Head and Shoulders

Tonight, I picked up my phone and realized that my mother had already started the conversation without me.

Mother: What channel is Saturday Night Fever on? Do we have that channel?

Moi: The movie? I don't know if it's playing.

Mother: No, the show. Saturday Night something.

Moi: Saturday Night Live comes on at 11:30.

Mother: Oh. I thought it was on Saturdays at 8. Do you want to grow your hair out?

Moi: No.

Mother: At least to your shoulders? I read somewhere that men don't like women with short hair.

Buttoned Down

They should really rename cardigans "wrinkled shirt cover ups."  Because that's why I'm wearing one today.  I'm also wearing my I'm-a-big-kid interview pants.  (and a giant backpack + parka to the interview, because I did not have time to look like a real professional today.  I'm just an impostor looking for a job).

Doc I-forget-his-nickname-Winkler(?), father of two and supporter of Van Halen, spent 10 minutes this morning discussing last night's women's free skate program, using words like "magnificent," "sensational" and weighing in on Mirai Nagasu's chances in 4 years.  I spent 10 minutes trying to coagulate my heart back into solid form.

Butterfly in the Sky

One (of many) shameful secret about my past is that I do not read very well. It's not that I'm dyslexic. But I've slipped through the cracks of the public school system. Year after year, they passed me onto the next grade until finally, I'm in Grade 17 (shudder) and have misread the syllabus twice this week. The first meant that I finished a paper two days early- a mostly harmless mistake- but the second meant that I thought I had a week left to do my case and planned next week accordingly when I don't actually have a week left. Then again, what are weekends for if not writing research papers?

Professor B(l)ender (not to be confused with Professor Builder): One thing I love about Republicans- they're incredibly consistent. Who should pay for health care? Individuals. Government should stay out. Children should get jobs.

Loft Story

Have you ever wondered what was going on outside but didn't want to look out the window?  Those of us in my office building now have a solution for that.  The new hospital live cam positioned out onto the street.  You can watch a livestream of people come and go at the traffic intersection all day long (via hospital intranet- sorry outside stalkers!).  You can even take snap shots.  It's about the best toy ever.  Even though the resolution isn't perfect and scope limited, so we're not sure why the camera is even there.  Almost as good an investment of our money as that time the Bo' commissioned a fleet of waffle makers with the school seal on it (I know those waffle makers have their loyal fans who love the 'syrup pocket' it afforded in the middle, but I like my waffles gridded and that shining sun interfered).  Needless to say, the office had a field day with this (while Whitecastle questioned why the view looked so much like the view from my window.  I have no comment).  And because we're nerds, we joked in terms of the type of data we could collect from the livestream.  I love nerds.

Probably not good uses of my time:  browsing the web for Air Jordan Spizikes I'm not going to buy.  But my sneakers are wet right now, this paper is not writing itself, and I've got kicks envy.

The Big Tuna

In the past two days, I have visited Professor Papa 6 times and only managed to see him on the very last try, while Laura found him on the first go.  Naturally, this led to a lot of awkward lurking and smiling at the receptionist as I walked past Papa's office and back.  Many times a day.  He was as elusive as the giant squid.  Though not half as giant or dangerous, and much more economically sound.

Moi: I need to slip out early.  I'm trying to catch a professor.

Jen: Is that what kids are calling it nowadays?

(later, when I finally caught him)

Moi: So, it's OK if I take bribes and kickbacks?

Prof. Papa: It's all money, right?  That's how you learn economics.

(when we ran out of things to say and I had to make an exit)

Moi: I need to run to class.

Prof. Papa: Make sure you don't injure yourself when you run.  Take your time.

Yes, it appears that this sociology majoring, chemistry minoring and English-dabbling liberal arts wanderer, who partook in almost every department's courses except government and econ- the two that the Bo' was most solid in- is on my way to becoming a TA in economics.  Sure, I avoided them like Sunday night dinners at Thorne, and only got my grade in this class because of generous curves (the grade curve- I don't have curves of my own), this isn't an entirely new venture for me.  I oversaw semesters, nay- years, of upper-level chemistry without any real mastery of the subject.  And, except for that boy who kept burning his hand with chemicals, we all survived unscathed.

Darling Clementines

Favorite thing about having ridiculous professors who all know each other, cite each other, and assign each other's work?

The familiar way in which they disparage each other.

It's Joe this and Bill that and Kathy snarked that Michael seems to think he has a new idea.

That, and unexpectedly spotting Professor Builder in a PBS special last night.

Room with a View

Many notes to self:

1. It's not a good idea to make black bean soup in a freshly laundered white shirt.

2. If and when said soup splatters onto said shirt, it is important to wash it as soon as possible.

3. It is just as important, however, to check if the blinds are up in the living room, and if the blinds on all 3 walls are up, especially on a sunny afternoon, to refrain from applying detergent on the shirt and washing it at the sink then and there, while still wearing the shirt.

4. If you find passerby staring below, stare back.

I saw dancing lions and dragons this morning. Did you?

Away from the Mucky Muck

Last weekend, I accidentally poured hot oil on the back of my hand. It didn't hurt for long, but has left a dark, twisted streak. It will probably disappear in another week. But for the time being, whenever I look down at the mark, I feel like a wizard.

Up Against the Ivy Wall

(brilliant title, an inside joke I will be sure to get)

The key to walking past security without an ID?  Waving at the guard.  Especially the young one.  He'll wave back, pretending to recognize you as well.

It Was No American Pie

(those fries are cookies. the patties are beer-cheddar cakes that taste like beer. and the ketchup is the world's most amazing frosting: it contains bacon and cheddar)

Let's file this under yet another "Thing I Never Thought I'd Do," along with eating scorpions, winning a slam, missing Maine winters, and wearing crimson. (Though thank God, I don't actually wear crimson gear. How embarrassing would that be?) I spent last night baking cupcakes to look like sliders.

Do I have better things to do with my time? Perhaps four papers to write and more books to read? A million times yes. Did I really need to open my case this morning when the bus driver asked what I'd made? Probably not. "Cupcakes" would have sufficed.

But there was a department bake off at stake (I go to such a dorky school- love it) and I had a gray haired Nancy to impress. I always have a gray haired Nancy to impress. (We're calling her FRiles from now on. Faux-Riles.) And because this is America, where hard work is rewarded when we pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, I took the the top prize in creativity.

Second to winning, the best part of the bake off was talking to Professor FOQ (friend of Query), who impressed with homemade chocolate marshmallow things. I'm floundering in her class, so it was good to let her see that I'm at least capable of some skills. Like mixing. Cutting. And pasting.

Professor FOQ: Are you from the Midwest? Where'd you get the bag?

Moi: Uh... see how you can see 'Bon Chon chicken' on the side? I just taped a Whitecastle logo over it.

Taxation without Representation

Note to Self: Despite making a handsome killing off of you on tuition, The University is still trying to take your money anyway you can, particularly through overpriced beverages.  It'd be best to stick with swiping as many tea bags, bottled water, and whatever else you can pocket at receptions, finals week spreads, or talks you wouldn't normally attend. 

Note to Whoever is Playing Creepy Keyboard Music in the Lab: Why aren't you picking up on my passive aggressive signals?  Shut it.

Corny, Cheesy Original

(Parmesan & cheddar polenta with tomatoes, onions, and chicken)

How badly am I avoiding this law brief? Despite a fridge full of dumplings and soup, I made polenta from scratch yesterday (and more dumplings). And since it can't be eaten unadorned, I made a tomato sauce to go with it. Tonight, it was the exact kind of leftover one would want on a wet, snowy night.

Restaurants should make veggie sliders out of shiitakes. They taste 14 times meatier than portabellos. And really, isn't that why people eat veggie burgers?

Best part about living next to a city hospital? (Other than living without fear of gun shots) My 0.5 mile walk to the shuttle is always cleanly shoveled.

Converse Chucks: Useless on snow days.

Fair Game

"Of Soup and Love, the first is best." --Thomas Fuller, Gnomologia (1732)

I stole this from Nick. Who stole it from a roommate's cookbook. Nick also made a funny joke about Bitter Melon(choly) soup. He's on a roll. But I made 2 soups and 2 stocks this past week. So I'm keeping the quote.

Tiger Valentine

Really regretting not taking any pictures of my dinner last night. But I was so excited to eat, there was no time to capture anything for prosperity. Prosperity was in the eating. In a last minute urge to celebrate the lunar new year (i.e. eat dumplings), I had a few folks over- folks who had nothing better to do on a Saturday night- and put them to work making dumplings to our hearts' delight. Well, some hearts' delight. Some people scolded others for not making dumplings as pretty as his dexterous Japanese fingers would allow. And then told Mer that her fried edamames aren't to be eaten, but thrown to feed the new year monsters. Yeah, I don't know either. I think Kos was just bitter that his country sold out and celebrates the new year in January. And that he went to the lesser of Maine's small liberal arts schools (though not Colby-phew).

Photos I would have posted had I had them:

[hot & sour soup]

[shrimp pork dumplings]

[sticky rice]

[red bean rice cakes]

Virgin Suicides

Is this the best journal article title ever?  I don't want to be hyperbolic here, but I think we've at least got a contender in our hands:

Occult Nipple Involvement in Breast Cancer*

Zvi: I was thinking about a research article linking virgin sacrifices and curses to breast cancer.

Moi: How much would that suck?  To be sacrificed and have cancer?

Zvi: I guess that'd show her

*Fine, the full title is Occult Nipple Involvement in Breast Cancer: Clinicopathologic Findings in 316 Consecutive Mastectomy Specimens.  And I know what occult means.  Stupid killjoy. 

If You Learned It

Last semester, office hours with Professor Papa were great. Not only did he make economics not scary, he made it exciting. But office hour with Professor Builder? Astounding. He spent half of it tearing into Doc Whitecastle's study design (as I explained it to him, so it was probably completely my fault and not Whitecastle's), but rather than feel annoyed, I just kept thinking, "I can't believe I'm sitting across from the man who designed my country's health care system." (Not this country. No one's that crazy.) He's a professor in his 70's who still takes the bus to cross campuses, teaches, publishes, works 12-hour-days, designs nations, and then spends 30 minutes talking to a first-year student. He doesn't have to do any of it. And yet he does it all.

It doesn't feel right to adopt him as a grandfather. Maybe he can be my great uncle.

Lazy Tuesday

A lot happened yesterday. I sat in a professor's empty office and called her cell phone from her office phone. That was a little weird. She let me know that my paper was in the wrong direction. That wasn't weird, but it wasn't cool. A bunch of us had lunch off campus and it was pretty much the happiest school day lunch anyone has ever had. I mean, I used to love third Mondays in 4th grade when we had tater tots and hot dogs with chicken noodle soup, but this was yellow tail and sweet potatoes and shrimp tempura maki plus soup, salad (good one, too), and dessert, and talking with like minded funny people about gender and rights on an unusually sunny January day all for under $15. I mean, sure, I should have spent that time doing readings, rewriting my paper, and working in the office, but I say, bygones. The day went on fast forward after that until I got home and the pace slowed just enough for me to pull a meatloaf out of the oven, bake some potato chips, brownies and a chicken. But that's all in the past now. Today, there is snow outside and I'm inside making chicken soup, doing readings, and content that the week is mostly over.

A View from Above

Last night, Ashley was interested in the view from my windows. I think something about his walk through the brownstones and into my neighborhood raised suspicions about the safety of his surroundings. (It didn't help that Kerwin kept pointing out the window saying "that's where my friend got mugged.") So we stared out the window for awhile (the dinner party was quite the rager) and discovered 2 "parking enforcement officers" (apparently the PC term for meter maids and men) in the middle of the street with an instrument on the ground. The man seemed to be trying to sweep his ticket writing apparatus across the road while the woman watched, but for a few minutes, we couldn't actually figure out what he was trying to do. It looked like he was alternately measuring something on the ground or trying to swing the little machine around. Then it happened. And we couldn't believe our good luck.

The guy tied his equipment around his foot and swung it while skipping, essentially playing "skip it" with the electronic pad he writes tickets with. It was bloody brilliant. He was excited. The woman was excited. And the four of us above were stunned. "Are we really watching this?" "I feel like someone should be taping this." "Oh, they're looking this way, turn around!"

Best. Parking Enforcement Officer Stalking Moment. Ever.

Away from Me, Daredevil

(I did, but the bread did not survive the walk upstairs intact.)

Living in a gentrifying zone is paying off wonderfully. This morning, soup on the stove (courtesy of gracious Dorothy) and procrastinating, I found myself wanting for some bread in my bread-less apartment. So I put on a sweatshirt and rolled downstairs to the overpriced 'provision' store, where I picked up a loaf, still relatively fresh from the Cape this morning. (Note to self: the two blocks to the post box is too far to run to in a sweatshirt). I got my bread, chatted with the cashier lady, and skipped upstairs to my warm soup, brandishing the baguette all the way (it's an impossible impulse, how can anyone walk with a baguette and not want to sword fight?). It's dangerous living above fancy cheeses, breads, and chocolate (and cured meats!), but it's a danger I was born to take on.

Week Redux

It's easy to write about work because it doesn't require much writing. If I was to actually sit down and think through what happened this week, I'd probably talk about the inexorable pull of drinks at The Pig on us. We spent much of last semester and this week talking about switching to a new pub for end-of-the-week drinks and yet somehow found us all there on Thursday night again, eating the same Tuscan fries (since I was abstaining) and complaining about the service. I may have also gone back and had more addictive fries for lunch on Friday- and they're not even good fries, they just sprinkle a generous amount of fake Parmesan on it. Or maybe I'd talk about how Professor Builder (not to be confused with Professor B(l)ender) is like the gentle, sagacious grandfather I'd never had (except that I have 2 real ones, plus another 'grandfather I'd never had'). Or how people named Nancy will always come up to bat for me. And intimidate me.

But like I said, too much effort. So here's a little blurb on the lack of trust between Whitecastle and myself.

Moi: You look great today. And I love what you've done with your office.

Whitecastle: What did you do now?

Moi: What I did? No, I need something from you.

Orange You Glad

I love that depending on how this interaction is read, it could seem like Doc Query and I are being sarcastic to each other, that only one of us is and vice versa, or that both of us are being completely genuine. I was a part of this conversation, but even now, I'm not sure how to read this:

Query: I submitted the piece.

Moi: The Drugs thing?

Query: Now you'll have a line on your CV that says that you've published in Drugs. It's what you've always wanted?

Moi: Oh that's fantastic.

Query: Aren't you so glad to have met me?

Many vs. Food

I've had a tough week against food. And I didn't even climb into a giant recycling bin and plow through piles of paper to rescue the chicken wings I accidentally tossed in a fit of recycling zeal. I just ate the salty, crunchy fruit of Landlady Chang's labor when she did that. (Sorry, Chang. It was too ridiculous not to share.)

Every other morning, Lu semi-accidentally eats what she sets aside for dinner at 9:35AM. And this week, I understand why. We've been cursed with bottomless stomachs. Yesterday, I accidentally ate both my lunch and dinner for lunch, despite repeatedly telling myself that I wasn't going to. And this morning, I had 1/3 of an acorn squash for breakfast. It's not a part of any complete breakfast but I had no milk, bread, yogurt, or any other breakfast facilitators in house. Not even rice. Just squash. (and leftover crab dip)

Before you start dialing protective services, however, chillax. Food and I have made up. In glorious fashion. They served turkey sandwich with fixings today at the school cafeteria. With a side of crunchy sweet potato fries. How did they know? I don't know. But that's our song. And now food and I will never fight again.

Our Town

I've referred to the hometown as W-ville or W-ford or W-town in one way or another since I've been writing.  Nick likes to call it "Dub-City."  But Nick lives in Eugene, OR, so we don't put much stock in what he says.  Regardless of the name, Dub City has been a sleepy suburb for years, where computer engineers settle, the children do well on standardized tests (you're welcome, town!), and everyone spends their weekends at Market Basket.

The neighborhood where I live now is very different.  For one thing, there's a housing project across the street.  And two shelters within walking distance.  Plus two more resource center/soup kitchens.  There's also a crazy man who rides around shouting things on his bicycle.  I'm always impressed by how well crazy guy rides his bike and obeys the rules of traffic.  I've seen him yell a lot of babble at people, but he's never hit anyone with his bike.

All of this should make the following statistic interesting:

Number of gun fatalities in Dub-City since 2010:  4

Number of gun fatalities in current neighborhood: 0

Homicides in Dub-City is turning out for 2010 what the crack-addled teacher scandal did in 2002.  Except it's a lot less funny.  And was 2002 really 8 years ago?