Not My Style

Three Stories on Personal Style

I hate schmoozing and generally suck at polite chit chat, which is why if and when I do suck up, I like to do it in such an exaggerated manner that people must know that I'm joking, but are still just a little bit flattered. Most people know to laugh it off, but there's always that one person in the crowd who thinks I just really suck at being subtle.

So we're standing in line for our lunch conference, I've already grabbed my sandwiches, there's still a steady line of hungry people waiting, but I want to go back for some hot sauce. I patiently stand on the edge of the line waiting for people to pass by and grab their sandwiches first when Doc Gollum (he's a great guy, but for some reason more than reminds me of Gollum) steps back and stops the sandwich line for me.

Gollum: Why don't you go ahead-

Moi: Wow, really? Thank you. I'll be real quick.

Gollum: Sure. Anything for hot sauce.

Moi: Thanks so much. You're totally my favorite doctor! (really, how can you not love someone who holds their hunger so you can get hot sauce on your sub? I turn head and spot another faculty member behind him, staring at me) I mean, definitely top five. (turn to faculty behind) You are included there, too.

Supervisor: (sigh) You're such a suck up.

Hm. She doesn't complain when it's she that I'm sucking up to.

----
Doc Whitecastle: Oh, I just replied to [angry pharma lady]'s email, telling her what an idiot she was.

Moi: Really? I thought we were going to be bigger people and just ignore how wrong she was.

Doc Whitecastle: Clearly, that's not how I roll.

---
It may make you sad to know how drab my life has become but I'm pretty excited about tomorrow night. Instead of the usual Friday dinner and a movie with myself, I'm babysitting a two and a half year old. I haven't babysat in almost a decade but I like kids. I like keeping tabs and learning the names of as many church kids as I can. It's fun watching them grow up Sunday after Sunday without putting in any of the work. I'm not as natural with the giggly goofiness as more experienced pros, but I think kids like me. Dogs like me at least. Even though I don't have dogs. Or kiss them. Or address them as if they're babies. We just nod at each other going, "hey, you're all right." I bet it's the same with kids. It must be. Wow. It astounds me that I've lived long enough to remember not just one but two decades. And soon, I'll even have a few years to spare. I love being in my twenties.

Cold Hard Truth

Every morning, a part of me wishes that I could just pull out my red parka, put it on, and be warm forever.  A part of me wants to tough out the cold and just pull on a fleece, partly because I went to school in Maine and partly because parkas don't look very business chic.  A part of me is in too much of a rush to take the minute to consider the weather and how I should dress for it.  A part of me is just plain lazy when it comes to layering and jackets.  But all of me is cold every morning as I trudge into work, thinking of all the other things I could have worn.  And all of me dreads leaving the office at night, when a deeper cold and darkness will have settled in.

The Chocolate War

After the past weekend, my house was awash in chocolate. There was Chelsea's gigantic chocolate cake, completely uneaten, three quarters of Nick's chocolate tofu pie, and half of a mysterious chocolate torte whose origins remain unclear. So, faced with a daunting task too big for one to handle alone, I did what anyone else would do in my situation: I outsourced, bringing the chocolate cake to small group then work, leaving others to eat my dirty work. But I should have known that I wouldn't be the only one with the idea.

Brilliant but Devious Doc (who needs a new nickname because his name is a. too long and b. it's been awhile since he's lived up to the title, so we're switching to Doc Query, or just Query for short) also brought in leftover chocolate. His was spiked with alcohol to boot. Who wouldn't choose dark, alcoholic chocolate over store-bought cake laden with frosting? The entire division, I hoped. Of course, one could propose cake and liquor to exist peacefully side by side. Why must everything be a competition, you might ask, when the two choices could work together for the benefit of the division and when Query clearly didn't care which went faster? Why? Because life is much more fun when it's a competition. When life is a competition, my chances of winning are that much greater. And so it was on.

We both had a rough start in the beginning. Apparently, not many people wake up desiring either chocolate cake or chocolate liqueurs with their morning coffee. I also had the disadvantage of having chocolate in much greater quantities and less attractive packaging. But by 10am, I could see signs of promise and by lunch time, I had a commanding lead. There was some question over whether my cake was homemade. The revelation that it wasn't seemed to disappoint (did that mean the cake was ugly?) but within a few hours, the cake was gone. The chocolate liquers were not. Boo-yah.

Query: (acting completely gracious) That's good cake.

Moi: Oh, thanks. How're your chocolates going?

Query: People need to space them out throughout the day, you know? I think your cake is going faster.

Moi: So I'm winning (announcing for the first time that this was a competition)? Yes! (being cool and subtle is not a strong suit)

Query: You can announce it at the next division meeting, how's that?

I think I'd like that very much.

That's Query: 1 (scrabble); Moi: 1 (cake hawking)

After the Sunset

Do not come over. The house is a mess.

After years of sleep deprivation and the Maine cold, my body has gone weak over the last few months. No longer can I skip lunch, hold marathon writing sessions, or concentrate in the face of noise and temptations. I have become accustomed to early retirements and early risings and grown used to sharing a spacious 4-bedroom with just one other person. I'm not great at being a grown up and sometimes take out the recycling on the wrong week, but generally, I have fallen into a solid pattern and taken care of myself and the house OK. Then Thanksgiving weekend rolled around.

My house, which has adjusted to the slower pace, saw the arrival of 22 guests over 2 days. Not much compared to the flow we used to have, but it's the most we've seen since the summer. And my mom's not here to pick up after me. There are dishes to be done, floors to vacuum, and tables to clear. And I'm pooped. Just hanging out, catching up, and entertaining some of my oldest friends has tired me out. It feels as if I've just come back from the first practice of the season-- I'm sore all over and all I want to do is sleep.

Goodnight, lone reader. I hope I dream sweet dreams of sleeping, sleeping much longer than I can actually afford.

More Blessed to Flexi-give

I don't quite know the origins-- it may have started toward the end of high school, so many years back-- but Veggie-Giving has been a tradition loosely kept by a group of my W'ville friends for years now. It usually occurs the day or two after Thanksgiving and has been a time when vegetarians, who traditionally felt marginalized by the holiday, gather to feast. The sort of event suburban teenagers would come up with for an excuse to eat fancy cheese and feel superior. Needless to say, I was never involved in the promotion of the holiday, but was a mere tag-along to the events, the cranky girl who sat on the side and lamented how odd everything tasted without meat.

(Case in point, talking to Creegan the Vegan this afternoon: "Can I come over early to cook the cranberry sauce?" "Cranberry sauce? What will we eat it with?" "What do you mean, you just eat the cranberry sauce." "Without turkey? Can you do that?")

But oh how everything has changed. This year, Nick proposed renaming the holiday to Flexigiving to better reflect our breaking away from the strict Friday after rules of cooking together. The event was held at my house, (without parental supervision, my house is now the cool place to hang for every occasion) the only one of the group who has not even thought of being a vegetarian. And what was a solid group of vegetarians and vegans now has more carnivores than Texas Roadhouse. Both Nick and Lenny flexi-gave even more when they crossed the line and introduced meat to the Veggie Giving potluck-- Nick was somewhat excused because he made soup with the turkey broth of some local free range turkey he personally knew-- but Lenny, she brought chicken.

Moi: What would possessive you to bring chicken to Veggie Giving?! It's called Veggie Giving!

Lenny: I thought it'd make you happy!

It did. Both the hilarity of her line-crossing and the taste of her chicken.

And after all the soups and dips and pasta and Indian and savory pies (but not before the dessert pies, Mallory's wondrous mascarpone and onion dip, and that amazing pumpkin cheesecake), we settled in to play a game that only my WA friends of that blend of nerdiness, creativity, and bawdiness could come up with: f*ck, chuck, or marry with courses of study.

My subjects were Forensic Science (marry for the security), Primatology (f*ck), and Film Noire (chuck. Too much weeping and women bashing for any viable relationship, no matter how long).

Who would you f*ck, chuck, or marry? 19th Century British Empire, Accounting, or Spanish Literature?

*Apologies (or maybe not) for the self-censoring. Even at this age, I can't bear to bring myself to type or say these words without pausing and blushing.

It's Good for You

Woke up early this morning and watched a bit of Thomas the Engine, which taught me some valuable lessons about vegetables: They don't lay eggs and they don't complain! With qualities like that, who doesn't like vegetables?

Grumpy Graffiti

On the train ride in this morning, I looked up and saw the most resigned act of vandalism ever.  In black sharpie, someone had scrawled on the window, no doubt during a long ride, the words "Commuting Sucks."  Thinking of the frustrated commuter made my own morning commute that much more awesome.

Happy Slapsgiving

I was an orphan for Thanksgiving this year and yesterday, the Colonial Wongs took me into their home for a very pleasant day, one that leads me to believe that many families are pretty much interchangeable.  Except for one awesome difference.  The Colonial Wongs eat roast beef and turkey on Thanksgiving, with roast beef being the more celebrate center piece and the turkey merely for legitimacy's sake.  It is a brilliant tradition on their part and one that everyone should adopt because as much as I love Thanksgiving turkey, turkey gone bad can be pretty awful.  Of course by interchangeable, I do not mean that my aunts or uncles are anything like Jenny's, but  being at the Colonial Wongs felt very familiar (though who doesn't have aunts that are too curious about your life or one uncle that tells dirty jokes).  The mix of generations and languages, the tasty Thanksgiving menu everyone is supposed to abide by, and the afternoon laziness of content... they were scenarios I'd lived through a thousand times and will see at least a thousand times more.  The beauty of the day lay in its familiar feeling.  And I am grateful for the Colonial Wongs and their extended family.  Their relatives were the perfect mix of welcoming without asking too many questions.  The teenagers were self-conscious.  The adults catty.  The grandmother sweet.  The little kids impressed by my mad magic skills.  And the roast, oh so beautifully bloody.  A perfectly ordinary feast.  How was your Thanksgiving?

The Greatest Generation

Why is it that reading about my peers always makes me sad?  Are college students my peers anymore?  We're still of the same generation, right?  A snippet from today's Times :

"I'm not really shopping every day online," Ms. Johnson said. "Most of my time online I spend on Facebook."

But time spent "Facebooking" is also prime shopping time for multitasking students. Another U.S.C. student, Margaret Heck, 18, said she usually checked a few online retailers' sites whenever she checked in on Facebook.

Some people spend their college years shopping alone, but some others spend those years studying, work-studying, participating in activities, and eating extended meals at Thorne, all with a really great group of kids.
 

But We'll Win the War

Comrades, the epic DOPE scrabble battle has long last ended and I am sad to announce defeat.  (While my opponent was more than happy to announce victory... at our division wide meeting.  I'm making a great impression at work.)  For awhile there, it appeared that I might pull a comeback with GOUTIER but alas, sometimes good does not overcome evil and the underdog, well, goes under.  In the brawl of letters, my measly BA could not compare to Brilliant but Devious Doc's JD, MD, and MPH.  And thus it was a close defeat (just 8 points even though he had a bingo and command of most of the triple word posts), more like the grueling Gettysburgh than an outright slaughter that the Other Side had hoped (in this case I'd be the Conferedrate... hm, need to rework analogy), but a defeat nevertheless.  Lose not hope, my fearless leaders, for this is merely the first battle of what should be a long and glorious war. 

Plus, BbDDoc brought in his son today.  And boy is one cute infant.

My.  It's the first snowfall of the year!

Saving It

Are you on your knees, readers, because the Scrabble game is not looking good. Every time I try to pull away, Brilliant but Devious Doc catches up. And I'm about out of moves. If only I had an umbrella today, my life would have been so different...

(It's nearing the close of the work day and raining outside, BbdDoc is looking for ways to stay dry...)

BbdDoc: Did you bring an umbrella today?

Moi: I've got a raincoat.

BbdDoc: How much do you want for it?

Moi: Hm... Max.

BbdDoc: Max what?

Moi: Max, your [first and only] offspring (who's just six weeks old).

BbdDoc: Oh. Max. Don't tempt me. He's been keeping me from sleep.

Moi: Or a turn on Scrabulous.

But alas, I had to keep the raincoat for myself. (Would've been too tight on him anyway.) Now I'm losing in Scrabble and time is running out. This ought to be a lesson for kids out there: always keep a spare umbrella. You never know when you'd need the leverage.

Keep the prayers going, folks.

Power of the Word

I am engaged in a scrabble duel (scrabulous duel, to be precise) with Brilliant but Devious Doc. It is not going well. I had a great lead but it all crumbled when BbDDoc played a bingo. A 75-point word. He is not, however, content with a lead. He wants to bury me.

BbDDoc: What I don't understand is, how is it that I played a bingo but I'm only winning by 15 points?

Moi: Because I'm that good? Actually, you haven't gone yet. So you're winning by at least fifteen points.

BbDDoc: I feel like I should be winning a lot more than that. I mean, come on, I should be slaughtering you.

Thanks for the vote of confidence?

Them's fighting words, people. Now, I normally suck at scrabble, but by God, I'm going to put in a fight. So dear faithful readers, get on your knees- praying types or not, this match is so on and I need all the hope that I can get.

Subtle as a Seizure

In normal day to day conversations, I don't actually talk about Taiwan much. I feel like it's one of those things people know about me without too much advertising, like the fact that I like Jesus, sarcasm, food, and books. I don't get offended when people confuse it with China or ask me the difference between the two. I've lived in New England for more than half of my life. I know how small Taiwan seems to the rest of the world. And when asked, I'm more than happy to explain the history of the two lands.

But once in awhile, I bear one grievance too many and indignities come bubbling up. Today, it was when a girl at work mentioned the "SARS masks" I had brought back "from China." Coming back from Taiwan, I brought back cute face masks, like the one the lady is wearing below, for a few colleagues because the masks are adorable, unique to Asia, and because I work with germaphobes. They were worn in Taiwan long before and after SARS and is as natural and prevalent part of the culture as mittens are in the States.

I have, of course, been explaining this since I've been back. Yet this one girl only sees them as SARS mask. I have also explained forty gazillion times pre- and post- trip that no, I did not eat scorpions on this trip because I did not go to China and no, scorpions are not part of a normal Chinese or Taiwanese diet. Today, when I spoke up once again to say that I did not go to Taiwan, she just shrugged and looked at me as if I was trying to pick a fight that wasn't there.

"Whatever," she said with a smile, "you're all from the same part of the world." She tried to say it like a joke, but I was brewing an anger so strong that the flames were far past red and blazing an ashen white. I am not nitpicking when I point out the difference between China and Taiwan. It is a difference beyond night and day, but one between Communism and Democracy. Industrializing and post-industrial. World's most populous country and one slightly smaller in area than Delaware and Maryland combined. Oppression and freedom. I can understand ignorance. But I'm pissed off by her unwillingness to be corrected and learn time after time. I guess it's another form of ignorance. I hate writing long, boring posts about things like this, but I feel like sharing, even if I'll regret it tomorrow. If I don't record this, I feel like I'm letting her off the hook. And forgiveness isn't coming easy tonight.

Unhealthy Choices

This morning, Doc Whitecastle asked me to edit a figure.  I wasn't sure how he wanted it exactly and hate going back and forth being wrong all the time, so I took three guesses and gave him different options to choose from.  

Moi: I wasn't sure if you wanted [boring details about heading]... so I made three graphs.

(Whitecastle gives me incredulous look)

Moi: What?  I felt like making graphs this morning.

Whitecastle: I've got to find you more work to do.

Can't a girl just enjoy making graphs without being punished?

Hope I Get a Harmonica

I like this picture. The bricks, the mopeds, old, tall doors, and big basin... this isn't the Taiwan I grew up in. This captures an older, small-town, 'rural' Taiwan.

Once again, today's story has nothing to do with the picture above but everything to do with awkwardity. This morning, Brilliant but Devious Doc brought in leftover cake to share. Brilliant but Devious Doc is always bringing in good food, especially those related to family visits and Jewish holidays. He once brought in a chocolate cake his mom made that ranks among the three best slices of chocolate cake I've had in my long life. Because I do not have two doctorates, when I heard the words "leftover party favors" I hurried to the kitchen area. Doc #2, however, was thinking on a higher plane.

#2: So you celebrate diwali?

BbDDoc: The what?

#2: Diwali. The Hindu Festival of Lights. I think it was this weekend.

BbDDoc: Oh, I had no idea.

#2: You said you brought in party favors-

BbDDoc: I did. It was my sister-in-law's birthday.

#2: Oh.

[silence]

I don't know what prompted Doc #2, who is just as white and far from Indian as BbDDoc to see cake and think diwali. It made my day trying to figure that out.

Shady Origins

As the Unity Steppers used to chant, "Everywhere I go, people want to know, who we are and where we come from."

A few questions about my past:

Do we like Robert E.?  I thought the consensus was that yes, he fought for the South, but he was so honorable about it and opposed to slavery that we counted him as a good guy (as good and honorable as Thomas Jefferson at least).  But the other day when I claimed him as a part of my heritage, Zvi disagreed.

Why does my mother always have to clarify that she's my birth mother calling?  And why did my brother say, just yesterday, that I "might actually be" his sister?  What are they hinting at?

Is an eggplant supposed to cost $2.69?  I bought eggplants yesterday and didn't look at the receipt until this morning (because I can afford to just throw money around now with my glorious non-profit job.  Note to self: should really call the loans people again.)  I don't really know how much vegetables should cost, I just know that Market Basket is supposed to have the cheapest produce.  If eggplant costs $2.69 and pie only costs $3.99, how is that supposed to motivate me to eat my fruit and veg?  For just a dollar more, I could eat nothing but pie for days and be happy.

Pepper in My Paprikash

I baked a pie for my new small group today. I often use small groups as an excuse to have all the bad food that I normally would not eat by myself- cakes, cookies, nachos, and in today's case, pecan pie. (Not that I eat healthy alone- that creamed spinach I've been eating by myself has been downright disgusting... and delicious. I just eat less sweets.)

As we sat there, in leather armchairs softer than cream, someone remarked that enjoying the pie was testament to how we were truly adults, for she had always thought of pecan as a grown up pie. No little kid ever loved pecan. I liked her comment. It made me think of just how far a few years can take us (forced tie in to picture above). I just started eating pecan pies last year. And with all the bill paying, car maintenance, going to work, and finding a gutter guy on adulthood's cons list, it's comforting to know that there's a boon so nice as a slice of pecan pie on its pro list. Waiter, I'd be proud to partake of your pecan pie.

I've Got a Friend in You

My favorite breakfast food, mantou, being pulled out of a steamer. This vendor only makes two batches of dumplings and steamed breads a day and each batch usually sells in two hours.

Now on an unrelated note...

Took a much needed afternoon break at work on Thursday with fellow new-ish research assistance Jen. I've been working for five months and have not witnessed the slightest whiff of conflict or scandal. Everyone is civil and professional to the point that when Jen and I chat, we talk how much we like everyone in the division (except for Xenophobe and Humorless) and which faculty has the most interesting research. But it was such sweet relief toward the end of our conversation, griping about the work day away from the office, when we both, after some hemming and hawing, finally blurted out the one flaw to our division:

Awkwardity.

"Well... and again, she's really nice and we talk a lot, but sometimes when I talk to her, I don't know how to end the conversation..."

"Because there are always a lot of pauses? But then she'll think of something and start talking again?"

"Yes! I thought I was the only one!"

Oh. Sweet validation. It's really isn't me. It's them. This gig is so not going to help me with social graces.

The Short List

Proudest Moments of My Life*:

1. Winning the Edinburgh poetry slam.

2. Winning the award for my honors.

3. Just now- ending my scrabble game with a bingo- Riotous! I had never even had a bingo on my own before, not to mention a dramatic, come-from-behind game-ending bingo. Tears are lining up in formation in my eyes now, preparing for a celebratory dash down my face. I can spell seven letter words!


*Yes, it concerns me a little that all three proudest moments involved beating others, and all happened within the last two years, but whatever, have you done any of the other three things, Judgie McJudge?

Chicken Fried Brain

One more picture from the Taichung nightmarket. It's an unusally calm scene of a crazy crowded market. The stand in the middle here serves my favorite Taiwanese snack- salty crispy chicken, where vendors freshly fry up ingredients of your choosing, including of course, salty crispy chicken. Taiwanese fried chicken tastes nothing like American fried chicken. But I've found room in my clogged arteries to love both. To the right of the stand is a stall that sells cute socks and stationary and stickers and to the left is a place that does engravings.

Since I've been back, and especially this week with daylight savings, I've noticed that the sky is much darker when I leave work and the air smells much more like fried chicken (the Southern kind). Why, Lord, is the sky so dark? And why, Lord, must it smell like fried chicken? It was just my luck that the lady who sat next to me on the train ride home tonight was eating McDonald's chicken selects. Moments like that make me wonder why it is that I have not had McDonald's in years, and whatever happened to traditional values and sharing our bounties with our neighbors. It's never fair for one to smell chicken and not taste it.

Dream Deflated

Apparently, I have very low standards for myself when it comes to my dreams.  You know how the rules to a dream shift to accommodate the situation?  Sometimes, you can suddenly scale fences when running a villain, other times you speak French fluently, and sometimes you end up in Sri Lanka even though the dream started in your backyard.  This morning the rules to my dream shifted a few times within seconds.  At first, I was telling my mother about a literary award I had won, then, perhaps sensing the far fetched nature of the dream, the circumstance changed.  I hadn't won the award, I was telling my mother about a contest I was invited to submit to.  And just as I had gotten used to the idea, it all changed again.  I didn't win an award, nor was I going to enter one, I was just reading a piece of commentary on an essay that had won.  What a crappy dream.  How am I supposed to reach for lofty goals if my subconscious won't even let me dream?  I just read commentary about other people's accomplishments in my dream. 

In my dream, I also got lost in the streets of Taiwan, started chatting with a roadside dumpling vendor, accidentally called the vendor 'wife' instead of 'store owner' (they're homonyms in Chinese, though one's a mainland slang and I was not in the mainland), tried to play it off like I didn't make the mistake and blame it on the vendor's hearing, and had to buy shrimp dumplings from the stall to change the topic of conversation, even though they weren't that great and I was on my way to dinner.  I really hate my dreams.

Wake Up Call

This is my brother in daylight (as opposed to the picture below). He often awakes before the sun to meditate atop mountains and practice tai-chi. Actually, he's standing on the summit of that really tall mountain I climbed in Taiwan. See how he's above the clouds? We worked hard for this view. We also learned a valuable lesson from this hike. My brother did, at least. He gives himself more opportunities for learning than I do: always, always go to the bathroom before you head for the top.

High Achiever

This is my brother. He can can fly. He is fly. He once caught a fly between his teeth. He is one third of the reason why I'm the good, quiet one in the family. My parents are the other two third.

i.e.

The Sh*tty Things that I Do:

I never flush when I use public bathrooms. 

When friends ask if they look fat, I always hesitate before saying, "no... ?" 

As a child, I kicked a puppy to see if it still feels that warm and soft meeting my foot at a high velocity.  It felt warm, but not soft.  I also shoplift to get caught so I can blame it on the maid.

I don't like deaf people.  Or international students.

Out of laziness, I 'accidentally' hang up on patients that call into the office.

I play Sesame and Gak's confidence against each other.

I make up lies about stuff that I do so I don't have to reveal anything about myself.

Creature of the Night

This was from a Japanese fast food stall at the night market in Taichung, perhaps the biggest night market in Taiwan. That night, we grabbed a booth upstairs and made it our base while my mom and a couple of our friends picked up a little bit of this and that from several vendors. I ate some glorious junk that night. The place was huge and chaotic. We were tired. My dad's feet hurt. There was the usual stress of taking a family trip. But by God, my stomach was so happy. And there was a giant octopus. A really adorable octopus!

Notes on Church

On a scale of one to bad, how bad is cutting a child in line for communion? Not that I did or anything. I'm just wondering.

During the communion service today, this old, white minister got up to the mic and said, in total seriousness, "Regardless of what you heard from the first service, I will not be doing the communion in rap." Now, I don't know what went down during the first service, but I think that it would have been awesome if nothing went down at all. And that that was just his deadpan style. If that's the case, it's really the greatest line in the world. And no, I will not be conducting communion in rap today.

This church I'm going to has a rabid Red Sox and Patriots loyalty, from the pulpit to the pews. This morning the senior pastor once again pretended to be all serious and told the congregation that there was waywardness in the church that needed to be addressed- that waywardness being the youth pastor who cheered on for the Rockies. He called the man on stage for the whole church to see and presented him with a Red Sox World Series champion hat.

Those of you who aren't churchy should know that during communion services, they give you a lot of time to just think as the music flows. I use it to write down all the funny things I see at church but also to actually think about what I'm doing holding a little piece of cracker and white grape juice in my hand. Today, it hit me that if Jesus died for my sins, it means that he died for all the crappy things that I've done and said and thought of. That's no noble cause. Those are some sh*tty things (is that how the asterisk works? I never know where to put it) to die for. Which makes it all the more amazing that he did. It's hard enough dying for good people. I know this is pretty basic. Even if you don't believe this stuff, you've probably heard it before: Jesus died for you. But the enormity of what that means hit me anew today. And that's pretty cool.

Am I?

I don't think anyone who reads this will remember, but I can dream, can't I?  So this morning, I was looking through my mom's computer because she called me from Taiwan to find a few vague files for her ("he may have emailed it to me, or maybe it's on disks, or CDs, or in my computer?  2004?  2003?  2005?  I don't know.  And if you can't find it on the computer, I have the hard copies in a folder downstairs... somewhere... so you could scan them for me...?"), and I came upon a reference to the greatest LYF game ever invented:

 

Whose Brother Am I?

 

It's a deceptively simple game we made up circa summer '03.  For example, someone would say "I killed my brother to found Rome, whose brother am I?"  And the answer would be "Remus" because Remus is Romulus's brother.  That was perhaps the most confusing example I could have used, but the first one that popped into my head.  I think in a level of complexity far above everyone's.  For those of you who think in simpler terms, the answer to "I played a gay cowboy" would be Maggie Gyllenhal.  Or any of Heath Ledger's siblings.  The game is most fun played without famous names, though, among a group of friends, as we imitate each other, pick on each other's little quirks, and complain about how stupid the game is.  It's amazing how many people get tripped up by the rules and answer incorrectly.  And the only children of the world always feel left out of the game, but whatever, they should just shove it and go play with all those toys that the rest of us never got to have.

Season of Advent

After my turkey-with-all-the-fixing slider last night at the North Street Grille (product placement!  please give me free food!), I've realized cannot wait for Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday of the year.  (Is it wrong that turkey trumps both the birth and resurrection of my Lord and personal savior?  I hope not.)  That tiny little sandwich was the most delicious turkey sandwich I had ever tasted that was not made by myself.  And really, when I look back on it now, the gravy, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and sweet, moist turkey...  oh, the fourth Thursday of November has never seemed so far away.