I R Screwed?

For much of the past two weeks at work, I have been going through the division's old files and journals, sorting out papers while packing off boxes of journals (633 lb. in all) to be shipped off to Asia. Another great use of my hundred-K-plus education. (Seriously, if I hear one more crack about where that money is going, heads will roll and tails will spin. I am, natch, allowed to make the stupid jokes myself. As are my folks, as people who partly financed the education. But that's it.)

In the clean up process, one of my fellow research assistants came across a letter from 1984 from the IRS, claiming that our division chief neglected to submit a tax form for his consulting firm. She showed it to another research assistant, then another, and so the paper passed through another several others in the division. It was finally about to be laid to rest when a brilliant but devious doctor (yes, I'm just saying that on the slim off chance that he reads this. Shoring up the brownie points) laid his eyes on the document and hatched a brilliant but devious plan. Why just laugh about the IRS when we can pretend to be the IRS?

Thus the research assistants were dispatched to doctor a fresh note from the IRS demanding back payment. And because even among research assistants, I am lowly and easily-bossed-around, I was delegated the actual task of writing the letter though I took no part in the initial discovery. Not that I'm complaining. Compared to packing, organizing files, playing phone tag, making spreadsheets, as well as the humiliation of having to sign official letters with my "credentials" of "B.A.," forging a note from the IRS was easily the highlight of my week.

For now, the letter is off of my hands and in the secure palms of the evil genius doctor, who is making the final touches and of course, preparing to bear the brunt of what comes. (I've explained that I cannot bear to be fired; I need to put food on the table... for myself. But he said something about having a kid and not being in a good place for firing either. The way I see it, kids don't eat half as much as I do and are thus much more low-maintenance. Plus, he's a lot more employable than I am.) It's looking fifty-fifty right now whether the letter's recipient will find it hilarious or a betrayal of confidence and cause for fire. Just in case though, it may be a good idea for all of you to start clearing off the couches, leaving change all around the house, and inviting me for dinner. Just in case.

No Other Fount I Know

With all the excitement this past week, what with the dinners out and DVDs and ignoring the dishes in the sink and the ironing to be done, I forgot to share my communion story!

Had communion at a new church on Sunday and noticed that their wine looked decidedly different than any I'd ever seen. It was all very pale. My first thoughts went to hard alcohol, as in, "Wow, I've seen churches serve wine, but vodka? That's either very traditionalist or very progressive of them, I don't know which." Then my more sensible mind told my first instincts that I was crazy and no church would serve liquor, so perhaps the clear liquid was water, for the recovering alcoholics who couldn't partake in the red wine. But after one quick glance around the church, I realized that unless the church was lush with lushes, my theory was off. Turns out, it was white grape juice. (paired with the most delicious wafers I'd ever tasted. I think it was flavored) Finally, a church answered my age-old communion beverage dilemma (cranberry v. white grape juice in the case of a red grape shortage) head on and positioned themselves on the side of the fruit. I don't know if that was the choice I would have gone with, but the body tasted delicious, the white grape juice was hilarious and I think, for the time being, I've found a church.

All My Korean Children

There's a Chinese saying that every family has a book that's hard to read. I guess Chinese people really liked round-about metaphors. The phrase basically means that every family is dysfunctional in its own way. True, but some are more messed up than others. And because TChu and I are into comparisons and would-you-rathers, and who-could-take-who scenarios, he's come up with "Whose Family is Most Worthy of a Korean Soap Opera*?"

Over burgers (and a wimpy salad for wimpy Ranwei) this past Sunday, TChu, Ranwei, and I duked it out. Sure neither TChu and I had an uncle who's actually been kidnapped and held for ransom (with a priest dropping off the ransom for them- double awesome), but Ranwei didn't have much in the way of sketchy family history and quickly fell out of contention. And thus off we went, TChu and I, round after round: On the prestige side, Tim's family boasts a national scholar (a man that was essentially the smartest man in China in his time), but I have a great great who was a general for the emperor. In the way of rags-to-scholars, Tim's grandfather taught himself to read on a ship, but my grandfather was pulled out of school and had to secretly read books by candlelight so his mother wouldn't find out. I also have photogenic cousins and soaps only portray beautiful people. Tim's family has Chinese triad connections and a whole side of the family so shady that they no longer stay in touch. But I have relatives who have bought passports, had more than one family, and escaped in the dark of night. It looked like I was going to take the competition toward the end, what with secret sons and near-executions and writing screen plays and all- but I didn't have one story good enough to trump Tim's ace: a grandfather in the merchant marines who won the heart of a British lady and fathered two Chinese-British kids only to be recalled home and forced into an arranged marriage. Do you know how hard it must have been for a Chinese merchant marine to marry a British barkeep? How I wish I could have half British second cousins running around in the world not knowing whatever happened to their grandfather! And because of that fatal missing piece, I decided to call our family soap competition a draw. I didn't win, but there's no way I lost.

Is your family worthy of a Korean soap? I want to hear the stories.

*Oh, it's got to be Korean. I can't speak much for telenovelas, but from what I've sampled of North American, Asian, and some European soaps, I know that the Koreans do it best.

School Daze

Walking out of the train this morning, rushing between the commuter rail and subway as I do every day, I realized that lately, I have been having dreams of school.  Not nightmares of pop tests and disappointed professors, but dreams of walking into a table of friends and sitting down to join them as we talk about stupid nothings.  Realizations of waking up from dreams like that make me hate dreams.  I actually go to bed sometimes with the prayer that I won't have dreams in my sleep.  It's not that I don't have friends anymore.  I do.  I've been seeing a lot of them lately and really enjoying myself.  But at the Bo', as tired and busy as I always was, I was also always immersed in friends.  I was always late to appointments because I bumped into someone along the way.  It's September and I'm growing up.  I'm working, commuting, taking out the trash at night and loving it.  But there are moments like this morning when I'm suddenly caught off guard, and I miss the often maddening 'intellectual rigors,' the easy, lazy comraderie ("You use the science computer lab?  I do, too!" "Let's bump into each other again dinner-ish"), and the spontaneous conversations that happen every day at school.

LobstahFest 2007

The event used to be called LobsterFest 2007, until Holly reminded me of my place and suggested the more apropos LobstahFest.

Yesterday, Sarah and I schooled the Dorchester Three in eating lobster. They had apparently never been to country clubs or yachts or schools with $47K tuition (just went up $2000 this year) and had thus never learned how to properly dismember lobsters.

Note Sarah's claw as she explains to Dwighters the best way to remove the lobster tail- her favorite part. (As she explains, she likes some of that "hot lobster ass.")

We also played my smoothest round of Scrabble ever. I lost, as I often do when I'm not playing my dad, but it was glorious nonetheless. There was also Boggle after Scrabble, but I won't bore you with how that went down. Just remember, unless your name starts with P and ends in -eter Majeed, I could probably take you in Boggle.

Of course, the afternoon wasn't all nerdy word games. There was also a surprise pinata from Kat and Jackie (our Scrabble champ).

A doe-eyed cow pinata.

that we broke open with my mom's exercise equipment.

Best LobstahFest ending ever.

Dangerous Liasons

I stole these pictures from TIME magazine. This is a map comparing the conditions of bridges between states. Anyone see anything wrong with this map?

I do. Most states have a beige, sandy color, which means not very dangerous. But not my state- the only glaring red spot on the map.

Of the fifty states in the Union, I apparently live in the state with the second highest percentage of dangerous bridges. In fact, more than half of our bridges are dangerous. The next closest state is almost 20% less dangerous. New York looks like a safe little bubble compared to us.

My Compliments

I'd like to think my supervisor likes me. I try to be a nice little employee. And she's often generous with her compliments. Or at least I think she is. But sometimes, I'm just not sure.

Like when she has me do grunt work and apologizes, telling me that she knows I'm really smart and didn't pay $100,000 to stuff envelopes. Or yesterday, because I was trying to find her a book with a bigger font (because I'm perceptive and sweet like that), she told me that I was the next best thing to a seeing eye dog.

Thank you? Excuse me? Huh?

Judging Jeudi

Today, I was

hit by the T door

stood up by a patient

recognized by the sometimes panhandler by 7-11 (sometimes he asks for money, sometimes he just hangs out, and sometimes he's not there. I haven't really figured that one out).

I solved four sudoku puzzles with time to spare on the commuter rail. I also ate spoiled cabbage. And some nice pasta samples at Trader Joe's.

The lab people at one site now knows me as 'the pitiful kid whose patients never show up.' My supervisor deemed me 'a hoot and three quarters.' And the guy that hands out BostonNOW in the afternoons remembers me now. When I walked by him today without picking up a copy, he looked surprised, and yelled after me, "What? You don't need my papers now?" (But I already had one!)

Home

All summer long, I've been church hopping and not seeing a lot of my childhood church chums. There are a lot of reasons for it- on top of the fact that I'd been going to the plant church for years now, I'm also looking for a more permanent grown-up church now as opposed to summer reunions with youth group buddies. There's also busyness, following my dad as he preaches at different churches, being away, hosting visitors, laziness, and other uninteresting excuses.

But tonight, I got to hang out with a few friends from church- two I have known since 4th grade, one since high school, and one who is mostly new. It was lovely, as most hang outs with friends are, but what stuck with me was when we were all sitting down to eat (at the mall food court, very classy), Eric turned to me and said, "My mom asked me to ask about how your grandmother is doing," and Jon followed with, "Yeah, my mom asked, too."

And I realized then what a blessing these childhood chums were. Sure we talked a lot about stupid stuff like all the places Ken's fingers have been. But they aren't just friends. We have roots together. We have families that know each other and moms that inquire. And it was such a relief, after days of telling and asking, to be asked how my grandmother was doing, and to know that people were praying.

How Beautiful Their Feet

The other day, I overheard two teenage guys talking about their shoes on the subway, more specifically, they were talking about their outfits for the first day of school and how many pairs of shoes they'd bought for the summer. One boy said that by summer's end, he would probably have spent a thousand dollars on shoes, because on top of what he has already bought, he still has to get "the black and white ones, the high top Dunks, and the Air Jordans."

In any other situation, I probably would have shaken my head at the materialist excess of these kids, shaken my head for the My Super Sweet Sixteen generation that spends so much without batting an eye- kids for whom cost means nothing and social standings everything. But there was such innocence in the way these two guys were talking, and such giddiness, too. At one point, the boy with three or four more pairs of shoes to buy even started dancing out of excitement for his new sneakers and all the outfits he has planned for the coming semester (they may or may not have been high, because I'm a girl and yet I've never seen people this happy over footwear before). Their joy was so palpable that it was infectious, so that for a few minutes, listening to them talk of wanting nothing more than to go back to school with their shiny new shoes, I couldn't help but be glad for them.

(It also helped that there was a Puma tent sale this weekend and I got some nice swag super cheap. $20 sneakers always put me in a good mood.)

Pleasantly Surprised

I never know what's going to happen when Mother goes to the grocery store. She's an impulse buyer who likes to try out new foods and that usually translates to bringing home really random things. Like coconuts. And artichokes. And chocolate covered pretzels.

The other day, I asked her to buy some yogurt, so yesterday, she returned home with four different flavors and brands of yogurt- because she wasn't sure what I wanted.

But she also gave me a delightful surprise: we had lobsters for dinner! Just the two of us. Lobsters and ribs and really sweet corn. It was so special and unexpected. We all need a little spontaneous lobster dinner in our lives.

Office Space: UK

My cubicle will soon be on British television! A recording crew was in the office today interviewing our division chief, the boss of my boss, and filming little segments of him strolling down the office hallway (it took just three takes. This man has been on CNN, 60 Minutes, World News Tonight, the Daily Show, etc., etc. ...ITV doesn't faze him.) I didn't make it into any shots, but a tiny segment of my cubicle wall should.

After the shoot, as I was covering the phones for our secretary, I got a call from one of the ITV people. She was waiting downstairs for an interview with another doctor, who was apparently in a meeting with our chief. She gave me his name and told me to tell him that they were waiting. "He's the one with a cap," she said, "at least he was wearing a cap earlier today."

What sane professional wears a cap during a meeting? Turns out, no sane professional wears a cap during a meeting. Which was why, when I barged in on the very important meeting, I wasn't sure who of the two strangers in the room I should address. I looked to the dead air between the two as best as I could and asked weakly for a Dr. Brozan.

"I'm a doctor now?" he said with a chuckle.

I didn't really know what to do with that. Because I was told that he was. And I think google said that he was. (Though google image totally got him wrong.) So I sheepishly gave him his message (I think I annoyed our chief), and got dashed out of the room. And this is why I'll never make it big in the UK.

With a Twist

The PuMan (remember him? I hardly do) would probably dispute me on this, but oh, what ironic happenings are occurring in my neighborhood.

Remember the good for nothing neighbor boy who shot a BB through my guest room window? His parents are supposed to pay for the damages. The father came by a few weeks ago to inspect the window and semi-apologize (not sure what the exact odds are of accidental firings resulting from kids arguing over possession of the gun that just happen to aim upward and directly onto the neighbor's window). Since the father had said (actually, he penned notes to us, which he pinned to our door... not the most effective communicator in the world) that he'd like to bring someone by this week to take out our window, Mother called today to check up on the process. The scoundrel's mother picked up. Apparently, everything is up in the air. Her husband (dirtbag's father) has suffered a nervous breakdown.

When Mother broke this to me, I laughed. The timing and everything about the news just seemed so absurd. Though I have noticed that that is not how most people take the news. People seem to either be upset by the delays or feel bad for the man suffering a nervous breakdown (how are you reacting?). But how ironic that the person most shaken (and stirred) is not the people whose house was actually fired upon, who can't be sure if their neighbors are racist, stupid, or just hate this specific Chinese family but feel unsafe either way- no, we're fine- but it's the guy paying his brother-in-law to fix the windows. And how ironic that it happens this week, right when our window was finally supposed to be fixed? I expected hassles along the way and for things to be on the rocks with the neighbors, but who'd ever expect a nervous breakdown to slow things down? In this age of starlets, jail, and rehab, it's almost refreshing that the neighbor took the more classic and restrained approach and had a nervous breakdown his wife felt comfortable sharing with neighbors.

Don't Kids Use Backseats Anymore?

Teenagers of the City (of every hair style and social clique):
What is it about the subway that makes you think that it's OK to make out here? Is it the crowd of commuters during rush hour traffic? Some of us would like to go home with our eyesight intact.

-Upchucking Charlie

Maybe He Was Adopted

Anyone else see something funny with this?

"[Innkeepers] are trying to prey on people's prejudice under the guise of patriotism," says Asian American Hotel Owners Association (AAHOA) president Fred Schwartz."

 

Maybe Moses Was Also In A Hurry

Last Friday, I was on a mad dash for the commuter rail (note to self: dash would probably seem less maddening and exhausting if I was in better shape. Should consider 'exercise') when I heard a voice call out my name. It was an acquaintance from the Bo' coming down on the escalator as I was about to run up. I turned around and yelled a quick 'hey!' but was in such a rush that I really couldn't stop to chat. And my brain was so oxygen-deprived at that point that instead of explaining to Rachel that I wasn't being rude but I was in a rush to catch the commuter rail, I shouted out "I'm in a hurry!" - which led all the people on the escalator, who believed I was shouting at them, to first stare and then promptly part for me to pass through. It was rather embarrassing on many levels. Perhaps only two. But that still seems plenty.

New Canaan

Dear Diary:
Sometimes I forget that there are people less fortunate than myself, people who have no access to views of the ocean, with no access, in fact, to variations in landscape, vegetation, or cultures of any sort. I can get so complacent sometimes in this land of great ass.

PS. In my defense, I am blaming all the negativity on the poor performance of the Red Sox this past weekend.

The (un)Comelywealth

Aw. That title was sort of clever!

The past few years, I find myself often defending Massachusetts and Boston whilst talking with people whose home states weren't the birthplace of the American Revolution and who did not go to high schools with bells cast by America's founding fathers. Yet as I become older and better acquainted with Boston, it becomes less of a fun magical place and more of a really little city with a cumbersome transit system and not a lot of diversity. I still like it and all, but compared to lots of other cities, it's becoming less of something to brag about. Perhaps this poem I found on Bostonist* best captures my feelings toward the state:

by Eugene Mirman

Massachusetts, so hard to spell,
yet in love with you, so hard I fell
6.4 million smiles live here holding their elitism, education- and elitism again- so dear

and health care.

You're the cradle of liberty, but don't let it get to your head-
oh- too late.
You have a really great ass Massachusetts.
Nobody is crazy beautiful like a model,
but nobody is really ugly either.
I love you.

I love you.


*Link not included because the site is pretty lame and I don't plan on ever returning. I don't think you'd want to waste your time there, either. It's bad enough that you're reading this.

Hey There, Delilah

I have the strength of ten thousand men.

OK, that was a complete lie. Anyone that has done any service project with me (that's actually a lot of people, because I'm a good person with an award to prove it) knows that I do not lift well. I was not blessed with great biceps. I even need help starting lawn mowers (and thus always made my junior highers do it for me at BP). Just this past Wednesday, I watched for an hour and a half as our family friends helped load a new bed and mattress Mother ordered and some car seats into our van and then later, into someone's basement. I was wearing a skirt then, and I think the family friends took that to mean 'incapable of lifting,' a misconception I was happy to live with.

But today, I faced the task of installing the third row seat of our van all by myself. Father had taken it out so we could move all my Bo' junk home. But Father left for Taiwan last week and didn't put the seat back. And Mother has a bad back. She suggested calling our neighbors to help. Horrified by the idea of asking strangers for help, I took it upon myself to move the monstrosity back into the van. This involved much straining and dragging and strategizing. I had to rest half of the seat onto a bucket of sand first (the bucket of sand wasn't very light either), then lift the other half onto the van. There was also lots of pushing and dragging. Once the seat was lifted to car level, Mother helped a little in nudging the seat a little farther into the van, but once inside, I had to actually install the seats myself. When I opened the van manual to figure out how exactly to lock the seats in, I saw warning labels that suggested that at least two people were necessary to move the seats, lest someone gets injured. Beat that, Average American Male.

When the ordeal was all over, I told Mother not to tell anyone about this. I like to keep my superhuman feats under wraps because exploiting the damsel in distress image gets me out of lots of heavy lifting.

Mother: What am I stupid? Of course, I won't tell anyone about this. If I did we'd never get any help again.

Softly into the Night

Had an absolute nightmare last night that it was the first day of classes but rather unexpectedly, instead of showing up to classes, we were all going to the field to play softball in assigned groups. Apparently, I was not ready for softball. I thought I had two more hours to get ready for classes and was still in pajamas (which had to be rolled up and knotted) and worst of all, flip flops. I thought about just hiding the fact that I was in flip flops from the coach (we all got coaches for our teams and I did not endear myself to mine) but then it started raining. And it became obvious that I was wearing flip flops. Especially when some mean girl pulled me by the back of my shirt and caused my feet to slide across the mud. (Now that I think about it, that was a really cool move.) I tried to borrow some from Rachel and Connie, but they were both wearing Wellies. Damn BCF freshmen. Damn stressful softball. In the end, I tried to buy some sneakers but then whoa, out of nowhere, here is the kicker- an Olsen twin lent me her shoes! They weren't quite sneakers but really soft white leather sandals that weren't quite like ballet flats but similar and really cute, so who was I to turn down shoes from an Olsen? One Olsen was dressed in white, another in black, and I think we traded some banter about how we hate each other but not really. At that point, my subconscious realized, 'hold up, this is ridiculous,' and I woke up.

Gak and Grey

If you still bother checking, happy birthday, Bobby. May your future be grammatically correct. May your year of do-goodery and minimal salary bring you the admiration of bounties of co-eds.

If not, have a very merry unbirthday to everyone else.

L'Etranger

Mother didn't cook today. Or maybe yesterday. But I interacted with many strangers.

I chatted with a lady in the supermarket about Spicy Guacamole Pringles. We think it's a new flavor. It's new to us at least. (Not very spicy, but pretty great tasting.)

I gave a lady directions to the Prudential. Because I am city savvy and all knowing.

I called the FDA. The FDA Drug Line is surprisingly easy to get through. Not surprisingly though, is how absolutely unhelpful they were.

I saw two teenagers that needed to get off of the subway and get into a room. Actually, they probably shouldn't be allowed in a room alone. They need time outs from each other.

I caught sight of a kid I went to high school with, sitting across the aisle from him on the train. Not wanting awkward small talk, I avoided looking at him for the 40-minute train ride. As we prepared to leave the train, I practiced my "oh, hey! I'm so surprised to see you here" face only to not catch his glance at all. Perhaps he too, was pretending not to see me. Perhaps he didn't see me. Perhaps it wasn't that kid after all.

The Hurricane

Whenever I'm alone in the elevator with just one other person, I like to move to the corner opposite of the other person. Standing there, with my arms on the corner railings, makes me feel like we're in a boxing match instead of a boring elevator ride. Only the winner leaves the shaft alive.

Millions for Me

In a group email today, the supervisor mentioned 'a talented RA (research assistant),' meaning me. And just when I thought she was being nice and sweet...

Supervisor: And how did you sign that email again?

Moi: Totally talented RA?

Supervisor: There was an asterisks, too.

Moi: 'Totally talented, except for when I mess up.' I added that line.

Supervisor: I'd get rid of it. We all mess up. You're still talented.

Moi: Can we call me Talent then, instead of Peaches?

Supervisor: Nope. I still like Peaches better. Have a good night, Peaches.

Bread on the Table

Had communion had at a rather large church today- not the mega churches of the tens of thousands- but a few thousand nonetheless, and noticed that they definitely skimped on their communion. My plastic cup of grape juice was barely half full.

------
Reading a flyer from the Lexington police department, who are asking the town for higher wages...

Mother: Hey, their annual starting salary is higher (by only $79) than yours and they're actually asking for more money.

Moi: I don't think making as much money as I do is something to be proud of. It's not very hard to make more money than I do.

The Spaniard

On the upcoming biopics on Che Guevara (The Argentine and Guerilla):

"To add to the story's authenticity, the two movies will largely be filmed in Spain, and the dialog will almost entirely be in Spanish." -IGN.com

Seriously?

Yeah, I've Got That

True friends who have seen me at my most neurotic know that I have a preferred pen model not available in the United States, the Pilot BPS-GP series, either in 0.7 or 0.5. Stationery is one of those cheaper areas in life that I can afford to be a detailed snob in. I was ecstatic to find out, therefore, that for once in my life, I work in an office that's not on a tight budget (that didn't stop them from paying me low wages, but we're trying to look beyond that right now) and can order from the Staples catalogue to my heart's content. I waited for three weeks and finally, my ugly standard-issue stapler showed signs of breaking. I checked with the proper authorities and was told that I could go ahead and order a new one. And order I did.

This stapler comes highly recommended from Megan- the Staples One-Touch Stapler with Staple Gun Power. It looks groovy albeit a little clunky, but the stapling power is amazing. One flick and BAM! Your paper is stapled and Bob's your uncle. I actually put off stapling several piles of paper in anticipation of this new stapler. And yesterday, as the division secretary went around handing out our Staples orders, Jen, the other new research assistant and I giddily opened each order and shared with each other both our bounties and joys. I let her try my stapler (hers is cool, too, it staples flat)- and she shrieked in surprise at how easily the stapler stapled- and then she gave me a box of tissues she ordered. It was like Christmas, but with stationery instead of Jesus.

My question now: What should I do with my old stapler? Am I allowed to throw it away? It doesn't seem very kosher or eco-friendly, especially since it still staples, though it requires some special flicking every time you use it. Do kids in war-torn countries need second-hand staplers?

The Free Stuff

Every day on my commute, there is a three-way battle between myself, the Metro vendor, and the BostonNOW vendor outside of North Station. It's the same daily routine. In the mornings, I say 'no, thank you,' to both while feeling slightly guilty and in the afternoon, I grab whichever is closest to me and avoid eye contact with the other vendor. It gets awkward sometimes when they stand next to each other and I have to make a choice between the two. They're both free papers and they're both terrible, but they also help kill some time and well, the vendors are rather heartbreaking. Handing out free newspapers to commuters in a rush in the summer heat while acting friendly and personable cannot be lucrative or very enjoyable.

Just how bad are the papers? Here's a quote from a restaurant review yesterday:

"The restaurant traffic is steady, with the most people eating at meal times." Wow. Really, wow.

Maybe this writer should also review books for the Orient. Snap! I just went there, Gak!

Justice Is Inebriated, Awkwardity Is Alert

Supervisor: The other day, my husband, the district attorney says to me, 'You know, if I had to do it again right now, I don't think I could get through college.' I asked him, why, is it the pressure? 'No, it's the drinking. They're so strict about underage drinking at bars now, and fake IDs are so much harder to get. I couldn't have gotten through college without drinking.'

Moi: Um, I don't know this for sure, but I've heard that college students today still drink.

----

In other news, awkwardity (yeah, haven't used that word in awhile) follows me around like a plague. A plague that follows people. It seems like every day, I have a conversation I'm not sure quite how to finish. And every day, I open the door to find someone there and we do this weird 'oops, sorry, hi' thing. And every day, I pass someone in the hallway and there's a weird moment because we can't decide whether to say hello or to make small talk. I have a feeling that the problem isn't just me. But that everyone I work with is awkward because they're so insanely smart and nerdy. Sometimes though, I'm quite capable of creating awkward situations all by myself. Today, I tried to be friendly for once and and wave to a co-worker across the street. Unfortunately, it led to an awkward bump-in with random passerby and we ended up doing a little 'go ahead, no you go ahead' dance right in the middle of a busy street, much to the amusement of the co-worker I was waving at. I should probably just stop waving at people as a rule. I also tried to wave at Lisa today, who was waiting for me at the T stop for our lunch date, and ended up catching the gaze of yet another stranger walking down the street. He looked at once confused and pleased that I was waving at him.