Wax Politic

It's time to get political. I usually regret political entries, so this might be gone in a few days. We'll see.

Don't know how much you've been reading, but this week marked the 49th anniversary of a Tibetan uprising against China and in honor of the event, monks had been pouring into the streets in protest. Which led Chinese officials to contain them. By way of killing. Official reports say that 10 are dead. Hundreds arrested. Some put the figure higher, at 32. And every time news like this hits, I shake at my head at China. And think about my own country. Because the international treatment of Tibet and Taiwan are so drastically different.

I'm not saying we shouldn't sympathize with Tibet. I do. It sucks that China is still a country where protests lead to officially sanctioned death. It really does. But every time Taiwan tries to move toward independence, instead of international sympathy, it gets slaps on the hand. "Nevertheless," a recent NYT article on the upcoming Taiwanese elections read, "American officials continue to warn Taiwan not to provoke China." Provoke- as in try to join the UN. As in think about independence. As in mess up a good thing for the US because she doesn't want to get between Taiwan and China. It boggles my mind how the US is cool that Kosovo is now a country despite being heavily dependent on foreign aid and foreign military support and not really independent. But when Taiwan- with its own currency, demo-freaking-cratic government, constitution, military, and stable economy- tries to claim international recognition, it is immediately chastised by the country that dropped it as an ally to make ties with communist China.

The issues surrounding Kosovo, Tibet, and Taiwan are all unique. And Taiwanese independence is a thorny issue that not everyone in Taiwan agrees with. And that's all OK. What's not OK is the hypocrisy to which Taiwan seems to be subject to from the international community. It's a small, stable, democratic country with an open, liberal economy. And yet whenever it tries to promote itself, it is scolded by the US who instead favors China- a country where even in 2008, monks are being shot to death for protesting oppression.

The Chosen

I never noticed that Facebook ads were targeted until recently. I used to think they were just stupid, randomly selling t-shirts and rings and such. And then I started playing scrabulous with Zvi. And Jewish dating sites kept popping up. It's weird that not all the Hebrews I've played had such precise targeting. I guess Zvi is just extra-chosen.

Somebody get Gak, quick- I think his idol has been leaving comments on my blog.

Somebody get Susie, quick- I think her VISTA (there's a * somewhere, I always forget where) is delusional and believes himself to be Brian Williams.

Another month, another ignorant co-worker story, this one more egregious than all the others. I'd like to get through just one month during which someone in the division does not make a well-meaning but ultimately offensively ignorant comment about race, class, and/or ethnicity. But Santa probably isn't listening. It's far from Christmas. Plus, Santa only answers the wishes of good Christian children. And I can't possibly be one- just look at me. If I see you, I'll probably tell you the story.

Can of Worms

My life is now ridiculous to a point that I go to bed after my parents, which wouldn't sting so bad if I didn't live with them.  But I do.  And it all feels like middle school again, when they got to stay up to watch the shows and I had to go to bed early for school, right down to the part where my family has no respect for the sanctity of sleep and I'm awakened every five minutes once I go to bed.  All night long, I serve as the good daughter and talk with them and nothing ever comes up.  But once I bid everyone goodnight and get into bed...

(Last night, 1 hour into sleep)

Mother: (this time she even knocked) There's a letter for you from the IRS.

Moi: I know.  Can I go back to bed?

Mother: You didn't open it.  It says it's very urgent.

Moi: I think it can wait until tomorrow.  I was sleeping.

Mother: It's about the economic stimulus plan.  Do you want me to open it?

Je ne said quoi

Dear Applicant:
Advanced French is not a language.

Sincerely,

Advanced Intellect

---
Tonight at dinner, Father used American Idol in an analogy. I was talked about the unimpressive applications we were getting, and he said, "It's just like on American Idol last night, you can't just be good, because everyone is good. You have to be different to impress." Eat, drink, and be merry, folks. Father is citing American Idol. The world is coming to an end.

Trust the Man

This morning, the water in the rest room sinks was suddenly very cold.

Sister Claire Francis: They think that just because the calendar says it's spring, they think they can turn off the heat.

Moi: That's crazy because this is New England. The calendar can be very deceptive.

Sister Claire Francis: That's why I don't trust calendars. I still think it's February.

... and that's why Claire's my favorite programmer ever.

---
Today Whitecastle received his MacBook Air. It truly is a sexy beast- which is why he pulled it out to show pretty much anyone that passed by. He grinned proudly when I exclaimed that it was "sick." I love working in an academic research office- no matter how lame I am, I'm always the coolest kid in the division. They think I talk "hip." They make me sad.

Whitecastle told me that if I work hard and stay in school, I too, can get fancy computers when I grow up. (Something to do with doing research and getting grants... I didn't pay attention to the details.) He was also kind enough to say, "I'll let you play with it later," but we all know that that's not going to happen. Especially after this encounter:

Edith: Even the box is pretty. Look at how nice the box is-

Whitecastle: You can't have it.

(Obviously never won any kingdom points in Sunday School)

Bonjour

To everyone I spoke to about Beauty and the Geek last night:

I was right! I was on the train while the episode air but according to Vannie, the Beauties were immediately suspicious of Tom Severo's lack of social awkwardness and he almost got eliminated. That's probably because, sweater vests aside, I can think of many more geeks than Tom. (I think he was on student council? Geeks do not run track and join student council in high school. Then again, geeks also do not ski and get elected as class president... so maybe WA was some sort of bizarro school where geek dreams come true). Props to him then for playing with the show. I hope he does well. If all the challenges are about pop culture, social situations, and physical tests as they used to be, then I don't see any reason why he wouldn't do well. Unless there are other faux-geeks in the midst, of course.

Shakers and Movers

Dear Whole Wheat Bagels:
Stop moving my bowels. They're fine as they are.

Cheers,

More than Regular

(Are toilet anecdotes one of those things I have to give up for growing up? Should I be concerned that employers could see this?)

BTW, supposed to give a shout out to the beautiful Priscilla. Hi, Priscilla.

Cloudless Climes and Starry Skies

Master Dustin finally showed his face tonight. And it was good to see him. Almost as good as seeing the sun at 6PM. Almost as good as seeing curry fries. Though the Irish waitress at Emmet's was not impressed by my order for chips, instead she asked, "you mean, fries?"

At Emmet's, I also bumped into a high school friend who informed me that fellow alum Tommy Severo (maybe I'll get some google hits) is now on the CW's Beauty and the Geek. Naturally, with an hour to kill before the train, I went over to Mac's to watch the show. Mac, being a real living geek, was watching Jeopardy when I arrived... one of the clues involved Michael Crichton.

Moi: Oh, I read The Sphere when I was in middle school. I was going through my nerd phase.

(Much laughter from Vannie and Mac)

Mac: What phase? You're still going through it.

Vannie: And there's no exit sign in sight.

(To the two of them I say, Pot, Kettle, examine thy selves.)

Bumbershoot

I lost an umbrella on the train yesterday (shh... don't tell my mom, I'm hoping she never finds out) so today, I went to the lost and found in search of it.

Moi: I lost a black umbrella.

Lost and Found Man: What did it look like?

Moi: It's um, black... it's a black umbrella.

Lost and Found Man: Ma'am, I get lots of umbrellas (complete lie, he later pulls out exactly 1 umbrella that fit my description). Can you tell me anything else?

Moi: It might have a brown handle. It's compact- a very normal looking umbrella?

Nosy Lady: You don't know the name of it?

Moi: No.

"The name of it?" Umbrellas have names? Aren't they all the same? (When I asked the lady that, she just stared at me, then shook her head in disgust.) Am I really the idiot they're making me out to be? Because no one ever told me about umbrella classification. But if I were to name mine, I'd call it Dexter.

On the Dot

Dusty came to town this weekend. Dwight and I had long been ready because Dusty told us to get ready a good month ahead of his arrival. There was a flurry of emails and calls ahead of his arrival. Then he arrived. And I saw him for fifteen seconds on Friday (hi, Dusty).

And then Dusty shunned us for his "interviews" and "BSU friends," forcing Dwight and I to hang out by ourselves. Which is always awkward. So we invited ourselves over Katie and Jackie's. They made things less awkward. They even cooked for us. And let me sleep over. (Dwight likes to hang around the BP house despite no longer being employed by BP- he likes receiving the glory and attention without any of the work) It was a mighty fine night with mighty fine chicken piccata. And some Jordanian jokes that were mighty difficult to follow. Followed by a leisurely Sunday morning with church, Midwesterners (sturdy folks), and a long, BP-gossip-and-carb-filled lunch. Really can't ask for anything more. Except Dusty, I guess.

I have more stories to tell you. But I keep putting them off in favor of things like going out and sleeping. My 4-month-old bruise has started hurting again tonight. I hope I don't lose a leg.

If Tomorrow All The Things Were Gone...

 

Check it. My mother is adorable and she's an American.

The Streets Are About Love

So many things to talk about. So many people to catch up with. So much going on at work. But I just got home from seeing Step Up II and I don't want to do anything now except watch people dance crazy all day long. Some of the most atrocious acting I have seen (and I have seen a lot, including other bad dance movies) but whatever, the dancing was nasty.

Gak Would Smack You

Attention All Applicants:
The smart ones of you who worked in labs and earned prestigious internships at every opportunity should take a cue from the lazy ones and learn how to write a proper cover letter. The lazy ones of you who wrote convincing letters should have spent your summers doing research instead of waiting tables by the seaside. If you two could just learn from each other and either learn to write a letter or smarten up and get some credentials, that'd just rock my world. Thanks.

Sincerely Unimpressed.



Attention One Particular Applicant:
Dear Big Red Dumbass-
(I don't use the term lightly, you know how I feel about swears and pseudo-swears)
If you are going to congratulate yourself on your "meticulous editorial skills" and "superior writing" and act like the pompous Ivy Leaguer that you are, it might help if you didn't have three misspelled words in your résumés. It'd also help if you didn't use words out of context. Go read a dictionary, English Major. No wonder you had to be an editor of a magazine you made up. I wouldn't have let you edit anything either. You should thank me for being merciful and not letting Gak see your stuff. Gak does not make enough money to cover your hospital fees.

Sincerely Insulted


(So I'm printing a few résumés I've received, and Claire the Programmer AKA Sister Claire Francis, AKA Claire the Awesome, spots the materials)

Claire: Are you looking for jobs under a different name? That is so weird.

Beantown Blessing

I am the friendly face of Boston. I must be. Why else would strangers keep coming up to me tonight asking for directions and taking their tourist pictures? I'm just so darn non-threatening, knowledgeable and of course, adorable.

Bell Tolls

Lisa, Jess, and I are apparently an island onto ourselves. This morning, I received a cover letter with a sentence so badly written I found it hilarious. I believe I compared it to "manna that does not rot the next day." Jess and Lisa agreed. Everyone else in the world, however, failed to see the humor. Lisa even took a poll at work. Nobody else thought the sentence was stupid silly. Everyone else saw it as just a stupid punctuation error. I'll let you decide which camp you fall under (let me know, I may have to reconsider some friendships):

"I also, enjoy working with women and children."

I can't believe I have to interview someone who would write that. But I've been told that I am "too harsh a critic" of the applicants' writing (Gak, it will hurt your eyes to look at them). Nothing the CPC has taught me is holding true in this job search. Maybe the Bo' did turn me into a snob...

365 Days Wiser

It's now part of my job to screen applicants for a new research assistant position. Reading through scores of résumés makes me feel elitist. I don't mean to be excessively judgmental, but I really don't know how kids get so dumb. It makes me sad that I did not get this job because I was special, I just got it because I was not the dumbest one. The one extra year I have on most of them must make all the difference. They taught differently when I was in school.


Mother got back on Taiwan and kept talking about eating healthy, what with the white meat and cooking with less grease, but I should've known not to worry. She made meatballs tonight, nicely pan fried in oil.

Two Letters

Dear Flu Shot:
  You are dead to me.
  (Though it'll soon be the other way around.  My immune system really sucks.)

Sincerely,

Ungrateful Barely Living



Dear Self-Assured Globe Writer:
  "There are many things we do well in New England. Clams fried and chowdered, lobsters rolled and boiled, Fenway franks, roast beef sandwiches, the foods of Portugal, Vietnam, Brazil."
 
  Clearly, you are not from Portugal, Vietnam, or Brazil.

Sincerely,

Also Not From Portugal, Vietnam, or Brazil

The End is Nigh

Room is spinning. World is shattering. Constants fare ailing. And as usual, I'm feeling like a fool.

Does everyone else know that the Mason-Dixon line which demarcates North and South starts all the way up in Pennsylvania? Doesn't that seem a little high up? For years now, seriously, years- I've talked about how I've never crossed the Mason-Dixon line, how I've never been to the South, except for Florida (which doesn't count) and how I'd really like to cross it one day. And tonight I'm planning a road trip to Memphis and see that oh wait, I've already crossed that line forty bazillion times. The South is right there! You could accidentally walk over and not know it. Apparently, our nation's capital is also in the South. Who knew? I realize how ignorant I'm sounding here, but I'm willing to make myself vulnerable to educate others because I don't believe we talk about this line enough. People deserve to know that the South is not all the way down there the way you might think it ought to be, the way its name suggests. It's right up here below Pennsylfreakingvania. And crossing that line isn't exciting at all. There's no confetti. No welcoming party with pecan pie and hush puppies. No, it's pretty much the same highway scenery as the North.

(mock me how you will, but Lenny, who knew about the line, shares in my shock, and she's the smartest young person I know)

Moi: I didn't know the Mason Dixon line was so high up!

Lenny: It's mind blowing

Moi: Are you mocking me with the mind blowing? Because I'm actually surprised I'd crossed it without realizing it.

Lenny: No, I'm serious. I'm amazed that the south starts so high up.

And Eat It, Too

Nothing quite says humble thyself as effectively as little boys. After Sunday service today, I went over to my dad's church to wait for the parents. Since they still had things going on, I sat with some four and five year olds during their Sunday school hour. They were cute little boys I hadn't seen in awhile but who were always adorable and lovely when they were younger. I at first talked with Elise, who warmed up to me after I helped her draw her balloon. Feeling confident, I turned to the boys around us and that was when little David remarked, "You're an old man." Little Jeffrey, who was sweet, quiet, shy little Jeffrey the last time I saw him, also found it hilarious and repeated the claim. And then Timothy joined in, too. But I hung in there and by the end of the hour, I had the boys eating out of my hands. But not literally. Because that's sort of gross.

Humbling pie, of course, can be dealt by grown ups, too. Like Pastor Paul. He decided he wanted to pick on Lenny today (he of the bald head rub, I think), but when he realized that Lenny had not yet come, he had the entire congregation rehearse shouting "Lenny was late" on his command. And when poor Lenny finally arrived, he was dealt two embarrassments, one for tardiness, and one for something about his truck. Pastor Paul's humor scares me.

I'd Rather Be PC

My palm is sore like I'm a freaking hemophiliac.

Labor #11

Add this to my list of tragic hero traits: Extraordinary strength.

(For those keeping tally, that's noble birth, moral character, and destined for greatness... we're ignoring the flaw for now, though awkwardity will probably kill me.)

It never ceases to amaze me how I rise to certain occasions when the alternative seems too much trouble. It snowed again last night, a good four to five inches, and the snow has to be cleared somehow. Father, perhaps sensing the long winter still ahead, hurt his toe to get out of shoveling for the rest of the season. House Guest is conveniently absent. And due to the ridiculous amount of snow we've been having, all the gasoline has been used up, thus putting the snow blower out of commission. Father proposed that I call either House Guest to come pick up containers (I would walk them down to the end of the driveway for her), buy gasoline, drop it back off here where I would use the snow blower, or that I shovel the driveway just enough to get one car out to go buy gasoline for the blower. They both seemed too complicated so I chose the alternative: shovel the entire monster by myself. All five inches of wet snow (fluffy, dry texture my foot, bloody meteorologist) on our long, hilly driveway, and that extra little patch on the side. I can't quite feel my arms anymore, but whatever, it's not like I need them for anything.

December, 1963

A lot went down last night. To start off, I got a hair cut in Chinatown and overtipped. Then called mother to see if she wanted me to pick up some pastries. "Um, pastries sound good, but could you bring dinner? And pick up some groceries, too?" So I gave all that I had, every bit of cash and soul left in me, to Chinatown. For $60 I got: a hair cut, generous tip, 2 dinner boxes, 1 sandwich, 1 bok choy, 6 small custards (dan-ta), 3 pieces of bread, and 1 cup of milk tea with pearls. Then I went home. Ate dinner. And was scolded by my mom for not putting my sneakers away like I should. Then to really teach me a lesson, Father hurt his toe trying to avoid them. He actually fractured one. At the inopportune hour of 10:30PM. The break garnered a trip to the ER in slick snow. There in the ER, we saw a group of BU students with four separate cases of skiing and snowboard injuries among them. All within a span of an hour. Which led me to believe that what those BC kids say about them is true. Or maybe it's the other way around. I forget. I just like looking down at people. Though that's becoming very hard because I'm le tired and having trouble keeping my eyes open at all.

Calvin Klein

Most people take the fonts that they're given in life and use it without complaint. (Except some ASB leaders last year who decreed Times New Roman to be "so 1990's.") Most people have better things to occupy their minds than word processing fonts. I am not like most people. I've always preferred Garamond, also a favorite of Mac and the Band Man, whose emails and hand outs were almost always in Garamond. It just looks so classy. And lets you get away with going over the word limit.

Yesterday, I discovered that Whitecastle is also not like most people. Indeed, not only does he have a preferred font, he takes things to a whole new level.

Moi: How can Century Gothic be your favorite font? It's so cartoony.

Whitecastle: You think it's too bubbly? Well, Helvetica is actually my favorite. Then Century Gothic.

Moi: I like Garamond.

Whitecastle: That's too old school for me. If you don't like them, use Arial [for my figures]. It's Helvetica, Century Gothic, then Arial.

(later)
Jen (summarizing for the rest of you): It's not just that he has a hierarchy of three favorite fonts, but he actually has opinions about fonts he dislikes as well? That's so-

Obsessive. It's just a leetle bit obsessive.

And the Bandits as Well

Dear Smokers Lined Outside the Station:
My lung hates you.
(But my heart hopes that you are staying warm in the cold.)

Sincerely,

Second Hand

Crest Fallen

Claire says that when she comes home from the UK she buys Crest toothpaste. There's something about Crest that other toothpastes can't replicate. Crest, please sponsor me. I'm in a sell-out mood today. Earlier, I suggested we go to Big Gulp and Subway for sponsorship so we could get more heart attack people in our study.

I like to talk to drunk people about my Scottish heritage, because it's funny when they follow. When I talk to sober people about my Scottish heritage, it just makes me feel sad when they look at me with earnest eyes. The facts of the case are these: (1) The people I work with know that I am Taiwanese (well, one still thinks I'm from China). (2) That I used to live in Taiwan and went back to visit in October. (3) That I was not an American citizen until recently. (4) That my grandparents live in Taiwan. (5) Lee is a very common name.

You would think that the people I work with would be able to piece these together, along with my (apparently) extremely Chinese face, to know that I am indeed not descended from a warrior clan of Scottish highlanders, despite my key chain with a Lee crest. You would be incredibly wrong. My key chain came up in conversation today but after 10 minutes of going on about "my heritage," I had to pull the plug and shut the whole thing down myself. There was just no fun in it for me when people are so wholehearted convinced that I'm Scottish. Tomorrow, I tell everyone I'm an archery champ who bumped Geena Davis out of the Olympics in 1999. And that I make films under the name Alan Smithee.

Tuesday's Child

For every hilarious story of a little boy up to no good, well-behaved little girl that sits next to me in church, and every video of his son Doc Query puts on youtube, for every Christopher, Jeffrey, Nora, Max, Elise, Ava, and James- there's riding on the same train on a snowy Friday afternoon with hundreds of parents and children after High School Musical 2 On Ice has just been let out, going to the supermarket on a Saturday afternoon, and well- that's about all I need, to remind me that no, no no no, and phew. Kids and me, we can keep our distance for quite awhile.

Three Things That Have Nothing To Do With Each Other:

1. A giant trap.

Moi: He's probably in his thirties? Like you-ish?

Nice Doc: You think I'm in my thirties?

Moi: ...yes? No? Everyone over 25 is pretty much old and the same in my book.

(And in I went through the hole, though Nice Doc already dug most of it for me. And turns out, he totally is in his thirties. Less nice doc than sneaky bastard in that encounter...)

2. A critique.

Regarding Doc Stat's three-year-old daughter's make-believe hero, Broccoli Lucky, Doc-to-Be said: That's just silly. You should've told her that that's redundant. A broccoli is already lucky.

3. A thought.

Moi: If I was simultaneously smart and Britney Spears, I'd do things so differently. [I unveil brilliant real estate plan.]

Lisa: I think that's an oxymoron. (too easy, but whatever)

If I Did They'd Have a Samurai

It's been a week of sparse entries (due mostly to return of parental units and me falling under the addiction of websudoku, which is like crack, but much less rewarding) but certainly not dull moments. For one thing, I got my first journal rejection! From JAMA, of all places (we're working our way day). Surprisingly, the whole process makes me feel smart and legit. Whitecastle, being the first author and one who has had dozens more publications, does not feel that way. He has a few choice words for the editors. I'm just happy that this wasn't in our rejection letter. Someone else in the division got this:

"...Although the reviewers and editors [FILL IN SOMETHING POSITIVE], we regret to inform you that the manuscript cannot be considered further for publication in the journal."

My proudest moment of the week: An email from Doc Query that said simply "I also like creamed corn." I'd snuck in a few random lines among the hundreds of pages of literature (some from as far as Tehran) I'd scanned for him- a picture of Albi, the racist dragon*; the prediction "you will find love on Flag Day*," and my favorite, a blank page that said "I like creamed corn." I wasn't sure if it was kosher to do so, but I guess it's OK.

And because Newton's Third Law says that every proud moment has to be yanked down, and trampled, not-so-encouraging moment of the week:

Supervisor: (explaining how she divides projects between Jen and me) It depends on commitments, interests, nature of the request, all sorts of things. And sometimes, I lose track and assign it to the wrong person.

Moi: But there are only two of us!

Supervisor: I know.

*Props for allusion recognition, you little nerds.

Through the Looking Glass

I look Chinese. I'm not being facetious when I say this. But I look very much Chinese. Bear with me, white people, let me speak in your terms. You know how sometimes just by looks you can tell if someone is European, especially eastern European? It's like that. And apparently, I exude Chineseness. Much more so than other people in my family.

Pretty much everywhere my mother has traveled, people have gone up to her and started speaking Korean, assuming that she too, is Korean. And my brother? Even when we were growing up in Taiwan, something about his penchant for dancing, singing, and talking made people ask, "Is he American?" As for me? Chinese. I'm not upset by this because I am Chinese and damn proud to be Taiwanese. But you have no idea how often people come up to me and start asking in Chinese if I'm Chinese. It happened again tonight. And no, white people, this does not happen to every Asian. This doesn't even happen to my parents (Dad: On the China Airline flight home, they kept speaking to me in English. They spoke to everyone around me in Chinese, and even after I responded in Chinese, they kept on speaking English to me. Isn't that the strangest thing? Moi: What? They always speak to me in Chinese. They'd speak to all the other kids in English but speak to me in Chinese!) There is something about the way I dress or carry myself that says Chinese instead of America-born-Chinese. If someone could point out what that something is, I'd be glad to know.

Can of Worms

Parents are now home for the first time in six months.  Stayed up late last night to greet them and as result, am very tired this morning.  So tired that I tried to put mouthwash in my hair.  Can't believe I'm allowed to drive in this condition.

Also, Mother may have bought me the greatest shirt ever.  Perhaps pictures shall come later, but for now, know that it has the words Double Cheeseburger. 

Dental Notes

The few of you that know me well in this world know that I abhor dentists. It's beyond dislike. It's a visceral instinct of Pavlovian fear and loathing built over my entire child and early adulthood. I have the scars on my teeth to show for it. And the copious notes that the dentists leave to themselves. In six months, however, this may all change.

I have a new dentist, Dr. Ted Lee. I've been in his practice for years, but for years I had an evil doctor that detested me almost as much as I her, which is unfair because despite my sensitive gag reflex, my teeth probably put her kid through four years at a private college. Dr. Lee, on the other hand, is much nicer. Despite the fact that I share the same name with her daughter and that that fact has been commented on every single time I've been to his practice for the past seven years. For one thing, he has not told me that I've had a cavity and I've seen him twice. He also really takes care of poor pastors. And pretends to believe me when I say I floss every night. Today, he talked about an art exhibit he saw in my town as he poked at me with sharp instruments and spoke to me in Chinglish, my preferred language. I'm not quite ready to say that the bad blood between dentists and me are over just because I had two good visits, but check back with me at my next appointment in six months, we'll see how things go from there.

Here's to You, George Washington

Today is President's Day and my parents are coming back tomorrow. Before the end of the day I have to pick up groceries, toiletries, flowers, new linens, and have my teeth cleaned at the dentist. Then come home to cook, clean, then clean some more, then clean a lot more because I've really let the house go. You could call this The Worst day Ever.

As I'm typing all this, my house mate is watching daytime television. I guess she watches it pretty often. There's a lot of over enunciating on daytime TV. And a lot of screaming from the audience.

Hey, did you know that Morning Edition and All Things Considered are the 2nd and 4th most listened to radio shows in the US? Despite all the screaming women on TV, there's hope for us yet.

Nerd Like Me

I've been a geek long enough to know that there are some friends with whom it's not OK to talk about NPR, or that if we do, it'd be a one-ended discussion. There are some friends who you share word plays with, some you quote Simpsons with, and some you don't do either with, because they're too cool for all that and in general, too cool for me. I still remember a clashing-of-worlds moment awhile ago, when Leash and I were talking about scrabble, boggle, and Trivia Pursuit. I turned to Alex and asked "What nerdy games do you play?" And she said, in the most gentle manner possible, "We... don't play any of that. We go out dancing." And it's because of the awkward silence that followed that I generally police my own geekitude. But sometimes, things just slip out...

At dinner, Alex brings up that the Chronicles of Narnia sequel is coming out this summer and Jared comments that it'll coincide with the much more with the exciting Indiana Jones sequel (trailer now out! Not that I watched it or anything)...

Moi: Yeah, that's also when X-files 2 is coming out. Wait, was that geeky of me? You guys probably don't watch that, huh?

Jared: X-files? Like Mulder, and Scully?"

Moi: Yeah... I mean, not that I know or anything...

Alex: Mulder and Scully are coming back!?

Jared: The first one was so good!

Moi: Wait, you watch it, too? And you-?

(much squealing and excited rambling on the part of both Jared and Alex)

Alex: Oh my God, we have to see that, all of us! Together!


And suddenly, I pitied their excitement. It all seemed so eager... so needy. I don't know. I think I might be too cool for them.

Wicked Pisser

I had a perfect night last night. The plan was to grab a leisurely dinner and a movie with friends, but we never made it to the movie. Alex, despite having lived in many cities, despite her knowledge of many countries, and despite the fact that she's going to single handedly bring about world peace in a few years, had trouble navigating the streets of Boston. I called her at least thirty times in a span of as many minutes, trying to figure out just why it took her so long to get from the Park Street to Boylston stops. (It's a straight line, if you walked it, you'd get there in a minute and wouldn't cross any streets.) But alas, we all made it to Dong Khanh in one frozen piece, where we ate, lingered, then lingered some more. Alex made me order for the table, then gamely ate everything. Jared ate nothing. It's not really his fault, though. Cheap food can kill Jared. Afterward dinner, we caught a Chinese cafe as it was about to close. The ladies there were eager to sell off what still remained and kept pushing buns and rolls toward us. Every second we hesitated made them think we were driving a hard bargain, so that Alex walked away with two mini-mooncakes, four coconut rolls, and some other random piece of bread, all for $3.

I've got lots of things going on to stress about now, lots of things to think about, lots of things to do, but last night, just slowly eating with a couple of good friends, rolling with whatever surprises came up, was just perfect.

Plus, the apparently remarkable speed with which I pee was once again noted and commented upon, which was as odd as it was edifying. I may be shorter and more stupid than you are, but by God, I will pee faster than you, anytime, anywhere.

Time and Place

Today's entry- a comic strip! Without the humor! Or the graphic drama. It's entitled "I Got Told." Or "Put in Place." Or some variant of your choosing.

Scone Scorned

Ranwei Ranwei Ranwei.  (that was for kicks.  Hi, Ranwei.)

More often than not, if something tastes moldy, it's because it is moldy.  Was eating my morning scone this morning when I thought something was amiss.  For some reason I chose to attribute that to the lemon rinds in the scone because I couldn't figure out why else it would taste moldy.  Until I looked down and saw mold.  Oh. 

On the bright side, I marched into Stop & Shop and got my money back without hassel.  (I'd bought the scones a couple of days ago but its sell by date is today).  I even made a penny in the process because they figured it was easier to give $4.00 back than $3.99.  Which also means that I ate the first few scones for free.  Another bright spot: Doc Nice assured me that I would not die.  Ever.  Fine, he said I wouldn't die from mold, whatever.  On the downside, I have to start buying the expensive JP Licks scones again instead of the cheap surpermarket kind.  And Doc Nice's name doesn't fit like a glove. 

Thin Red Line

Ignorant. Racist. Or a mixture of both. It's always a damn fine line. How am I supposed to tell what people are?

Monkeying Around

Note to self:  When at work, please try harder to hold onto what little dignity you have left, or at least try to spend it more sparingly.  Despite whatever rapport you might think you have with the doctors you work with, some stories do not need to be told.  Like the leftover school lunch stoop sandwich for lunch story.  Doc Query gave me quite a skeptical, "I'm trying to hid the fact that I think she's crazy, but my face isn't cooperating" look yesterday when I overshared.  The crop of people in the division who think I'm normal and not stupid grow slimmer by the day.

Lisa, on the other hand, is one of the brightest people I know.  And probably works with people who think she's smart.  Yesterday, I was trying to figure out the identity of monkeyschwimmer (name x-ized to protect identity) on my aim buddy list and went to Lisa for help.  Being the logical person that she is, Lisa thought about this methodically and asked, "Well, who likes monkeys?"


Breaking news:  Just overheard from adjacent cubicle- "My pants are still wet from this morning."  Perhaps I'm not the worst oversharer in the division.  Or the most special, for that matter.

ET- Just Write

I went to high school with a girl named Bruno who hated talking on the phone.  It was always her friends calling to make plans and not her.  One day, she had a phone interview, which is one of the worst things ever, and the interviewer thought she went to a private school and lived in a dorm.  Bruno did not correct him, but let him ask questions about her roommate.  And we all laughed at Bruno for it.  But today, I think, you are not so crazy, Bruno.  I have come to resent the phone.  I abhor work phone calls.  I'm waiting to hear back from someone right now and cannot stand sitting still at my desk.  Can't we all be as passive and confrontational-averse as I am?  Wouldn't the world go much smoother if we talked things out... over email?  Or a series of one-sided voicemail messages?  I know.  I am a wimp.  And one day I will get over it.  In the meanwhile, I am waiting and shaking at my desk.

In completely unrelated news, last night, I hung around Cambridge instead of face the snow, ice, and music waiting for me in the suburbs.  Called Ellie the Delinquent up and miracle of miracles, she's available for dinner... for her roommate (also lyfer and Bo' alum, so I we go way back) Priscilla's birthday dinner.  Yeah.  I half-invited myself to a sort of intimate birthday dinner.  I'm sort of a bad friend.  And had to wait for the waitress to grab an extra chair (Ranwei: Oh, you can just stand and serve us).  But boy were the dinner and company great.  I make an excellent birthday present.

Everyone, root for Dusty! 

Three Ways in which I Could Be in Danger

-I found three chicken parm sandwiches on my front stoop last night.  I am assuming it was left by our awesome family friend who works at the high school a block away.  So I am also assuming it's safe to eat.  And that I won't die after I have it for lunch.  I know that there's maybe just one person reading these lonely words right now, but that makes your task all the greater, faithful reader.  Please do not click away!  I am entrusting my life into your hands.  If I should fall ill, you have to get my story out.  Tell my mom that I love her.  Tell them that it was the chicken parm.

-Every morning, I pass an SUV with large County Sheriff decals in the parking garage.  And every morning, it worries me a little that the Sheriff is not in town.  Or if he or she is, the sheriff is separated by his or her vehicle.  Aren't law enforcement officials supposed to stay put in the towns they serve?  And yet the sheriff leaves the car unattended each morning, presumably heading toward Boston.

-North Station is undergoing lots of construction as of late.  They're redoing walls and adding a couple of new vendors, including a new Dunkin Donuts.  This isn't "new Dunkin in town" ridiculous, where the new one is down the street from the old one, within a minute's drive.  This brings ridiculous to a whole new level as the new one is maybe fifty paces from the old one.  And I have little feet!   It's in the same building and on the same floor.  And yet, this isn't the most absurd thing about the new construction.  The prize goes to the lack of separation between construction and non-construction sites.  Sometimes, they put up a tarp.  But most often, they don't.  So that for weeks now, hordes of commuters file past construction workers in helmets and face masks who are diligently at work and protected from dust and blunt objects, even as debris flies all around us.  Dear Construction Manager of North Station- my eyes are very sensitive to dust and my head to anything heavy and/or sharp.  Please do more to keep me safe.  Thank you.

Game On

The past two days have been a whirlwind of goodness and hilarity. I found a small ziplock bag of spaghetti in sauce on a counter at work. And then a pair of shoes at the T stop. And this here toilet seat.

All three discoveries beg the questions huh, why, and how? The three questions that make my world go round. If life was a video game, these events would all amount to a ridiculous number of bonus points. And I'd probably grow an inch. I'd get points taken away, however, for saying stupid things at work (not funny, just stupid), the fact that I can't shake the habit of entering 04011 any time someone asks for a zip code, and for this here next story, which I'd like to entitle "In Which I Learn To Shut Up."

The names of everyone involved have been changed due to the sensitivity of the story. As brunch (+150 for me, being my idea, +100 everyone else) ended yesterday, we stood outside talking about our plans for the day. Lisa had tentative plans to hang out with Kalyn that night (+15 for her). While Brandon had tentative plans for dinner with Caroline (+15). So they both called up their respective friends to check plans, leaving Leash and I to stand there and chat about going to the Boston Public Library (-20 each)-- where we so did end up, because we're classy (+40 for me, +50 for Leash, who got a library card).

Kalyn did not pick up Lisa's call (-20). And Caroline did not pick up Brandon's (-20). Even though he called twice (-20). So I joked that Caroline was probably screening her calls. And that if Lisa called, Caroline would probably pick up. This is the part of the story where people usually laugh (+15 for me, +5 everyone else) and stop. I do not expect people to go along with my stupid ideas (-5). But something possessed Lisa yesterday, and she actually called Caroline as we all wait around nervously, hoping Caroline doesn't pick up (+20 for balls, -20 for stupidity).

But oh, she did! Caroline really was screening her calls (-30 for Brandon). Which put everyone involved is put in an awkward position, especially Lisa (-20), who could not say, "I called to see if you were screening Brandon's calls." So Lisa was forced to pretend she wanted to invite Caroline to hang out with her and Kalyn (+15 for thinking on her feet). Caroline does not say yes or no to the invite, but that she's not sure what she's doing tonight and she'll call back later, burning both Lisa and Brandon in the process (-20 each). And as all this was going on, Leash, Brandon, and I just stood there, shocked speechless, alternating between fits of laughter and feeling really, really sorry (-50 for bad idea, +5 each for laughing). Greatest surprise ending to brunch ever (+20,000).

If life was a video game...

Moi: brunch + 20,000 + shoes + toilet + spaghetti - being stupid - 04011 ... 19,822

Leash: 140 Lisa: 75 Brandon: 55

I rock at my video game of life.

Great White by any Other Name

This isn't much. Just a scene from my daily commute. Had one of the best naps in a long while today on the commuter rail. Also had one of my best meals in awhile. Not on the commuter rail, but at brunch with Bo' friends, the way Saturdays are meant to be enjoyed. It was the food, though, that made it excellent and not the company. Don't get me wrong, the company was peaches, but I see these kids often enough. I do not see spectacular home fries or plantain empanadas or well-executed scrambles enough. Brunch today and dinner last night taught me a valuable lesson: you can't judge a restaurant on how funny the name is. Laughter does not produce culinary delight. Good cooking does.

Last night, Lenny and I finally checked out the kebab joint Moby Dick Boston. The name was both confusing and hilarious (it was even funnier when we thought it was The Moby Dick of Boston, as the sign had suggested). As was the sketchy (lack of) decor and strict cash-only policy. The intimidating staff. And the half hidden menu. What was not hilarious was the food, especially the "salad." I kept trying to explain to Lenny that it was just pale lettuce leaves with ranch dressing that cheated me out of two dollars but she kept on insisting that I was just saying that as some sort of elaborate ruse to get her eat my vegetables for me. And maybe I was. But she shouldn't have been so accusatory.

Moi: I'm not pawning off my salad, I just want you to see that it's just ranch dressing! Plus, you should have some vegetables.

Lenny: Yeah? Try eating nothing but vegetables for seven years.

Moi: You were not a vegetarian for seven years. (I should know, I wrote a college essay on it) Have I even known you for seven years?

Lenny: I've known you since the eighth grade!

Since when did the eighth grade become a marker for a time long, long ago? And since when did something we did in high school become seven years ago? Somebody is not doing their math right. And it can't be me. I have a sudoku sheet to prove it.

Modern Major General

*

Check it, my well-rounded brilliance. I finished all three levels of sudoku and the crossword all within the same train ride. Impressive smarts and speed, I'll say. I can put up a good fight in spelling games but crosswords tripped me up for years. Until now. Thanks to the low expectations BostonNow has of their readers, I have overcome this handicap and there's nowhere that my superior intellect can't take me.


*Please don't stare at the page too carefully. I'm sure it's rife with mistakes. But at least all the boxes are filled with letters, eh? One day at a time. One day at a time.

Not on Bread Alone

It's well understood within the division that any food left on the kitchen counter signifies that it's unwanted and free for the taking.  Chocolates and patries are not uncommon appearances.  Today around lunch, however, there stood on the counter (ok, sandwiches can't stand, so it actually sat) was one lone sandwich on a plate. 

An hour later, it somehow became just a top piece of bread on the same plate.

Somebody went through the effort of separating the sandwich, putting most of it on a new plate, and leaving behind the top piece of bread.  That seems like a lot of effort.  Which begs the question... WHY?  How is that ever easier than taking the whole sandwich?  Who's going to take the bread now?  I work with supposedly brilliant people, not just the docs, but everyone here, but... why?  What- huh?  This reminds me of the story of the stolen lunch meat, which is to say, it makes me happy.

CongRats

For the most part, my work is menial and unglamorous. On a good day, I might get to do a lit search or build a database, or if I'm lucky, do some thinking and basic data analysis. On many days, however, I make copies, play with clipart, and make pretty graphs. But one thing I love about working in my division, other than the fact that there are only 1.5 people I would not want to get stuck in an elevator with in the whole division, is that they allow me to unleash my crazies once in awhile. In the form of a hand turkey contest. Or a Donatello figurine on my desk. Or random notes on the cookies I bring into work. And the best part is, the unleashing of crazies is reciprocal. Today, I mentioned to the division that it is customary for elders and superiors to give youngsters/their subordinates red envelopes stuffed with cash during Chinese New Year, the way one just casually mentions to one's superiors on Chinese New Year. And this afternoon, I found an envelope on my desk from Query. An interdepartmental envelope outlined in red and stuffed with pictures of Johnny Cash. Best/worst red envelope ever. Much better than the corrections in red that Whitecastle left (he said "it's no envelope, but it's red and it's the thought that counts;" I'm not sure that flies).

Gauzy Logic

I know, entries get boring when instead of traveling and drinking cow penis wine, I comment on current events. Just let me get this off my chest, ok, Judgie McJudge? This whole Clemens steroid thing, in part thanks to Bo' alum Mitchell (go U bears!) is sad and ridiculous for everyone involved. But now this trainer guy says he's got Clemens' bloody gauze pads and syringes from something like seven years ago- regardless of whatever, anybody else think that's sort of gross and unsanitary? No? Anyone? Bueller? I mean, when I was young and stupid, I once tried to start a band-aid collection, but my dad put an end to it and showed me just how disgusting that was. And I had to throw my collection away. Now here this guy is allowed to have both bloody gauze and syringes? How is that possibly fair?

Engaged and Overage

I exercised my greatest civic duty last night and voted for the very first time.  I was really surprised that there were no levers to pull or screens to tap, just paper and a black marker.  Is it supposed to be that low-tech and easy?  Can't help but feel that I voted wrong somehow.  I had to talk myself into going.  I am equally optimistic and cynical of two candidates, and did not much want to vote either way.  But I figured voting buys me the right to complain about what the government brings my way the next four years (though I believe people who don't vote also have that right).  The lady checking me in happened to be our old neighbor (because she's both elderly and no longer our neighbor), Barbara, who exclaimed, "Oh, you can't vote, dear, you're too young!"  I loved Barbara just a little bit for that. 

Overheard some folks on the train today, including a man whose middle name is Alan.  His brother's middle name is Allen.  Or vice versa.  But the names have no family significance.  His mom just liked the name, but not enough to give it to either boy as a first name.  Isn't that just an odd little anecdote?  It's not funny ha-ha, but I'm sure it'll have its use one day.

Blood sounds like a badass rogue journal.  I'd read it over Placenta any day.

Countess of Countway

I used to adore library duty, and I fully expect my fondness of the job to return in a few days.  But lately, I've been visiting too much for a literature search run that just will not end.  I've been here so often that people now regularly ask me for directions, I notice when someone is not a regular, and I know where the secret stash of trashy magazines are (trash as in Us Weekly, no Maxim, as Killer was disappointed to find out- for some reason they are not on the reading room shelves next to People en Espanol, but are scattered randomly throughout L1), and I have seen every medical journal title imaginable.  There are plenty of morbid and obscure ones, sure, and publications of every medical society from every nation, but the journal that takes the cake is the succinctly named Placenta.  I don't ever want to read anything from Placenta.

Even with my patience for library duty running thin, there is still one thing I love about coming here: I can blog in peace (until someone discovers this and fires me, that is).

Wrong and Right

Regarding what was wrong with the article a couple of entries down, I wasn't thinking grammar. But the fact that the college administrator was at a Bermuda resort every three weeks or so. And that the waiter's "attentiveness and amiable manner" caught her eye. I think there's also something weird about giving someone a four-year tuition for being a really good server. I get that this is a heart-warming human interest story and that this is a great opportunity the administrator is giving her waiter and yes, it's a gift and not entitlement, so they can give whatever they want however arbitrarily. But something about the way the story is angled, of the best server being granted an opportunity, seems off to me. Is he only worthy because he's most subservient? Are the other waiters less worthy, do they not have hardships? And was he actually the best, was that really what caught the administrator's eyes, the administrator who frequents resorts? It's not that I'm not happy for him, it's that the cynic in me doesn't like how the power dynamics work in the story and how the papers are structuring it.

But Fear Itself

Moi: Can you not tell her that I told you?

Whitecastle: You know, it's not good to be afraid of your boss.

Moi: But they always threaten to fire me (actually, only he has... and Keith. And Paul. And Seames.)

Whitecastle: Well, I'm her boss.

Moi: Can you threaten her not to fire me?

Whitecastle: No. I'm afraid of her, too.

The Difference Between Right and Wrong

Today's entry is an interactive one.  Which means that you should comment.  Though I know that you will probably disappoint me.  How many things wrong can you find with the two paragraphs below?  I can think of three right now, but I'm sure more will come to me.  What's catching your eye?

Two years ago, Marvin Burchall was working the lunch shift at a luxury beachside hotel in his native Bermuda when he waited on an administrator from Endicott College, just north of Boston. To him, Lynn Bak was just another customer, another tourist visiting the island getaway. But Burchall's service was impeccable, and his attentiveness and amiable manner caught Bak's eye.

Bak, who coordinates Endicott's School of International Education in Bermuda and stays at the Elbow Beach Bermuda resort every three weeks or so, gradually got to know Burchall, a 23-year-old who had dropped out of college during his sophomore year to work at the hotel.

(She then offered the waiter a 4-year, full scholarship to Endicott, you can read the whole article at Boston.com.  I'm not linking it 'cause I hate Boston.com.)

The Fish and the Cookies

Yesterday afternoon, the weather was dreadful on the outside and inside, it was pretty meh as well. It's Friday afternoon and everyone is busy. A perfect time, I thought, to reward ourselves with cookies. I picked up three from the JP Licks downstairs, thinking I'd have maybe half or a whole one to myself and share the rest with my fellow research assistants who were covering phone duty for me. But some people apparently have the self-control to refrain from cookies. I'm normally not a huge fan of cookies myself, but these smelled delectable. And since the folks on either side of my cubicle said no, I moved onto the next cubicle after Jen's and offered my cookie there. And to the next cube. And so on, even stopping in our chief's office. Everyone took a little piece here and there, and while everyone was genuinely pleased by the cookies, the cookies just would not go away. I walked all the way around the division, eventually sharing 2.5 cookies (I had half myself) with seven other people. Everyone was pleased to have them, that is, except for the last two to get them, who just happened to be my Supervisor and Whitecastle, respectively. Supervisor first commented that the fact she was one of the last to receive the cookie would go into my annual review but took the comment back when she realized that I had her favorite cookie flavor, oatmeal butterscotch (I know, what kind of flavor is that?). And Whitecastle? He was less vindictive but suspicious...

Moi: Would you like a quarter of a cookie?

Whitecastle: Depends where it has been.

Moi: Around the division. Nobody would take a whole one so there's still a quarter left- oh, I mean, um, you are totally my first choice...

Whitecastle: Yeah, give it to me after three quarters are gone. Very nice.

Moi: I'm giving you a free cookie!

Whitecastle: Should I swab this and test it first?

Moi: Sure, whatever. I'm not eating that thing.

If I'm comparing the cookies to the fish and the loaves, does that make me Jesus? Why, I think it might.

Say BOO

Dear People in the Medical Library:
  I am sorry I have the hiccups.  I can't help it, OK?  And if you could help it, you probably wouldn't be studying in the medical library, would you?  So stop your silent judging.

Sincerely,

My Way is the Airway

Throw Mama

I hopped onto a moving train yesterday. It was fun. Sure, it was just leaving the station and there were no hostages to be rescued on board, but hey, I don't see you jumping onto moving trains lately.

And today? I used a copier today that also served as a scanner from which I could email myself what I scan into the machine. Golly bee, what will they think of next? It has been so long since I've marveled at the simple wonder that is a xerox machine and so long since I've enjoyed myself making perfectly straight copies of just the right tone. And to do all that today plus email myself journal articles from the copier- well, I don't know what I want to be when I grow up, or what tests I should be preparing myself for, but all is well because I know that tomorrow morning, I'm going to wake up, go back to the medical library, and make copies. I cannot wait. And hope this task never ends.

In our Snippy Segment du Jour: Whitecastle thinks Quizno commercials slamming his Subway subs are "stupid."

Talk Fresh

Sometimes, my brain just can't hold enough in there to think of small talk, so when I see people in the hallway, I just don't say anything and smile. Sometimes that makes things awkward. Sometimes I come off as unfriendly. But sometimes the silence drives people to talk in awesome ways.

So I'm walking to get water for my tea and see Whitecastle going into his office, a Subway sub in hand. I just saw him five minutes ago and don't have anything new to say, so I just look at him and...

Whitecastle: OK. I know it's not healthy but it worked for that guy-

Moi: Jared?

Whitecastle: Yeah, Jared. It worked for him.

Moi: What? I'm not judging your lunch.

Whitecastle: I'm a doctor. I'm two times a doctor. I say it's OK to eat this!

Sea Billows a-Rolling

How does that song go again? When peace like a river, blah, blah, blah blah blah...

IT IS WELL (it is well)*

WITH MY SOUL (with my soul)

It is well- it is well-

with my soul.

Oh, it is definitely well with my soul. I just won a fabulous game of scrabulous against one Doc Query. By 99 points. That's right. My little BA outscored the JDMDMPH in the game of letters. If only he wasn't so damn nice about it, the win would feel more victorious. But no, he's all gracious and supportive and crap. Don't people have fight in them anymore?


*Traditional hymn lyrics may or may not have been taken out of context to fit my own twisted purposes...

Informed Consent

I'm skipping the State of the Union address tonight and watching the first season of Friday Night Lights instead. One night a year, they interrupt TV and for years now, I've watched the president speak because I felt that I ought to, as an informed citizen and someone who wanted to keep up appearances of being relatively smart. Well, I'm not letting them get in the way of my TV tonight. And I figure the Times and NPR will tell me how I should think tomorrow morning, so why bother sitting through all that clapping.

Don't make me feel guilty about this now.

How He Move

I do not cry watching chick flicks. I roll my eyes at Oprah. And ignore inspirational must-reads. But there's one thing I'm a sucker for, and that's your formulaic dance movie. Be they stepping, breaking, or krumping, so long as there's a loose storyline surrounding lots of young people moving to rhythm, I'm there cheering for them. Just saw How She Move with Jenny tonight and have already made plans to watch Step It Up II in a month or so. The sequel to You Got Served should also be coming this year and I cannot wait.

Speaking of people who can't contain themselves (one of these days, I will need to start writing papers again and also start using proper transitions again), Pastor Paul was one eager greeter this morning. Apparently, there's this man in our church, Eddie*, who has a very shiny bald head. Apparently, Pastor Paul liked to mock this fact by rubbing his head whenever he saw him. Some pastors wash other people's feet, and I guess some just rub their heads. This morning, Pastor Paul spotted the bald head and, per usual, gave it a vigorous rub. Then the man turned around. And Pastor Paul realized it wasn't Eddie.

It was a first-time visitor. "You guys are real friendly here, huh?" was the stranger's response.

It takes a special man of God to run his hand through someone else's bare head. And it takes someone even more special to do it to a stranger and then admit it to his whole church in the second service. Best sermon opener ever.

*Not his actual name. I'm not protecting his identity. I just don't remember.

No Rest for the Weary

On Friday, a few of us in the division went out to lunch to celebrate a co-worker's last day with us (not because we're glad she's leaving, but because she's doing something cool). Understandably, lunch went a little long, and when we were coming back from lunch, fellow research assistant Jen and I were a few steps behind, so we caught the elevator with Whitecastle, who was not coming back from a late lunch, but from winning an award, as it sometimes happens to him...

Whitecastle: Nice, leisurely lunch, huh?

Moi: Yeah... oh, it's 2:10 already? Wm... we didn't leave for lunch until 2pm...

(Everyone in the elevator gives me a "nice try" look)

Kind Stranger: Well, it is Friday afternoon.

Whitecastle: That is not OK. These kids shouldn't even be having lunch. You've got to work them hard. It's the only way they'll learn.

But while I'm mocked and starved at work, at least I know that I can go home again, and family will always greet me with love...

(On the phone with Father)

Father: You need to take my car, drive it into the driveway, and let it just run for awhile. But you can't do this in the garage, OK?

Moi: Because it'll kill me?

Father: Hey! You do know some things after all. Good for you.

Like Father

Overheard this adorable itty bitty girl today, no more than three years old, talking to her father:

Girl: Daddy, you're so funny.

Father: I ain't funny. You're funny looking.

Girl: No, I'm not!

Father: We all funny looking.


That's right, sir, we all funny looking.

Conundrum, Query, and Teaser

Three questions of the day.

Morning: Am I dying or is the office wicked cold? My toes are numb, fingers shaking, and goosebumps standing to attention*.

Afternoon: Is it wrong that I find it funny that the British term for 'slow-release,' as in slow-release pills, is retard? So that in the UK, people take retard pills?

Evening: Hot Cheeto's, where have you been my whole life?



*In case you're worried, turns out, I'm not dying. The air was gelid and everyone felt the chill. I am actually afraid to go into work tomorrow.

Go Tell It on a Mountain, Quickly Now

I wanted to celebrate DrMLKJr day by doing lots of clapping and frenetic singing of songs like This Little Light of Mine and Oh Freedom, but couldn't find the right venue at the right time. So instead, Amy and I went to listen to a forum commemorating the desegregation of the University of Alabama in 1963, the last university to do so. It was pretty cool to hear from the man who actually entered the school that day, as well as from Kennedy's old speech writers and advisers. But it all would've been a lot cooler had the event taken say, 10 years ago, while the players involved still remembered what they did. Old people apparently talk slowly, excessively, and aimlessly This is pretty much what happened for 90 minutes today:

Moderator: Sir, you [did a lot of extraordinary things- be it challenge the University, direct the removal of Governor Wallace, or craft Kennedy's speech that framed the civil rights movement as a moral issue], could you tell us what you were feeling during this momentous event in 1963?

Panelist: I... don't... really... remember. It... all... happened... so long ago. But I did... write... about it... in my memoir, so let me paraphrase a passage. Then... I will... talk for ten minutes... about something else.

But it was all OK at the end because Amy took me to the best falafel place in Quincy (are there many? I don't know) where I had the best beef-lamb sandwich (sic) I'd ever had. It was actually the first time I'd had beef-lamb. Even know, I'm not sure what beef-lamb is. But it was tasty and lamb-y.

Reality Bites

It appears that I have not written in a few days. It's not that I didn't want to, y'all. I just have no idea what to say and no time to say it. That's mainly because of a packed couple of weeks of social engagements, intense scrabulous games (losing to a doctor in close games is one thing, but getting whupped by a British girl in American scrabble? I've been in a funk about this for days now), and/or anti-social Netflix-ing on my lonely living room couch. It's at least two out of the three. Here are some other things that went down last week:

It snowed twice. I knew where Bloemfontein was when Regis mentioned it because I'd been playing that geography quiz all week long (I also know a lot of other things about Regis in South Africa now, so suck it people who don't have the same birthday as him!).

I was gracious when Killer got us lost and took my first cab ride in Boston. Both personal breakthroughs. While I became a better person this week, I am still as inept as ever when it comes to using my cellphone. Left it at home again on a day I was supposed to meet up with people. Was 30 minutes late to meet Jared and then had to borrow his phone to hunt Alex down. And hang out with him way longer than anyone would ever want to (ah, I kid, I kid) just so I'd have a phone.

In work news, I distributed contraband sparklers around the office and discovered that eggplant parmigiana that is "grilled not fried" means it's "nasty not tasty." I saw an ad for casting calls for a new reality show looking for "competitive, type A, 'wicked successful'" types and thought of signing up my entire office. I settled for Whitecastle, but he was not nearly as amused as he should've been. He informed me that he was Type A- and not A and claimed that lots more people qualify than him. That's simply not true. Jess and I brainstormed other plans to televise him as he spent half of Friday talking to and yelling at the division printer. For reals, y'all, the man deserves his own show.

When I was a child...

...I spoke like A Trebek.  Discussing Power of 10 this morning-

Moi: (in a condescending voice)  Oh, I don't watch reality TV.

Whitecastle: But it's a game show, not reality TV.

Moi: The only game show I watch is Jeopardy.  I'm classy like that.  I don't do Drew Carey.

Whitecastle: (either completely ignoring or missing my sarcasm)  I used to watch Jeopardy when I was a kid like you.

Scent of a Hero

Every super hero needs a childhood trauma and special power.  Growing up in the streets of Sri Lanka, I smelt quite a bit of trauma.  Now in my later years, I have developed a nose of extraordinary abilities.  I first noticed the gift in eighth grade algebra, when I one day looked up and said, "I smell Tootsie Rolls, why do I smell Tootsie Rolls?"  And Tane Kobin, who sat in the next row, sighed, and removed a Tootsie Roll from his pocket.  "Fine, you can have this."  He'd won it as a prize, wanted to keep it a secret lest anyone ask for it, and thought I wanted his Tootsie Roll.  But I didn't.  I was just beginning to realize my power.  Now past forward past years of intensive scent training in the Shaolin Temples, to yesterday.  I'm in my cubicle and Jen is in hers, a thick barrier between us.  My nose starts tingling and I ask, "Do you smell cucumber?"  "How did you know I put cucumbers in my turkey sandwich?  They don't even smell."  Oh, they do to me.  If only I can use this to fight crime...

Unrelated note: Not to be a snob about this (who am I kidding?  I love being a snob.  I wish I could be one), but shouldn't every librarian know how to pronounce Capote?  It's pretty basic stuff.

Punch Drunk Stump

I promise this is the last photo with the candidates in New Hampshire. Here is how a drunken man recalls the commotion moments before Barack Obama's fist sailed toward my face (need to click to enlarge):
(Don't worry, as you can sort of see, I swatted away one arm with a flick of my left wrist, then I grabbed his fist with my right hand just seconds before it hit, twisted it, and brought him to his knees crying.)

Awash in Alums

Thank the Lord for addictive games.  Am now hooked on Travel IQ Challenge, which is both educational and intense.  And also reveals just how ignorant I am.

Thank the Lord for the bounty of Bo' alumni in the area.  They make life much easier.  On Sunday night, with a nor'easter brewing, I crashed at Lisa's place so I wouldn't have a treacherous commute the next morning.  Then last night, went with Killer to the Bo' Connections networking event, where we did not network (no one wanted to offer anything or even talk to us anyway.  "Networking events" are mostly opportunities for business/law folks to find interns for cheap and the rest of us to hang out.  Though we did dispense advice to seniors and even more eager underclassmen, who naively believed that we could help them.  There were even a few 2011's in the crowd- they didn't  make 11's when I went to school) but saw alums aplenty.  But since the food there was not aplenty, we all went out afterwards for food and drinks that did not cost $11 per glass.  The biggest tease was that it all felt so natural.  A group of us classmates, friends, and fellow Boston research assistants piling into a pub.  Except that it was a work night, so no one stayed past eleven.  And instead of heading to Supersnacks afterward, we all went home.  Well, people with reasonable commutes went home.  I crashed at Leash and Priscilla's.  They have an awesome futon, sketchy stain not withstanding.

Live Free or Sizzle

Did you know that, according to the Massachusetts Department of Fire Services, fireworks (sparklers included!) are "neither sane nor safe?" I do. Did you know that supermarkets in Massachusetts don't sell alcohol? I do (there are a few exceptional Trader Joe's). Which is why I got up early on Saturday morning to cross the border into New Hampshire, where I purchased both sparklers and wine. (There's a liquor store right in town where I picked up my beer, but their wine selection is actually smaller than that of the Nashua supermarket). And since my dad's church is based in Nashua, as I strolled the supermarket aisles with a bottle in each hand (one was non-alcoholic sparkling cider!) I had only one prayer: Lord, don't let me bump into anyone I know. And I avoided the gaze of every Asian I saw.

All in all, the trip was a tense and emotional roller coaster. At checkout, I had my ID and credit card out, ready to transact and run. But even though I offered my ID, the cashier only asked to see my credit card while checking out. Which pleased me at first. Then amused me. Then troubled me. Do I look so old that I don't need to be ID'ed? Then that thought angered me. Then, finally, as she was about to hand me my receipt, she asked to see my ID. And I was relieved. Then annoyed, because I had already put it away. And I thought she was stupid.

What do you do with your Saturday mornings?

The Bomb That Hit Twice

Had half of a steak sub for lunch today. Afterwards, my stomach got upset. And I tried very hard to figure out whether the culprit was the peach yogurt or the steak sub I had. It took awhile. But then I remembered that when I had the other half of the sub earlier in the week, the first half also upset my stomach. Now that's information that could've been useful. But my brain seems to have a lack of urgency regarding this issue. And I nearly ate some more of the sub for dinner (it was so big that it had two halves and then some) until I remembered, as I was pulling the sub out of the microwave, that it might kill me. Thank God my ancestors passed the hunter-gathering stage of the natural selection test. Because I would not have done very well.

Portraits of Greats

Detailed analysis of our pictures of our not-quite encounters with key media and political players. Watch carefully, kiddos- these pictures are going to be in every history textbook when Bobby makes something of himself. These are his Clinton-meets-Kennedy moments. We weren't quite rubbing elbows, but wisps of his hair certainly made it very far. (Sorry, you'll have to click on all the pictures for a better view)

The Chosen Menu

Yesterday, I learned that random and even are not the same things.  You can have a list of randomly generated numbers, but that doesn't necessarily guarantee the numbers to be fair.  And I spent the afternoon picking out lists of randomly generated numbers that would even out other previously randomized but more uneven numbers.  Sounds weird and tedious but it was actually a neat idea to consider.

(Discussing our randomization plans...)

Whitecastle: The second option isn't completely kosher-

Moi: That's OK.  I like pork.

Whitecastle: Me too.  More importantly, he likes pork.  (Points to Nice Doc, the Hebrew among us)  He even eats it with shellfish.

Nice Doc: Sometimes with a little milk on top.  That's how I like it.

Not a Drop to Flush

O-bama, your campaign is so good to me.  A handshake, fluffernutter sandwich and a toilet story.  That almost makes us even.  At the Salem high school on Sunday, the restroom, much like the rest of the school and state, was crowded with supporters.  For the most part, ladies filed in and out of the stalls in a quick, efficient pace.  But then there were those that didn't play by the rules.  Like one woman who left her stall unflushed.  The lady behind her kindly asked her to please flush it.  But was told coldly that no, she will not flush her toilet, as if toilet flushing was akin to puppy-punching (much more personal than puppy-kicking and thus requiring a more calloused heart).  The woman said she did not want to waste water and then walked away with disdain for the rest of us earth killers.

Bystander: Did she wash her hands?  Or does she not do that, either?

Seames (scoffing in a tone that hilariously makes her sound like the old-time Mainer that she is and not the civic-minded do-good-administrator at a small liberal arts college in Maine that she also is): Hippies.  That's the kind of crowd he draws.

Obama Talks

This is the short, little, talk that Obama gave us after his main speech; we were his pitiful, lesser supporters who could not make it into the auditorium. I'm not endorsing him but thought, hey, I was there, I captured this, someone may want to see it. So here goes- Senator Barack Obama, talking to you (dramatic music in the background a pure coincidence; his people did not plan it that way and I did not put it there. Gravitas just follows the man, I guess):



I just took a quiz at ontheissues.org. It told me that I was a hard-core liberal. (heh) I don't think I've ever been labeled any kind of hard core before. I'm the kind of hard-core liberal that wakes up early to go to the 8:30 church service so I could make it out in time to see McCain and Obama. You know, that kind.

ps. Remember what I said about Huckabee being a pretty decent guy, so if you had to vote that way, vote for him? Well, he's still a nice guy, but I take that line back. I have my own (somewhat progressive) views and a mind not quite made up, but I don't want to involve myself and you too much in all of this.

Hope Does Not Disappoint

It's primaries season and the candidates are in the state Pastor Paul affectionately calls Cow Hampshire in full force. Seames and Gak came down today to check out the campaigns and I tagged along with them, as is, of course, my civic duty as American citizen.We had quite the dream schedule planned: McCain, Obama, and Edwards. We would've liked to see Hillary, too. And Chuck Norris. And any Law & Order co-stars that might be campaigning with Fred Thomson. But alas, a day is only so long, there are so many other people in the state (who knew), and we could only manage McCain and Obama, both classy fellows we were happy to get glimpses of.

The McCain pictures actually turned out pretty awful because of the lighting in the middle school gym, but we were lucky to get such good seats. We were right by McCain's entrance and got to see lots of campaign staff and press people go back and forth throughout the event and had, of course, a perfect view of McCain himself. We also made it into lots of discarded footage. One reporter actually interrupted a conversation between Gak and Me, pointed her camera directly in our faces, then asked us to move our heads- she wanted a shot of the much cuter children behind us and did not care for our story.

If you look carefully, you will see that the man in gray to the far left is Harry Smith of the CBS Early Show. Other media notables in our vicinity were Bob Novak, NYTimes neoconservative columnist David Brooks, and lots of other people that Gak recognized and I didn't. Oh, and Wilford Brimley- though that recognition was a bit awkward as no one around could recall what he was in, and he had to supply a movie title himself. Then he got tired of those around us asking him questions and found a different place to sit. Nice 'stache though.

Oh, Obama, Obama, Obama. We stood in line for an hour just to wait for the doors to open. And when it finally did, there was no more room in the auditorium and we had to wait in the cafeteria and watch him on tiny little TVs. We stood for about three hours before we saw him on the monitor. And it was going to be a pretty disappointing stop until the very end, when he dropped by the cafe for a few minutes. It just so happened that miracle of miracles, Gak had brilliantly picked the right spot for us to stand. We were at the very front of the line when he came in and each got to talk to him and shake his hand. (He has a very firm grip) We were so close (as the pictures can attest) that Secret Service actually got panicky and asked Seames to put both her hands where they could see them.

Obama is now the third major candidate I've seen in person and shaking his hand, I finally get what the hoopla is all about. His speech was inspirational and all, but so is everyone else's. His personal presence, however, felt much more powerful than the others. And so we stood for three and a half hours just to touch him, but oh, it was well worth it. Plus, we got free fluffernutter sandwiches out of the deal. Hillary doesn't give you fluffernutter, that's for sure.

Filial Pity

Talking to my dad on the phone the other night (the poor man is in Taiwan and despite at least three sports channels to choose from, has no access to his beloved Patriots. Taiwan is baseball-crazed and he caught all of the MLB action just fine, but now it's winter and he's missed an entire season of football. He's praying that ESPN Taiwan will at least air the playoffs), he tells me how my mom was ambushed by my uncle, who decided to celebrate my grandfather's birthday a few days early and not tell me mom about it until just hours before the big dinner, thus making my mom look like a fool who'd forgotten her dad's birthday...

Father: That's ridiculous. I mean, if you threw me a birthday party, you'd tell your brother about it, right? And he'd tell you if he did something for my birthday.

Moi: Very hypothetical questions, Father. I don't think we'll throw anything for your birthday.

Father: But you would tell him if you did, right?

Moi: I suppose I would. It just probably won't happen...

Father: I'm just reminding you two that I still have a birthday.

Heavy Metal

Tie dan, or roughly translated to be metal eggs is a snack whose appeal makes no sense, but also one whose appeal I cannot deny. Outside of Taiwan, it's not a very well known or popular snack (I'm not even sure if ABCs or mainlanders know about them) but it's just so darn delicious. I am telling you this now because as a way of coping with real-life responsibilities (so there's this loan I have to pay off because I went on a four-year vacation? what?) this morning, I snacked on a package of metal eggs that I had just found in the fridge, like a little post-Christmas miracle. I am alarmed at how I have eaten through at least a dozen of these little eggs in the past hour as I have surfed through the information superhighway, edited a college essay, and checked up on the sorry condition of my personal finances.

Perhaps I should explain what tie dan is. I first started eating it, the way I do so many things, because my brother liked it. (It's also how I started eating roast chicken butts. I don't think I have to tell you how disgusting that sounds, but do you know how delicious they taste?) Metal eggs are eggs braised in soy sauce and sugar for a very, very long time- until the egg is shrunken to a much smaller size, the whites sort of chewy and rubbery, and the egg yolk deliciously moist, sugary, and soy-saucey. Except I don't think that's how they really make it anymore, just as quail eggs you buy don't really come from quails, but are made from a mold. I also don't think the description sounded very appetizing (I couldn't find you a picture online and my camera needs charging... it just looks like a little black egg) but I swear it's a most delicious snack and once you get started, you will surprise yourself by how many eggs you consume in one sitting. Every time I bite into one, I have a debate with myself and try to figure out if I like the yolk or white better. It's a draw every time. And makes me so grateful to be Taiwanese of all things, and that I come from a land of metal eggs instead of cupcakes and apple pies.

Spirit of the Law

Moi: So I found some information.  But I haven't had time to read [all the OIG opinions], 'cause I didn't know how fast you wanted these.  Plus, I don't really understand it anyway.  But I don't think they (big PhRMA) are breaking the law on this one.  It seems legit.

Whitecastle: Oh, I'm going to read this and I'm going to make sure they're breaking the law.

Yes, that's the spirit, Whitecastle.

Blister in the Snow

Think the snow-related titles are tiring? Yeah, you know what else is tiring? Shoveling my freaking driveway. I have a blister now. And the fact I'm going to whine about it just goes to show you how unsuited for manual labor I am and how rare it is that I get blisters. And we don't even have anything to show for the constant snowfall. Missed the record by two tenth of an inch. Stupid slacker sky.

... sometimes, I hate how I'm so unaggressive and un-angry that I can't even maintain my rant on snow. How can I stay mad at snow? It was my tenth birthday present. Shoveling tonight in the stillness of the suburban evening was refreshing at times. And gave me a much needed workout (the neighbors baked the same Christmas pastries they make every year for our family and I've been eating the whole thing the last week, on behalf of my family). The snow was easy to work with- not too wet but just good enough that it all stayed together without being heavy. And if my blister was to break and somehow scar, well, that'd be the greatest news ever because it'd probably give me some much needed street cred. My credit line has not been doing so well since I was assigned a cubicle in June.