Scallionwag

I attended Father's church today. The entire service started an hour earlier than usual. Apparently, you can just do things like that when a third of the church is gone for a conference. Because of holiday shuffling and the snowstorm and conference, I was pulled in for emergency interpretation duty. I sat next to a guy and narrated the entire service to him in English. I'm not sure he saw all the parallels between the Old and New Testament symbols in the message. But I tried the best I could.

Christmas wasn't super great, but I got to see my folks and got new pens and Airwave gum, which was everything I had wanted. Now I'm back in the city to enjoy a nice snow day. Whenever I return from home home, I get a hankering for scallion pancakes. We eat a lot of it at home, though hardly ever from scratch. The fridge at home has an impressive arsenal of frozen dumplings and pancakes. In Taiwan, scallion pancakes are one of those things that are so cheaply and widely available, at such good quality, that it's hardly ever worth it to make it at home. But that's not how we roll in the South End. So I got my doughy hands dirty and made some. Along with the sweet spicy dipping sauce (also never homemade in Taiwan). Now I'm going to enjoy a Lifetime Originals movie. The way snow days are meant to be enjoyed.

Tender and Mild

Every time I come home, I seem to write some entry about Mother forsaking her matronly duties for television, and the damage we pay in hunger. This year, I tried really hard to stray from the same topics and jokes and respect Mother and how she operates the household. Especially since she mentioned making lamb two ways at lunch yesterday, or maybe it was for us to choose one of two ways. I can't remember very well right now. I am extremely hungry.

After enduring hours of quiet stomach rumblings, I finally approached Mother. I had left her on the couch about three hours ago, when she said that she wanted to "relax a little" after we'd just watched some good ol' PBS. ("Relax from... watching TV?" I wanted to ask. But I held my tongue and let her have the remote.)

Moi: Is it OK if I ask what we're going to have for dinner? Because I can fix something myself.

Mother (genuine shock): You want to eat dinner tonight?

Moi: That would be lovely, yes.

Mother: I'm not hungry at all. Didn't we have a big lunch?

Moi: Yes, we did, ma'am.

Mother: And you're hungry again?

Moi: It would appear so.

And to All a Good Meal

Mother: It's 5PM. Don't you still have to shower? You better hop in now.

Moi: What's the hurry? We're not leaving for [the Christmas eve service] for another 2 hours.

Mother: But you need to shower... and make dinner.

Moi: So that's what we're doing for dinner.

Honest Tea

Another perk of working from home, one that is infinitely better than the shortened commute, is afternoon tea. There were no petits-fours or clotted cream, but at around 3:30PM today, Father knocked on my door and asked if I wanted tea. "What kind?" "Just name it. I have everything." Then he came by again at 5PM to refill my cup of tieguanyin.

He's right about having every kind of tea. Father isn't particularly obsessive (the honor goes to the uncles), but we have a number of varieties of greens, blacks, and reds in bag and loose leaf form. Earl Grey and Pu-erh, fruits and barley and everything in between. It isn't just that we're from a culture where tea is quotidian. Plenty of people drink ghastly 'tea' in the UK and China. But I have a Father whose idea of a practical joke was teaching his four-year-old daughter the wrong name for a tea and who makes perfect Thai iced teas, down to the frothy top he makes with a martini shaker (but we just call it iced tea). There is no reverence about tea or ceremony in our family. It is about salty snacks, grown up chatter, and family.

This is why I flinch a little when I ask for tea and people offer me chamomile from a bag. I grew up on that delicate, brown butter hue, that sweet taste I know as oolong. Drinking it on a December afternoon, why, it tastes just like home.

Time Crunch

I have discovered a new route to work, a route that leads to much happiness. When I first moved into the Ho' after commuting from home home for a year, I was ecstatic to cut my commute down to an hour at the most (round trip) from 3 hours. Three hours is very long for a commute. But do you know what's better than a 25 minute commute? Working from home. I wake up at 9am, roll out of bed, and walk 3 feet to my desk. Do you know when the last time I woke up at 9am was? Well, er, other than the accidental oversleep last Sunday, it'd been at least 5 months. And since I'm home home, there's no deep forage for appropriate breakfast foods or eating tuna mixed with rice. The kitchen is teeming with fruits and pastries. The whole set up is glorious. If only I was motivated to do more work.

--
Mother just walked over from her computer in her study to inform me that a childhood friend of mine wanted to reconnect (mother's exact words were "write letters to me," though I'm not sure that's what chum meant). I last saw this girl when I was 5 or 6 years old, so I don't understand why she has a better recollection of me than I do of her (or why she's corresponding with Mother), but this seems to happen to me a lot. But clearing my mind of information like names of childhood chums is a price to pay for retaining things like the differences between the Wilcoxon Mann and Kruskal-Wallis test, the status of the ScarJo-Reynolds marriage, and of course, the hierarchy of Whitecastle's favorite fonts. "Is it OK if I give her your email?" "Yeah, sure." "OK. I will forward you the email when I have the time." I don't know how Mother forwards emails. But it sounds like an arduous process.

Odds and Ends

Father: Forget the PhD, why not start a bakery?

I'll take that as a compliment on my cheesecake.


(on the Humility Council t-shirts*)

Doc Poppy's Husband: That must be funny to you Harvard people, huh?"

I'll take that as a compliment on our great senses of humor.


(Louise, on slogans for our department)

"We rock... except at making small talk."

(and our faculty)

"One is like your second mother. The rest are socially awkward."

I'll take that as all I've known of academia. It was true at Riley House. And it's still true in Kresge.

Oliver's Twist

Turns out, it's hard to get a good picture of a chocolate-filled cream puff. One wrong angle and the whole thing looks like a colostomy bag*.

I'm on a baking streak this weekend. As thank you presents, I made the Smitten Kitchen's dulce de leche cheesecake. It was surprisingly straight forward. And tastes as good as it sounds. Imagine everything you like about cheesecake, then add the creamy sweetness of dulce de leche, and top it off with a chocolate glaze. I would post pictures, but they really just look like they do on the site. You should stop reading this now and go make one for yourself. I called mine "Haddon's Matrix Cheesecake**" because they're for Prof Papa.

I also made "(Injury) Prevention Profiteroles**." I followed the Minimalist's recent profiterole recipe but swapped raspberries and vanilla ice cream for chocolate Bailey's pudding. That is to say, I swapped raspberries and ice cream for excellence. Tastes surprisingly like "the real thing," except better.

*That probably crossed a taste line of some sort. My apologies.

**Shameless renaming that has nothing to do with the desserts and everything to do with pandering to Prof Papa? Perhaps. What're you going to do about it?

But What Are You?

frm Amy (not to be confused with me) and I split an order of grilled cheese and mushroom ravioli tonight. When the plate of delicate raviolis arrived, I double checked with the waiter to make sure that hadn't made a mistake. "Is this the large portion?" Yes, these nine delicate raviolis comprise of the large. The grilled cheese was the best I've ever had. And the dark fudge brownie sundae that followed was exceptionally delicious. The whole experience made me feel like a South End regular, hanging out in my neighborhood spot, down to the part where I overpaid for a simple yet delicious meal.

(watching Au Revoir Les Enfants* last night)

Amy: I can't tell these children apart.

Moi: You went to the Bo', shouldn't you know your white people?

Amy: There are so many white people in Seattle. It's been so hard.

*Not as depressing as Into the Arms of Strangers or Boy in the Striped Pajamas, but as a movie about Jewish children during WWII, still very depressing over all. Not recommended after sundaes on a Saturday night.

Almost Fabulous

Finals season is over, nearly for the last time. Every time I get to this stretch, I can't tell if I can go through another. If you'd asked me on Thursday, it would have been a resigned 'no.' But on days like today, it wasn't so bad after all. Last night, for the second night in a row, we celebrated the end of the semester at Laura's. Nearly identical people and everything. (a few pictures posted because we realized that none of us had photographic proof of our friendship)

Lu thinks Prof Papa's nickname should be 'Sexy Beast.' I advocate we settle for DHem. The Weed Whacker is always ready to pose.

Laura is tall, beautiful, slightly racist, and my steadiest partner in the past semester. We spent 4 hours grading econ exams yesterday. Jesse came up with a game of pitting random students against each other. It made the whole thing a lot of fun. But also very time consuming. Jesse and I had to stay after an extra 45 minutes to grade without games.

Two more applications, and lots of hours of work work await. Whitecastle is under the impression that I will draft a manuscript this month (which will require finishing data collection and doing the analysis...). Practicum folks are under the impression that I am capable of banging out another one in a few months. But hey, I get to sleep as late as I want.

Permalink

Are you on LinkedIn?  It is facebook for grown ups.  Or, according to Prof Papa, it is facebook without knowing what your friend bought at the supermarket.  You just know when said friend gets a new job.  Because facebook in any form = procrastination, I decided to finally join LinkedIn last night to stave off studying for biostatistics (or as Brother calls it, "fake science").  I was not vigilant about researching how LinkedIn operates ahead of time.  In fact, I am still not fully aware of how it functions.  People with whom I have corresponded on a regular basis know that I have 2 personal email addresses.  One for friends and repeat offenders.  The other generally reserved for professors and business contacts.  Naturally, I chose the semi-professional account for LinkedIn.  When it asked whether I wanted to "connect" with people in my address book who were already on LinkedIn, I clicked 'yes,' not really knowing what the whole process entails.  I am now connected with many of my professors, professors who I do not mean to be connected with.  This includes: Doc Whitecastle, Prof Papa, Prof Adviser, the Band Man, and Prof SBell.  I would not be surprised if Walty was on that list.  Though he probably wouldn't accept me.  I do not know who I have requested a connection from until I've received a confirmation congratulating me for making a 'connection'.  I can't undo the requests.  I have no idea who they went to.  And perhaps most cruelly, only some of my close friends that I want to network with are actually on the list. 

I know what you're thinking, this sounds like a regular indignity story.  What makes this one special?  How about being singled out by Prof Yeast on the last day of class?  As he wrapped the class up, he mentioned that he'd be happy to stay in touch with us.  "Some of you," he added, "well actually one person, has actually contacted me on LinkedIn.  I'm happy to stay connected that way."  Oh yes.  He was my third "connection" last night.  Thank you, Prof Yeast.  I'm really not eager to network and would be OK if we never speak to each other again (though you are very nice and I look forward to going to your house in February).

Apples and Oranges

The parentals returned from the motherland today. They almost didn't make it. Mother forgot that she had oranges on her body (well, bag). That the oranges came from Taiwan makes them contraband. Mother went through a couple of checks in customs because she realized this error. When she realized her error, rather than a) not doing anything and just continue walking through customs or b) disposing of the oranges immediately, Mother chose c): eat the oranges on the spot (because she was "hungry"). Predictably, the customs dogs immediately surrounded her and she was reprimanded by the officials. When it was all over, Father was relieved that the officials "showed mercy" and let everyone go with a harsh word. Mother, on the other hand, doesn't understand why everyone was so rude and why they threw the rest of her oranges away.

You and You and You

Many people suspect discipline or drive, but sleep is the true driving force behind my study habits and deadlines. It has been this way for as long as I've known. I only start projects early so I can get a fair amount of sleep and the closest I've ever gotten to an all nighter was 3 hours of sleep for the biochem take home in junior year (at which point I started referring to enzymes as "buggers" on my exam, leading to lots of "???" in red ink).

So it was with regret that I dragged myself out of bed early this morning to get to school by 7:30am to finish my pass/fail paper, all because our school network drive was down over the weekend. If there's one thing I'm good at as a student, it's packing my bag the night before (folders, hat, emergency socks, breakfast, lunch, and snack- all check). Though I'm good at working against deadline, too. I just hate the process-- the faux adrenaline that masks my fatigue, the eerily quiet streets, the goofy grin I wear all morning (Ray: That's a very big smile for Monday morning), and the crash that slogs through all afternoon that no amount of free cheese and dip could cure (sidebar: dean's reception today with only 3 kinds of cheeses, all semi-hard-- what is this, a state school? I want my gouda and chevre). Wherever I end up next year, I hope it's a place full of sleep. Sweet dreams.

The Name Blame

The econ TAs have been particularly punchy the past couple of days.

"I had a problem earlier in the semester where I kept calling Lisa 'Laura' by accident, and then thought I should try to cover it up by referring to you as 'Jesse'." -- Jesse (who, as we discussed in the review session, is a Caucasian male. I am not.)

"No one has a question? Come on, guys!" -- Laura, speaking up during review session after she had a particularly difficult section and the rest of us got away question-free.

Orchard for a Dome

(on going to school in beautiful, secluded places)

Moi: The mountains are great and all, but will that actually affect your school experience? It's not like you'll be hiking every weekend.

Vita-K: It's not like I'll be inside for three years either.

Moi: But seriously, in our four years at the Bo', how many times did you climb Katahdin?

Vita-K: Twice. Once after our sophomore year and once senior year.

Moi: Oh. You actually climbed that thing? (I never did) Maybe you should go to school in West Virginia. I should never go to school in West Virginia.

No No Noel

Was walking home from the annual Starlight banquet today and wished for the 725th time that I had my camera with me (or a better camera phone): Spotted a handwritten wooden sign on the sidewalk that said "Picture with Santa. 10am-4pm. 5th floor." Shadiest Santa ever.

Geek Test

(I was supposed to post this a few days ago)

The president is not selling out. I understand that compromises are necessary and he had to make concessions to preserve unemployment and other benefits. I just wish he was a better negotiator. Because not raising taxes on the wealthiest, not increasing social security contributions, and adding the burden for those making under $20k all seem like really bad ideas.

In high school, it was Lenny. We watched underrated shows like Newsradio and listened to underrated music like Moxy Fruvous. Not because we were cool. Or these things were hidden greats. They were just hidden. My brother is constantly watching and listening to cool things the mainstream doesn't know about because he's cool. We were just bad judges of culture. (Although 13-year-old-me did recognize the goodness of Freaks and Geeks right when it came out, and not years later on DVDs) I remember then, going to my first (and only) alternative kids upperclassman party as a freshman at the Bo' and what a relief it felt to know that other people had not only heard of this disbanded 90's Canadian band (that no one is mourning) but liked them, too. "These are my people," I remember thinking, "They like the same obscure things that I do." Later, I would find out that they were way too hip to be my people. On Monday night, I had that feeling again. But it was even more special. At our cohort holiday party, Lisa brought up SportsNight. And not only did everyone know of it, but everyone claimed it as one of their favorite shows, just like I did. Then Gennie brought up Friday Night Lights and I nearly cried from all the like mindedness in the room. With every rung on the education ladder, my peers get a little nerdier and these geek nirvana moments become more frequent. And now in my 18th year of school, these people are my people.

Honest Tea

My school friends have been on a truth-telling crusade this week. I am not in favor of this.

(Last night, Lu listed a litany of shows that she watches and made me feel a lot better about being excited to see the Grammers split on cable TV)

Moi: Wait a minute, aren't these shows on on Friday nights?  What are you doing-
Louise: Whoa, whoa. I know for a fact that you cannot judge.
Allison: You didn't come out for drinks last week so you could brine a chicken.
Moi: These are all true statements.

Moi: I don't understand how we're going to talk about this for 10 minutes. Our papers aren't even 10 pages.
Laura: But at this point in our schooling, aren't we all really good at BS'ing?
Moi:  This is a true statement.

Moi: I'm heading off to a meeting. I'm very important.
Greg: You know, I've always said that about you. Very important.
That's the truest statement of them all.

Go Shorty

It is my birthday today. It is my birthday as I type. I celebrated, as I usually do when I'm in school, by having an 8:30 class, getting a shot (the vaccine kind), having a meeting about my practicum, holding office hours, eating leftovers and doing homework.

And yet, it's been a great day.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a break from it all to have ice cream with pear jelly and a side of Community (the show, not the sense of camaraderie).

Greener Acres

To offset the somber tone of the last entry, a couple of happy (albeit poorly taken) pictures of my weekend. I got to see Emily perform at Symphony Hall last night, which was a very big deal. And made me feel like a very big deal. I mean, when's the last time your lab partner in high school anatomy (with whom you co-dissected a cat) performed at Symphony Hall? Last night, that's when.

Today was our 4th annual post-Bo' pre-Thanksgiving gathering. We had it post-Thanksgiving because I may have forgotten about the whole tradition altogether. Then ran into scheduling difficulties. But at least we had a gathering today. The W'ville crew so completely forgot about our high school tradition that we didn't even have Veggie Giving this year. I made the best roast chicken I've ever made (the key is in brining). I'm really enjoying this point in my life when potlucks work because everyone pulls their weight and brings really tasty food. Remember when I had a potluck junior year and Squeaky G brought Tostitos? We're not in W'ville anymore. The picture doesn't do all the deliciousness justice (blame Lisa) but I like the group shot because of how shady Joe looks crouching in the background. It's all very "one of these things is not like the other."

Green Acres

The life of a pastor is full of its special perks and privileges, like christening your great nieces and maybe one day, officiating your children's weddings. It means giving your loved ones the greatest gift that you can, that of God's blessing, in the most momentous occasions of their lives. Oftentimes, however, heartache precedes that first dance. For my dad, being a pastor this week means preaching at his brother-in-law's memorial service (his sister's husband). He was a pastor, too, an incredibly kind and sincere man who was good not only to his wife and children, but his wife's whole family, my father included, and our whole family, too. He befriended my mother's father when they lived in the same city. Because that's what it means to be a pastor. In between the baptisms, weddings, and funerals is life, carrying burdens and tending relationships. The kind of pastoral acts that earn you the privilege and responsibility of making sense of a life you cultivated, when it comes to an end.

Call Me Ishmael

Haaahvard is very particular about its applicants. It helps, for example, to have the surname Thayer, to have graduated from a parochial school in Cambridge, and to related by lineage to a member of the class of 1902 (documentation required). There are certain qualities that appeal to the committees. And I, apparently, do not fit specifications. Not my middle name, at least.

Repeatedly encountered errors tonight because:

Applicant middle or other name cannot contain any special characters.

My hyphenated middle name displeases the institution. Spaces didn't work either. I had to delete the space in between. And it all felt very Ellis Island.

Where the Side Walk Ends

Earlier this afternoon, I was sitting in Kresge, deep in discussion with a team member in how we ought to pull the structure of our paper together-- as a mature student of public health and team leader does (I was doing some great "I" statements and everything)-- when out of nowhere, Laura and Louise came prancing down the hallway and right before my eyes in a weird dance shuffle. "We did this for you," they yelled as they crab-walk skipped through the hall and down the stairs. Stunned, all I could say muster, "I hate you."

It's very hard to keep a professional composure when people dance for you like that. Happiest moment of the week. Sorry, Ma Query's pumpkin cheesecake- better luck next year (not sorry, long T ride with Josh).

On the House

Some people have the ability to charm restaurant owners and wait staff. Young Bo' is one of those people. My brother is another. I don't understand it. I'm perfectly polite and personable, but my compliments and chatter never get me anything except smiles. Having Taiwanese food tonight:

Restaurant Owner: What are you guys drinking? (motions to the waitress) Two more Tsingtaos. On me. (turns to me) Do you want some? Another Tsingtao.

Moi: No, thanks.

Brother: This is my little sister.

Restaurant Owner: Don't worry, I don't check ID.

Turkey Trot

I set off a mild panic chain over the weekend when I couldn't find
Prof. Papa's spring course in the catalog. We'd been waiting to take
that class for more than a year, so I headed to his office for
clarification (the man is one of the worst emailers I've ever met).

Moi: Is your injury class every other year?

Prof. Papa: No. Well, it's every other year, then every other year.

Moo: (no words, I just look really confused  I'm good at that.)

Prof. Papa: That means I teach it every year.

Of course, it does. It's not that my life hasn't been great.
Thanksgiving was full of getting enough sleep and eating lots of food
(in take out form, too!  One of my favorites), especially Chinese
food. And catching wii rabbits (surprisingly difficult) and watching
Korean cowboys and having a brother on my couch. But I've also spent
the bulk of the break in my room, editing essays and submitting
applications. Maybe next week, I'll tell you something interesting. In
the meantime, keep living your weary little lives and I'll do the
same.

All that Talk

Jazz on WGBH with Eric Jackson is my study music. It appears, however, that Eric Jackson is on holiday or some other form of extended leave. I hope for both of our sakes that he returns soon. The fill-in-host for the past two days has been driving me absolutely insane. He keeps talking. When all I want is jazz. I am about to look up WGBH's address, walk to Enterprise, rent a car, drive to WGBH, and send this man on permanent leave.

Yes, I am complaining about the guest host of an NPR jazz program. And yet you're here, reading about it. Whose life is dull now?

Busted

When it comes to Australians, those descendants of British ruffians, I've always been ambivalent. Sure, they've got great pharmaceutical policies and I've worked with some wonderful ones, but as a people, they had never done much for me, at least compared to other subjects of the throne. All that is rapidly changing this semester.

This morning, at my purposefully inconveniently scheduled office hours (I learned from the best, i.e. Walty, when it comes to office hours), two Aussies chatted loudly at the table next to me. When they started talking about cheering on Prof Papa's tennis matches and bringing supply and demand signs in support, well, it wasn't just hard not to eavesdrop, it was hard to even pretend I wasn't eavesdropping. Good thing Greg caught on and asked for my input straight on. I suggested playing tennis for grades. (Remember how Mr. Bowen was willing to bet for grades? Not enough teachers are willing to do that.) All this would have been normal. But what then followed was a bizarre nerdy exchange in which we marginally joked around but mainly discussed our respective health and education systems and which courses offered the most practical skills in health policy. Of all the banter in the world, we talked about healthcare. While skipping class. The morning before a holiday break. ("Are you guys celebrating how the American Indians gave food to our forefathers?" "Is that what happened? I haven't actually read the story.") The complexity and geekitude of all that perplex me. These Australians-- they don't have anything to offer just yet. But they've got my attention for now.

Of Babies and Men

Doc Binks is now in the possession of twins, as in a pair of lives he is responsible for. I would've guessed that of all the ways fatherhood could've changed him, it would've made him less prone to hand me a nasty olive to eat just to see how I'd react. In his defense, he did tell me it was nasty before demanding that I eat it.

Moi: I don't want to. It won't taste good.

Binks: But I want to see how you'd react.

---
Speaking of fatherhood....

Whitecastle: Children cost a lot of money. You've got to get a new house, new car, 2 strollers, seats, cribs...

Moi: You do know that the baby won't be operating any of this, right? These are things for you.

Whitecastle: Well, I know that [my wife] isn't fitting in that stroller. That's for the baby.

Moi: People in other parts of the world do without all these things and they seem OK.

Whitecastle: You mean those people who go without food and go without vaccines?

Moi: You mean people who go without autism.

Of Chicks and Babes

Oh Lenny.

Who speaks of sentient gum, third legs, and a sandwich chain named after her in plural. Lenny is at least 4 types of weird. Which was why she answered King Solomon's Bluff (as I'll call the question from now on) so readily and wonderfully. And, as she's wont to do, with oddly specific details and not a hint of remorse. She's overtaken Ranwei for the #2 answer.

Here goes the ranking:

1. Torso (organ harvesting, angry letters to TChu, you know the drill)

2. Top half (Lenny went for viability, utility, and robots. Bet you didn't see that coming. "If you squish the organs in right, it is the most likely half to survive. Then you make a robot bottom. And you have a super robot baby. It would have have an afterburner so there's no dirty diapers (sic) plus, 200% baby efficiency. But you have to remember not to make the robot bottom weapons-capable until the kid passes the terrible twos.")

3. Top half (baby wall art. it seems so quaint in comparison)

Ranwei's Baby

At brunch with TChu and Ranwei today, I brought up our classic BCF discussion: If you were to call King Solomon's bluff, which half of the baby would you want?

In all the years since the Bo,' the question has been tested with many people in many ice breakers, but no one has had as dispassionate and thorough an analysis as we had that fateful BCF lunch. If you recall, or click on the old post, you'll note that we (i.e. TChu. Remember, the angry letters go to him) chose torso. So the organs could be harvested. Most people stare in disbelief. Or at the most, choose the top half. That is, until today. Ranwei showed no hesitation. Either right half or top half. However you slice it, that half would be mounted on the wall as an artistic conversation starter. As in, "hey, you've got half a baby on the wall." The top half would be especially lovely because the arms could be positioned Superman-style, as if a baby was flying out of the wall.

Moi: Or you could take the bottom half, and just have feet sticking out of the wall. Maybe even put a chair beneath it for a more surrealist twist.

Ranwei: No. That would be wrong.

Moi: Oh excuse me, I took it too far.

Superbad

Just when I thought people couldn't make me happier today, a note from Prof Riles, Prof of all Profs, Adviser of all Advisers, who misses "ordinary weather problems" like the New England cold, prompted me to look for news on the weather in Beijing. This is what I found:

BEIJING (AP) — Pollution in Beijing was so bad Friday the U.S. Embassy, which has been independently monitoring air quality, ran out of conventional adjectives to describe it, at one point saying it was "crazy bad."

The embassy later deleted the phrase, saying it was an "incorrect" description and it would revise the language to use when the air quality index goes above 500, its highest point and a level considered hazardous for all people by U.S. standards.

More than the Sum

I have found my dim sum soul mate in the form of one Faith Wu. If I were to find a boy (er, man) version of Faith (Faitherson? Faithderick? Fidel?), I would be ready to settle down. I had a near-perfect brunch with Lu, Grant, and Faith today. Grant and Faith bonded over Wagner and Debussy; Lu and I bonded over not knowing what they were talking about. And chopping (not the karate kind-- that's what Grant does). I love eating with people who love eating with people, especially those who discuss Man vs. Food as easily as cost drivers in healthcare.

I don't want to detract from my deep fondness for Lu and Grant. Heck, I felt comfortable enough with them to accept a custard tart from Grant in one hand while actively shoving chicken feet in my mouth (with chopsticks- I'm not a savage) in the other. But Lady Wu surprised me with her simultaneous aggression and sweetness, a deadly combination for yum cha. She can't speak Canto, but she was great at understanding the litany of food terms tossed at us and spitting back in Mandarin. Enjoying shumai and shrimp dumplings is one thing, but sharing chicken feet, tofu skin-wrapped pork (which she cut in half for everyone) and clearing plates? That's what futures are built on.


(on being an ABC [American Born Chinese, for my Caucasoid friends])

Moi: You should work on being a better ABC.

TChu: I'm awesome at the AB part...just not the C part.

Moi: Yes, you were wonderful through gestation.

Fit to Prosper

I know this is wrong. And sad on two levels. But I'm spending the night revising a group paper (the best kind) and this headline makes me smile and distracts me from the fun I'm missing:

Afghan Hero Dog Is Euthanized by Mistake in U.S. (NYT)

All You Can Wallow

My folks travel a lot. Not Up in the Air a lot. But they spend about a month each year in Taiwan and China. Though I see and talk to them too much stateside, we only stay in touch sparingly when they're abroad. Last year, they were gone for five weeks and did not call home once. They seem to have no curiosity regarding my well being. And would make the worst teenagers. But I don't really mind because when we do talk, we invariably touch upon all the food that they're eating that I'm not. Yesterday, Father spent our Skype conversation recounting the buffet that they went to, with quality Chinese, Japanese, and "Western style" delicacies (lamb chops, roast beef, grilled pork), plus chocolate fondue. Chocolate fondue! All for $10 because there was a promotion. And suddenly, catching up with him made me incredibly sad. He did manage to remember to ask if I was eating well, but it sounded gloaty and hollow.

Today's Nutrition Tips in Question:

Do you know what makes the school's spicy rice crackers actually tasty?

Dredging them in peanut butter.

Do you know what offsets all the nutritional merits of the school's spicy rice crackers?

Dredging them in peanut butter. I can't wait to buy more tomorrow.

Big Tuna

For three people who are taking a course pass/fail, for three people who haven't purchased the text book or taken any notes in class, who have walked out of lecture for onion rings, boredom, or just to chat with friends, Allison, Laura, and I are fastidious about being punctual to Environmental Health. Each class, we rush to the lecture hall at least 8 minutes early, just as the previous class is about to let out. We do all this to stake a seat in the prized last row, where demand exceeds supply. Once we spread our stuff in the seats, we go about our business--take a walk, check our email, do econ problem sets, pass notes, spill steak & cheese all over the desk (surprisingly, not me)-- anything that doesn't involve listening. It's not that we are terrible students, it's just that Environmental Health is very crowded and depressing. The bits of knowledge that manage to seep in despair us, like How Two Drops of Mercury Slowly Killed a Beloved Professor, Never Swim in Open Water After Rain (only in the northeast), Haiti, Sometimes Standards are Made Up in the Absence of Knowledge, and of course, How Being an Academic Can Lead to Death Threats. And for the past week, the course has felt like a giant game of Marry Boff Kill (chuck, f*ck or destroy) with Cholera, Arsenic, and Thirst. So we do our best to lay low in the back row, all the while knowing that though our topic is different, we're training to be exactly like our lecturers. The back row is a rare gift of a break. Because in life, we can't actually hide from our public health calling and pretend we don't hear what bothers us. In life, we're taking on the giant problems (pharmaceutical spending, long term care, health reform, etc), using the same analytical methods Environmental Health is teaching us, and dismantling the problems, one tiny depressing piece at a time. We just won't be doing it from 10:30-12:30PM on Mondays and Wednesdays.

Cooks Intentions

Had a lovely day dining al fresco (in the warm November sun- thanks global climate change!) with the Humility Council crew and many, many slices of quiche. We discussed all sorts of lovely things, like tecktonik, the misuse of utilitarianism, and links to avoid when googling "booty." It was all the more lovely because we were all on the same wavelengths-- about being internally crazy but externally drama free, putting normal friends on hold, and of course, being aspirational cooks who are actually quite lazy:

Moi: I love The Minimalist. He makes everything so easy.

Laura: I do, too. Do you read Smitten-

Moi: Smitten Kitchen? I love it. Though I never make anything from it.

Laura: Oh God no. But the recipes look great.

Moi: And the pictures are so pretty.

Easy A

Mad props for the most clever title in awhile.

I'd been so busy lately that I thought my social standing was in pretty good order. But today's lunch brought multiple blows and cleared away any remaining disillusions. I made the mistake of giving up a free lunch talk at Work Work today to buy my own lunch at School School so that I can go to Prof. Papa's class instead. This decision coincided with the discovery that the handful of first years I know a. only wanted to talk to me about when they'd get their econ exams back and b. had other talks to go to and could not sit with me in the cafeteria (blow number one).

But it was OK. I ran into Professor Papa by the heart healthy "Indian" food line. He may have cut me for rice. But at least I had someone to sit with (derrota numero dos). He complained about not knowing any young musicians. It was adorably old. He also suggested that it was us second years' fault for not having anyone to sit with in the cafe because we didn't diversify our friend options last year and stuck too close together. I could accept that. But when I got up to get water, he made friends with the girl sitting across the table from us thereby proving his superior popularity (derrota numero tres). And that was just being smug.

But all these pale to what came next. Two of Prof Papa's colleagues joined our table (derrota numero cuatro- for having even more friends). And when he introduced me, he commented that I was "easy" (blows number five to infinity). An uncomfortable number of seconds went by before he clarified that my name was easy to remember. I am never eating in Kresge again.

Full Course Load

From David Rakoff's Half Empty:

Aside from the fact that it was expensive, we were surprised and regretful to find the training process both time-consuming and legitimate.

The passage was about life coaching lessons, yet it encapsulates how grad school feels at the moment. It's not that I don't like school. I just wish that I could blow off more classes. But respect and work ethic keep getting in the way.

Recruiting Members

Discussing Ricky Martin:

Edith: You know how some people are humble, but they have to try really hard at it, and they want you to know that they're being humble?

Moi: You mean like this?

(point to my shirt)

Edith: (eye roll) Yes. Exactly like that.

Military Intelligence

Is intellection one of your strengths? Do you know what intellection means? Spell-check clearly does not. Because intellect and reasoning are not among its strengths. At school, we are going through the Strength Finder series as a cohort. And though we'd been warned not to read ahead (so we'd end up choosing strengths we wanted rather than what we actually had), a few details inevitably slipped out. And it is now clear that Allison, Marie, and Louise are all intellection strong. But not Meredith or me. And the fact that this 30-minute online test doesn't think we possess it is smarting (heh) more than it really should. It's become a dividing line. And as usual, I fall on the special side (with weak sauce strengths like "maximizer" and "connectedness"-- no one ever wins a gold medal for being maximizing maximus).

Secret Sauce

Reading econ and suddenly grew concerned for Ginger Dave...

From Predictably Irrational:

One seventeenth-century recipe for a "cure all" medication advised: "Take the fresh corpse of a red-haired, uninjured, unblemished man, 24 years old and killed no more than one day before, preferably by hanging, breaking on the wheel, or impaling... Leave it one day and one night in the light of the sun and the moon, then cut into shreds or rough strips. Sprinkle on a little powder of myrrh and aloes, to prevent it from being too bitter."

Guess I missed my chance to capitalize on this wonder drug when I left Eddie Bert. Could have made a killing (ba da che). Are you 24, Dave?

Little Blue Books

Scene: It is 5:30PM on a Thursday afternoon. In an empty classroom, Lisa and I are sitting with test booklets in front of us, furiously drawing graphs and reading through answers. A student walks in.

Student: You guys are grading exams already? How're we doing?

Us: Um... yeah.

Actually, we were rummaging through the tests, picking out the names of people who did well on the first exam, with the hopes that perhaps someone would be able to show us how to answer a question logically. Because we sure didn't know how to do it ourselves. It is slightly humbling when one has to look through one's students test papers for solutions. But when Lisa doesn't know something. That stuff is hard.

Come Back Another Day

Dear Common Cold:
  Thank you kindly for waiting until all my papers, problem sets, office hours, and presentations have finished this week to arrive.  I had thought that I would use my little 4-day break to catch up on sleep and friends (by which I mean apply for graduate school), but it's OK.  I can hang out with you and the aches, soreness, and snot that you bring.  I'm just glad that you held off until today.  It's very thoughtful of you.


Sincerely Under the Weather

What She Said

Sometimes, I really hate graduate school. In my environmental class
just now, the professor just said "I want to know what's going on in
my gonadal regions." And not a single person giggled. I don't know if
this is an institution I want to be a part of if we're not going to
laugh about gonadal regions.

Home Wrecker

My mother is perfectly healthy most days. But she was not this weekend. And I had the incredible timing of choosing this weekend, of all weekends, to go home (instead of staying in town to celebrate Lu's birthday, perhaps catch a movie with Dwighters, lunch with Faith... worst intuition ever). So I cooked breakfast (and lunch and dinner yesterday), folded the laundry, made sure that Mother stayed more or less alive, exchanged a suitcase at JCPenn'ys (this one was weird, because I am no longer covered on the insurance on my parents' car, so in Mother's mind, the most logical thing to do in this case was for her friend to give me a ride to the mall), and spent 2 hours on the phone with the phone company. All this affirmed that, yes, as with children, I can kickass in house managing. Although it has also affirmed that I do not want a children, house, or anyone infirmed under my care for a very long time. Perhaps never. All's I want to be responsible for is myself, my homework, and what shape chicken nuggets I'd like to have for dinner.

On the phone with the phone company:

Tech Support: Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear, are you Asian?

Moi: (begrudgingly) ... ... ... Yes.

Tech Support: Because I am, too.

Moi: Good for you.

Tech Support: So, what are you doing for Halloween anyway?

Moi: Nothing.

Tech Support: You don't celebrate Halloween?

Moi: ... ... ...

Fit to Stay the Same

To say that I'm a creature of habit is a bit like saying that I enjoy food.  Or that our trend in current health care spending is vexing.  A gross understatement.  For the past seven years, ever since an upperclassman suggested it at the Bo' Diversity Retreat (in that shady motel that recruited guests to be our wait staff), I've subscribed to the Times headlines via email.  I read it every morning.  And now, after 7 glorious years, the Times have decided to tinker with the layout of these emails (and their pages, don't get me started on that).  You know how they say that in terms of economic downturn, people want what's familiar?  To most people, that's Campbell's soup (am I cribbing from an episode of Fresh Prince?  I vaguely remember this).  To me, it's the same Times headlines I've read since I was 18.  Give me back my childhood, NYT. 

Promises, Promises

Dear Blog: Remember me?  I hardly do.  I'm all about hard work, school, and kissing up to professors now.  Which means I'm doing what I always do.



This morning, I walked into the office for the first time in a long while and ran into New Doc Poppy, who uttered the portentous phrase:

Doc Poppy: We were just talking about you yesterday!

Moi: In what context?

Doc Poppy: We were talking about a new project.  And [Whitecastle] said, "she's continuing her education, she'll do all the work for you."  Does he always speak for you like that?

Moi: (resigned)  Yeah, I guess I'll do your work for you.


(later, with the man himself)

Doc Whitecastle: Poppy is too impatient.  What did she have to tell you that for?  Doesn't this sound like a good project?  It's just an extension of what we're doing.  What you're already doing.

Moi: So I'll get started on all the work?

Doc Whitecastle: Exactly.  See, not too bad at all.


Systematic review #3.  Let's file that behind Systematic reviews #1 and #2 in the "Projects I Don't Have Time for Because I Haven't Even Eaten a Balanced Meal in 23 Days" queue.  Right ahead of "Read 8 chapters of a dense methodological book because the guy whose program I'm trying to get into has recommended it."  

Our Mutual Friend

Laura and I love Prof FAO. We think Prof FAO may even like us. But this is not to say that we share any rapport with Prof FAO. In fact, the certainty of awkwardity has been so ingrained in our encounters that characterizing them as such as become superfluous. Once in awhile, I get in a bout of self panic and think that I am the cause of all the unease. Then conversations like this put my fears to rest.

Laura: I ran into Prof FAO the other day.

Moi: Oh yeah? How is she?

Laura: Well, we sort of just smiled at each other too long and then it was too late to say anything though I think we both wanted to.

Moi: Doesn't that happen every single time you see her?

Laura: Yeah. It does.

Slackers

On how the stems of pumpkins, squashes, and other gourds produces painful rashes on a small percentage of the population:

Moi: I read it somewhere. I'm sure it's true.

Josh: That sounds like something you'd learn in a frou-frou epi class.

It's true, but frou-frou and epidemiology never be used again in the same sentence.

Yours and Mine

Applying to schools means sucking up to people. A lot of people. And asking questions of a lot of people. Sometimes the questions aren't that important and I already know the answer to them. But the point is in the asking. I knew that this semester would be "back loaded" and tried to prepare my September/October accordingly and set up as meetings as I could. That way, I thought, I would be in good shape when the second half of the semester arrived. It's adorable how I thought I could manage that. I sent out lots of emails. Got very few responses. Until now. The second half of the semester starts next Monday, and on that day, I add on 2 classes (bringing the Monday total to 3) and meet with 3 different professors (one combines my two hated things in the world: an interview and a phone conversation; even more fun, one includes a project proposal I have yet to prepare for; the last one is a mystery bag), and oh yeah, I'll also be leading a lunchtime meeting, and somehow cramming my biostat problem sets in there somewhere.

Bring it, Monday. Only one of us will live until Tuesday.

Say Cheese

I've seen this video quite a few times, in different iterations, at different points of time. I don't know what it is, but I can't help but laugh every time. Two props that elevate it to share-worthy status: 1. It's about drugs. As a public health researcher (wannabe) specializing in drug policy, it's my duty to share such knowledge. 2. I believe heroin was what got my geometry teacher arrested, so this has special resonance.

Screwtape Letters

Things You Don't Want to Hear from People Writing Your Rec Letters (and by 'you' I mean 'I'):

Moi: I'm dropping off some info to help you with the recommendation letters.

Prof. Papa: That's good because I don't remember saying I'd write letters. I'll do it. What are you applying for?

Moi: In that case, you also said you'd give me a raise.

Prof. Papa: See, I don't remember that either.

Moi: You forget so many things.


Things I Do Want to Hear from People Writing My Rec Letters:

Moi: So ideally, if it's the program here, I'd want to work with Doc [Name Withheld].

Prof. Papa: Oh, good. I know him. I had him as a student.

Breakfast of Champions

One of the more surprising discoveries of attending this fine institution is how different each of the H bombs are from each other.  They're all separate entities.  And the same university dining services offers different food at each site.  The b-school, unsurprisingly, serves everything with a generous dusting of gold and truffles.  It's how they operate.  The school of government offers a surprisingly sub-par experience, dishing standard cafeteria food that fills without much substance (any similarity to their course offerings is purely coincidental).  And what have we got in public health?  It's no Bo' (only about half the size of Moulton, no lobster, no omelets made to order), but they're close, what with the expansive salad bar, the focus on all things local, healthy and tasty (who knew that they could go together?).  And the crave-worthy unhealthy entrees, like the open faced turkey sandwich with fixings and sweet potato fries.  On top of that, there's a daily selection of Indian food.  Which is confusing (especially since it doesn't actually taste like any Indian food I know-- it tastes good, I've just never tasted it elsewhere, cheap or fancy) but hits the spot when I forget to bring lunch for the fortieth time in a week.  The best part of the whole experience, however, is the new gimmick they've put on: Dr. Willett Says (or some variation thereof).  There are now little index card-sized placards all around the facility bearing a picture of one Dr. Willett (professor, MD, epidemiologist, nutrition researcher, but not a dietitian) as he explains what's heart healthy and good for you.  It's ridiculous on at least 3 different levels, especially if you've met the guy, but also strangely effective.  His face totally guilted me into getting fruit and yogurt when I wanted a sausage biscuit for breakfast. Well, I got both.  Six years of excellent private school dining services, I hope wherever I end up next can keep up.

Fall Harvest

I know that I can't get the thrill of the first snow or relief of turning in my honors every single day. I can't eat turnip cakes* for breakfast or watch Newsradio reruns everyday. In the same vein, I cannot have this morning every weekend. I wish I could. Yet moments like these are to be stored for the long winter ahead, when work piles up, applications are due, and the Youngers have moved to Korea**.

I woke up late this morning. And walked an extra mile because my morning stupor clouded my sense of direction. But I met up with Laura for the Boston Book Festival. We went to a talk of Serious Fiction Writers. Then one of Hilarious Non-Fiction Writers, including David Rakoff, who I have long admired. He signed a book (freakin' hard copy- so mad that I couldn't find my copy of his old, paperback book) for me and though I froze and didn't have much to say to him, he did like my compliment a lot, so I'm just going to forget the rest of the encounter. There was the beautiful sun, discovering a new cafe with flaky scones and good coffee, free packs of Haribo gold bears, and the pleasure of running into Jon Pan. Mornings don't get more blessed than that.


*Turnip cakes, not to be confused with turd cakes, taste much better than it sounds (pretty much has to, right?). One of my favorite breakfast foods. Along with mantou, millet corn porridge, and egg scallion pancakes with sweet hot sauce.

**It's OK. They'll be in Seoul. And not a labor camp in the North. We like Seoul. Mark is going to save the world. The girls will learn Korean. And hilarity will ensue for Ashley (as she saves the world and makes great friends).

Bookish Type

I just read an article about the rising price of kimchi and found teaching examples in there to use for my economics course. And now I'm about to update my neglected blog. Such are the lengths I'm willing to go to procrastinate.

I got a box of chocolates today. And fancy Godiva's at that. I may have jokingly told Kos that instead of his books, I wanted a real present from him. How was I supposed to know that he would take me seriously? If I had known, I would have asked for a MacBook Air.

I was looking for a copy of Prof. Papa's book today because as a master note-personalizer, I wanted to fact check a story about him that I knew was in the preface of the book so I could mention it in the note. Unfortunately, my copy was home home, where I'd forgotten to check it last weekend. And while most of my friends were glad to lend a copy, no one had it on them. Except, as Laura pointed out, Prof. Papa himself. He let me borrow the hardcover version. Then asked me how he could help. This was when my smooth side came out.

"Um, yeah, I know that you wrote this, but I just need to look up a story real quick... I'll be back in 10 minutes."

Luckily, Prof Papa is good at overlooking awkwardness for an opportunity to make a joke.

Papa: You don't have 3, 4 copies of this? Come on.

Moi: You know, I gave them all away. It's a shame.

Papa: They should really have a few of these books on every floor, get the word out there.

You're Welcome World, #3844

Really enjoying a day during which, whenever I turn aside to work on a problem set, go to a lecture, or hold office hours, another life is saved in dramatic fashion. Makes me feel really productive. I like to think that this is how public health operates. Every regression I run in Stata prevents another statistical life from harm. You're welcome, World.

Note to the World

I imagine that upon my death, people will compile a collection of my letters to the world and study them for hidden meanings.  I also expect to win a lot of awards posthumously.  Though I wouldn't mind some pre-action.

Dear Cashier:
  Please refrain from opening my shampoo bottle, sniffing it, and exclaiming "That smells so good," during price check.  Thank you kindly.

Dear Bus Driver:
  Try, oh do try not to drive the bus when I am walking in front of you.  It makes me very nervous.

Dear Mother:
  There are inches, centimeters, and even palm lengths.  But "sock deep," is not a helpful unit of measurement.  I don't know how deep the flowers are to be planted.

Yours sincerely,

Killing time until office hours are over

Good Friday

Today was a solid day. An answered-prayer type of good day. The sun was shining and all was right. Other than Josh's thrilling epi jokes, there weren't particular highlights to the day. I'm just an easy sell. Had an 8:15AM lab. Got two shots at the doctor's. And spent the rest of the day at work ignoring my homework. I went grocery shopping. Cooked dinner. Watched Grey's. And now I'm in front of the computer again, ready to get some more work done. That's all I want from a day, really: Good food, good work, and good public health (you're welcome for getting vaccinated, World).


Josh's Thrilling Epi Joke (assume this is funny*):

Man: How's it going?

Epidemiologist: Not very good. I'm weighed down by age and sex.

Like all good epidemiology jokes, I don't fully comprehend this. I may have misheard or misremembered the punch line. The moral of the story is that epidemiologists stratify a lot of things by age and sex. And that they are not good joke tellers. Funny, yes, kind, nerdy, all the things you want in life, and they're great at talking smack about biostatisticians. But can they tell a good joke about their own profession? No dice.

*See what I did there? I made an epi joke.

Three Girls a Guy

There's a half block strip close to work where an Indian, Jamaican, Chinese, Mexican, and Italian restaurant/take-out joint and a liquor store all coexist together, one next to another. It's a greasy stretch that Jesse knows all too well.

Moi (to Lisa and Laura): If you guys try the Chinese place, let me know how it is. Though it looks pretty sketchy. Then again, that's not fair. They're all bad and sketchy.

Jesse: Oh no. That place is spectacularly sketchy.

Moi: More so than other take-out places?

Jesse: I'd say it's even sketchier than the Jamaican place.

Moi: The one that's always empty?

Jesse: Exactly.

The ethnic war breakdown on Huntington Ave: Mexican>Indian>Jamaican>Italian>Chinese.

(Sorry, ancestors, I'll avenge your honor!)

Weekend Update

This weekend was the:

It was the fifth annual party. And the 4th for the Bo' Crew.
So naturally, I found myself in Vermont.

Where flannel is not ironic. And Regis fits in seamlessly.

And the most magical weekend brunch place in the world operates (ok, actually a short drive across state line). An old sock would taste delicious dipped in Rathbun's maple syrup.

Fridays a Trois

Professor Papa says some offbeat things. It's why I loved his lectures and like working with him. It can, however, be startling when you're not aware of the context, not used to saying stupid things, or wholly not expecting what he'll say.

Moi: Lisa will be here in a second. She's battling it out at the Registrar's right now.

(Lisa arrives in a second)

Prof. Papa: Did you beat up the Registrar?

Lisa: (utter confusion and horror on her face)

Prof. Papa: Did you win?

Lisa: (confused silence)

---

My friends know that in life, I like proteins, carbs, word games, winning at word games, Jesus, and sacrilegious humor (not in that order, natch). My professors are just starting to learn that. Earlier this week, I shared the awesome Post-It that program adviser Second Nancy gave me. Today, just because I was finally shipping them out, and to demonstrate just how much I loved her note, I showed Second Nancy the presents I had gotten for Jax: a roll of Jesus tape (it's what it sounds like. a multi-colored roll of packing tape with pictures of Jesus) and a shopping bag with Jesus on one side and Mary on the other.

All was going well until Second Nancy tried to be PC and started talking different types of humor.

Second Nancy: I'm so glad you like that Post-It. Because you never know how people will- well, there's a strong Christian student group on campus-

Moi: Which I'm co-leading this year.

Second Nancy: (utter confusion and horror on her face) Right... I knew you were involved in the Christian group, I didn't know that...

And that was Awkward Moment #3324 for the week.

---
(At the Local Pizza Parlor- there's a barrier between patrons and pizza so I couldn't see exactly what I was ordering)

Moi: Can I have a slice of buffalo chicken, and the broccoli one? What kind of pizza is this?

Cashier: You mean veggie?

Moi: Is that it? I thought I saw chicken on there. Yeah, the one with the broccoli.

Cashier: (checks with pizza making guys in the back) Yeah. Veggie lover. (punches in "VEGGIE" on the register)

(Later)

Moi: (unwrap pizza. discover that in addition to broccoli and spinach, the "veggie lovers" pizza also had pepperoni, sausage, and bacon. That's my kind of pizza joint.)

Words that Come to Mind

When I grow up, I want to have 4 teaching assistants who will answer all questions regarding what I do for me. I don't want a pony. But I'd like Sister Claire's new office to have more food. Or perhaps just less healthy food. Though the snacks did remind me that I need to buy grapes. For that, I am thankful. Also, last Saturday, I went to a volunteer appreciation BBQ. There were the usual Common Good Bo' alums, retirees, park rangers, and community garden types. And then there was the band. Greasy, scrawny college kids with open shirts who shrieked into the microphone for their 30-minute set. I'm not saying that I don't appreciate a good head bang with some 19 year old boys, but it'd been a long, hot day of bulb planting and we were just trying to eat our burgers and paint our pumpkins in peace. And we'd already been so confused by the whole morning. Like why there were almost no service projects for us to do, but a huge celebratory BBQ afterward and whose retirement plant did we all sign. The poor park ranger tried to use the raffle prizes to lure us into staying longer (they'd already succeeded with the food). It went something like this:

Us: Why is this boy screaming? Let's go.

Ranger: But what about the raffle? You could win a mint plant*.

Us: Ooh. I want mint. When is the raffle?

Ranger: After the first set.

Us: (thinking, 'Good God, there's more than one set? then again, our raffle odds were incredibly good) When is that going to be over?

Ranger: Five, ten minutes?

Us: (quick cost-benefit analysis) We're going to go. Enjoy the plants.

*The mint hype turned out to be a lie. They had strawberries, oregano, and chives. That also made it easier to leave the BBQ.

Life's Persistent Questions

(stealing from my own facebook post, but I just had to double-share)

AKA #221 Why I'm a Sucker for Professors Named Nancy

BTW: Wish someone had informed me that TA'ing involves re-doing the homework and re-taking the exams with the students. I was not aware of this when I signed up.

Smile

Earlier today, with my back toward the window at church, I was mistaken for Mona. Twice. The first time, Zman's little brother Felix rushed in, shouted, "What Are You Doing In Here!?" Then sobered when he realized it was me, and asked again, much more softly, "what are you doing in here?" He rushed out when I told him the not very interesting answer of "listening to This American Life."

Jeannie's dad didn't bother with pretensions. He repeated banged on the window I was leaning against, then the door to the room I was in, then finally opened the door to apologize. "I'm sorry, I thought you were Mona. You looked just like her from the back."

And it all could have been fine. I really didn't mind being mistaken for someone from behind. Except that Mona is only 11 years old.

Letters I Want to Write to Students #8483

Dear Jenifer:
Yes, the link I sent does work. And Jennifer is spelled with two n's.

Ou Illogique

I'm home home this weekend. Being home home means being exposed to Mother's crazy up close. She's been on a working-out kick, one that I fully support, to the point of uncharacteristic dedication. When I mentioned that I'd need to borrow Mother's car in the early morning for the Bo's annual Common Good Day, she said that she wanted the car to go to the gym. The way I saw it, the options were:

A. I'd borrow the car for the morning and Mother could go to the gym in the afternoon.

B. Mother would drop me off at 8:30AM and go off to the gym, then pick me up when this was all over.

C. I'd borrow Father's car, or get dropped off by Father, or some other variation thereof.

But Mother chose Hidden Option X. "Go to the gym with Mother at 7:00AM, work out for an hour, shower, then go to Common Good Day, spending the morning picking up trash, planting daffodils, and getting sweaty all over again." Because she saw that as the most logical option.

Designated Harsher

One of the best parts of being a teaching assistant this year is the grateful realization that I no longer have to go through introductory econ, and better yet, I no longer have to take Prof Papa's exams.

Prof Papa: I'm going to go write the exam.

Moi: Is it going to be-

Prof Papa: Incredibly hard. I'm sick of being Mr. Nice Guy. It's going to be impossible.

Moi: Yes, because if there's one thing they complain about, it's how easy this course is.

---

Earlier today, Laura and I made another step toward applying to PhD program by meeting with the program director in Cambridge. Yet with all the connections that we've made at the school, our greatest hurdle remains getting through the door. Literally.

We arrived at the building 15 minutes early, but failing to find the department on the call box downstairs, decided to wait a few minutes before calling the director about how to be let into the building. That was when we ran into Shorts, who was just coming out of work. We gave him a hard time about not getting our feet into the program until finally, as we were parting, he realized that we actually wanted to get into the building. And revealed that the door was unlocked the whole time we waited outside. "I could hold the door for you guys if that's what you want, but you can just walk in yourself." And sure enough, the very glass door that we'd stood in front of for 15 minutes, waiting for directions on how to get in, opened once we pushed the door. On the elevator ride up, Laura and I just looked at each other and shook our heads, "there's no way we're getting in, is there?"

Reason #8473 Why I'm Not a Baby Stylist

On colors considered 'gender-neutral' according to our gendered social context and normalization (those may not have been his exact words, but it was the gist of our discussion):

Moi: So lots of of yellows for you?

Whitecastle: And green. And white. And black. Not enough babies have black clothes.

Moi: It's an untapped market. Plus, black is very slimming and babies have a lot of fat.

Whitecastle: Stripes are good, too. Not enough black stripes on babies.

Trading Places (the movie, not the show)

Today, a doctor became a friend and a friend became a doctor. Alison gave her defense this afternoon and now goes by Dr. T while Doc Whitecastle, who's been a double doctor for as long as I've known, let slip about a change in status in the midst of his regularly scheduled lecture pointing out all the titles that would be helpful for me to have that I do not (MD, epidemiologist, economist, etc).

Whitecastle: Let me ask you something as a friend-

Moi: We're friends now? This is so exciting.

Whitecastle: Uh (clearly reconsidering proposition), you still have to do what I tell you to.

Moi: (considers proposition) I'm OK with that.

Run, Baby, Run

I don't know Angela very well, but her boyfriend has a food truck and she saves lives, and that's a worthy combination to me. Plus, she's agreed to go into a baby theft business with me. It doesn't seem very hard, the demand is certainly there, and the market is very receptive right now. I visited Ashley and baby again today and decided to join moral society this time by checking in with security. I recommend that everyone go visit someone in the hospital with a baby. It felt just like middle school, except with a new life to celebrate. I got out of class, walked over to the hospital, put my backpack down on the big comfy chair, and Mark offered my chocolates and juice. Yesterday, it was cookies. So there I was, happily content with my security badge and enjoying my snacks (and seeing Ashley and the baby...), when Angela came in and I noticed her badge. It had her picture on it. A picture that was taken at the security desk. They also swiped her ID through a machine. I didn't go through any of that. 2 days, 2 security breaches. I'm ok with that (before you try to fire my security guy, in my defense, I did have a hospital badge on me). As is Angela. Our business is going to be awesome.

PS. I got my water bottle back today! Nik. That was amazing. You have no idea how happy I am.

Raising Sydney

Ashley gave birth earlier this morning. I did not. Ashley gave birth in one of the premier hospitals in the nation, known especially for its obstetrics. I accidentally undermined its security system. The hospital has an intricate security system that protects all new babies requiring visitors to check in at security where IDs are presented, pictures taken, and badges made. All that was supposed to happen by the front desk on the first floor. But I got in via the second floor. Got in the elevator, and tried to press 10. It wouldn't go. "I think you need to go down to the first floor for them to buzz you in," the nice guy in the elevator told me. So I shrugged and followed him up to the 6th floor. I had fully intended to then ride down to the first floor. But then someone else got on to go to the 7th floor. And another for the 9th floor. Before I knew it, I was getting off at the 10th floor with 2 other nurses and picking up babies to take home. All this is apparently frowned upon and Ashley kept shaking her head and said, "How'd you get in?" And laughing whenever I pulled out my badge. "That's not what it's supposed to look like!" But hey, feigning innocence and walking confidently has gotten me pretty far in life and is essential for all future Code Pink operations. Just leave Ashley's baby Davidina-Joy* alone.

*It's not on the birth certificate, but we're fairly certain that the second middle name is Davidina-Joy. Of course, you can call her Deej for short.

Just spent 45 minutes crafting email response to student (an assistant professor at that!) with econ question. Thank God for September work ethic and good luck to anyone needing help in December.

I'll Learn to Get By

Earlier this week, I popped into Whitecastle's office, as I often do, with a question.

"Have you read Ariely's Predictably Irrational?"

"I have the book, but not yet."

"I think it has some great relevance to your trial."

Then we got into a discussion on whether this guy's body of work supported or weakened our study rationales (by 'our,' I mean Whitecastle's) and the implications of his writing for research.

It all ended with Whitecastle saying, "well that's great, maybe we'll cite him in the paper." Victories like that, short and simple as they are, make me think that the school isn't completely scamming me out of $50K a year. I'm learning, I'm putting it to good use, and I'm a big kid now.

Casual Friday

Wow, Diary, it's been awhile.

Tonight, I had lobster, pork chop, and smoked Gouda for dinner. It was a good night.

Here's hoping for plenty more.



PS. Sister Claire. Are you at Population Medicine? I'll be visiting there in a couple of weeks.

Tall Tales

Last night, I ate a much bigger plate of pad Thai than I should have. But it was home made and went well with all our stories. Ashley's dad shot off the head of a cat while poor little Roger watched. It was either that or a horse in the bed, I suppose, since the lesson was on watching out for family. Mark had a medication error that caused him to be strung out for days until his pharmacist tracked him all the way to Tanzania to correct the mistake, all before a climb up Kilimanjaro. But that pales in comparison to Dave's story. He was dehydrated and left alone under a tree in the Sahara while his guide went off to find help. Dave owes his life to a nomad his guide found while lost in the desert (I wouldn't recommend this guide in the future) The nomad knew the exact tree the guide was trying to get to and managed to find poor dying Dave just in time. Not a dull story in the bunch. It was probably best then, that my story led the night. It contained no hilarity, near death experiences, or violence, just Prof B(l)ender and some failed sucking up.

Moi: Professor B(l)ender, I was in your class in the spring. (He had 100+ students in 2 schools and I almost never spoke in class. It was only fair that I introduced myself first.)

B(l)ender: You think that I don't remember you. But I do. (But offers no details to back up his claim)

Moi: Everyone at [Internship] told me to take your class. They all raved about you.

(Silence, come to realize that sucking up requires even more compliments than this, struggle for a bit as I doodled through much of the semester)

Moi: ... And everything you said, from framing to understanding the uh, environment, all came into play.

B(l)ender looks pleased, starts raving about the same three topics, and we part amicably. Then I take a cat out back and shoot its head off.

Are You Being Served?

I think one of my friends has a tapeworm. A hole in the stomach. Or was abducted by aliens for a brief period last night. But I'm not sure who it is. Or how best to remedy the situation.

Last night, I made dinner at the Youngers. At dinner, there was the two of them, Dave-- who had already had dinner (lobster, ribs, and fried dough... as one does)-- and myself. I made chicken Romesco using a recipe that serves 6. Then doubled it so that we'd have leftovers. We cooked a whole box of pasta to go with it, with a serving size of 6-8. Yet somehow, there were no leftovers. OK, there was a small tupperware of pasta left, but Kelly came in and batted clean up. We also consumed an entire loaf of baguette. And 60% of a cake (serving size 10-12). An inordinate amount of food for four adults (but meager for extraterrestrials). And yet, eating it all felt so right.

He's No Liar

Nathan wore pants to school today. He just never made it to school with his pants and certainly wasn't wearing any at our fellowship meeting. Instead, beneath his striped dress shirt was a pair of gray gym shorts. To his credit, they were Harvard shorts, but ridiculous nonetheless. If you ask Nathan how his pants got wet, he'd probably tell you that he got caught in the storm this morning. How does a guy who lives 5 minutes from the school get caught off guard by rain? I don't know. I believe he wet them some other way. However it happened, the situation forced him into the school store to buy the cheapest leg coverings he could. Nathan endured the shorts-shirt combo for many hours, attended classes and meeting, before finally running home to change. I just met the kid, so it'd be awkward if he was to discover this entry, but I can't help it, guys. I love this story. I'm a sucker for wet pants.

The View

Love these people.

Love's Labor Found

Are you ready for a Labor Day miracle? Today was a hard day, as the past few weeks have been. Trouble with the registrar's office, upset stomach, falling asleep in biostat, but at 5:30PM today, coming down from class, we discovered that there was an open reception in the cafeteria. Something about campus sustainability, not that we cared. I'll put my name on whatever mailing list if it means free chips. But no, the story gets better. As I'm filling up my plate with pita chips and hummus, this girl comes by and says that there's an even better spread downstairs. From the Dean's Distinguished Lectures series. How fancy? Baby asparagus and chevres, yo. Best Tuesday surprise ever.

Crimson Pride

As Hunter once astutely pointed out, if you ask a graduate student in Boston what they do (particularly a Christian one, though most of my friends in school also behave this way), and they respond vaguely by saying something like, "I'm in medical school," or "working on a master's," then the person probably goes to the Big H and feel uncomfortable dropping the H bomb. It's a silly practice, but I always try to err on the side of patronizing rather than hostile arrogance. Though trying does not always ensure success.

(standing in line for hot dogs at church with Susan, chatting with new girl)

New Girl: I'm in the 2nd year of a master's in public health at Northeastern.

Red Head Susan: Hey, she's doing the same thing.

Moi: Cool. I'm doing my master's at HSPH. So I'm right down the street from you.

New Girl: (looks confused) The pharmacy school? No, I'm doing a master's in public health.

Moi: No, me too. I'm at Harvard School of Public Health.

New Girl: (chooses awkward silence)

Moi: (over compensating) So you're a second year? Me too. What program are you in?

New Girl: (again confused) I'm in the urban public health MPH program.

Moi: I meant your concentration, like epi, or health policy?

New Girl: No, it's just general public health MPH.

(conversation drifts off here, so I try to talk about the hot dogs we're having for dinner)

Red Head Susan: You know what I miss from Japan? Those little hot dogs.

New Girl: (reanimated) Is that how you two know each other?! You both lived in Japan?

Red Head Susan: Well, no, we were freshmen roommates... I've lived in Japan.

Moi: And I've never been to Japan.

(at this point, we lose sight of New Girl and never see her again the rest of the night)


---
Ashley: So I should be expecting her at [my church] next week?

Strange Pictures of Everyone Involved

This is what happened when I handed the camera to Jared.

No good pictures of the giant troll we were there to see,
but lots of shots of his head and other dismembered bodies.

I miss my Seattle people.

(we're picking the troll's nose
and Jared is giving a middle finger
to the people who kept walking into our shot)

Dewey Cheetham & Howe

I gave away Landlady Chang's plastic poncho tonight to the sandwich lady downstairs. I had gotten home late, forgotten to pick up groceries, and arrived home without anything to eat and 8 minutes to spare before the sandwich, I mean bocadillo, shop downstairs closed. The counter lady was completely gracious, though I was keeping her from closing the shop and she was worried about biking home umbrella-less. But Landlady Chang gave me a poncho. So I ran downstairs and gave it to counter lady. I think it made my night more than hers. And if that doesn't get me a free Orangina in the future. I don't know what else a girl has got to do.



Prof Papa: If they get the right answer even though the work is wrong and you think they copied off the person next to them, give them full credit. The tests are hard, but the better they do, the less they go to you with questions.

Oh yes, it's Day 3 into being Prof Papa's teaching assistant and already, we've fielded our share of crazy questions from zealous students. And already, he's given us the same speech thrice. It's OK though, because the gems that come through are worth it.

Moi (on how Gender & Health Perspectives is a course relevant to my 'professional future'): I'll figure something out to tell my adviser. Women, health, poverty, economy, policy... toss those words together-

Prof Papa: You've convinced me. I'll sign it.

Moi: Now we just need to talk to my adviser.

Prof Papa: If you guys ever need anything signed. Just have me do it.

Title Three

Remember when I used to do lists in threes? Think of this as an anniversary throwback. And not a cop out because I'm short on credits and there's too much chaos in too little time.

Three Email Subject Lines That Made My Day Today:

3. Study recruitment done!

Three years, one car crash, and thousands of patients later, recruitment is finally over. I suggested that a steak dinner be an appropriate reward for my hard work, but Whitecastle has decided to withhold steak until we know the results. Three to six months from now. Though I have no control over such results.

2. any James L's in your family?

Technically from yesterday, but it shows Ash's care and concern... and suspicion of anyone with my last name.

1. please pee before you come over my apt. tonight (if possible)

We don't really need words for this, do we?

Priorities

(Seattle. On our way back from all-you-can-eat sushi)
The place offers Nails and Joys. Hard to turn that down.

(Nob Hill, San Francisco)
Love how they prioritize things. Clearly proud of their deli.

(ferry, San Francisco)
Finally got to see my brother in his natural habitat.
Here we are, tricked into eating overpriced Chinese food masquerading as Japanese street snacks.