

Future Me


Dear Future Me:
Perhaps you should have paid more attention in time traveling class. Since your visit, I keep getting grainier and grainier. And living with three legs hasn't been easy. Why can't you and I just buckle down and learn our lessons like we're supposed to?

Sincerely,

Present-ish Me


Dear Future Me:
Just a heads up: Present Me is kind of uptight.

Sincerely slacking,

Past Me

Tar-jay Practice

A disclaimer: This post is less funny than usual.

I used to think that the extent of the stupidity of our neighbor's children was their penchant for sledding down our hill and toward oncoming traffic. Sure their endless fund raisers for 4-H and Brownies and schools were annoying but generally, we put up with them, especially when they sold us Scouts cookies. Then last week, Father discovered a BB gun crack through our guest room window and they got a whole lot less cute and a whole lot more stupid. I oscillate between trying to shrug the event off and thinking what could have happened had it cracked through both window layers, what if someone was there, what if he shoots at us again, what if, what if, what if. It is, after all, right next to the guest room bed. I'm not even sure how old the boy is this year; he must be in middle school now. I can't figure why he'd want to shoot our house except for the fact that, like Everest, we're here. We've always been nice to him, but he seems to have a little bigot streak in him. Years ago, he and some little friend got in trouble for repeatedly ringing our doorbell then running away screaming something about the Chinese. I called up his mother today and tried to let her have it. But she was so apologetic and soft spoken that it really took the fun out of it. And of course, it wasn't she I wanted to passive aggressively yell at. I didn't even get to say my line about "we'd like to believe that this wasn't racially motivated but we don't know that for sure." Beside me wanting to say that for the guilt factor, this is what sucks about being on the receiving end of something so senseless. I never know if someone hates me for me, for my skin color, or if that person is just plain stupid. Is it my fault or his? What's not to like about me? Would he have done it to another family? And suddenly, this pellet out of a stupid toy gun is making me completely self conscious instead of letting me direct my anger at him. But that's just what happens when your skin is a different color.

Not the window that was shot, but a view of my family's gourd collection.

Hodge Podge

Some things I've been forgetting to share, humorless bullet form:

• Went to a restaurant yesterday whose bathroom had a sign that read "Sorry, we're closed on Mondays," because their restroom, much like churches and museums, apparently get a lot of wear over the weekend.

• Bringing new urgency to the subject of salvation, last weekend, at the Chinese church in Portland, it was discovered minutes before service that it was communion Sunday. And the lady in charge had forgotten communion. So her daughter had to drive home in a jiff, grab the tablecloths, matzo, and grape juice, then rush back to church to prep everything while the worship leader stalled. Sort of wish I had witnessed that instead of visit the Bo'.

• The first two weeks of work, I had 0 paper cuts. Last week I had two. And today I had three and a half. At this exponential rate I'm going, I don't expect to have any fingers left by year's end, but a giant bloody stump.
  

Insufferable Intolerance

I am a rather easy going and accepting person.  Having lived and traveled throughout Asia, Europe, and North America, I have met many peoples, seen many places, and learned to appreciate many that are different from me.  There isn't much that I am intolerant of these days, except apparently, lactose.  I started having my doubts about lactose a few summers ago, whilst working at BP, but later found out that those stomach upsets were mainly because I was always full before I ate my ice cream.  This year, however, it's been different.  And persistent.  And though I am not as racked by pain and upsets as many who are lactose intolerant are, I believe that I am in the beginning stages of intolerance.  I can't finish those cafe shakes I love and I can't even finish a small now without feeling sick.  All of this is rather heartbreaking because I love ice cream.  I do not say that as one would about a shirt or a color.  I.  Love.  Ice cream.  There is always ice cream in our freezer no matter the season and when you ask me what my favorite ice cream flavor is, I will tell you that you cannot choose a favorite child.  If pushed, I will break it down for you for my favorite Ben and Jerry's, Haggen Daz, and Kimball's flavors (representing the zenith in inventive flavors, classics, and local farmstands), as well as plain flavors when those three are not available.  Do not even ask me about toppings and sundaes, because that's a whole other eating strategy and vanilla bean is always the best for that.  What all this rambling is trying to express is that I heart ice cream, and my gradual lactose intolerance is hurting me on so many different levels, especially now, when there is such social pressure to partake of ice cream.  It's how I bond with co-workers.  It's how W-ford kids and I get together.  Just today, in search of an air-conditioned store (apparently unheard of in Central Square except for one dry cleaning place that looked very inviting- Jared, however, refused to sacrifice his shirt for the group's wellbeing), I spent $3.40 on ice cream that I was neither hungry for nor enjoyed much.  And there wasn't even AC.  If I could have one thing for Christmas, it'd be peace on earth.  But if I could have two things, it'd be the ability to process ice cream.  And, if Santa's feeling generous, maybe I could get a better tolerance for alcohol and some aldehyde dehydrogenase, too.  That'd rock.

My Children, Walking Hand in Hand

Pretty sure I just woke up from a dream in which we rode the bus to a Spiderman party. As in everyone there wore a Spidey costume, mask, tights, and everything. It was great fun. I had a robe over my costume though. Afterwards, I somehow lost my leg but decided to get an HPV vaccine and, hobbling around in the clinic, realized that I knew the staff there (they were fellow creative writing kids at the Bo') and we ended up playing virtual bowling. I have no idea how or why any of this happened.

Murder on the Express

The 5:30 train is the express train, which means that it takes only 40 minutes when it normally takes 50 to reach the last station. Yesterday, however, on a nice and clear day free of precipitation, the express train slowed to a halt. A tree had apparently fallen and though no one was there to witness it, we did feel its impact. Five minutes out of the station, we came to a halt and stayed that way for nearly an hour as we waited for tracks to be cleared and other trains to pass us. What kind of weak a$s tree falls on a perfectly sunny, windless day and ruins the express train?

I suppose I wouldn't know what kind of tree. Now that I've started working, I feel rather removed from nature (not because I hug so many trees at home, but because sitting in the air-conditioned living room, I get a great view of our leafy back yard). Just today, when the research assistants all grabbed ice cream, I suggested we all grab a table to sit (because sometimes we just bring our ice cream upstairs, right back to work, which defeats the whole time-killing purpose of these trips). Caitlin suggested we go outside instead and I looked at her as if she told me that there was no B3 bomber. I had actually forgotten that we were steps from outside. That we could go outside. That there was an outside.

Caitlin: You know, outside? Natural sunlight? There's a whole new world out there.

Jump on It

This week has been surprisingly filled with catching up with friends from everywhere, which has been incredibly pleasant. Even today's two-minute talk with Erin was pretty awesome, as it reminded me of all of her stubborn non-sense of yesteryear.

Moi: How come I haven't see you in two weeks?

Erin: I ride this train every day!

Moi: I thought you only work three days a week.

Erin: I do. But I'm on this train whenever I ride it!

I wish I had more stories about absurd co-workers. Or any. But they're all too nice and normal and smart. The closest one I have is one of a fellow research assistant who decided to paint her bookshelf around 2am because she couldn't fall asleep. That wasn't half as good as J-Wo's co-worker story, which involved a drive to York, ME through the night, bloody feet, showering at work, and guys wearing each other's too tight polo shirts. Crazy people, please join DOPE to make my life more interesting. I spent most of the day reading articles and preparing a lit review. It felt a lot like doing homework. Except I couldn't just leave and take a bad grade. Or bug the people next to me. Or copy someone else's answers. So really, it wasn't like doing homework at all.

Gently Rise and Softly Call

My mother, the minister-

Moi: Ma, I get off work early today.

Mother: That's great! Should we par-tay?

Moi: Partay?

Mother: Yeah, let's partay. Let's go out for drinks.

Moi: I don't want to drink with you. You can't handle your liquor.

Mother: Sure I can. I was just acting that last time. Come on, mother and daughter. It'll be your first time at a bar, right?

Moi: Of course it's not my first time.

Mother: No? So the truth comes out at last!

Moi: What truth, woman? I've told you so many stories set in bars.

Mother: But that was just beer, right? Beer doesn't count.

She ended up spending a quiet evening at home.

Spoil the Child

Went to the Harvard Medical library today on some errands and had the great opportunity to take a little detour and see the skull of one Phineas Gage. And the rod that went through his face (now engraved, forever claiming its authenticity as the rod that went through Phineas's face). When that happened, it went something like this:
All the little projects I've worked on in the past two weeks, all the people I've met and conversations I've had- none of that added together compared to how awesome it was today to be able to see that skull, along with a few other medical anomalies on display in the library cases. There was also the random portrait of some genteel man with a finger in a skull. It was a bit odd. But man, those ten minutes really made the past two weeks worthwhile. I also loved how everyone else in the division shared my enthusiasm for the skull. No one thought it was gross. Everyone knew who he was and everyone was fascinated.

Say Anything

When I don't know how to say something in another language that I know how to say in English, or when I foresee that a long explanation will be needed somewhere down the line and know that I don't have the vocabulary or patience for such an explanation, I usually switch tracks and simplify my answers, most often in Chinese, to a quick "I don't know" or "not much of anything, really."  This tactic, while very efficient for me, leads many Chinese people I meet to believe that I am quite dull, and not of the boring variety, but the plain stupid kind.

Plan Bee

Last week, I received my first grown-up paycheck. Oh, I had such big plans for that check. Even with taxes and everything, it was going to be enough to live comfortably. We were going to go out to for an expensive dinner and blow the money on ridiculous foods. My treat. Then I received my check. And realized that the government already laid its grubby fingers on my hard work and I had very little money to waste. Suddenly, fasting seemed like a very good idea.

(en route up to Maine)

Moi: Do you want shot gun?

Mother: Uh huh.

Moi: Then why're you getting in the back?

Mother: I don't want it. I said 'uh huh.'

Moi: But 'uh huh' means 'yes,' if you don't want it you say 'nah uh.'

Mother: That's not how I interpret things.