Case of the Mondays

Landlady Chang works very hard. I work very hard. And we're both dreading the start of classes. But sometimes, it's difficult to focus on our commonalities.

Landlady Chang: How was your day?

Moi: Mine was great. What'd you do?

Landlady Chang: Went to the pool, did some shopping, then a group of us got Peking duck for dinner.

Moi: I went to work, to the doctor's, and then school.

Landlady Chang: Well, I'll be busier tomorrow. I have to practice this bridesmaid dance.

Moi: I'm going to a funeral tomorrow.

Colby Should Know

I deserve props for my subtle Colby joke and you know it.

Today had all the trappings of the most dreadful Monday ever. But then funny things happened. Like when I bought defective Twix bars from Stop & Shop. The snack size bars were cut wrong. So the whole package had bars made of two ends that were open at both ends and closed in the middle. Which means that the little bars weren't actually wrapped. Which meant that we couldn't really serve them at the student activities fair. It's bad enough that Kool-Aid is already ruined for religious groups, we didn't want candies to be marred as well. But Yared saved the day and successfully returned the candies sans receipt, and ended up making $1.49 because the cashier lady didn't notice that they were on sale. This from the same store that accidentally sold me a block of Parmesan for 3 cents. You know, I don't think they're doing too well.

The Mighty

(a long one, but stay with me, this is a goody)

A few months ago, I wrote about the day Mother discovered that I'd been carrying rocks to school for weeks in my big Snoopy backpack. It's the story that I go to when I need to laugh about something. Thanks to Ash, I recently uncovered even more repressed memories about that event.

Remember those two best friends from seminary my parents have?

We just went to Acadia together. They babysat me a lot between the ages of 6-9. Including the day that I first brought rocks to school for a unit on rocks. I loved rocks when I was little. And that science unit was akin to that day in middle school we finally played ping pong in gym class-- a day when Nerdy Wee Me could finally shine doing something I loved. I brought rocks of all shapes and sizes to school and won the 'strangest shape' category (for one shaped like a needle and one shaped like an egg).

The thing was though, I didn't always have a well edited rock collection. Because I was 7 and living in Taipei. The tricky part about growing up in a city, especially one as dense and developed as Taipei, was that we could never quite follow along the science units the way the textbooks intended. I turned up empty handed for our units on digging for earthworms, fishing for water-based plants, and picking mulberry leaves (to feed the silkworms). Rock collection posed a similar challenge. But I had my intrepid babysitters. And they had a plan. They took me to a construction site by a busy night market in Taipei. I don't actually remember much of the trip, but I must have loved it. It combined the bustle and fun of night markets with rocks. But as my babysitters told the story later on, it was an apparently humiliating experience. Just a couple of years ago, before they were in seminary, they were both highly successful lawyers who had gone to good schools. But there they were that night, people walking past in every direction, shopping, eating, going out, while they knelt in the darkness, picking rocks into a flimsy plastic bag, Wee Me in tow, praying to God that they wouldn't bump into a single person they knew. Greater love has only one other than this.

A random story for a lonely Saturday night? Perhaps. But I was just clearing out the carry-on suitcase I borrowed from Mother for this trip. I packed pretty light for a week and recycled many outfits (as Amy can attest) and yet, the suitcase always felt oddly heavy. Tonight, I figured out why. I uncovered rocks in the front pocket. Rocks that Mother had picked up in Maine but never unpacked. Rocks that I brought to Boston, then California, then Washington, then back again, lifting up countless times to the overhead compartment, hurting my back each time, and wondering why the suitcase felt as heavy as rocks.

Witch Trial

After relaying the dust bunny-band aids-warts collection stories trio of Karina, myself, and Jenny Wong (one of my favorite stories of all time), Seattle Jared (I think) mentioned that one of his friends used to collect scabs. He then highlighted the difference between this person and one Miss Wong.

Seattle Jared: You know why that's worse? Normal people get scabs. Dirty, nasty witches get warts.

Trave(epi)logue Part II: Uphill Battle

The way up to Fort Jared's.

There were hills everywhere. It was almost unfair.

Why did I keep taking pictures of hills? Mainly to catch my breath in between climbs. I get angry just thinking about how many hills there were.

Trave(epi)logue Part I

Dearest Diary:

Apologies that I have neglected you for a week. I've been traveling, sneezing, burning my thighs, and living in households without internet access (you have no idea how many passwords we went through to try to crack the neighbors' secure access network- when the network name is "STDs are not cool," there are a lot of options). I'm now back and there are too many things to process. Plus, the chaos of school starts in a week.

For now, some pictures from Leg One: San Francisco.



A view from inside Fort Jared
(i.e. the couch underneath his bunk bed).

Sutro Baths: a beautiful but deceptive hike.

When am I ever the type of person who'd venture alone to a spot where one can suddenly fall from a cliff and/or be swept to sea? Only when I am tricked by Carol.

Luckily, I was rewarded by a bowl of Taiwanese noodle soup at the end of it all (just enough nourishment to sustain the hike up Fort Jared- more pictures to come).

Gold Diggers

I got tricked into going on a hike today. By Carol Tran. You'll see what I mean when you see the pictures.

Perhaps I should back up. I'm in San Francisco now. Where Bo' alums apparently abound. I saw 11 tonight. We tried to sing our alma mater but petered out by the second phrase. Well, except for Lauren. She was just pretending to not know the words so as not to seem like a loser. What a loser.

At the airport security check on my way over, I was stopped because I forgot about the set of keys in my pocket. The security lady was nice, if not a little patronizing, and drawn by the shape of the rape whistle attached to my key chain. "What's this?" "Oh, just a whistle," I answered, but she held on tight to read the fading label on the campus police. "Harvard, huh?" Yeah...

Spotted Pig

Sometime last week, I grew freckles on my hands. I've never had freckles before. I have them on both hands, mirror images of each other, and specific to just an inch or so on my hand. This phenomenon bothers me, though how everyone else reacts depends entirely on whether the person has a medical degree.

Landlady Chang (middle school math teacher): You're just sunburnt. You'll be fine.

Dwighters (middle school history teacher): Please, I've got freckles all over the place.

Helsinki (marine conservationist): That's nothing. It's just a rash.

Ashley (nurse, life giver, and public health-ist): It's probably nothing, but you could go see Health Services just to be safe. It's hard to say with skin things.

Whitecastle (physician): This looks funny. And you don't want to hear that from a doctor. Go to your doctor if it doesn't clear in a few days.

Although free medical advice doesn't even make it onto the list of best perks of being Ash's friend (suck up points!), it sure is one of the best benefits of working for a bunch of doctors. Though of course, the free consultations are paid for in humiliation.

Whitecaslte (speculating on why I'd have freckles between my thumb and index finger): Were you working with rope last week? Branches? Tennis racqet? Were you pulling or paddling anything? Any sticks?

Moi: No, no, no... (remembering Ashley saying something about lemon juice staining the skin) but I did squeeze a lot of lemons last week.

Whitecastle (characteristically unimpressed): So what you're saying is, you don't get enough exercise? That's clearly your problem.

Bummer, Things That Are

(See also:  Tragicomic, Things That Are.  Next to Yellow, Things That Are)

From today's Times:

Although the paper does not discuss Gehrig specifically, its authors in interviews acknowledged the clear implication: Lou Gehrig might not have had Lou Gehrig's disease.

Tuesday Tableaus

Scene:  My folks and their two best friends from seminary, hanging out at our place.

Moi: Ma, come drink with us!

Mother: Let me finish this email first, then I'll come drink.

I know a lot of y'alls grew up in progressive households, but that felt weird to say, especially since these two best friends used to babysit me and brought me to many a doctors' visits.  And they're all pastors.  Then again, my mother just isn't cut out to drink.  She spent most of dinner trying to convince us her Miller Lime tasted better with ice.  Infinite head shakes.


Scene:  I'm trying to find Mother somewhere in Harvard Yard.

Moi: Ma, where are you?

Mother: I don't know.  Hold on.  (Hands phone to girl at mozzarella stand at Farmer's Market)  Can you tell my daughter where this place is?

Moi: Yeah... hi, sorry about that... where are you located?

Text, Most Useless of the Day

From Young Bo': Is your phone dead?

The Manifesto

I remember coming home to winter break during my freshman year at the Bo'. I had just taken Sociology 101 and found that I could no longer sit through Julia Roberts telling young college girls that they could 'have their cake and eat it, too' in Mona Lisa Smile. A light bulb had gone off and school was interfering my enjoyment of hackneyed truisms. As the years passed, these moments accumulated and Stuff White People Like, which I could have liked years back, is now sophomoric for mistaking class markers with race.

This summer, I've been faithfully watching Boston Med and discussing it with anyone that would listen (it helped that Doc Firewall made a cameo in the premier). I remember watching the Hopkins one ten years back. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a nerd and I'm an especial sucker for hospital shows. The series just wrapped up last night and while I'm sad to see it go, school is once again interfering because even as I sobbed through the human interest tear jerk, I kept seeing missed opportunities the producers should have taken. Like discussing Mass Health. And AG's Checklist (side rant: how can you talk about ER visits and health care for kids in Boston without discussing Mass Health? Or any part of the state health reform? And with multiple surgeries featured each episode, it was almost irresponsible to feature Harvard hospitals without any mention of The Checklist. They got an episode of ER to feature the list and they couldn't show five seconds of it in action in AG's hospitals?). I've got one more year of school left, and whatever I learn better not mess with my enjoyment of Gossip Girl. That's all I'm saying.

Fit for a President

Scenes from Acadia National Park.



Papa-paparazzi. Heh.

Breathtaking vista.

These ladies used to babysit me when I was in kindergarten. They could tell you a lot of humiliating stories of doctor visits and school yard fights. It's a good thing that they won't.

Doing the Earl Proud

Apologies for my absence, dear readers, I have been in the wilderness of Maine. But, like the Christian missionaries ahead of us, we managed to bring civility into the jungle. That's a little imperialism humor for you. One needs an astounding amount of humor to survive a trip with Mother.

Here are things she brought for 6 for our 2-night stay: 1 watermelon, 8 peaches, 1/2 daikon radish, 1/2 cucumber, 1 pkg bean sprouts, 1 pkg enoki mushrooms, and oh, 1 package of smoked salmon. So while all the other families sat around the campground eating PB&J sandwiches, we had cucumber-cream-and-lox. Because we're dainty like that.

I'm Unconvinced

The extent to which my mother keeps up with current TV shows is mortifying. She at once knows too much and too little.

Mother: What happened on Gossip Girl tonight? Aren't they all grown up now?

Moi: Yeah, they're in college.

Mother: But the evil one, he's not in school- he's running a business.

Moi: That's right.

Mother: But then somebody cheated all his money or got control of his company. What happened after that?

Moi: I don't know. I think he got it back.

Mother: That's so unrealistic. He lost everything, how could he have it all back?

Yes. That's the detail my mother finds unrealistic about the story of Chuck Bass.

Baby Proof

We may have stowed Tey under the stroller...

Since I do not have any children in my possession, I do not have a children-friendly home. We've got the stray stuffed animal here and there, but the yard is full of safety hazards. Like the rocks that Jeremy was so fond of. And all kinds of sharp tools. Yesterday, Tey grew strangely attached to a sprinkler spike with a very pointy, metallic edge. To prevent her from hurting herself, I managed to negotiate a trade-- wooden stick for a spike. She gladly accepted the stick. And promptly began whacking Jeremy with it. Which may have mortified our neighbor, who quickly removed his daughter from the yard.

This morning at church, the youth group was called to the front of the stage, among them, a girl with a Yankees cap. The sight of the girl caused Pastor Paul to wince and exclaim, "help us, Lord, love covers a multitude of sins." I quite enjoyed that.

Weekend Wonders

I'm sorry. I probably didn't hang out with you this weekend.



I was busy hanging out with this guy.

And his girl-frenemy (and family).

And a pool.

Would you have had a better offer?

Best friend in a manger

Strangers have become a fixture in my everyday life. This Sunday, a woman with a baby and aging mother recognized me at church and rightfully identified me as my father's daughter. My father's church isn't even in the state as the church I was in. I had no idea who woman, mother, or baby was, but was nevertheless engaged in conversation. I definitely promised to pass a hello onto my parents. And I definitely have. To the best of my ability.

Moi: Do you know anyone with a 7-month old baby in Boston?

Father: Didn't you say it was Peter's?

Moi: No, I said it might be Peter's. The husband wasn't around. I didn't recognize the woman. Peter was just the only name I could think of.

Father: What is this, a riddle?

And then today, I received an email. From someone whose mother knows me. But I didn't recognize the name. Naturally, the reply went something like this. "Hello... how do I know you?" All this while another young woman I've never met is spending the week with my parents. Sleeping in my childhood bed. Auditioning for the part of Offspring II- Daughter in my parents' life. This is not including, of course, my weeks-long correspondence with another friend new to Boston (I like to say that our dads were in 'Nam together) who I have yet to meet in person, and Meredith, who I'm grabbing coffee with on the basis of our mutual friends.

The moral of all this is that I'm having enough trouble recognizing people I know-- blanking out on Nicole's name when we bumped into each other on the T, and Stephanie's again the next day-- that I don't know what to do with all these strangers. I'm sharing all this to say that if I'm ever found somewhere identifiable by my dental records, please let the authorities know that one of these strangers probably had something to do with it.

PS. Work happy hour tomorrow-- let the awkward fun begin!

Toah Nipi

Landlady Chang: How many squares are left?

Moi: Two.

Landlady Chang: Perfect.  One for you and one for me.

The inevitable has finally come upon us.  Around 7:08 AM this morning, we ran out of toilet paper.  Thank God for paper towels.  (just kidding!)  We knew this day was coming, but the speed with which we rolled through the last spool took all of us by surprise.  I miss my Bo' RAs who always had extras on hand.  And the girls across the hall.  But alas,

Moi: Please refrain from any bowel movements in the next 12 hours.

New York, New York

I am aging terribly. I look almost exactly my age. Feel 10 years older. Except when I'm exercising. Then it's 15-20 years older. Luckily, I'm at least 30 years wiser.

That long set up is to say that I felt sick this afternoon and I have a feeling that my bubble milk tea had something to do with it. Milk tea made me feel dizzy. At this rate, I'll have to abstain from the rabbit by Easter lest I suffer heart palpitations. And after that, is there any point to living?

At least I'll still have flattering friends.

Young Bo': You don't seem to gain weight.

Moi: OK, lie (and enabler). But thank you.

Helsinki: If we all ate like you, we'd be huge.

Moi: I was under the impression that I did not eat freakishly more than anyone else...

*Eleventeen dollars for making the title connection.