Up Do

Doc Whitecastle thinks that he has a stress fracture.  Sister Claire also thinks so.  But Doc Whitecastle missed two days of work this week and Sister Claire did not.  Because she's bad ass.  Or maybe because she doesn't have a stress fracture.  In fact, Whitecastle may not have one either.  He also might either have arthritis or a squash injury or both.  It's hard to tell what's right and what's wrong anymore in our post-modern, post-racial America.

(watching Whitecastle limp across the parking lot)

Sister Claire: Do you think he's doing that so we'll think he's hurt?

Moi: Doesn't look very convincing.

Sister Claire: You know, I was thinking that my foot hurt.  Then I thought, my whole body hurts.  And it's been this way for the past ten years.

The woman is a modern medical miracle.  Maybe her work, with all those codes, numbers, and tables, serves as a restorative against the pain.

Injured or not, Whitecastle has been incredibly generous to me the past couple of years and as a result, I've been able to get my name on a few publications.  Consequently, I've ended up in a couple of journal systems, one of which asked me to review an article.  You know, because I have a BA and all.  While editors may judge, their automated invitation systems don't.  Discussing the pros --I'll get to put this on my CV-- and cons --I don't know anything about medicine/health research/applying do-it-yourself lowlights (what?  I don't)-- of accepting the review with Whitecastle, he took the opportunity to remind me once again just how accomplished he is compared to me...

Whitecastle: When I first started reviewing, I was senior resident, so a little senior than where you are now.

Moi: Right, "a little" more senior.

Whitecastle: Well, I wasn't that much older. 

Thank you.  I had gone 2 days without being put in my place. 

Soaring on the Wings

Sometimes, life feels too good.  I get restless and reckless.  And I do something incredibly stupid.  I look up Taiwanese food shows on youtube and invariably end up with longing for culture and food that are not wholly mine, and that I cannot have.  It's like grocery shopping on an empty stomach after gastric bypass surgery knowing that you're also penniless.  Why would I subject myself to clips of night market stalls showing off snacks I crave, listening to an accent I no longer have, while wallowing in self pity of what is no longer mine?  Because I'm stupid, that's why.  And sometimes to have loved and lost is better than to never have loved at all.

Greasy Spoon

I made Hainan Chicken today.  For the past month, I've pretty much been a food bum, eating leftovers, pasta, pizza, whatever is easy to make, and more often than not, missing my daily 2-5.  But ever since I brought home Peruvian chicken leftovers last week to make chicken salad, something has clicked.  Since Monday, I've made pizza (not so different than earlier this month, but delicious), gotten garden vegetables for a pressed grilled vegetable sandwich (Ming Tsai inspired, with bean sauce and everything), more chicken salad with homemade peanut dressing, set aside my basil to freeze, and tonight, I made Hainan chicken (with rice), and with that, chicken broth.  Even though it's a classic Chinese/Southeast Asian dish, I started with Mark Bittman's The Minimalist recipe.  That's because Chinese recipes I read merely list the ingredients and say "stir fry" and "season."  Mark Bittman takes you step by step.  Although I must say, I cook like the Chinese recipes I hardly consult.  I don't actually follow Mark Bittman step by step.  And if I were to give you a recipe of how I made the chicken, it'd look like it, too:  poach chicken (but how?), add scallions, soy sauce, oil, sesame oil, and garlic to taste (even though I hate ginger, I knew this dish needed ginger-- mine's still delicious though).  Done.  But that's really what I did.  Poached chicken was much fattier than I expected.  In fact, the whole dish was.  But that was the beauty of the dish.  Salty, oily rice with strings of chicken, and some shredded lettuce to balance things out.  I can't wait to be hungry again. 

Just Add Salt

Burnt my index finger tonight.  And then got a cut on it.  Could this night get more awesome?  I hope so.

Leaps in Flame

I bear the fingers of electronic death.  I am seriously contemplating sending my hands in for radiation testing.  Within the past year, I have seen the demise of two watches, Dakota the Computer (twice-- in fact, it is still being fixed), and this morning, the laptop my father let me borrow refused to turn on.  Nay, it turns on, but the screen is black.  All the time.  It is either complete silent (off) or whirs for a few seconds and then turns silent (on).  I don't know what to do.  I always considered myself a good caretaker (Dakota the Computer lasted 6 years) but what does ginger care matter when I have the hands of death?  I'm almost afraid to get my new computer back now (it's being de-Vista'ed as we speak).  I'm thinking of calling it Cecil. 

It was a gross morning yesterday, but putting on my still-wet socks to leave work yesterday, I had an idea. I called up Laura.

"Where are you and do you have my socks?"

Turns out, Laura was also leaving work early. She gave me a dry pair of socks at the T stop, I put them on in the train. Crisis averted.

Why did Laura have a day-saving pair of my socks on hand? It's because I once saved her day. One very hung over day a few months ago. She was running in Becca's relay triathlon and I was along for the ride with posters for everyone. (Terrible runner, great poster maker) But thanks to Laura, terrible directions, and her hung over state, we ran late. So late, in fact, that Becca had to register in her place. So late, in fact, that the bikes had already left when we arrived. All along the way, Laura said, "I have a terrible feeling I forgot my socks." "No, I'm sure you remembered. You packed when you were still clear headed last night." "You're right, I'm probably just paranoid." And when we did discover that her socks were not there, we said, "Oh, I'm sure someone else brought an extra pair. Somebody must've thought of it." But no. Nobody did. And no one else could part with theirs. They were all doing something worthwhile with ours, like run or bike. And then there was me... so my socks came off of my feet, onto Laura's, and on Friday, we completed the cycle. That pair of blue polka dotted socks- useful for every occasion.

PS. I just spent 5 minutes walking around my house with Mother, trying to locate her missing bowl of cereal. "Is it in the fridge?" "No, it's too crowded in here." "Where did you answer the phone?" "I was sitting right here." We checked both floors of the house. She even stepped outside. No dice. No bowl. "Are you sure you didn't finish it already?" "That's absurd. I'm not crazy." A few minutes later, "Wait a minute, I remember. I ate the cereal, washed the bowl, and put it away already!" A thousand head shakes could not take my 5 minutes back.

Lower Depth

(the present in motion)

Last night was not Matt's birthday. Which was why he was so surprised that it was the night of his birthday party. And why we were so surprised that Matt was not more perceptive-- he had no qualms about the 10 or so people that followed him home from church. He thought they were all "going to dinner". It was probably just as well because most of his other friends- those who were waiting in the apartment- weren't ready to yell "Surprise." In our defense, the conversation was enthralling.

Because young (OK, old) Matt became obsessed with fishing out his neighbor's friend's phone that dropped down the chimney a few weeks ago, we got him a present that would further the project: 5 broomsticks and two rolls of duct tape. Little did we know that halfway through the evening, Megan would drop her sunglasses on the roof of a shorter building next door. This gave a giddy Matt (and a few other boys at the party) the perfect excuse to grab his presents. Megan kept protesting that she was fine with losing the sunglasses but Ashley set her straight. "This isn't about you, Megan" he explained, "just let us do this." And so they tried. But we appeared to be just a couple of feet too short. So Matt decided to hop over the roof railing and see if he could lower himself down farther, prompting concerned cries from all over the rooftop ("It's just another year!" Patrick had cried, and then suggested we lower Helsinki down the side- a motion I heartily seconded). In the end, the sunglasses was miraculously retrieved (as in- I have no idea how it happened- as in, I had lost interest by then and moved on to other things at the party), despite all of us making it very clear to Matt that he was not to jump down to the neighboring roof. And a happy birthday was had by all. But mostly Matt.

(risking his life for shades)

I Choose Life

Sometimes, God drops a tiny, shiny gem into the work day, and I stumble upon something like this:

Rockville, MD -- February 14, 2008 – Sherwood Brands LLC is voluntarily recalling approximately 400,000 packages of Pokémon® branded "Valentine Cards and Pops™" (Item# 073964209109 and Item# 073964289804), because of reports that metal fragments were found in two lollipops purchased in Florida. There are no reports of injury. People who bite into or swallow a metal fragment could possibly be injured.

It's hard to pick a favorite bit.  But it's awesome that the company is actually named after its product, as in: "Pokémon is committed to consumer safety and we're working closely with our licensee, Sherwood Brands, to investigate this matter completely," said J.C. Smith, Pokémon USA's director of marketing.

False Alarm

Maybe it's a sign of self obsession, though I'd like to think not, but walking by the school of public health and seeing the hordes of people pouring outside from within, my first thought was "Wait, they didn't tell me it's Orientation.  Maybe I'm supposed to be here."  Turns out, it was a fire alarm.

Go Shorty

My toe nail is cracked and bloody. I have no breakfast or lunch for tomorrow. There are markers all over my floor. I'm exhausted. But I just came from one of my favorite birthday parties (not mine) ever. I was definitely making-songs-up-as-I-walk happy as I skipped out of the party. Pictures and stories to come later, I half-heartedly promise.

It's Friday Afternoon, Can't We All Just Get Along

Crossing the street, spotted a man turn to a kid coming toward him and exhales smoke in his direction.  I would probably be more upset if the kid didn't look so annoying.

Just saw a physician, wearing a lab coat that presumably bears his name, get turned away from the medical library because he didn't have his hospital badge on him.  I say, good for you, medical library.  Just because a man comes out of the hospital to walk into the library wearing a lab coat, slacks, and tie, doesn't mean he's actually the doctor his coat says he is from the hospital he just came from and it certainly doesn't mean he has a right to be in the library.  I wonder how many people they have busted, surreptitiously reading through the scientific archive under an assumed lab coat.

Can we all get passed the bipartisan bickering on health and economics and agree that hipsters --pale, lanky, mustachioed hipsters lazily skate boarding through traffic-- should not be allowed to be shirtless?  Let's get some laws we can agree on before the recess.  (I know, my description of the hipster is totally redundant, like saying the giant was tall, or the Bo' grad brilliant, I do apologize.)

Lil' Gumshoe

Last night, we were sitting in a restaurant in the North End, laughing at Young Bo's many ridiculous stories of walking into elevator doors ("OK, so these elevators are like mirrors-" "You mean the golden doors?  You thought they were gold mirrors?"  "And that doesn't explain why you walked into them.  Do you often walk into mirrors?"), when Joel sauntered by, a pair of shoes in hand, and another pair on his feet.

As he placed his order, we began placing bets on why he had his shoes in hand.

Nik's theory was the most straight forward and both Matt and Joel thought it was the most plausible (though was as incorrect as the rest of ours):  He had left the shoes in his car and were now bringing them home.  (I think that raises more questions than answers- why did he have an extra pair in the car and why were they going home with him now?)

I posited that Joel had pried the shoes off of a dead man's feet.  (Perhaps discovered when he was checking out real estate.  Totally the most logical.)  And was summarily shot down.  I didn't stay down for long though, because Young Bo's earnest imagination was even more whack than mine, and she sold it with even more self-belief.

Young Bo': Joel had gone on a blind date and prepared two pairs of shoes, one with thicker soles than the other.  Thus, if a girl had turned up taller than expected, he could quickly go into the bathroom and change his shoes.  This was the first and most reasonable explanation that entered her mind.  Some people have to work hard at absurdity.  Some people are just born with it.

Not Stirred

This morning seemed a little off so I decided to get a scone to sort things out.  Scone and tea are always great for soothing rough spots.  Unless, of course, you get this girl as your server:

Moi: Could I please have a scone, toasted please?

(I know I said 'please' twice, it's an absolute curse.)

Café girl: Do you want me to just microwave it, or run it through the toaster?

Moi: Toaster, please.

Bat Crazy

O, Orinoco's bacon-wrapped date stuffed with almond, I shan't forget you. You will stay with me for a very long time.

In other news, Sister Claire is crazy. But crazy in the best possible sense.

(Discussing the awesome and remote possibility that she might get to throw the first pitch one day...)

Moi: What if there's a cancer kid there that day?

Sister Claire: There won't be a cancer kid. I'll make sure of it.

Moi: Oh yeah?

Sister Claire: Or I'll start shouting, "hey, I have cancer, too." "Look," (pulling on her own hair) "it falls off! I have cancer. Pick me!"

Disengaged and Overaged

Well into their "middle ages" my parents are having more and more trouble discerning what is appropriate for young people of certain ages.  Yesterday, my Father tried to tell a 15-year-old that all the cool kids wear extra-large t-shirts.  And today, Mother wanted to show a film about survivors of civil war atrocities to the church youth group...

(Discussing the movie War Dance, about young Ugandan refugees who have endured horrific conflicts and compete in a national dance competition)

Mother: Do you think this is a movie the youth group could watch?

Moi: Absolutely not.  A lot of them are too young.

Mother: What about Ginger's children?

(The 12-year-old boy and 5-year-old girl?)

Moi: They would be too young, yes. 

Soap Box

Coming home isn't always fun; there seems to be a ceaseless supply of strangers that my parents have me meet. The number of people they have met in their lives is truly astounding. But one thing that I do appreciate about going home is the opportunity to talk to my dad about things that I'd never get to talk to about anyone else. Like Chinese missionaries. He knows a lot about them. Of white men who went into China in the nineteenth and twentieth century, who dressed like the locals, who were as culturally sensitive as a white men were capable of at that time and age, who refused to go home in the face of war and uprisings, and died in China. Of Chinese men, who had the opportunity to study abroad, experience religious freedom, and still returned to their homeland so they could preach Jesus. Of martyrs and labor camps and all these things that seem so surreal. Yet they happened in the very near past and continue today.

I was a soc major. Cultural hegemony was my bread and butter. I know how missionaries ravaged cultures. For every great there were many, many not. Yet these folks-- it's because of their contributions to the Chinese church and their zealousness that my great grandfather and my grandparents ever came in contact with the church. Even if you think these men were crazy Christians, their stories are fascinating. And every time I hear my father tell these stories, stories that no one else in my life talks about, their passion arouses something in me out of dormancy (the characters' passion- not the story telling- my father says "and he died in prison camp" with the same steady tone he explains global oil prices). I remember that I'm Chinese. Christian. Casual writer. And these bits makes me want to tell stories.

Happy to See Me

(Debriefing Chris's BBQ)

Moi: … It was so weird.  Then Tom* saw me and he was all, "hey! How are you?"  Knew my name and everything.  I've never spoken to him before.

Zvi: No, he's a nice kid.

Moi: And Clarissa*?  She acted like she was so psyched to hear what I'm doing.  I'm pretty sure we never spoke at Bo' either.

Zvi: Maybe people are just glad to see you?

Moi: There's got to be a different explanation.

*Names modified to protect myself.  I'm not a good fighter.

Dissed and Carded

Terrible, terrible things happen to me when I forget my hospital ID badge.  Yesterday, I was locked in the stairwell for a good five minutes before someone walked by and heard my pathetic knocks.  And today, the library security man that I'm pretty sure should recognize me by now (just wait until next year, buddy, I'll be there all the time) gave me a hard time.  Usually, I wave my hospital ID (or sometimes Jen's) and all is right with the world.  Sometimes I forget and have to use my library card.  Today, neither option worked:

Security: ID?

Moi: (wave my library card a second time-- he was talking to someone else the first time)

Security: Swipe it here, please.

Moi: (swipe.  though I never had to before.  it comes up red, which really shouldn't happen, but the card is old because the library is cheap even though my account is still good) It's not really expired.  Actually, I came to renew my card. 

Security: This card is expired.  You can't go in.

Moi: No, it isn't.  But I'm here to renew it anyway.  See, here's my application.

Security: Don't give it to me, you need to see the librarian.

Moi: I know.  That's what I'm trying to do. 

And this was after my delight this morning with the admission office.  They needed a transcript from my study abroad program.  So I paid for and requested one.  Yesterday, I get a letter from the program.  Thinking it's a receipt, I open it.  It was the transcript.  So I call up the admission office and ask if they've also received a copy.  And if not, when I could drop it off.  The reply?  "If the letter is unopened, you may drop it off on Monday."  I hate every bureaucrat right now.  Damn the man.  Let's start a revolution.

Soap Box

I cannot stop reading about the Uighurs. It's like watching movies like Titanic (except that I hated that movie). Tethering to reality, it's like watching the Burmese monks refuse offerings. I know how it will all end but I can't stop rooting for them (not the killings intrinsically tied to this event, their Queen of spades, but of the threat, the uprising, the attention). I know that they have no cards left, that the prolong any of this is to make life harder for themselves, their families, their ethnicity. I absorb news stories while knowing that each named source is going to face retribution. But it's hard not to root for these people and hope that this time, they will shake the hands of the giant enough. This time they will crack the gates. This time the damage will be bad enough that the government will learn to listen to prevent another. This time they will create enough little fissures that the collapse will come easier next time. (There won't be a collapse, I know. There may never be another. But we can hope for change.) And I, disconnected from these people, no more invested in their plight than anyone else, I can only offer well wishes and look to history for hope. Because oppression can't always win. Wrong will be proved so one day. One day.

Likely Heroes

Everyone was thinking it, so let me not bury the lede. The whiteboard was awesome today. Division Superlatives was the category and I had pictures and everything. Of course, some people, like Doc Binks, laugh at all the entries; it's the trickier ones who are the best rewards. Like Doc Fischer. If it's a good one, he'll just smile or put in a suggestion. Today's entry? He just looked at it and laughed. As with most entries though, there had to be that one voice of dissent. Doc "Most likely to Campaign for Most Likely to Succeed" Whitecastle.

Moi: If you're offended, let me just say that Young Bo' wrote all of this.

Whitecastle: She's not even in the building.

Moi: I know. Amazing.

Whitecastle: No, that's really funny. But it's just... you have way too much time.

Moi: I do spend my time working. (point to screen) Look at all these Kaplan Meier plots!

Whitecastle: But think of how much time you could have spent on the plots instead of on the board. Then they wouldn't look so ugly.

Doc Fischer: That's- ouch- that's harsh.

Whitecastle: Anyway, when do we fire you again?

Temporary Objects May Be More Permanent Than They Appear

On Canada Day, like the good sport and supporter of Canada's constitutional monarchy that I am, I decided to don a little flag tattoo (see above; I am so jacked). The tattoo, however, appeared to be temporary in name only. I showered for days, but short of painfully rubbing my skin (the way that's sure to get me welts for hours-- again, parents, thanks for the awesome genes!), nothing could remove the darn maple leaves. So there I was, on the 4th of July, with two little flags on my arm. And the entire world all decided to choose Independence Day to have keen eyes and observation. Every BBQ I went to and each friend I met had to start with "What's with the flag?" "Hey, Cananda, we don't accept your kind," "What're you trying to start; why do you hate your country?" And all along, I just wanted to win a trivia contest on a Wednesday then have some burgers and sparklers on Saturday. Like any good American, really. Moral of the story? No good ever comes from supporting Canadia.

Fall from Grace

Chimneys are great for watching fireworks. They're not so friendly to cell phones. One of these girls dropped her phone the long way down. Maybe one of the funniest parts of my 4th. Though it was equally amusing to watch her try to figure out her number in drunkeness, ask neighbors if a phone fell down their fireplace, and then have Redman Matt try to fish it out of the chimney- losing a $30 rod but gaining a pack of cigarettes and 2 empty beer cans in the process.

Bum Beach

I wish my Sunday was funnier.  Instead, it was just oddly perfect.  We all woke up early on Saturday, and for once, followed Matt's spreadsheet schedule to head down to Singing Beach (he's a great planner but terrible enforcer).  Everyone paid the fee to go onto the beach except Kev, Jo, and I; no one stopped us for contributions to Manchester-by-the-Sea and we were quite OK with it.  The sun was out, the beach was beautiful, the food was junk, and the company above the food.  The only thing that was remotely funny was Helsinki's lack of color despite hours of trying and Redman Matt.  Mr. "I'm-very-flexible-and-can-apply-sunscreen-by-myself," Mr. "don't-bother-getting-me-face-sunscreen-I'll-just-use-some-from-my-arms," and finally Mr. "let me lie here awhile with my t-shirt on and towels over me because it's barely 2pm and I am already beet burnt and it pains me to wear flip flops."  Oh, white people, you never cease to fascinate me.

Runners up for funny (it was a slow day in the humor factory) were Spoiler Jo-- we walked by a few girls chatting along the beach.  One was showing her friends the place and asked if they knew why the place was called Singing Beach.  It was obvious to me that the girl took great pride in the knowledge and wanted to share it with her visitor friends, but it was not obvious to Jo.  So she stepped in and said, "It's because of the way the sand sounds when you shuffle through."  Which earned her no gratitude, but a dirty look and "thank you," from the poor, thunderless girl.

And a conversation I had with a newly acquainted stranger that went something like this…

Moi: I work at [the hospital].

Girl: Oh, do you know Dr. Jennifer… Jennifer something?  She's an OB-GYN.

Moi: No, I don't.  How do you know her?

Girl: I've been trying to get her to be my OB-GYN for months, but she's really busy.

Moi: …

Lazy Sunday

I went to the beach today.

Find Out What It Means to Me

Happy two days after Canada Day, everyone. I am sad to inform you that I did not win the Canada Day trivia contest. Such an honor goes to Jo. I was tied for 2nd, and then beat the others for being able to name a few provincial capitals. Whitecastle, quite surprisingly, was pleased with how I placed.

Whitecastle: Second-- that's not bad. Though I guess you studied.

Moi: That's the thing, everyone else studied, too!

Whitecastle: You hang out with a bunch of nerds.

Hello, Mr. Kettle, have you met Pot? The Pot is very black.

-----
As I've already alluded to, Wednesday was Young Bo's last day in our office. Starting next week, she'll be working off site, though still affiliated with our Division. On Tuesday, the RAs' plan for a small ice cream outing was butchered and turned into farewell ice cream cake for the entire office. All the faculty, but especially Whitecastle and DocQuery, enjoyed making fun of the ridiculousness of the occasion (and all the RAs made sure to laughed extra hard because we all agreed, had wanted to stop the ice cream cake spectacle, but was thwarted by people more powerful).

Whitecastle: With [Young Bo'] gone, there'll be a lot less giggling coming from between their cubicles.

Moi: Excuse me? I do not giggle. Young Bo' giggles.

Whitecastle: You don't giggle? That's right, you snarl.

DocQuery: And hiss.

This Office a-Rockin'

The Division office has 2 main doors.  A front door and a back door.  To walk through the front there and get to the RAs' desks, one must pass the Division secretary, our supervisor, and the Division manager.  Walking through the back door bypasses all these personalities, but requires a key.  This morning, coming back from our hush-hush one-hour-plus Young Bo' sendoff breakfast, we the RAs all decided it was best that we walk through the back door.  Except no one had a key.  A nose game quickly ensued and noble Jen volunteered to go through the front door for us as we waited for her by the back door.  As we were waiting, we spotted PhD Jen walking by the front door (she on the inside, we on the outside, just like that Sunday School song).  She passed us.  Turned around.  And let us in, beating RA Jen.  "How long have you been waiting there?"  "Um… not long."  "You guys know that we have 2 doors?"  "Oh yeah?  2 doors?" 

Famous Last Words

This is Young Bo's last day next to my cubicle (she's moving to another site but still working for the Division and will be back for our weekly conferences… which made her "going away" gathering yesterday just about the lamest excuse to have ice cream cake ever- which all the docs made sure to point it out, including our chief).  I wonder if I'll miss her…

(I'm sitting at my desk doing work and hear Young Bo' muttering "what are you doing!?" to herself)

Moi: Are you having a crisis?

Young Bo': No, but your face is.