Grown Ups, Too

I'm trying to become better about blogging again.  Tonight, this effort coincides with being in Boston and being able to catch up with just a few of the friends that I mean to see here.  More specifically, I had dinner with Dwighters.

The thing I love about Dwighters is that on the one hand, we're technically both Harvard graduates (ha), who have lived in Boston (and now Baltimore, for me) for years, who read books, and to an extent, have an affinity for culture.  On the other hand, all of it still feels like we're playacting.  Perhaps having jobs that technically pay but not a lot has something to do with this.  We react to the thought of me buying carafes or him infusing liqueurs in mason jars with laughter.  How bougie.  And sure, we went to a nice, new Italian restaurant, but we also rolled our eyes when the waitress tried to sell us on pickled radish seeds (seriously?  not just seeds, but pickled seeds?).  And one of us may not have known that the breadsticks were not for display.  My point is, even as we are all trying to act grown up, it's fun to make fun of each other for trying.  And for the world's failure to recognize our efforts.  Like when the waitress placed us at the farthest corner of the restaurant possible, with at least four empty tables between us and all the real patrons.  It's always nice to have low friends in high places.  

They Wouldn't Eat Wilson, Would They?

Lisa, upon seeing this picture: I thought we were going to eat this tomorrow night.  How can I eat this now that you've given him a name, a backstory, and a little sock bunny that depends on Paul?

Yes, now that my life is completely suave and well adjusted (remind me to tell you about the time my face blindness was so bad I didn't recognize my office mate- as in the one other person I share an office with), this blog has shifted its focus to Lisa and her absurdities, but that was the funniest comment I'd heard all day. 

First Rule of Fight Club

You can share your secret sadness, and people would offer to pray for you.  You can share the harsh words you did or didn't mean to say, and someone would tell them they've done the same.  Our Tuesday night Bible study (newly termed 'Mount Awesome') is generally a safe space of acceptance and support, a place without judgment or wrong answers-- that is, until you answer an ice breaker in a way that breaks from the norm.

Last night's ice breaker was "shark vs. bear vs. eagle, who would you rather fight?"  (there was also a serious one, I promise)  A lot of people used terrible logic to justify their choices.  Esther, for example, chose to fight a bear because "bears are cute" yet because Esther is sweet and new, no one pointed out the absurdity of her choice.  But somehow when I shared my answer (bear, because the fight would probably be shortest and I'd die a death relatively quicker than fighting an eagle or shark), the whole group turned against me for my defeatist attitude.  Apparently it "wasn't what the question asked," and I was "taking the easy way out."  It was the most hostile reception* I'd ever received at a Bible study.  These people took animal fighting and hypotheticals so seriously (just kidding, PETA,  we love all of God's creatures!) that they expected me to give it my all in a fake fight, even if that means having my eyes and entrails slowly pecked out by a hypothetical eagle.  I guess that's the type of attitude one picks up from having a lifetime of hypothetical friends and hypothetical pets**.


*a thousand times more hostile than the general stink eye Livid Lisa usually sends my way

**never seen Lisa*** with another friend, pet, or family member

***not sure when this blog devolved into a Lisa burn book, but I like this new direction

Burn After Reading

Apparently my poor note taking skills aren't limited to handwritten notes.  Electronic ones can be vague and confusing as well.  What is list of people and what do I want with them?

Et tu, Greg-eh?

There are conversation fault lines that everyone knows to avoid for the sake of friendship.  For some, it's politics.  Others, religion.  For still some others it's finances or childrearing.  Among my B'more group of Jesus friends, it's ice cream cake.

It's an issue that has staunchly divided the group along mostly regional lines (East Coast vs. West Coast, Carvel vs. Baskin-Robbins), and an issue we have spent countless hours arguing bitterly over.  Yet like bugs drawn to the lantern, we can't help ourselves.  Every few weeks, someone inevitably picks off the scab and each side would dig deeper into their beliefs.  Or rather, we did until last night.

The conversation started innocently enough-- I had mentioned to Stephanie and George, a sweet and lovely couple unmarred by our infighting, that we had ice cream and cake.  But Lisa, agitator that she was, saw an opportunity to bring up ice cream cake and drive a wedge through the dinner party.  At first, it looked like her plans would fail.  Stephanie and George, as sensible people, agreed that ice cream cake was best a la Carvel, meaning they agreed that ice cream cake was best as ice cream in the shape of a cake and not-- [spit on the ground]-- a mixture of ice cream and cake.  For a moment, this meant that Lisa was the only one on the wrong side of history last night.  Until suddenly, she wasn't.

"I think...," Greg started sheepishly.  It almost looked as if the poor, misguided soul was compelled by lecherous Lisa to speak, "I think I'm a convert to ice cream and cake."  And just like that, justice lost another member and the alliance of Lisa and Greg grew ever stronger.

It's hard to pin down, Dear Readers, just what part of Greg's conversion made for the greatest betrayal-- whether it was that Lisa's wiles had contaminated yet another friendship*, or the revolting realization that someone I once trusted could find the mismatch of melted ice cream and stale cake preferable to the harmony that is chocolate and vanilla ice cream nestling a sweet layer of chocolate crunchies.  All I can tell you is that they are two sides of the same coin, and each side cuts equally deep.  Grey's Anatomy once said that without forgiveness, old scores are never settled, old wounds never heal.  I guess that's why it takes a group committed to living like Jesus, to coming together week after week, to take on the topic of ice cream cake.  

*friendship may be too strong a word... "small group proximity associate?"  

Things I Didn't Master in School

One of these days, I will stop leaving (unintentionally) cryptic notes for myself. What exactly is huge?  Why did that warrant a note?  I may never know.

Barbershop

Getting a haircut used to be a straight forward experience, especially in Boston.  I'd make an appointment the week or day of, pop by, get a cut in silence interspersed with reluctant chit chat, and since I'm already in Chinatown, grab some food on my way out of the neighborhood.  Nice and easy.  Since moving to B'more, I tried Nancy's hairdresser a couple of times, but never loved the cut and found her too chatty.  At least I thought she was too chatty.

Then I hit upon Neal's-- convenient, affordable (in the pre-doc days), and convivial Neal's.  Every time I get a hair cut now, I brace myself for the boundless social energy.  It's not just my hairdresser-- who I like, and actually remembers me-- but her coworkers, who also remember me (so many names, so many faces, so many stresses).  Today, I was offered a peanut butter cookie, asked about my dating life, got the staff's take on the new tea house next door, and heard a earful about the various neighbors of the street.  On my way out, I noticed that everyone suddenly had snow cones in their hand.  Apparently, the lady complimenting my haircut and chatting with my hairdresser about dinner (she was about to throw some chicken on the grill) owned the art gallery/wellness studio across the street (as you do), but today, they were also selling snow cones on the sidewalk (again, as you do).  So I made like I was in Rome and got one as well.

Why was the "ice cream flavor" syrup clear?  And the egg custard orange? How can ice be so crunchy? These are questions only people who don't purchase shaved ice from their hairdresser's neighbor's nephew would ask.  

Infinite Jest

On Tuesday night, Crystal, Helen, and I were in Jesse's kitchen, chopping, roasting, and preparing for a last minute dinner with far more guests than we were all expecting.  At first, I thought the four of us were all working well in sync until suddenly, we weren't on the same page anymore.

Crystal: Why did you tell everyone to come?  Now we have too many people.

Moi: I didn't.  It was an obvious joke.

Helen and Jesse: That did not even cross my mind.

Being misunderstood was bad enough, especially when my joke was so hilarious, but then on Friday, I realized that Crystal (and possibly many others) misinterpreted not one, but two of my emails this week-- taking me to be serious when I had no intentions of being so.  It took Lisa, of all people, to restore my faith in sarcasm again this morning.

(chatting with Helen and Lisa)

Moi: You saw the email I sent about the BBQ, right-- how I said if you could only come to one BBQ this month?

Lisa: Right.  That was an obvious dig at Ted's BBQ.

Moi: Thank you!  

All I ever want is for people to know when I'm mocking other people (i.e. 72% of all my correspondences).  Is that so much to ask?

Inexorable Decline

Yesterday, I received a Facebook friend request from someone who told me that we hadn't seen each other "in 25 years."  I'm used to getting random requests because I'm a very popular person (much more popular than Ted can ever hope to be) but it stopped me in my tracks to realize that such people can now exist in my life- people I hadn't seen for 25 years- because I have lived a very long life.  

All this was reinforced last night (as it often has been lately), when Victoria, Ted, and I hung out with Jamie and spent hours learning about Snapchat.  We didn't intend to learn Snapchat.  We intended to steal Jamie's phone for nefarious purposes (after a certain point of fatigue, we are all 12 years old).  But we quickly realized that we didn't really know how to use his phone for nefarious purposes because Snapchat was beyond our comprehension.  Even a Facebook hack proved difficult for Victoria- she slowly typed out a status post as Jamie patiently waited, then taught her how to tag herself in the post.  The education wasn't purely one way though. Earlier in the evening, a bunch of us nostalgia-watched Face/Off (doesn't hold up well- which makes it all the more fun to see) and tried to teach Jamie about floppy discs and other memories from our childhood.  Unfortunately, he was incredibly resistant to the lessons though and instead, Snapchatted his way through the movie.  Kids these days.  They're not as respectful as they were 25 years ago.

The Threepeat

I have no pictures of our dinner on Thursday night. I was too hungry by that point to want to capture the moment (or the glorious lambchetta) for prosperity. We'd waited first for any of the boys to arrive to know how much to order, then they all came within minutes of each other so that it seemed rude not to wait (ok, it didn't seem rude to me to start while Greg was still strolling down the road, but Jessica implied that it was). The trade off for all the delay the boys caused, however, was the special satisfaction of ordering not only one, two, but three of everything off the blacksauce menu that night. That's a special accomplishment I don't think we'll ever repeat. And almost made the company (which, for the record, I did not pay for) worthwhile. 

The Long Con

Being in school for over two decades, as I have, has very few perks.  The pay is terrible.  As are the hours.  And there's very rarely a sense of accomplishment.  Today, however, was a shining beacon.  Today was an accomplishment.

I spent the afternoon with Mother, wandering around a topiary garden.  And, as she is wont to do, picked on me for something I've already forgotten about- perhaps my inability to tell flowers apart.  But she used a phrase she used to say all the time- "[you] could have gotten into Harvard, if not for this."  Except this time, something clicked.  "Wait, a minute- I did get into Harvard!  And I graduated from Harvard."  And I did it without any knowledge of flowers.

It all seems like a blur now, and I can't seem to recall much of life before this PhD program, but I'm fairly certain that at some point, I attended a Harvard-affiliated university and obtained a graduate degree.  I have the debt to prove it.  

Better Than Your Heart's Desire

Is it "Happy Birthday!" or "Surprise!" or "Ah, it's your birthday!"?  You might think these are the spontaneous phrases one utters at a surprise birthday party but tonight, each word and phrase was hotly contested. Even as we were all crouched behind a couch, waiting for the honored guest to approach, we were all still whisper arguing, "Surprise. Jamie. Happy birthday."  "Wait, no scream?"  "Scream after happy birthday."  "Everybody shut up!" "When do we throw things?"  (That was Crystal, always egging us toward property destruction and violence. "Remember to aim for the face.").  The big surprise, when it finally did happen, went off swimmingly. Planning everything last minute really makes the surprise real. Jamie looked alternatively stunned, happy, and angry. And catching that expression almost made leaving my dinner tonight early and skipping dessert to catch the party worthwhile. It's still unclear, however, if it was worth the 'party animal' and hangover ribbing I got from Prof Tom et al for leaving dinner early. 

Actually, fine. I'll admit it was wholly worthwhile.  I hadn't laughed as hard as I did tonight in a long while, stifling giggles and whisper yelling in those 3 long minutes (candles burning, melting, blown out, relit, and flickering) behind the couch. Yes, these poor party planners may be idiots. But they're my Jesus idiots this spring. And I kinda love them. 

Signs of the Times

Living in this neighborhood for the last four years, even though I'm not always aware of the events going on ahead of time, I've learned to interpret my surroundings as I witness changed.

Trailers and lights, for example, mean that there's a TV or movie shoot nearby, most likely House of Cards.  Lots of tents means that it's time for Flower Mart.  And lately?  The sound of helicopters means that there's a protest passing by.  Or it's near curfew.  Or the police are acting out of "an abundance of caution."  

Actually, there are many reasons why helicopters now hover over my neighborhood lately (which they only do part time, there are other places where they spend a lot more time).  Divining what those reasons might be has become a new routine where I check Twitter and the local news to try to figure out why, exactly, helicopters are over head.  Such is what this week in this city has been like.

Gifted Hands

I've always known that I was special.  (How else could I justify all those hours spent indoors reading alone.)  I did not realize until very recently, however, that my small hands were as special as my soul.

Lately, my hands have been the subject of fascination among a very particular group of "friends."  It all started, like all things do in this internet age, unintentionally.  Crystal somehow grasped my hand one cold day in Philly.  From there, she exclaimed how exquisitely soft my hands were.  I thought she was a freak, but Helen touched them and confirmed.  I have the softest hands they had ever touched.  From there, the legend spread like a virus.  Every time I tried to explain how ridiculous Crystal and Helen were, someone else would touch these precious hands and make absurd claims about their delicate nature.  For a few days there, the legend seemed uncontainable, until, inevitably-- backlash.

Jealous haters (cough, Lisa, cough, Greg) started speculating why my hands were soft.  They said that I had hands that knew no housework and never toiled a day in my life (true, but still offensive) whereas they had coarse, honest hands.  Worst of all, they called these precious palms doughy.  

Last night, however, my internet hands came full circle: backlash against the backlash.  Crystal and Greg confronted each other when once again, we were hanging out and someone brought up my hands (I put "friends" in quotes because can I really consider people whose lives are so interesting that we're still talking about my hands four months later to be genuine friends, no matter how often we see each other?).

Greg: [something something] doughy hands.

Crystal:  You take that back!  How dare you call those silken hands doughy?  They're the best part about her.

Greg: But they're so puffy and-

Crystal: They're smooth like tofu.  And a cloud. 

The Ice Kool-aid

It didn't feel like it while I was at the Bo', but every time I compare college experiences lately, I become more convinced that I attended a very special bubble.  And possibly a cult.

Tonight, I got a phone call from the students working for alumni giving and had a perfectly nice chat with him about the weather, living in B'more (where he's from), and visiting Maine after I promised I'd contribute to the fund later this week.  As I was talking to him, I was reminded of all my non-Bo friends' stories of evading alumni giving, never donating money, and being hounded by calls.  But at the same time, I was also reminded of all my friends who had those evening shifts making calls, and their stories of the wonderful people they talked to, and of all of us now being the kind alumni who chat with the students, and I can't help but be friendly and protective toward these kids.

Moi: Sometimes, I feel suckered into something.  But all my other [Bo'] friends love school so much and are so into it, that I feel pressured to also be nice to the school and love it.  Wait, that sounds like a cult, no?

Lisa: That's exactly what a cult is.

Our Common Ground

Over an interview/catch up session with Doc Nice last week, I asked for his restaurant recommendations and things quickly devolved down traditional lines.  

Nice: There is a Chinese restaurant in town.

Moi: Is it any good though?  Would you bring your family there on Christmas?

Nice: No, not at all.

Moi: Say, the fact that I made a comment about you eating Chinese food on Christmas- that's not going to show up in any HR file, is it?

Nice: It would if it wasn't so true.  We left Denver- a beautiful city- because the movie theaters and Chinese restaurants were all closed on Christmas.

Moi: As someone who celebrates Christmas, even I'm offended by that.  We like Jesus but also eat Chinese food and watch movies on Christmas.

Proven Perspectives

This week, our small group has been embroiled in a debate over ice cream cake superiority that boils down to the brands we were exposed to as children (and, we would like to think, our refined palate and sense of right and wrong).  It was a reminder of the differences that divide us as a country between the West Coast and the East (Beast!) Coast.  The same sharp divide came up again during a phone interview on Monday with researchers in LA:

LA: You guys have had a rough winter with the cold-  

Moi: Oh, it's not half as Boston.  And it's beautiful today.  It'll hit 50 degrees!

LA: [silence of pity]

Sweet Sorrows

It's not a visit from Mother without some questionable logic:

(takes a bite of a brownie)

Mother: It's so sweet!

Moi: You are eating a brownie [at 7:00am].  What did you expect?

Mother: Sometimes they half the sugar the recipe calls for. 

Who are they?  Why do they make brownies if they want to half the sugar?  I may have a PhD*, but there are so many things I still don't have answers to.

*can't wait to make hundreds of obnoxious statements that start with "I may have a PhD!" 

Play On

I successfully defended my doctoral dissertation yesterday (whoa, those are fun words to type).  It was, all in all, a very characteristic day of friend hilarity and mishaps, complete with AV not showing up, the department coordinator being out of the office, and running through the support staff offices last minute, finding a coordinator who borrowed a laptop from someone else's office, a last minute phone call to get that person's log-in info, and just the right dose of drama I needed to not have time to hyperventilate prior to my presentation.  

In the Christian/self help circles, people like to speak of their "love language."  Usually, they're along the lines of gifts, physical touch, or words of encouragement, but I strongly believe in mockery as a love language.  It was all very confusing then, when everyone was so nice to me yesterday.

My ceaselessly encouraging cohort was there, of course, but beyond that, C Money from Bowdoin!, kids from other cohorts, and a slew of small group (Jesus) friends showed up, complete with posters.  Of course, Lisa  and Crystal made it very clear at dinner that the kindness would expire at midnight when we debriefed over dinner my mom made (mom also super nice yesterday.  should consider graduating more often).

Moi: [to Lisa] So we're even now?  You did so many things for me today (from making cookies to a giant poster and even a special pin).

Lisa: Mm hmm.  You can't make fun of me anymore.

Moi: [turn to Crystal]  Sorry, I guess I have to focus all my bullying on you.

Crystal: But I brought fruit tart!  And a card.  And I'm driving you guys!  

Moi: True, true.  Hm, back to Lisa, I guess.  

(Meanwhile, Nancy is sitting in between the two, completely unscathed.  And didn't even need to bring a gift.  Because she's perfect as is.  Seriously, you try making fun of Nancy.  It's not possible)

Fear Not

Pretzels, 

I'm fairly certain that if one was to word-cloud this blog, there's be large, stratus cloud in the shape of Whitecastle.  I spoke to him for our semi-annual check up today and he offered this gem regarding my upcoming (very soon!) defense:

Whitecastle: If you fail, you shouldn't feel bad.  It's a poor reflection on your advisor and not you.

The tone he was shooting for was "encouraging."  Then again, Advisor Who's encouragement of the day was an email titled "how's it going!?"  Between the two of them, Whitecastle almost looks paternal.  

When I grow up, I would like a mentor with human feelings.  

Spitting Indignities

En route to school today, I ran into Liz as she raced across the icy crosswalk toward me to beat the traffic light (as I stood absolutely still, not even bothering to try).

Liz: How are you?

Moi: I'm good.  We've got a call and then I'm headed home to get some rest.

Liz: With [Advisor Who]?

Moi: Yes.

Liz: I thought to myself, who's the "we" in your life?  And figured it was Who.

Moi: ... Not this again!  You're on this project, too.  You're part of the "we."

Birthday Terrors

(in a meeting this morning, Advisor Who showed off a foam-cutout R2D2 he made as a template for his son's birthday party activity while another collaborator discussed the puppet show rehearsals their family members held in preparation for her son's birthday party)

Moi: All this work you two are doing make me question whether my parents truly love me.  I never had this when I turned 7.

Prof Tom: They did send you to Nerd Camp.

Moi: I forgot that you know that.  

Prof Tom: I remember everything you say.  

Moi: This is terrifying.

Soul Mates

The arrangements for my very short work trip to New York were up in the air until the very last minute. This made arranging plans very difficult. Luckily, Allison and Dillon were super flexible and rolled with it when I told them last minute that I may or may not be in the City and wasn't sure where I was staying. 

(after a great dinner with 4 appetizers, HGTV talk, and a discussion of our mutual distaste for Italian desserts)

Moi: I'm so glad that you guys were available. 

Allison: I'm comfortable admitting that we didn't have plans. 

Dillon: I don't feel bad about not having plans on a Tuesday night at all. Now if it was Saturday-

Allison: We probably wouldn't have plans either. 

Dillon: And we probably wouldn't feel bad, either. 

These are my kind of people. 

The Shoe Fly

I had to be in New York today for a meeting. That sentence along is far more grown up than anything I am used to, nevermind the clothes I had to wear. And having to find a bag that could fit my laptop but was not a backpack and did not have cartoons on it was far harder than expected.

(chatting with Greg about work)

Greg: ... Sometimes I'll get to wear my Converse-

Moi: Shoot! I have to wear real shoes, too, to go along with my grown up clothes. 

Greg: Stilettos. Pumps. Stilettos-

Moi: Are you just naming all the women shoe words you know?

Greg: - pumps. Yes. Is this offensive?

(no, but what a weirdo)

Update: This was the reference that was lost on me.  Still a weirdo.

Lonely Hearts Club

After church today, a few of us from small group went out to lunch.  In walking around, Jesse showed off an uncanny familiarity with the shops around the Inner Harbor.  I thought I knew the area well from countless walks home alone after church in my first year at Gallery, but he had me beat.  We all assumed Jesse just knew his way around the city until he let drop an explanation that made my day:    

Jesse:  Before I had any friends, this was where I'd come by myself after church.

Naturally, I started stomping excitedly when I heard this.

Moi: This was where I used to come after church before I had friends!  I would get a burger from Five Guys and walk home.  

(Crystal then shares an irrelevant story of eating double portions of take out alone not because she had no friends but because she is a misanthrope.)

It was such a simple, and sad shared moment that I still laugh every time I think about it hours later.  In an incredibly corny way, it made me appreciate the community I've finally found and developed at church.  In a much more real way, it just goes to prove that I only get cooler with age.  I have tons of friends now.  And legions of fans.    

The Bread Maker

I brought freshly made banana bread to small group ("Jesus group") tonight.  At first it seemed like people were raving about the bread, then I actually listened to what they had to say.

Helen: Is this chocolate banana bread?  This is so good!

Moi: Thank you.  I'm glad you like it.

Greg: Yeah, and walnuts?  

Moi: Oh.  I didn't put any nuts in there.  I don't know what you're tasting.

Patience: How did you get it so nice and gooey in the middle?  That's so good.

Moi: Um... I think you're eating undercooked bread.