Which Side Are You

I had dinner with Sharon tonight, in what appears to be the only Vietnamese restaurant in the great city of B'more.  It was lovely.  Until we tried to leave.  Sharon kept turning the knob and the door wasn't opening.  "Am I missing something here?"  She asked, then turned to let me have a try.  The apparatus seemed simple enough, so I turned the knob.  Still nothing.  Then I noticed that the latch wasn't moving no matter how we turned the knob.  Soon the owner came over.  "Are we doing something wrong?"  We asked.  "No, I think we may be locked in."

The latch still firmly in place, the owner went scavenging and came back with a screw driver.  Still no luck.  (All this while Sharon and I just stood there next to the door, a table of people still eating behind us, because the place was so small and there was nowhere else to be.)  He went back again and returned with an electric drill.  Now we were getting somewhere.  Finally, with some assistance from customers arriving from the other side of the door, another customer trying to leave who had apparently had some experience with this, and that customer's credit card, we were released.  I'd like to go back there again sometime.  But I'm afraid I'd never get home.  And I'd like to get home some day.  If only for all the good Vietnamese food that awaits me in Boston and Lowell.

It's Still August, No?

I'm more sorry than usual to be neglecting you, Lonesome Reader, but life without the interweb has been difficult.  I've spent many afternoons standing in the park across the street from my new apartment, stealing free internet and pretending I'm waiting for someone as I conduct my business with my iPod.  Which is fine and good.  Except I end up looking slightly creepy.  Or just like I've been stood up too many times.  Needless to say, such experiences make for interesting stories but are not conducive to posting entries.  Just how out of it am I?  I wore my shirt inside out today and did not notice until Roommate pointed it out to me.  Unfortunately, we were already out of the house by then, and in fact, off of the bus.  I guess I'm not what you call "detail-oriented."  I'll be back soon, y'all, I promise.

Aloha

For years, my away message (remember those) said "I am a tragicomic hero."  I was reminded of this phrase again and again this week as I settled into a new city and having a new advisor.  One who reached out his hand during the orientation happy hour, amidst the sunshine and drinks and shouting over crowds of people, to say "I'm sorry about your family."  Which, while appreciated, really brought a halt to the proceedings.  Not to be outdone, our Section Chair also offered his condolences for my grandfather's passing.  Being a student of awkwardity myself, I said "It's OK," because I was so caught off guard.  In the next sentence, I mentioned I was going to Taiwan for the service in a couple of weeks.  And because we were at a crowded happy hour social, someone immediately joined the circle to say "Taiwan?  Are you Taiwanese!?" 

And of course, when I emailed my new advisor with my travel schedule and when I'd be missing classes, he wrote back with a chirpy "Bon voyage!"  A much nicer man than Whitecastle, yes, but much more socially inappropriate.  More stories to come once I have interweb access.  Fingers crossed that the hurricane doesn't ruin everything. 

Under Study

It's been a lovely last week, nay, last month, in Boston.  I've been dining with people who like to go halfsies, discovering lunch specials, spreading my love of office work,  and laughing a whole lot along the way. 

On the curious case of the woman with the too-short 'dress' who kept walking past our restaurant window:

Moi: How does she sit down?

Sarah: Maybe she forgot to wear pants.

Faith: Maybe she's wearing shorts underneath so it's OK.

DBomb: Really, really short shorts?

Sarah: Really short, flesh colored shorts that we can't see?  We call that underwear.

Pay Attention in Class, Mrs. Cho

Father and I have spent a lot of quality time together this week.  We drove down to B'more, unloaded, bought new furniture, assembled, and drove back up in the span of 3 days.  Within this span, we've talked, eaten in a few food courts, and discovered what an absolute time drain IKEA is.  A time drain with the worst instructional manuals ever.

Father:  The only thing we didn't have to assemble were the bed springs.  I'm surprised that they even came coiled.

(when I decided to have fried chicken for lunch while he chose a tasteful salad)

Father: So public health people don't actually eat healthy?

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Once in a rare while, Mother asks a piercing yet insightful question regarding fields she knows little about, spurred on by her fresh perspective.   Tonight was not one of those nights.

(discussing Mariano Rivera's recent pitching woes)

Mother: If he's so good and they let him play so much, why didn't we see him [when we went to the game]?

Moi: Well, for starters, we didn't watch his team play. 

Stickler

At the Hillsong concert in Seoul, Mark went out to find food and drinks. He asked what I wanted. "Anything on a stick." He obliged and brought back fried chicken on a stick with ketchup. Along with some rice cake in spicy sauce and gatorade for Ash and himself. Now do you understand why I love Asian convenience stores?

Not that Rankings Mean Anything

I am tired of packing (I leave tomorrow morning), so I am paying more attention to this blog this week than I have all year.  Packing is boring.  Although it takes me down weird detours on memory lane.  Like the time Young Bo' and I staged office Olympics (and annoyed Doc Query).  I still have my bronze metal from the event.

Van and Mac's placement on my List of Affections has been grossly inflated of late since I need both a ride and a place to crash from them.  Vannie, however, is greedy and still not content with their current placement..

Van: The real question is: how can Mac & Vannie out-rank Jesus in the future?  How often do you update the ranking?

Boundaries

Oftentimes, what I find most mortifying about Mother isn't what she says, it's that people consider what she says seriously and respond accordingly.  As much as I don't understand how the woman operates, I understand why people answer her even less.  Allow me to illustrate:

At lunch yesterday, Mother asked a 20-year-old guy who we've known since he was little, whether he thought the Deegans, another family we've all known forever whose kids he had grown up with, whether he agreed that the Deegan* girls all turned out rather attractively.  This is a question, if ever posed to me, I would first vomit in my mouth a little, then have smiled at and found a way to get out of.  But not 20-year-old guy.  Yes, he said, he thought they were.  So Mother pressed.  Given the choice of say, Prunella* and Francine*, both girls he had grown up with who were his age, who did he find better looking?  Again he answered.  And again, I tried to stab myself with the forks on the table. 

*Yes, Arthur characters used to go to our church.  I did not sub in fake names to protect anyone.

Sabbath

Reason #88290 Why I Love My Father: He prays for the Red Sox when he says grace.  It's Sunday night.  The Sox are playing the Yankees, and both Father and I are watching.  But since we have basic cable, we're both watching on our respective computers.  Between the two of us though, he has the better set up:  He's sitting in front of the TV, a PBS drama on the big screen, and the game on his laptop, which he's listening to through head phones.  Multi-tasking isn't just a young person's game.

EpiLogue

I told myself that I'd organize my luggage today and that I'd also write.  Since I've done neither and the day is near over, I thought I would at least put in an entry, which is almost like real writing.  Except, of course, when I don't bother with the prose and just put down a few random quotes.  Like I'm about to do now.

On Thursday, I officially said goodbye to work work, at least the physical place.  I still need to wrap up 1.25 projects with Whitecastle, but Thursday was my last day at the office.  I got an ice cream party and everything.  On my way out, Doc Winner (Josh?  I forget which one I'm supposed to use) had some near-kind parting words (Whitecastle had them, too, it was just unfortunate that he said them midway through our meeting.  "Well, good luck with your move and- "  "Um, I wasn't done.  Can we talk about Table 1?")

Doc Winner: If you ever need a job, I'm going to be running this place in a few years, so-

Moi: Stop sucking up to Whitecastle, and start sucking up to you?

Doc Winner: Obvi.  Notice how he treats me differently now?

10,000 bonus points for saying 'obvi.'  I'm going to miss this work buddy.

Greener on the Other Side

(at our mini econ TA reunion lunch today)

Jesse: Is the grass wet?  Should we sit in the shade?

Lisa: (sits down)  No, this isn't wet.

Moi: (I sit down)  I don't know, this feels damp... no, this is definitely wet.  (stand up)

Lisa: I think you were sitting in a puddle.

(later, after lunch, after we'd all sat in non-puddles for an hour)

Moi: I'm still pretty sure that this grass is damp.

Jesse: My butt feels wet. 

How many Harvard grads does it take to determine if the grass is wet or safe to sit on?  Definitely more than three.

Can I Canai

Penang is one of my favorite restaurants in town and Father's as well.  Every time I go, as I have for a few years, I always order a roti appetizer.  For whatever reason, that trend was threatened last week as a waiter brought surprising revelation and reluctance:

Moi: ... and a roti canai, please?

Waiter: Oh.  You know we don't make it fresh here? 

Moi (didn't know that, actually): Yeah, that's fine.

Waiter: We just made the sauce for the bread.  We get it from somewhere else-

Moi: Can I still have it, please?

The Walk and Talk

We are coming down to our last Whitecastle stories.  Soon, the Whitecastles and Prof Papas of today will be replaced by kinder, gentler advisers of B'more*.

(I walk into Whitecastle's office for a scheduled meeting today)

Moi: Is this a good time?

Whitecastle: Well, I need a cup of coffee, so you'll have to follow me to the kitchen.**

Moi: Just like an episode of the West Wing.  This is so exciting!

Whitecastle: Which characters are we?

Moi:...

Whitecastle: It was a trick question.  Don't answer it.

*Sure, every professor/mentor I've had and respected since the Bo' has been abusive, but I can dream, can't I?

**Completely unnecessary.  I could have just come back in a minute.

The Paltry Pantry

I am cleaning out the fridge and cupboard this week in order to fully move out of Boston (most of my possessions have already gone home home, which makes this week interesting and my skin/hair generally unhappy).  I baked up a cake to use up some remaining supplies and brought it to the office to share.  The reactions I got for doing so split easily between those who knew me and those who didn't.

New Co-Worker I Don't Know #1: Thank you.  It was delicious!

New Co-Worker I Don't Know #2: I kept trying to resist but I finally gave in.  This was so good.

---

Edith: Pears and chocolate?  Do they go together?  There's corn in here.  This should be called cornbread. 

Moi: I ran out of flour and may have put in a little cornmeal...

Whitecastle: So you made this?  Is it good?

Moi: I had to clear my cupboard.

Whitecastle: Not a ringing endorsement.

Moi: Eh.  It's not the greatest cake ever.  But people here ate it really quickly.

Whitecastle: They have very low standards.