December, 1963

A lot went down last night. To start off, I got a hair cut in Chinatown and overtipped. Then called mother to see if she wanted me to pick up some pastries. "Um, pastries sound good, but could you bring dinner? And pick up some groceries, too?" So I gave all that I had, every bit of cash and soul left in me, to Chinatown. For $60 I got: a hair cut, generous tip, 2 dinner boxes, 1 sandwich, 1 bok choy, 6 small custards (dan-ta), 3 pieces of bread, and 1 cup of milk tea with pearls. Then I went home. Ate dinner. And was scolded by my mom for not putting my sneakers away like I should. Then to really teach me a lesson, Father hurt his toe trying to avoid them. He actually fractured one. At the inopportune hour of 10:30PM. The break garnered a trip to the ER in slick snow. There in the ER, we saw a group of BU students with four separate cases of skiing and snowboard injuries among them. All within a span of an hour. Which led me to believe that what those BC kids say about them is true. Or maybe it's the other way around. I forget. I just like looking down at people. Though that's becoming very hard because I'm le tired and having trouble keeping my eyes open at all.

Calvin Klein

Most people take the fonts that they're given in life and use it without complaint. (Except some ASB leaders last year who decreed Times New Roman to be "so 1990's.") Most people have better things to occupy their minds than word processing fonts. I am not like most people. I've always preferred Garamond, also a favorite of Mac and the Band Man, whose emails and hand outs were almost always in Garamond. It just looks so classy. And lets you get away with going over the word limit.

Yesterday, I discovered that Whitecastle is also not like most people. Indeed, not only does he have a preferred font, he takes things to a whole new level.

Moi: How can Century Gothic be your favorite font? It's so cartoony.

Whitecastle: You think it's too bubbly? Well, Helvetica is actually my favorite. Then Century Gothic.

Moi: I like Garamond.

Whitecastle: That's too old school for me. If you don't like them, use Arial [for my figures]. It's Helvetica, Century Gothic, then Arial.

(later)
Jen (summarizing for the rest of you): It's not just that he has a hierarchy of three favorite fonts, but he actually has opinions about fonts he dislikes as well? That's so-

Obsessive. It's just a leetle bit obsessive.

And the Bandits as Well

Dear Smokers Lined Outside the Station:
My lung hates you.
(But my heart hopes that you are staying warm in the cold.)

Sincerely,

Second Hand

Crest Fallen

Claire says that when she comes home from the UK she buys Crest toothpaste. There's something about Crest that other toothpastes can't replicate. Crest, please sponsor me. I'm in a sell-out mood today. Earlier, I suggested we go to Big Gulp and Subway for sponsorship so we could get more heart attack people in our study.

I like to talk to drunk people about my Scottish heritage, because it's funny when they follow. When I talk to sober people about my Scottish heritage, it just makes me feel sad when they look at me with earnest eyes. The facts of the case are these: (1) The people I work with know that I am Taiwanese (well, one still thinks I'm from China). (2) That I used to live in Taiwan and went back to visit in October. (3) That I was not an American citizen until recently. (4) That my grandparents live in Taiwan. (5) Lee is a very common name.

You would think that the people I work with would be able to piece these together, along with my (apparently) extremely Chinese face, to know that I am indeed not descended from a warrior clan of Scottish highlanders, despite my key chain with a Lee crest. You would be incredibly wrong. My key chain came up in conversation today but after 10 minutes of going on about "my heritage," I had to pull the plug and shut the whole thing down myself. There was just no fun in it for me when people are so wholehearted convinced that I'm Scottish. Tomorrow, I tell everyone I'm an archery champ who bumped Geena Davis out of the Olympics in 1999. And that I make films under the name Alan Smithee.

Tuesday's Child

For every hilarious story of a little boy up to no good, well-behaved little girl that sits next to me in church, and every video of his son Doc Query puts on youtube, for every Christopher, Jeffrey, Nora, Max, Elise, Ava, and James- there's riding on the same train on a snowy Friday afternoon with hundreds of parents and children after High School Musical 2 On Ice has just been let out, going to the supermarket on a Saturday afternoon, and well- that's about all I need, to remind me that no, no no no, and phew. Kids and me, we can keep our distance for quite awhile.

Three Things That Have Nothing To Do With Each Other:

1. A giant trap.

Moi: He's probably in his thirties? Like you-ish?

Nice Doc: You think I'm in my thirties?

Moi: ...yes? No? Everyone over 25 is pretty much old and the same in my book.

(And in I went through the hole, though Nice Doc already dug most of it for me. And turns out, he totally is in his thirties. Less nice doc than sneaky bastard in that encounter...)

2. A critique.

Regarding Doc Stat's three-year-old daughter's make-believe hero, Broccoli Lucky, Doc-to-Be said: That's just silly. You should've told her that that's redundant. A broccoli is already lucky.

3. A thought.

Moi: If I was simultaneously smart and Britney Spears, I'd do things so differently. [I unveil brilliant real estate plan.]

Lisa: I think that's an oxymoron. (too easy, but whatever)

If I Did They'd Have a Samurai

It's been a week of sparse entries (due mostly to return of parental units and me falling under the addiction of websudoku, which is like crack, but much less rewarding) but certainly not dull moments. For one thing, I got my first journal rejection! From JAMA, of all places (we're working our way day). Surprisingly, the whole process makes me feel smart and legit. Whitecastle, being the first author and one who has had dozens more publications, does not feel that way. He has a few choice words for the editors. I'm just happy that this wasn't in our rejection letter. Someone else in the division got this:

"...Although the reviewers and editors [FILL IN SOMETHING POSITIVE], we regret to inform you that the manuscript cannot be considered further for publication in the journal."

My proudest moment of the week: An email from Doc Query that said simply "I also like creamed corn." I'd snuck in a few random lines among the hundreds of pages of literature (some from as far as Tehran) I'd scanned for him- a picture of Albi, the racist dragon*; the prediction "you will find love on Flag Day*," and my favorite, a blank page that said "I like creamed corn." I wasn't sure if it was kosher to do so, but I guess it's OK.

And because Newton's Third Law says that every proud moment has to be yanked down, and trampled, not-so-encouraging moment of the week:

Supervisor: (explaining how she divides projects between Jen and me) It depends on commitments, interests, nature of the request, all sorts of things. And sometimes, I lose track and assign it to the wrong person.

Moi: But there are only two of us!

Supervisor: I know.

*Props for allusion recognition, you little nerds.

Through the Looking Glass

I look Chinese. I'm not being facetious when I say this. But I look very much Chinese. Bear with me, white people, let me speak in your terms. You know how sometimes just by looks you can tell if someone is European, especially eastern European? It's like that. And apparently, I exude Chineseness. Much more so than other people in my family.

Pretty much everywhere my mother has traveled, people have gone up to her and started speaking Korean, assuming that she too, is Korean. And my brother? Even when we were growing up in Taiwan, something about his penchant for dancing, singing, and talking made people ask, "Is he American?" As for me? Chinese. I'm not upset by this because I am Chinese and damn proud to be Taiwanese. But you have no idea how often people come up to me and start asking in Chinese if I'm Chinese. It happened again tonight. And no, white people, this does not happen to every Asian. This doesn't even happen to my parents (Dad: On the China Airline flight home, they kept speaking to me in English. They spoke to everyone around me in Chinese, and even after I responded in Chinese, they kept on speaking English to me. Isn't that the strangest thing? Moi: What? They always speak to me in Chinese. They'd speak to all the other kids in English but speak to me in Chinese!) There is something about the way I dress or carry myself that says Chinese instead of America-born-Chinese. If someone could point out what that something is, I'd be glad to know.

Can of Worms

Parents are now home for the first time in six months.  Stayed up late last night to greet them and as result, am very tired this morning.  So tired that I tried to put mouthwash in my hair.  Can't believe I'm allowed to drive in this condition.

Also, Mother may have bought me the greatest shirt ever.  Perhaps pictures shall come later, but for now, know that it has the words Double Cheeseburger. 

Dental Notes

The few of you that know me well in this world know that I abhor dentists. It's beyond dislike. It's a visceral instinct of Pavlovian fear and loathing built over my entire child and early adulthood. I have the scars on my teeth to show for it. And the copious notes that the dentists leave to themselves. In six months, however, this may all change.

I have a new dentist, Dr. Ted Lee. I've been in his practice for years, but for years I had an evil doctor that detested me almost as much as I her, which is unfair because despite my sensitive gag reflex, my teeth probably put her kid through four years at a private college. Dr. Lee, on the other hand, is much nicer. Despite the fact that I share the same name with her daughter and that that fact has been commented on every single time I've been to his practice for the past seven years. For one thing, he has not told me that I've had a cavity and I've seen him twice. He also really takes care of poor pastors. And pretends to believe me when I say I floss every night. Today, he talked about an art exhibit he saw in my town as he poked at me with sharp instruments and spoke to me in Chinglish, my preferred language. I'm not quite ready to say that the bad blood between dentists and me are over just because I had two good visits, but check back with me at my next appointment in six months, we'll see how things go from there.

Here's to You, George Washington

Today is President's Day and my parents are coming back tomorrow. Before the end of the day I have to pick up groceries, toiletries, flowers, new linens, and have my teeth cleaned at the dentist. Then come home to cook, clean, then clean some more, then clean a lot more because I've really let the house go. You could call this The Worst day Ever.

As I'm typing all this, my house mate is watching daytime television. I guess she watches it pretty often. There's a lot of over enunciating on daytime TV. And a lot of screaming from the audience.

Hey, did you know that Morning Edition and All Things Considered are the 2nd and 4th most listened to radio shows in the US? Despite all the screaming women on TV, there's hope for us yet.

Nerd Like Me

I've been a geek long enough to know that there are some friends with whom it's not OK to talk about NPR, or that if we do, it'd be a one-ended discussion. There are some friends who you share word plays with, some you quote Simpsons with, and some you don't do either with, because they're too cool for all that and in general, too cool for me. I still remember a clashing-of-worlds moment awhile ago, when Leash and I were talking about scrabble, boggle, and Trivia Pursuit. I turned to Alex and asked "What nerdy games do you play?" And she said, in the most gentle manner possible, "We... don't play any of that. We go out dancing." And it's because of the awkward silence that followed that I generally police my own geekitude. But sometimes, things just slip out...

At dinner, Alex brings up that the Chronicles of Narnia sequel is coming out this summer and Jared comments that it'll coincide with the much more with the exciting Indiana Jones sequel (trailer now out! Not that I watched it or anything)...

Moi: Yeah, that's also when X-files 2 is coming out. Wait, was that geeky of me? You guys probably don't watch that, huh?

Jared: X-files? Like Mulder, and Scully?"

Moi: Yeah... I mean, not that I know or anything...

Alex: Mulder and Scully are coming back!?

Jared: The first one was so good!

Moi: Wait, you watch it, too? And you-?

(much squealing and excited rambling on the part of both Jared and Alex)

Alex: Oh my God, we have to see that, all of us! Together!


And suddenly, I pitied their excitement. It all seemed so eager... so needy. I don't know. I think I might be too cool for them.

Wicked Pisser

I had a perfect night last night. The plan was to grab a leisurely dinner and a movie with friends, but we never made it to the movie. Alex, despite having lived in many cities, despite her knowledge of many countries, and despite the fact that she's going to single handedly bring about world peace in a few years, had trouble navigating the streets of Boston. I called her at least thirty times in a span of as many minutes, trying to figure out just why it took her so long to get from the Park Street to Boylston stops. (It's a straight line, if you walked it, you'd get there in a minute and wouldn't cross any streets.) But alas, we all made it to Dong Khanh in one frozen piece, where we ate, lingered, then lingered some more. Alex made me order for the table, then gamely ate everything. Jared ate nothing. It's not really his fault, though. Cheap food can kill Jared. Afterward dinner, we caught a Chinese cafe as it was about to close. The ladies there were eager to sell off what still remained and kept pushing buns and rolls toward us. Every second we hesitated made them think we were driving a hard bargain, so that Alex walked away with two mini-mooncakes, four coconut rolls, and some other random piece of bread, all for $3.

I've got lots of things going on to stress about now, lots of things to think about, lots of things to do, but last night, just slowly eating with a couple of good friends, rolling with whatever surprises came up, was just perfect.

Plus, the apparently remarkable speed with which I pee was once again noted and commented upon, which was as odd as it was edifying. I may be shorter and more stupid than you are, but by God, I will pee faster than you, anytime, anywhere.

Time and Place

Today's entry- a comic strip! Without the humor! Or the graphic drama. It's entitled "I Got Told." Or "Put in Place." Or some variant of your choosing.

Scone Scorned

Ranwei Ranwei Ranwei.  (that was for kicks.  Hi, Ranwei.)

More often than not, if something tastes moldy, it's because it is moldy.  Was eating my morning scone this morning when I thought something was amiss.  For some reason I chose to attribute that to the lemon rinds in the scone because I couldn't figure out why else it would taste moldy.  Until I looked down and saw mold.  Oh. 

On the bright side, I marched into Stop & Shop and got my money back without hassel.  (I'd bought the scones a couple of days ago but its sell by date is today).  I even made a penny in the process because they figured it was easier to give $4.00 back than $3.99.  Which also means that I ate the first few scones for free.  Another bright spot: Doc Nice assured me that I would not die.  Ever.  Fine, he said I wouldn't die from mold, whatever.  On the downside, I have to start buying the expensive JP Licks scones again instead of the cheap surpermarket kind.  And Doc Nice's name doesn't fit like a glove. 

Thin Red Line

Ignorant. Racist. Or a mixture of both. It's always a damn fine line. How am I supposed to tell what people are?

Monkeying Around

Note to self:  When at work, please try harder to hold onto what little dignity you have left, or at least try to spend it more sparingly.  Despite whatever rapport you might think you have with the doctors you work with, some stories do not need to be told.  Like the leftover school lunch stoop sandwich for lunch story.  Doc Query gave me quite a skeptical, "I'm trying to hid the fact that I think she's crazy, but my face isn't cooperating" look yesterday when I overshared.  The crop of people in the division who think I'm normal and not stupid grow slimmer by the day.

Lisa, on the other hand, is one of the brightest people I know.  And probably works with people who think she's smart.  Yesterday, I was trying to figure out the identity of monkeyschwimmer (name x-ized to protect identity) on my aim buddy list and went to Lisa for help.  Being the logical person that she is, Lisa thought about this methodically and asked, "Well, who likes monkeys?"


Breaking news:  Just overheard from adjacent cubicle- "My pants are still wet from this morning."  Perhaps I'm not the worst oversharer in the division.  Or the most special, for that matter.

ET- Just Write

I went to high school with a girl named Bruno who hated talking on the phone.  It was always her friends calling to make plans and not her.  One day, she had a phone interview, which is one of the worst things ever, and the interviewer thought she went to a private school and lived in a dorm.  Bruno did not correct him, but let him ask questions about her roommate.  And we all laughed at Bruno for it.  But today, I think, you are not so crazy, Bruno.  I have come to resent the phone.  I abhor work phone calls.  I'm waiting to hear back from someone right now and cannot stand sitting still at my desk.  Can't we all be as passive and confrontational-averse as I am?  Wouldn't the world go much smoother if we talked things out... over email?  Or a series of one-sided voicemail messages?  I know.  I am a wimp.  And one day I will get over it.  In the meanwhile, I am waiting and shaking at my desk.

In completely unrelated news, last night, I hung around Cambridge instead of face the snow, ice, and music waiting for me in the suburbs.  Called Ellie the Delinquent up and miracle of miracles, she's available for dinner... for her roommate (also lyfer and Bo' alum, so I we go way back) Priscilla's birthday dinner.  Yeah.  I half-invited myself to a sort of intimate birthday dinner.  I'm sort of a bad friend.  And had to wait for the waitress to grab an extra chair (Ranwei: Oh, you can just stand and serve us).  But boy were the dinner and company great.  I make an excellent birthday present.

Everyone, root for Dusty! 

Three Ways in which I Could Be in Danger

-I found three chicken parm sandwiches on my front stoop last night.  I am assuming it was left by our awesome family friend who works at the high school a block away.  So I am also assuming it's safe to eat.  And that I won't die after I have it for lunch.  I know that there's maybe just one person reading these lonely words right now, but that makes your task all the greater, faithful reader.  Please do not click away!  I am entrusting my life into your hands.  If I should fall ill, you have to get my story out.  Tell my mom that I love her.  Tell them that it was the chicken parm.

-Every morning, I pass an SUV with large County Sheriff decals in the parking garage.  And every morning, it worries me a little that the Sheriff is not in town.  Or if he or she is, the sheriff is separated by his or her vehicle.  Aren't law enforcement officials supposed to stay put in the towns they serve?  And yet the sheriff leaves the car unattended each morning, presumably heading toward Boston.

-North Station is undergoing lots of construction as of late.  They're redoing walls and adding a couple of new vendors, including a new Dunkin Donuts.  This isn't "new Dunkin in town" ridiculous, where the new one is down the street from the old one, within a minute's drive.  This brings ridiculous to a whole new level as the new one is maybe fifty paces from the old one.  And I have little feet!   It's in the same building and on the same floor.  And yet, this isn't the most absurd thing about the new construction.  The prize goes to the lack of separation between construction and non-construction sites.  Sometimes, they put up a tarp.  But most often, they don't.  So that for weeks now, hordes of commuters file past construction workers in helmets and face masks who are diligently at work and protected from dust and blunt objects, even as debris flies all around us.  Dear Construction Manager of North Station- my eyes are very sensitive to dust and my head to anything heavy and/or sharp.  Please do more to keep me safe.  Thank you.

Game On

The past two days have been a whirlwind of goodness and hilarity. I found a small ziplock bag of spaghetti in sauce on a counter at work. And then a pair of shoes at the T stop. And this here toilet seat.

All three discoveries beg the questions huh, why, and how? The three questions that make my world go round. If life was a video game, these events would all amount to a ridiculous number of bonus points. And I'd probably grow an inch. I'd get points taken away, however, for saying stupid things at work (not funny, just stupid), the fact that I can't shake the habit of entering 04011 any time someone asks for a zip code, and for this here next story, which I'd like to entitle "In Which I Learn To Shut Up."

The names of everyone involved have been changed due to the sensitivity of the story. As brunch (+150 for me, being my idea, +100 everyone else) ended yesterday, we stood outside talking about our plans for the day. Lisa had tentative plans to hang out with Kalyn that night (+15 for her). While Brandon had tentative plans for dinner with Caroline (+15). So they both called up their respective friends to check plans, leaving Leash and I to stand there and chat about going to the Boston Public Library (-20 each)-- where we so did end up, because we're classy (+40 for me, +50 for Leash, who got a library card).

Kalyn did not pick up Lisa's call (-20). And Caroline did not pick up Brandon's (-20). Even though he called twice (-20). So I joked that Caroline was probably screening her calls. And that if Lisa called, Caroline would probably pick up. This is the part of the story where people usually laugh (+15 for me, +5 everyone else) and stop. I do not expect people to go along with my stupid ideas (-5). But something possessed Lisa yesterday, and she actually called Caroline as we all wait around nervously, hoping Caroline doesn't pick up (+20 for balls, -20 for stupidity).

But oh, she did! Caroline really was screening her calls (-30 for Brandon). Which put everyone involved is put in an awkward position, especially Lisa (-20), who could not say, "I called to see if you were screening Brandon's calls." So Lisa was forced to pretend she wanted to invite Caroline to hang out with her and Kalyn (+15 for thinking on her feet). Caroline does not say yes or no to the invite, but that she's not sure what she's doing tonight and she'll call back later, burning both Lisa and Brandon in the process (-20 each). And as all this was going on, Leash, Brandon, and I just stood there, shocked speechless, alternating between fits of laughter and feeling really, really sorry (-50 for bad idea, +5 each for laughing). Greatest surprise ending to brunch ever (+20,000).

If life was a video game...

Moi: brunch + 20,000 + shoes + toilet + spaghetti - being stupid - 04011 ... 19,822

Leash: 140 Lisa: 75 Brandon: 55

I rock at my video game of life.

Great White by any Other Name

This isn't much. Just a scene from my daily commute. Had one of the best naps in a long while today on the commuter rail. Also had one of my best meals in awhile. Not on the commuter rail, but at brunch with Bo' friends, the way Saturdays are meant to be enjoyed. It was the food, though, that made it excellent and not the company. Don't get me wrong, the company was peaches, but I see these kids often enough. I do not see spectacular home fries or plantain empanadas or well-executed scrambles enough. Brunch today and dinner last night taught me a valuable lesson: you can't judge a restaurant on how funny the name is. Laughter does not produce culinary delight. Good cooking does.

Last night, Lenny and I finally checked out the kebab joint Moby Dick Boston. The name was both confusing and hilarious (it was even funnier when we thought it was The Moby Dick of Boston, as the sign had suggested). As was the sketchy (lack of) decor and strict cash-only policy. The intimidating staff. And the half hidden menu. What was not hilarious was the food, especially the "salad." I kept trying to explain to Lenny that it was just pale lettuce leaves with ranch dressing that cheated me out of two dollars but she kept on insisting that I was just saying that as some sort of elaborate ruse to get her eat my vegetables for me. And maybe I was. But she shouldn't have been so accusatory.

Moi: I'm not pawning off my salad, I just want you to see that it's just ranch dressing! Plus, you should have some vegetables.

Lenny: Yeah? Try eating nothing but vegetables for seven years.

Moi: You were not a vegetarian for seven years. (I should know, I wrote a college essay on it) Have I even known you for seven years?

Lenny: I've known you since the eighth grade!

Since when did the eighth grade become a marker for a time long, long ago? And since when did something we did in high school become seven years ago? Somebody is not doing their math right. And it can't be me. I have a sudoku sheet to prove it.

Modern Major General

*

Check it, my well-rounded brilliance. I finished all three levels of sudoku and the crossword all within the same train ride. Impressive smarts and speed, I'll say. I can put up a good fight in spelling games but crosswords tripped me up for years. Until now. Thanks to the low expectations BostonNow has of their readers, I have overcome this handicap and there's nowhere that my superior intellect can't take me.


*Please don't stare at the page too carefully. I'm sure it's rife with mistakes. But at least all the boxes are filled with letters, eh? One day at a time. One day at a time.

Not on Bread Alone

It's well understood within the division that any food left on the kitchen counter signifies that it's unwanted and free for the taking.  Chocolates and patries are not uncommon appearances.  Today around lunch, however, there stood on the counter (ok, sandwiches can't stand, so it actually sat) was one lone sandwich on a plate. 

An hour later, it somehow became just a top piece of bread on the same plate.

Somebody went through the effort of separating the sandwich, putting most of it on a new plate, and leaving behind the top piece of bread.  That seems like a lot of effort.  Which begs the question... WHY?  How is that ever easier than taking the whole sandwich?  Who's going to take the bread now?  I work with supposedly brilliant people, not just the docs, but everyone here, but... why?  What- huh?  This reminds me of the story of the stolen lunch meat, which is to say, it makes me happy.

CongRats

For the most part, my work is menial and unglamorous. On a good day, I might get to do a lit search or build a database, or if I'm lucky, do some thinking and basic data analysis. On many days, however, I make copies, play with clipart, and make pretty graphs. But one thing I love about working in my division, other than the fact that there are only 1.5 people I would not want to get stuck in an elevator with in the whole division, is that they allow me to unleash my crazies once in awhile. In the form of a hand turkey contest. Or a Donatello figurine on my desk. Or random notes on the cookies I bring into work. And the best part is, the unleashing of crazies is reciprocal. Today, I mentioned to the division that it is customary for elders and superiors to give youngsters/their subordinates red envelopes stuffed with cash during Chinese New Year, the way one just casually mentions to one's superiors on Chinese New Year. And this afternoon, I found an envelope on my desk from Query. An interdepartmental envelope outlined in red and stuffed with pictures of Johnny Cash. Best/worst red envelope ever. Much better than the corrections in red that Whitecastle left (he said "it's no envelope, but it's red and it's the thought that counts;" I'm not sure that flies).

Gauzy Logic

I know, entries get boring when instead of traveling and drinking cow penis wine, I comment on current events. Just let me get this off my chest, ok, Judgie McJudge? This whole Clemens steroid thing, in part thanks to Bo' alum Mitchell (go U bears!) is sad and ridiculous for everyone involved. But now this trainer guy says he's got Clemens' bloody gauze pads and syringes from something like seven years ago- regardless of whatever, anybody else think that's sort of gross and unsanitary? No? Anyone? Bueller? I mean, when I was young and stupid, I once tried to start a band-aid collection, but my dad put an end to it and showed me just how disgusting that was. And I had to throw my collection away. Now here this guy is allowed to have both bloody gauze and syringes? How is that possibly fair?

Engaged and Overage

I exercised my greatest civic duty last night and voted for the very first time.  I was really surprised that there were no levers to pull or screens to tap, just paper and a black marker.  Is it supposed to be that low-tech and easy?  Can't help but feel that I voted wrong somehow.  I had to talk myself into going.  I am equally optimistic and cynical of two candidates, and did not much want to vote either way.  But I figured voting buys me the right to complain about what the government brings my way the next four years (though I believe people who don't vote also have that right).  The lady checking me in happened to be our old neighbor (because she's both elderly and no longer our neighbor), Barbara, who exclaimed, "Oh, you can't vote, dear, you're too young!"  I loved Barbara just a little bit for that. 

Overheard some folks on the train today, including a man whose middle name is Alan.  His brother's middle name is Allen.  Or vice versa.  But the names have no family significance.  His mom just liked the name, but not enough to give it to either boy as a first name.  Isn't that just an odd little anecdote?  It's not funny ha-ha, but I'm sure it'll have its use one day.

Blood sounds like a badass rogue journal.  I'd read it over Placenta any day.

Countess of Countway

I used to adore library duty, and I fully expect my fondness of the job to return in a few days.  But lately, I've been visiting too much for a literature search run that just will not end.  I've been here so often that people now regularly ask me for directions, I notice when someone is not a regular, and I know where the secret stash of trashy magazines are (trash as in Us Weekly, no Maxim, as Killer was disappointed to find out- for some reason they are not on the reading room shelves next to People en Espanol, but are scattered randomly throughout L1), and I have seen every medical journal title imaginable.  There are plenty of morbid and obscure ones, sure, and publications of every medical society from every nation, but the journal that takes the cake is the succinctly named Placenta.  I don't ever want to read anything from Placenta.

Even with my patience for library duty running thin, there is still one thing I love about coming here: I can blog in peace (until someone discovers this and fires me, that is).

Wrong and Right

Regarding what was wrong with the article a couple of entries down, I wasn't thinking grammar. But the fact that the college administrator was at a Bermuda resort every three weeks or so. And that the waiter's "attentiveness and amiable manner" caught her eye. I think there's also something weird about giving someone a four-year tuition for being a really good server. I get that this is a heart-warming human interest story and that this is a great opportunity the administrator is giving her waiter and yes, it's a gift and not entitlement, so they can give whatever they want however arbitrarily. But something about the way the story is angled, of the best server being granted an opportunity, seems off to me. Is he only worthy because he's most subservient? Are the other waiters less worthy, do they not have hardships? And was he actually the best, was that really what caught the administrator's eyes, the administrator who frequents resorts? It's not that I'm not happy for him, it's that the cynic in me doesn't like how the power dynamics work in the story and how the papers are structuring it.

But Fear Itself

Moi: Can you not tell her that I told you?

Whitecastle: You know, it's not good to be afraid of your boss.

Moi: But they always threaten to fire me (actually, only he has... and Keith. And Paul. And Seames.)

Whitecastle: Well, I'm her boss.

Moi: Can you threaten her not to fire me?

Whitecastle: No. I'm afraid of her, too.

The Difference Between Right and Wrong

Today's entry is an interactive one.  Which means that you should comment.  Though I know that you will probably disappoint me.  How many things wrong can you find with the two paragraphs below?  I can think of three right now, but I'm sure more will come to me.  What's catching your eye?

Two years ago, Marvin Burchall was working the lunch shift at a luxury beachside hotel in his native Bermuda when he waited on an administrator from Endicott College, just north of Boston. To him, Lynn Bak was just another customer, another tourist visiting the island getaway. But Burchall's service was impeccable, and his attentiveness and amiable manner caught Bak's eye.

Bak, who coordinates Endicott's School of International Education in Bermuda and stays at the Elbow Beach Bermuda resort every three weeks or so, gradually got to know Burchall, a 23-year-old who had dropped out of college during his sophomore year to work at the hotel.

(She then offered the waiter a 4-year, full scholarship to Endicott, you can read the whole article at Boston.com.  I'm not linking it 'cause I hate Boston.com.)

The Fish and the Cookies

Yesterday afternoon, the weather was dreadful on the outside and inside, it was pretty meh as well. It's Friday afternoon and everyone is busy. A perfect time, I thought, to reward ourselves with cookies. I picked up three from the JP Licks downstairs, thinking I'd have maybe half or a whole one to myself and share the rest with my fellow research assistants who were covering phone duty for me. But some people apparently have the self-control to refrain from cookies. I'm normally not a huge fan of cookies myself, but these smelled delectable. And since the folks on either side of my cubicle said no, I moved onto the next cubicle after Jen's and offered my cookie there. And to the next cube. And so on, even stopping in our chief's office. Everyone took a little piece here and there, and while everyone was genuinely pleased by the cookies, the cookies just would not go away. I walked all the way around the division, eventually sharing 2.5 cookies (I had half myself) with seven other people. Everyone was pleased to have them, that is, except for the last two to get them, who just happened to be my Supervisor and Whitecastle, respectively. Supervisor first commented that the fact she was one of the last to receive the cookie would go into my annual review but took the comment back when she realized that I had her favorite cookie flavor, oatmeal butterscotch (I know, what kind of flavor is that?). And Whitecastle? He was less vindictive but suspicious...

Moi: Would you like a quarter of a cookie?

Whitecastle: Depends where it has been.

Moi: Around the division. Nobody would take a whole one so there's still a quarter left- oh, I mean, um, you are totally my first choice...

Whitecastle: Yeah, give it to me after three quarters are gone. Very nice.

Moi: I'm giving you a free cookie!

Whitecastle: Should I swab this and test it first?

Moi: Sure, whatever. I'm not eating that thing.

If I'm comparing the cookies to the fish and the loaves, does that make me Jesus? Why, I think it might.

Say BOO

Dear People in the Medical Library:
  I am sorry I have the hiccups.  I can't help it, OK?  And if you could help it, you probably wouldn't be studying in the medical library, would you?  So stop your silent judging.

Sincerely,

My Way is the Airway