Throw Mama

I hopped onto a moving train yesterday. It was fun. Sure, it was just leaving the station and there were no hostages to be rescued on board, but hey, I don't see you jumping onto moving trains lately.

And today? I used a copier today that also served as a scanner from which I could email myself what I scan into the machine. Golly bee, what will they think of next? It has been so long since I've marveled at the simple wonder that is a xerox machine and so long since I've enjoyed myself making perfectly straight copies of just the right tone. And to do all that today plus email myself journal articles from the copier- well, I don't know what I want to be when I grow up, or what tests I should be preparing myself for, but all is well because I know that tomorrow morning, I'm going to wake up, go back to the medical library, and make copies. I cannot wait. And hope this task never ends.

In our Snippy Segment du Jour: Whitecastle thinks Quizno commercials slamming his Subway subs are "stupid."

Talk Fresh

Sometimes, my brain just can't hold enough in there to think of small talk, so when I see people in the hallway, I just don't say anything and smile. Sometimes that makes things awkward. Sometimes I come off as unfriendly. But sometimes the silence drives people to talk in awesome ways.

So I'm walking to get water for my tea and see Whitecastle going into his office, a Subway sub in hand. I just saw him five minutes ago and don't have anything new to say, so I just look at him and...

Whitecastle: OK. I know it's not healthy but it worked for that guy-

Moi: Jared?

Whitecastle: Yeah, Jared. It worked for him.

Moi: What? I'm not judging your lunch.

Whitecastle: I'm a doctor. I'm two times a doctor. I say it's OK to eat this!

Sea Billows a-Rolling

How does that song go again? When peace like a river, blah, blah, blah blah blah...

IT IS WELL (it is well)*

WITH MY SOUL (with my soul)

It is well- it is well-

with my soul.

Oh, it is definitely well with my soul. I just won a fabulous game of scrabulous against one Doc Query. By 99 points. That's right. My little BA outscored the JDMDMPH in the game of letters. If only he wasn't so damn nice about it, the win would feel more victorious. But no, he's all gracious and supportive and crap. Don't people have fight in them anymore?


*Traditional hymn lyrics may or may not have been taken out of context to fit my own twisted purposes...

Informed Consent

I'm skipping the State of the Union address tonight and watching the first season of Friday Night Lights instead. One night a year, they interrupt TV and for years now, I've watched the president speak because I felt that I ought to, as an informed citizen and someone who wanted to keep up appearances of being relatively smart. Well, I'm not letting them get in the way of my TV tonight. And I figure the Times and NPR will tell me how I should think tomorrow morning, so why bother sitting through all that clapping.

Don't make me feel guilty about this now.

How He Move

I do not cry watching chick flicks. I roll my eyes at Oprah. And ignore inspirational must-reads. But there's one thing I'm a sucker for, and that's your formulaic dance movie. Be they stepping, breaking, or krumping, so long as there's a loose storyline surrounding lots of young people moving to rhythm, I'm there cheering for them. Just saw How She Move with Jenny tonight and have already made plans to watch Step It Up II in a month or so. The sequel to You Got Served should also be coming this year and I cannot wait.

Speaking of people who can't contain themselves (one of these days, I will need to start writing papers again and also start using proper transitions again), Pastor Paul was one eager greeter this morning. Apparently, there's this man in our church, Eddie*, who has a very shiny bald head. Apparently, Pastor Paul liked to mock this fact by rubbing his head whenever he saw him. Some pastors wash other people's feet, and I guess some just rub their heads. This morning, Pastor Paul spotted the bald head and, per usual, gave it a vigorous rub. Then the man turned around. And Pastor Paul realized it wasn't Eddie.

It was a first-time visitor. "You guys are real friendly here, huh?" was the stranger's response.

It takes a special man of God to run his hand through someone else's bare head. And it takes someone even more special to do it to a stranger and then admit it to his whole church in the second service. Best sermon opener ever.

*Not his actual name. I'm not protecting his identity. I just don't remember.

No Rest for the Weary

On Friday, a few of us in the division went out to lunch to celebrate a co-worker's last day with us (not because we're glad she's leaving, but because she's doing something cool). Understandably, lunch went a little long, and when we were coming back from lunch, fellow research assistant Jen and I were a few steps behind, so we caught the elevator with Whitecastle, who was not coming back from a late lunch, but from winning an award, as it sometimes happens to him...

Whitecastle: Nice, leisurely lunch, huh?

Moi: Yeah... oh, it's 2:10 already? Wm... we didn't leave for lunch until 2pm...

(Everyone in the elevator gives me a "nice try" look)

Kind Stranger: Well, it is Friday afternoon.

Whitecastle: That is not OK. These kids shouldn't even be having lunch. You've got to work them hard. It's the only way they'll learn.

But while I'm mocked and starved at work, at least I know that I can go home again, and family will always greet me with love...

(On the phone with Father)

Father: You need to take my car, drive it into the driveway, and let it just run for awhile. But you can't do this in the garage, OK?

Moi: Because it'll kill me?

Father: Hey! You do know some things after all. Good for you.

Like Father

Overheard this adorable itty bitty girl today, no more than three years old, talking to her father:

Girl: Daddy, you're so funny.

Father: I ain't funny. You're funny looking.

Girl: No, I'm not!

Father: We all funny looking.


That's right, sir, we all funny looking.

Conundrum, Query, and Teaser

Three questions of the day.

Morning: Am I dying or is the office wicked cold? My toes are numb, fingers shaking, and goosebumps standing to attention*.

Afternoon: Is it wrong that I find it funny that the British term for 'slow-release,' as in slow-release pills, is retard? So that in the UK, people take retard pills?

Evening: Hot Cheeto's, where have you been my whole life?



*In case you're worried, turns out, I'm not dying. The air was gelid and everyone felt the chill. I am actually afraid to go into work tomorrow.

Go Tell It on a Mountain, Quickly Now

I wanted to celebrate DrMLKJr day by doing lots of clapping and frenetic singing of songs like This Little Light of Mine and Oh Freedom, but couldn't find the right venue at the right time. So instead, Amy and I went to listen to a forum commemorating the desegregation of the University of Alabama in 1963, the last university to do so. It was pretty cool to hear from the man who actually entered the school that day, as well as from Kennedy's old speech writers and advisers. But it all would've been a lot cooler had the event taken say, 10 years ago, while the players involved still remembered what they did. Old people apparently talk slowly, excessively, and aimlessly This is pretty much what happened for 90 minutes today:

Moderator: Sir, you [did a lot of extraordinary things- be it challenge the University, direct the removal of Governor Wallace, or craft Kennedy's speech that framed the civil rights movement as a moral issue], could you tell us what you were feeling during this momentous event in 1963?

Panelist: I... don't... really... remember. It... all... happened... so long ago. But I did... write... about it... in my memoir, so let me paraphrase a passage. Then... I will... talk for ten minutes... about something else.

But it was all OK at the end because Amy took me to the best falafel place in Quincy (are there many? I don't know) where I had the best beef-lamb sandwich (sic) I'd ever had. It was actually the first time I'd had beef-lamb. Even know, I'm not sure what beef-lamb is. But it was tasty and lamb-y.

Reality Bites

It appears that I have not written in a few days. It's not that I didn't want to, y'all. I just have no idea what to say and no time to say it. That's mainly because of a packed couple of weeks of social engagements, intense scrabulous games (losing to a doctor in close games is one thing, but getting whupped by a British girl in American scrabble? I've been in a funk about this for days now), and/or anti-social Netflix-ing on my lonely living room couch. It's at least two out of the three. Here are some other things that went down last week:

It snowed twice. I knew where Bloemfontein was when Regis mentioned it because I'd been playing that geography quiz all week long (I also know a lot of other things about Regis in South Africa now, so suck it people who don't have the same birthday as him!).

I was gracious when Killer got us lost and took my first cab ride in Boston. Both personal breakthroughs. While I became a better person this week, I am still as inept as ever when it comes to using my cellphone. Left it at home again on a day I was supposed to meet up with people. Was 30 minutes late to meet Jared and then had to borrow his phone to hunt Alex down. And hang out with him way longer than anyone would ever want to (ah, I kid, I kid) just so I'd have a phone.

In work news, I distributed contraband sparklers around the office and discovered that eggplant parmigiana that is "grilled not fried" means it's "nasty not tasty." I saw an ad for casting calls for a new reality show looking for "competitive, type A, 'wicked successful'" types and thought of signing up my entire office. I settled for Whitecastle, but he was not nearly as amused as he should've been. He informed me that he was Type A- and not A and claimed that lots more people qualify than him. That's simply not true. Jess and I brainstormed other plans to televise him as he spent half of Friday talking to and yelling at the division printer. For reals, y'all, the man deserves his own show.

When I was a child...

...I spoke like A Trebek.  Discussing Power of 10 this morning-

Moi: (in a condescending voice)  Oh, I don't watch reality TV.

Whitecastle: But it's a game show, not reality TV.

Moi: The only game show I watch is Jeopardy.  I'm classy like that.  I don't do Drew Carey.

Whitecastle: (either completely ignoring or missing my sarcasm)  I used to watch Jeopardy when I was a kid like you.

Scent of a Hero

Every super hero needs a childhood trauma and special power.  Growing up in the streets of Sri Lanka, I smelt quite a bit of trauma.  Now in my later years, I have developed a nose of extraordinary abilities.  I first noticed the gift in eighth grade algebra, when I one day looked up and said, "I smell Tootsie Rolls, why do I smell Tootsie Rolls?"  And Tane Kobin, who sat in the next row, sighed, and removed a Tootsie Roll from his pocket.  "Fine, you can have this."  He'd won it as a prize, wanted to keep it a secret lest anyone ask for it, and thought I wanted his Tootsie Roll.  But I didn't.  I was just beginning to realize my power.  Now past forward past years of intensive scent training in the Shaolin Temples, to yesterday.  I'm in my cubicle and Jen is in hers, a thick barrier between us.  My nose starts tingling and I ask, "Do you smell cucumber?"  "How did you know I put cucumbers in my turkey sandwich?  They don't even smell."  Oh, they do to me.  If only I can use this to fight crime...

Unrelated note: Not to be a snob about this (who am I kidding?  I love being a snob.  I wish I could be one), but shouldn't every librarian know how to pronounce Capote?  It's pretty basic stuff.

Punch Drunk Stump

I promise this is the last photo with the candidates in New Hampshire. Here is how a drunken man recalls the commotion moments before Barack Obama's fist sailed toward my face (need to click to enlarge):
(Don't worry, as you can sort of see, I swatted away one arm with a flick of my left wrist, then I grabbed his fist with my right hand just seconds before it hit, twisted it, and brought him to his knees crying.)

Awash in Alums

Thank the Lord for addictive games.  Am now hooked on Travel IQ Challenge, which is both educational and intense.  And also reveals just how ignorant I am.

Thank the Lord for the bounty of Bo' alumni in the area.  They make life much easier.  On Sunday night, with a nor'easter brewing, I crashed at Lisa's place so I wouldn't have a treacherous commute the next morning.  Then last night, went with Killer to the Bo' Connections networking event, where we did not network (no one wanted to offer anything or even talk to us anyway.  "Networking events" are mostly opportunities for business/law folks to find interns for cheap and the rest of us to hang out.  Though we did dispense advice to seniors and even more eager underclassmen, who naively believed that we could help them.  There were even a few 2011's in the crowd- they didn't  make 11's when I went to school) but saw alums aplenty.  But since the food there was not aplenty, we all went out afterwards for food and drinks that did not cost $11 per glass.  The biggest tease was that it all felt so natural.  A group of us classmates, friends, and fellow Boston research assistants piling into a pub.  Except that it was a work night, so no one stayed past eleven.  And instead of heading to Supersnacks afterward, we all went home.  Well, people with reasonable commutes went home.  I crashed at Leash and Priscilla's.  They have an awesome futon, sketchy stain not withstanding.

Live Free or Sizzle

Did you know that, according to the Massachusetts Department of Fire Services, fireworks (sparklers included!) are "neither sane nor safe?" I do. Did you know that supermarkets in Massachusetts don't sell alcohol? I do (there are a few exceptional Trader Joe's). Which is why I got up early on Saturday morning to cross the border into New Hampshire, where I purchased both sparklers and wine. (There's a liquor store right in town where I picked up my beer, but their wine selection is actually smaller than that of the Nashua supermarket). And since my dad's church is based in Nashua, as I strolled the supermarket aisles with a bottle in each hand (one was non-alcoholic sparkling cider!) I had only one prayer: Lord, don't let me bump into anyone I know. And I avoided the gaze of every Asian I saw.

All in all, the trip was a tense and emotional roller coaster. At checkout, I had my ID and credit card out, ready to transact and run. But even though I offered my ID, the cashier only asked to see my credit card while checking out. Which pleased me at first. Then amused me. Then troubled me. Do I look so old that I don't need to be ID'ed? Then that thought angered me. Then, finally, as she was about to hand me my receipt, she asked to see my ID. And I was relieved. Then annoyed, because I had already put it away. And I thought she was stupid.

What do you do with your Saturday mornings?

The Bomb That Hit Twice

Had half of a steak sub for lunch today. Afterwards, my stomach got upset. And I tried very hard to figure out whether the culprit was the peach yogurt or the steak sub I had. It took awhile. But then I remembered that when I had the other half of the sub earlier in the week, the first half also upset my stomach. Now that's information that could've been useful. But my brain seems to have a lack of urgency regarding this issue. And I nearly ate some more of the sub for dinner (it was so big that it had two halves and then some) until I remembered, as I was pulling the sub out of the microwave, that it might kill me. Thank God my ancestors passed the hunter-gathering stage of the natural selection test. Because I would not have done very well.

Portraits of Greats

Detailed analysis of our pictures of our not-quite encounters with key media and political players. Watch carefully, kiddos- these pictures are going to be in every history textbook when Bobby makes something of himself. These are his Clinton-meets-Kennedy moments. We weren't quite rubbing elbows, but wisps of his hair certainly made it very far. (Sorry, you'll have to click on all the pictures for a better view)

The Chosen Menu

Yesterday, I learned that random and even are not the same things.  You can have a list of randomly generated numbers, but that doesn't necessarily guarantee the numbers to be fair.  And I spent the afternoon picking out lists of randomly generated numbers that would even out other previously randomized but more uneven numbers.  Sounds weird and tedious but it was actually a neat idea to consider.

(Discussing our randomization plans...)

Whitecastle: The second option isn't completely kosher-

Moi: That's OK.  I like pork.

Whitecastle: Me too.  More importantly, he likes pork.  (Points to Nice Doc, the Hebrew among us)  He even eats it with shellfish.

Nice Doc: Sometimes with a little milk on top.  That's how I like it.

Not a Drop to Flush

O-bama, your campaign is so good to me.  A handshake, fluffernutter sandwich and a toilet story.  That almost makes us even.  At the Salem high school on Sunday, the restroom, much like the rest of the school and state, was crowded with supporters.  For the most part, ladies filed in and out of the stalls in a quick, efficient pace.  But then there were those that didn't play by the rules.  Like one woman who left her stall unflushed.  The lady behind her kindly asked her to please flush it.  But was told coldly that no, she will not flush her toilet, as if toilet flushing was akin to puppy-punching (much more personal than puppy-kicking and thus requiring a more calloused heart).  The woman said she did not want to waste water and then walked away with disdain for the rest of us earth killers.

Bystander: Did she wash her hands?  Or does she not do that, either?

Seames (scoffing in a tone that hilariously makes her sound like the old-time Mainer that she is and not the civic-minded do-good-administrator at a small liberal arts college in Maine that she also is): Hippies.  That's the kind of crowd he draws.

Obama Talks

This is the short, little, talk that Obama gave us after his main speech; we were his pitiful, lesser supporters who could not make it into the auditorium. I'm not endorsing him but thought, hey, I was there, I captured this, someone may want to see it. So here goes- Senator Barack Obama, talking to you (dramatic music in the background a pure coincidence; his people did not plan it that way and I did not put it there. Gravitas just follows the man, I guess):



I just took a quiz at ontheissues.org. It told me that I was a hard-core liberal. (heh) I don't think I've ever been labeled any kind of hard core before. I'm the kind of hard-core liberal that wakes up early to go to the 8:30 church service so I could make it out in time to see McCain and Obama. You know, that kind.

ps. Remember what I said about Huckabee being a pretty decent guy, so if you had to vote that way, vote for him? Well, he's still a nice guy, but I take that line back. I have my own (somewhat progressive) views and a mind not quite made up, but I don't want to involve myself and you too much in all of this.

Hope Does Not Disappoint

It's primaries season and the candidates are in the state Pastor Paul affectionately calls Cow Hampshire in full force. Seames and Gak came down today to check out the campaigns and I tagged along with them, as is, of course, my civic duty as American citizen.We had quite the dream schedule planned: McCain, Obama, and Edwards. We would've liked to see Hillary, too. And Chuck Norris. And any Law & Order co-stars that might be campaigning with Fred Thomson. But alas, a day is only so long, there are so many other people in the state (who knew), and we could only manage McCain and Obama, both classy fellows we were happy to get glimpses of.

The McCain pictures actually turned out pretty awful because of the lighting in the middle school gym, but we were lucky to get such good seats. We were right by McCain's entrance and got to see lots of campaign staff and press people go back and forth throughout the event and had, of course, a perfect view of McCain himself. We also made it into lots of discarded footage. One reporter actually interrupted a conversation between Gak and Me, pointed her camera directly in our faces, then asked us to move our heads- she wanted a shot of the much cuter children behind us and did not care for our story.

If you look carefully, you will see that the man in gray to the far left is Harry Smith of the CBS Early Show. Other media notables in our vicinity were Bob Novak, NYTimes neoconservative columnist David Brooks, and lots of other people that Gak recognized and I didn't. Oh, and Wilford Brimley- though that recognition was a bit awkward as no one around could recall what he was in, and he had to supply a movie title himself. Then he got tired of those around us asking him questions and found a different place to sit. Nice 'stache though.

Oh, Obama, Obama, Obama. We stood in line for an hour just to wait for the doors to open. And when it finally did, there was no more room in the auditorium and we had to wait in the cafeteria and watch him on tiny little TVs. We stood for about three hours before we saw him on the monitor. And it was going to be a pretty disappointing stop until the very end, when he dropped by the cafe for a few minutes. It just so happened that miracle of miracles, Gak had brilliantly picked the right spot for us to stand. We were at the very front of the line when he came in and each got to talk to him and shake his hand. (He has a very firm grip) We were so close (as the pictures can attest) that Secret Service actually got panicky and asked Seames to put both her hands where they could see them.

Obama is now the third major candidate I've seen in person and shaking his hand, I finally get what the hoopla is all about. His speech was inspirational and all, but so is everyone else's. His personal presence, however, felt much more powerful than the others. And so we stood for three and a half hours just to touch him, but oh, it was well worth it. Plus, we got free fluffernutter sandwiches out of the deal. Hillary doesn't give you fluffernutter, that's for sure.

Filial Pity

Talking to my dad on the phone the other night (the poor man is in Taiwan and despite at least three sports channels to choose from, has no access to his beloved Patriots. Taiwan is baseball-crazed and he caught all of the MLB action just fine, but now it's winter and he's missed an entire season of football. He's praying that ESPN Taiwan will at least air the playoffs), he tells me how my mom was ambushed by my uncle, who decided to celebrate my grandfather's birthday a few days early and not tell me mom about it until just hours before the big dinner, thus making my mom look like a fool who'd forgotten her dad's birthday...

Father: That's ridiculous. I mean, if you threw me a birthday party, you'd tell your brother about it, right? And he'd tell you if he did something for my birthday.

Moi: Very hypothetical questions, Father. I don't think we'll throw anything for your birthday.

Father: But you would tell him if you did, right?

Moi: I suppose I would. It just probably won't happen...

Father: I'm just reminding you two that I still have a birthday.

Heavy Metal

Tie dan, or roughly translated to be metal eggs is a snack whose appeal makes no sense, but also one whose appeal I cannot deny. Outside of Taiwan, it's not a very well known or popular snack (I'm not even sure if ABCs or mainlanders know about them) but it's just so darn delicious. I am telling you this now because as a way of coping with real-life responsibilities (so there's this loan I have to pay off because I went on a four-year vacation? what?) this morning, I snacked on a package of metal eggs that I had just found in the fridge, like a little post-Christmas miracle. I am alarmed at how I have eaten through at least a dozen of these little eggs in the past hour as I have surfed through the information superhighway, edited a college essay, and checked up on the sorry condition of my personal finances.

Perhaps I should explain what tie dan is. I first started eating it, the way I do so many things, because my brother liked it. (It's also how I started eating roast chicken butts. I don't think I have to tell you how disgusting that sounds, but do you know how delicious they taste?) Metal eggs are eggs braised in soy sauce and sugar for a very, very long time- until the egg is shrunken to a much smaller size, the whites sort of chewy and rubbery, and the egg yolk deliciously moist, sugary, and soy-saucey. Except I don't think that's how they really make it anymore, just as quail eggs you buy don't really come from quails, but are made from a mold. I also don't think the description sounded very appetizing (I couldn't find you a picture online and my camera needs charging... it just looks like a little black egg) but I swear it's a most delicious snack and once you get started, you will surprise yourself by how many eggs you consume in one sitting. Every time I bite into one, I have a debate with myself and try to figure out if I like the yolk or white better. It's a draw every time. And makes me so grateful to be Taiwanese of all things, and that I come from a land of metal eggs instead of cupcakes and apple pies.

Spirit of the Law

Moi: So I found some information.  But I haven't had time to read [all the OIG opinions], 'cause I didn't know how fast you wanted these.  Plus, I don't really understand it anyway.  But I don't think they (big PhRMA) are breaking the law on this one.  It seems legit.

Whitecastle: Oh, I'm going to read this and I'm going to make sure they're breaking the law.

Yes, that's the spirit, Whitecastle.

Blister in the Snow

Think the snow-related titles are tiring? Yeah, you know what else is tiring? Shoveling my freaking driveway. I have a blister now. And the fact I'm going to whine about it just goes to show you how unsuited for manual labor I am and how rare it is that I get blisters. And we don't even have anything to show for the constant snowfall. Missed the record by two tenth of an inch. Stupid slacker sky.

... sometimes, I hate how I'm so unaggressive and un-angry that I can't even maintain my rant on snow. How can I stay mad at snow? It was my tenth birthday present. Shoveling tonight in the stillness of the suburban evening was refreshing at times. And gave me a much needed workout (the neighbors baked the same Christmas pastries they make every year for our family and I've been eating the whole thing the last week, on behalf of my family). The snow was easy to work with- not too wet but just good enough that it all stayed together without being heavy. And if my blister was to break and somehow scar, well, that'd be the greatest news ever because it'd probably give me some much needed street cred. My credit line has not been doing so well since I was assigned a cubicle in June.