Putting It Out There

Last night, Lenny and I honored a nerd date we made months in advance- to watch the much-overlooked, much-mocked, and rarely-advertised X-Files sequel in the theatres.  As our date approached, however, we both grew more and more apprehensive about our movie choice. 

Moi: Maybe, if we stand in line and talk about Batman, people won't know what we're watching.

Lenny: That was actually a good movie.  I mean, erm, there's nothing to be embarrassed about… right?

Moi: Then why do I get this feeling of shame when I tell people what I'm watching?  (and why did people in the office laugh and say, "Awn"!?)

(At this point in our conversation, this sweaty guy next to us in line, who looked like the poster boy for the movie's target audience, started laughing at our conversation.  Lenny and I dealt with the awkwardness by averting each other's gaze and introducing an uncomfortable silence.)

Perhaps because of all my self-conscious jitters, I left my jacket behind at dinner and did not realize it until the previews were about to start.  So I had to sprint down the very long street to the souvlaki place and back.  Strangely enough, I did not miss any of the movie- a reflection not of how fast I run (no, I stopped running long before I reached the café), but how ridiculously long the previews were.  In the end, I must defend my movie choice and say that it really wasn't bad.  It's actually better than a lot of movies out there.  (Granted, the last 3 movies I've seen were in the theatre were Maid of Honor, Indiana Jones, and Hancock.  Not hard to beat those)  I'd even recommend that you watch it.  (I feel bad for how little money it's made)  But you're not going to believe me, are you?  Judgmental cynics.  What will it take for you to believe?!

"It's My First Day"

Regarding the latest hiccup in one of our studies…

Whitecastle: At least it's not our fault this time.  You should feel good about that.

Ah, such sweet words of confidence.  By my calculations, if I work hard, I should get my first compliment in 2.3 years. 

Working Out

Shocking news, everyone, hold onto your seats as I share this nugget of wisdom: You can get so much more accomplished in a day if you don't go to work.

This morning, I showed up for jury duty, got orientated to our justice system, did some GRE exercises (I'm not getting better, but I am doing more... that's got to count for something, no?) was dismissed by said system, had lunch with Mother, went to the mall, bought new outfits, stopped by the farmer's market, and then the town library, and now I'm home to write about it all and it's not even dark out. I am so freakingly efficient when I'm not at work. Every day should be like this.

Duty Calls

I have jury duty tomorrow. Actually, I have standby jury duty tomorrow. I don't even get the real thing. Father suggested that I "dress like a high school kid." He thinks it'd help me not get picked. Just when I was convinced Mother was the whackest parent in the world, Father outdoes himself.

Pied Piper

I don't know how it happened. But during these last two months helping out with the church youth group, I have become a children magnet. They freaking love me. (OK, so the little boys only like playing at me because I die dramatically when they shoot me, but whatever) Not just the toddlers, but even the older kids. They come to me to tell on my youths. Yesterday, young Mary told me that my youth Jeannie was "mean to her." I thought it was the usual case of telling kids that they smelled or were stupid, funny stuff that I did all the time, but no, Jeannie has bested me in being an awesome influence over the grade school kids:

When Mary asked Jeannie why she was taking pictures of the group, Jeannie said: Because you're dying of cancer and we wanted to give you pictures of everyone so you can bring them to heaven with you.

(Who brings pictures to heaven?)

Faulty theology and damaging children with lies... I have no idea where she got any of this from. One last thing on kids: I wish I knew how to beat them. Whenever I fight with 5-year-old Timmy, I always lose. He throws bombs at me, I die, he laughs. I throw bombs at him, he says "water, water!" and lives. Then throws a grenade at me. Yesterday, I said "water, water!" and he threw back "scorpion rays" at me. What the freak are scorpion rays and how am I supposed to defend myself from them!?

Big Break

Whitecastle: Remember how their lawyers said everything was fine?

Moi: Wait, are you going to jail?

Whitecastle: No. And even if I were, you can't have my office.

Moi: You won't even be using it!

Totally not baking a shiv in his cake now. I was just asking after his future well being.

DocNice has the nicest anecdotes. If I ever write a book, I'm stealing all his stories. In the meantime, I'll post them here. DocNice was interviewing at a hospital. He was so confident of his performance that he actually told his wife that "the only way I'm not getting this job is if I vomit during [this final dinner with the division]." Oh, such famous last words, DocNice. He didn't vomit through dinner, he just bled. DocNice had the brilliant revelation that he should shave before dinner and cut his lip. Badly. So large was the gash that it would gush every time he removed his hand from it to answer a question. Schmoozing, answering questions, and eating dinner- perhaps the three hardest hardest things to do with blood running down your mouth. The lowest point, he said, came as he was midway through answering a question, another doctor cut him off from across the table to yell, "You've got to keep pressure on it!"

I think I've found my new catchphrase.

I Believe I Can

Fruit flies have invaded our office. I had considered their presence irksome until I had a flash of brilliance: a fly swatting contest (because, as always, competition makes life more fun. competition makes life worth living). It started on Wednesday as a tally of fly fatalities between Jen, Young Bo' and me, but soon Mandy and Doc Query wanted in on the fun. And what would fun be without nicknames, like "Slap Happy," "Argh," and "the Clapper"? However, one distressing note in the midst of all this fun- I am down by two flies. Young Bo' is apparently a fly magnet and I have yet to even tie her in the competition. Not being in the lead is not sitting well with me. Somebody send me some flies.

Bachelor of Arts, Master of None

Sister Claire is quite demanding about these blog posts.  Good thing I had one stashed away:

I am a terrible judge of "wouldn't hurt to ask" versus "might as well not say anything" moments.  A couple of weeks ago, I opted to not ask too many questions and something I kept silent about turned into an awkward situation for many.  Yesterday, I took the proactive, "I'm here to learn so there's no shame in asking" approach:

Moi: Are we using that starfish thing for the call? 

Whitecastle: Starfish?  (I could have sworn that was what it's called!)

Moi: The conference call thing.  Do I need to set anything up?

Whitecastle: You press "ON".

Moi: Oh.

(later, as the call ends…)

Moi: So now I press "OFF".

Whitecastle: And the light goes off.  See, if you press ON, the green light comes back.

Ah, the indignities.  At least the Chief thinks I'm a computer whiz...

Limerick, He/She Wrote

A few months ago, someone wrote a limerick about coffee and pasted it in place of the Nantucket Blend coffee label. Perfectly understated and random, the stunt inspired a thorough investigation on my part. Everyone I asked denied their part. Either because they really were innocent or because they were great liars. I can never tell. Probably because I'm so innocent and pure. I wrote a response limerick beseeching the secret poet to reveal his or her identity, but there was no response. A few weeks later, the same poet posted a lesser limerick about another flavor, but ignoring my piece, and the whole incident died down. Until today, when Jeremy once again suggested that I was behind the original stunt. It's either a brilliant diversion on his part- he was one of my first suspects- or he's really as intrigued by the anonymous limericks as I am. His logic, however, was slightly more flawed than mine:

Moi: I told you I didn't write it. I wrote the response limerick.

Jeremy: So?

Moi: So why would I write a response and sign it asking for the person to reveal their identity if I wrote the limerick myself?

Jeremy: To draw attention to the first poem. There was an episode of Murder, She Wrote on this. Really, it's just like the episode.

One for All

I am a consummate team player and lover of rules. I believe in waiting my turn, cheering for people who slow down the team ace (namely, me), saying please and thank you, and passing the cake around until everyone has a slice. It's unfortunate that not everyone was brought up as properly as I was. The misanthropic Whitecastle stopped halfway through cake passing today to grab a nice slice for himself.

Moi: You can't pick your own piece!

Whitecastle: (deadly glare)

Moi: I mean, erm, you can pick whatever you want.

Whitecastle: Listen, you're a little research assistant, you can't give me lip. My grants pay for your salary.

Moi: It's not very much money though.

Whitecastle: Yeah, my grants aren't very big...

Moi: I'd probably suck up more if the grants were bigger.

Whitecastle: You probably wouldn't get a raise even if the grants were bigger.

Work in Progress

The other day, I overheard a kid say "I actually go to school in Maine" and I must admit, my heart stopped a little when he said that. Then he revealed that he goes to UNE and I lost all interest in the conversation. One awesome thing about having a fellow Bo' alum in the office is that, though we didn't hang out for 4 years, we have automatic common ground. And I can continue learning exciting Bo' tidbits. Like how the school claims it was established in 1794 but classes didn't actually start until 1802. Life was pretty easy for the first few classes, I guess. The official explanation was that they spent all that time constructing the school. Now, this sounds like a perfectly reasonable explanation until you consider the fact that "the school" was just one building, Mass Hall. And as far as the architecture of the time goes, Mass Hall was neither exceptionally intricate or that well designed. Which means that the Bo's governing bodies were overpaid slackers from the very start. It's good to know that I at least have some constants to rely on.

In other news, I watched a reality show tonight in which a former anthropologist decided that anthropology was not the most useful field in life and took up specialty hula hooping instead. He then attempted to hula hoop a 50-pound tire for 45 seconds. He failed. Yet I'm almost tempted to follow in his footsteps. He's at least got a point about the social sciences.

Sun Never Sets

Almost forgot this little story until today. Like I said before, when our youth group was down at BP, we were paired with a group from North Carolina. After our night off, a couple of guys from the North Carolina group came back with "tattoos" they had gotten at Fanueil Hall, tattoos that they gladly showed off. They were matching Chinese characters and the guys were especially eager for our youth group to see it and give our approval.

NC Boy 1: What does this say?

Jeannie: English.

NC: What? The characters are in Chinese, right?

Jeannie: It says "English."

NC: What!? The guy said it says Power!

Moi: Well... it could also be the root word for bravery, or hero... but mainly it means British.

(later, we're going around the circle sharing our rose and thorn of the day, our high and low points...)

NC Boy 1 (dejectedly): Finding out that [this tattoo] says British hero when we thought it said power...

Oh, precious, precious white little suburban boys. You guys were awesome to spend a week with.

Crispy Days Ahead

Oh snap, crackle, and pop.

Sister Claire now knows my blog address. As do the fine, well-nourished folks at the SAS Institute. (Boosting the site meter hits from 0 to 2, I do believe) Good thing I never share anything embarrassing or incriminating... never.

Since I've spent most of my days of late cursing at both the quantitative and verbal reading comp sections of the GRE (I still don't understand. I am perfectly literate, why are those sections so stupid?) and then twiddling my thumbs in front of the TV instead of doing anything about my GRE scores, I don't have very many stories to share. Except that it only takes my dad 5 minutes to wash his hair in the sink, dry off, then change. He's not a speedy man, he just doesn't have a lot of hair.

Oh, and yesterday, after much running and panting to catch the T, I settled into my seat only to discover that there were not one but two pregnant women standing in front of me. What were the chances that there two women, both bearing child, traveling separately, on the same train, and both standing in front of me? This is why I avoid eye contact on the train.

School of Rock

Three small slices of my great, big life.

Riles emailed me about a folk-pop singer-songwriter.  And because I actually trust her taste, I gave the guy a listen.  I don't like it when professors (former professors?  who are these people to me?) are more hip than I am.  In fact, they are one of those few groups I'm supposed to be able to rely upon to always be cooler than.  I don't have much in life, professors, don't take this away from me, too.

Is there a greater indignity than having to stop a 15-year-old boy from flirting with you?  ("How old are you?"  "15."  "How old do you think I am?"  "19."  "I am so much older than that, please stop talking to me."  "I don't believe you.")  This didn't happen to me, but I overheard on the train.  The poor lady was so exasperated.  And it was just the type of funny misery I needed to witness this morning.

I continue to marvel at the insane mind of Sister Claire.  Walked into a conversation today in which she was discussing the Stepford nature ofthe  employees at the SAS Institute (for the non-nerds, SAS is an statistical analysis program):  "I bet they all pack the same lunch, eat the same sandwich- tuna with lettuce on rye."  Heh.  That's as good as 'telling details' get.  PuMan and Walty would be so proud.

Amicable Split from Meaning

This morning on the trolley ahead of ours, a man had a heart attack.  That was the sort of sad part.  The not-sad part was that our car was delayed as we waited for the ambulance to arrive.  The conductor thanked everyone for our patience and for taking the T.  Everyone groaned and murmured.  Then, a few minutes later, the conductor's voice came on again and he prefaced his next statement with an apology.  This led to more groans.  It was rush hour.  We were crowded.  Delayed.  And testy.  But he said this: "Attention passengers, due to budget cuts in the system, we will not be serving any snacks or beverages during the delay."  It's amazing how those words can make a whole train laugh.

From the Annals of Words I Shouldn't Have Spoken:

"I can't find my key but I have to go.  I'm just going to leave things unlocked.  Can you guys just not steal my stuff?  Thanks."

(earlier, discussing potential new projects)
Whitecastle: See, this is what happens when you hang out with me and NiceDoc, you get sucked into these things.

Moi: Oh, I'm not hanging out with you guys.  This is my job.

Whitecastle: [Deadly glare]

Things Old People Should Not Be Allowed to Do

1. Carry the groceries by themselves.
2. Buy clothes for their grandchildren.
3. PDA on the T

Definitely not PDA on the T.  Had I had a bigger breakfast this morning, I would have puked a dozen times by now.  In fact, I feel like eating something right now just so I would puke, but that sounds bulimic and disturbing in a whole other way.  There was an old couple next to me this morning ("How old?""White hair old.""Oh, that's old.), much older than parents-old and not even good looking, too.  They looked frail and wore plaid.  Things started out cute as they held hands and talked about how glad they were to be taking the T together this morning, but very quickly progressed to annoying when they kissed goodbye at least half a dozen times when the man had to get off and it all went toward the realm of "my eyes cannot be glued to the Metro enough and I want to gouge them out then burn them just to make sure I really can't see anymore" when she (sitting) kept rubbing her palms over his (standing) butt.  And stroking his leg.  And - and- I don't even think I'm old enough to have witnessed that.

I Before E

Someone spelled my name wrong today. My first name. This happens so rarely I thought it deserved its own entry. How is a person who spells my name wrong allowed to make more money than I am?

A Transcript of My Mother's Conversation with a Rabbit in Our Backyard as She is Chopping Food in Our Kitchen

Bam Bam, you have to move. Move. Like that rabbit in Bambi, isn't its name Bam Bam? Don't you know that we have hawks here. You have to move...

Stupid rabbit. Move. Get out of our yard. People will eat you if you don't learn how to move. (Switching to English now) Move, move, Bam Bam...

We have coyotes, too. Rabbits should hope, Bam Bam. Jump! They sell rabbit at the grocery store. That's what happens when you don't move.

How are you such a lazy rabbit? Are you made out of plastic? (Taps window) Are rabbits hard of hearing?

Go Home Again Part II

Tween Brat 2: Do you have a job yet?

Moi: What do you mean? I've had a job for over a year.

Tween Brat 2: Oh. But is it a real job or part time?


Palm in slap-ready position, waiting for the go ahead.

All Americans Slurpee

Yesterday was free slurpee day at 7-11. For absolutely nothing, each person got to have a 7.11 oz of the slurpee of your choice for free. And because the stores didn't advertise it with banners, there was nary a queue. God, I love 7-11.

Zvi and I picked up our slurpees after lunch. To be honest, I don't think I'd ever bought a slurpee at 7-11. Or if I did, it was at least 15 years ago. When I was still in Sri Lanka. But I liked how it was just understood that we'd get slurpees. And how even though we talked it up so much, we were both surprised that it was carbonated.

Around 2PM, bored at work (why, I never), my mind started craving another slurpee but oddly, my stomach told me to hold still. I asked if Zvi's stomach was also sending him signals. His was not, he said. But his Japanese co-worker's was. Perhaps it's an Asian thing, he suggested. And so, like the good researcher that I am, I set out to investigate the matter and recruited whoever I could. Unfortunately, all I could manage to round up was an Inuit, a Pakistani, and a Chinese kid, like the setup of some bad joke. Even more unfortunate was that the Pakistani and Chinese kid had never had a slurpee. That would've been OK had they not spent a few minutes in the store sampling each flavor, comparing notes, frowning their brows and puckering their lips to deliberate the full flavorfication of each one. As if there were differences beyond color among the slurpees. Some people just don't get the spirit of free slurpee day.

You Can Go Home Again

Bloody bratty children (and some cute) have taken over my house.

Tween Brat 1: Were you here the last time I was here?

Moi: Um, I live here.


God, I need to move out. Soon. (Also need a new pair of knees. Cannot crawl on the floor chasing cars with little boys like I used to. My joins are sore all over.)

Mother of Pearl

I know that many people in the world think that their mom is crazy. And given the prevalence of mental illness in our society, I'd say that yes, maybe some of their moms really are crazy. But my mom takes absurdity to a whole new level.

Last night, I went to the bathroom to wash up and discovered the counter to be newly cleaned, so clean in fact, that my toothbrush was not in the holder where it's supposed to be. Yet it took five minutes of debating just to point out to Mother that my toothbrush really was missing. After which you said, "Oh, the orange one? I didn't think anyone was using it so I put it back." Into the linen closet. She'd somehow assumed that someone had unwrapped a new toothbrush, put it into the holder, and dutifully turned and wet it every night without actually using it. And concluded that the only right thing to do was to put it back into the closet.

The adventures continued when I put away the brush and rinsed my mouth with mouthwash... which tasted unusually bland. I asked Mother if she had put water in the mouthwash, but fully expected her to yell at me for being paranoid. Much to my surprise, I was right. Mother really did pour water into the mouthwash. A lot of water. "I was afraid it tasted too spicy" was her explanation. That tingling feeling is sort of the point of mouthwash, Mother.

------
Lying about how much she misses me...

Mother: When you were away at college, I sat on the stoop and cried each day for four years.

Moi: Why'd you have to sit outside to cry?

Mother: To be a little closer to you.

It Mainly Rains

Heard the distant din of public announcement speakers at work today and, hoping to see some splashy disaster below (helicopters, police escorts, and Santa Clauses are not uncommon in our parts), I looked out my window to check out the commotion.  Turned out, a press conference was right happening downstairs, complete with podium, TV cameras, and a modest crowd.  Mandy and I decided that snooping was more fun than endless Excel tables and pressed against the glass to make out what's going on below us.

Moi: They don't have anything free except fliers… wait, is that Tom Menino?
Mandy: That's who I thought, too.  That tent says 'Healthy' something.  I can't make it out.

(Spotting the mayor on the first try- I'm a regular ol' Bobby G!)

A little googling online confirmed that it was indeed Tom Menino, unveiling a new campaign called Healthy Main Streets.  That, and foam dolls that can be traded in for prizes.  No, I don't pretend to understand the ways of Thomas Menino.  And why he chose to announce this venture in front of my office building, which, as Mandy pointed out, is mostly characterized by the giant intersection that daily threatens our lives and a dearth of shops and restaurants as compared to surrounding neighborhoods.

Sister Claire (who fetched her glasses just so she could snoop in Elaine's empty cubicle): Promote local shopping?  There are no shops here.

Moi: That was my first reaction, too!  (We've got Stop & Shop, Walgreen's, 7-11, and that's it)  But Mandy pointed out the [weekly] farmer's market.  Except you have to cross the street to get there.  And I'm afraid of the intersection.

The Most Wasted Day

Beware of the friends you make.  Jen One is spending this weekend doing whacky wedding things with her friends.  Jen Two is spending it on the Cape, where her friend has a house.  And my friends?  They invited me down to Dorchester so I could help them move.  To the third freaking floor of an elevator-less triple decker.  I tried to time my arrival close to lunch and succeeded in missing most of the work involving couches and dressers, but Katie and Liz, they're greedy little hoarders and had plenty else for me to move.  Not that I did a spectacular job of helping.  I don't know if you've noticed, but other than that move-3-person-backseat-into-the-van-unaided incident, I don't use my physical strength for much.  I generally let other people do the heavy lifting and just touch my hands on the couch so it looks like I'm helping.  But that plan doesn't really work when you're moving a mattress/dresser/heavy box with only 2 people.  So it was yesterday, the moons aligned perfectly to form that rare occasion where I did not automatically ace whatever task was handed me.  Instead, there was a lot of trapping myself between shelf frames, panting, and scratching hard wood floors.  Now if you'll excuse me, I must search for friends to trade up.  Preferably one with a roomy beach house and ski lodge in Aspen.  And moving companies.  Keep your ears open, will ya?

 

PS. The title is not a commentary on the day, dumbass. 

Paragon of Professionalism

Last month, fellow Bo' alum Elaine started working in our division and just this week, we had a second new kid, Uzi. This means that I'm no longer the newest and dumbest kid at work. Instead, I have people to instruct. Earlier today, I suggest that Whitecastle stop by Uzi's desk. Unfortunately, Uzi was not there.

Whitecastle: Did you not explain to him that he can't ever leave his desk in case I ever stop by?

Moi: He's entitled to two minutes, it's his birthday today!

Whitecastle: That doesn't matter. You can't leave your desk. See, Elaine? She's sitting at her desk. Perfect. And what are you doing? (standing in the hallway talking to him) Why aren't you-

Moi: I was checking- I'm standing here talking to-

Whitecastle: What kind of example are you setting for these RAs?

I had been so good, and talking back so much less all summer long. And with one empty seat, Uzi brought back the hard times. Damn you, Uzi. His desk wasn't the only place he was absent from today. Being good-natured welcoming folks, we thought it'd be nice, in honor of his first week, that all of us lowly RAs got together and had lunch. We all grabbed our brown bags and headed downstairs... until we realized that Uzi was nowhere to be found. We kept searching through lobbies and Stop&Shop check out lines ("he couldn't have gotten lost... could he? we're just one floor up from the store, where could he be?"), and finally, we placed a call upstairs for help.

Moi: [The secretary] said he's sitting alone in the conference room.

Jen: Why would he do that? Did he not know that we're coming downstairs?

Elaine: ... I don't think anyone told him.

Welcome to the working world, kid. The Faculty better not like you better.

Personal Prayer

Dear God:
Wearing a raincoat everyday is getting tired. Could you do something about this? Thanks.

Dry and Drab

Reason #4496 Why I Love My Small College

One word: gossip. The Bo', like many other small, tight-knit campuses, was a place where everyone knew everyone else's business. That's pretty annoying when things go wrong, misunderstandings arise, relationships break, and people you didn't even know are telling stories that aren't true about you. Even someone as boring as myself has experienced that and it's pretty frustrating. But when you're not in the midst of anything, talking about people can be downright delightful. Having graduated, I relish the opportunities to sit down with my Bo' friends and catch up on the statuses of our acquaintances because there just isn't that much to talk about regarding our other friends (talking about them too much can seem malicious), but with a small campus- we have dozens of people who are built-in conversation starters, like a set of soap opera characters ready at our disposal. They're together? Does he know about it? Scandalous! Tell me more!

----
Queen's English

Australian Faculty Member: I don't want to be a bullfly at a Christmas party on the beach, but...

The Entire Division: (confused silence)