At Close of Day

It's going to take a really learned and creative individual to understand that title. I probably won't remember myself in a few days.

As we all know full well, I haven't been writing much lately. Partly because my vocabulary shrinks every day I am away from school and soon I will be rendered completely illiterate and unable to formulate even the most asinine of posts. But mostly because I have been lazy and busy. I stay out past my bedtime nearly every day. But tonight, I give you morsels of extra thought I'd scribbled down this week:

A. I skipped breakfast on Monday morning and suddenly, snow covered trees looked like creamed spinach.

B. Riles is the best professor ever. Not only did she know what a 'croque monsieur' was, but she called people who didn't 'philistines' and 'ignorant.' I really heart that woman. Her combination of taste (well, not in everything), knowledge, humility, and intolerance for fools (though never in front of them) makes her a real role model. We have so few of those nowadays.

C. I've started a few books in the past few months, but haven't finished one since the year has started. This is the longest stretch I've gone through without reading. We need to work on this, Algernon.

D. Sign outside Sid's Smoke Shop:
"WE"
ACCEPT'
"FOOD"
STAMP'S
They were putting the emphasis on the wrong syllable, but I don't know which one.

Did I mention that I'm going to London next month? I feel like I should mention that.

Fit to Print

"Snowstorm Causes Delays and Closes Schools"  Seriously, NYTimes?  This is what passes for front page news?  They've been talking about the death of the newspaper for some time now, but this is ridiculous.

Good Night

This is getting old, folks.  Must everyone have a comment?

(I see Young Bo' and we go through the usuals, do you know what a croque monsieur, no, why, well-)

Moi: I'm trying to prove that I'm not pretentious.

Young Bo': Ha.  Good luck with that.

Non Monsieur

The quest for vindication continues...

Moi: You know what a croque monsieur is, right?

MC TChu: No. Why?

Moi: I'm trying to convince [them] that I'm not pretentious.

MC TChu: Fail.

A Croque of Sandwich

(Photo from Wikipedia)

What would you call this sandwich? Clearly, it's a croque monsieur, but I'm interested in what you would call it. Apparently, referring to the sandwich by its proper title makes me "elitist" and "pretentious." Earlier this week, discussing what we would cook for the Care & Connect lunch on Saturday, I tossed out the idea of making croque monsiers. (We settled instead of amazing- or shall I say, stupendous,- beef stew.) Katy and Nicole have not stopped giving me grief since. Apparently some Canadians don't know what they are. And many Americans as well. I'm sorry that I grew up in a public school system where we learned to call sandwiches by their proper titles.

Katy: That's not even a real croque monsieur, those things are dipped in egg batter and fried-

Moi: No, that's a Monte Cristo.

Nicole: Oh, a Monte Cristo sandwich, is it?

When did it become a crime to call sandwiches by their God given names?

Latest and Greatest

The docs have been fighting for a spot on my List of Affection this week. Whitecastle had been leading strong with his support through the school/interview process, but...

Doc Query: So I signed up for Twitter.

Moi: OK.

Doc Query: Now what?

Moi: You tell people what you're doing.

Doc Query: That's the thing. I don't have anyone to follow or anyone to tell.

Moi: I can't help you there. I don't even have Twitter. You're more hip than I am.

Doc Query: That's really why I signed up.

Now for something completely different.

Mother: Well, if you don't get into Harvard, I guess there's always Hopkins.

Moi: "There's Hopkins?" It's the best program in the country.

Whitecastle (who is in no ways biased): It's perhaps among the "top 2" programs in the country. But not the best.

Deep Springs of Hope

Moi: I don't like being made to go to the bathroom.

Young Bo': Trust me. Your bowel will thank me for not rupturing later.

Moi: It should write you a note on monogrammed stationery. Too bad it's not literate.

Young Bo': I hope it's in cursive.

Moi: I just said it's not literate.

Young Bo': I can hope for the future, can't I?

Boundless Enthusiasm

It's a good thing that emails are not made of paper.  Because if they were, we would all hate TChu for depriving our future generations of the oxygen they so need to thrive.  He writes them as if they were free or grew on trees.  You see, Reader, it is a spoken rule that whenever we arrange BCF get-togethers and cc' the other on the invite, whoever is cc'ed-- despite having been checked with in regards to time, location, and guest list and confirmed attendance-- is to enthusiastically reply-all to the invite so as to drum up excitement among the group.  It's a cheap lie, but one we have learned to live with.  Today, however, we crossed a new low.  I realized belatedly that I forgot to include Liz on my email and did not want her to feel left out.  So I thought of the personalized email tactic.  I would, I said, pretend that I was inviting everyone individually to a small dinner.  But TChu thought it would be too obvious.  And he relishes in lies.  So he suggested I email Liz AND him to make it seem like I was starting with them two though I had a. already discussed the arrangement with him and b. included him on an email invite once.  I reluctantly complied.  And TChu held up his end of the bargain, replying to both emails enthusiastically, as if he really had been waiting for Ethiopian food all this time.  Not only so, but he even tailored his two lies so that they were different from each other, each with a different reason of why he was looking forward to dinner.  Needlessly complicated, perhaps.  Hilarious, a bit as well.  Demonstrative of the deceit of TChu?  Oh, absolutely.

Into the Wild

Trekking across Lake Winnipesaukee. We learned the hard way that cabins on lakes are farther than they appear.

This weekend was the church's small group retreat and so my small group and I retreated from the city and went forth into the New Hampshire woods. It was two days of group bonding over old Mitch jokes, Thomas's mother's beard, skipping designated quiet times for breakfast, arriving late at large group meetings, and generally endearing ourselves to other retreaters by a. questioning whether their mothers loved them b. entering cabins when everyone was already asleep and c. whupping them in Taboo (it isn't our fault that for the word "Unicorn," one player gave "The Shining" as a clue). There was also sledding, a snow angel, and kicking butt in foosball (would you expect any less from me?). Mostly though, I laughed a lot and was reminded of the awesome jealousy of God. What did you do this weekend?

This picture would probably be cooler if I know who these people are. But alas, I was cliquey all weekend and never learned these people's names.

Contrite

Dear Blogger Diary:
I am sorry that I have been busy. As I have been telling everyone lately: this too, shall pass, and soon I will go back to spending my nights alone. In the meantime, however, I'm very tired and have copious amounts of television and people to catch up on. And something about a financial aid form. Toodeloo.

Say No Kids

Thomas very recently discovered the late great comedian Mitch Hedberg.  Watching him through the process has been like watching a newborn grow and change before my eyes as he revels in each new joke and keeps sharing with everyone one in small group (according to Katy, he also has the big head to match newborns), a small group that, I'm sad to say, thinks all the jokes are new and laughs too readily at them.  I won't go into the threefold reasons why I'm enjoying his late discovery except to say that "eavesdropping" (I was at the same table, it hardly counts when you're at the same table) on his line of "Dufrane party of four?" last night, I immediately said, "you mean, search party of four?"  And this light just sparked in his eyes-- a spark I've never seen when we talk about things like Jesus-- and he started nodding happily and saying, "she knows it, she knows it!"-- that was one of the highlights of my Tuesday.  Then I lost interest in that side of the table was saying and went back to trying to turn Chris and Katy's conversation to be about me. 

Suburban Write Up

Carol: Are your socks intentionally mismatched?

Moi: These are my home socks. You're lucky I wore socks at all. I was in a plaid flannel shirt earlier.

Like I said before, there are certain truths about my visits home. I will drive to Market Basket and even as I am shopping there, weep silently at the thought of having to leave it and its wide parking spaces again. I will wear the ridiculous dregs in my closet (Exhibit 1: velour track pants. so tacky, but so soft like butter). I will watch an unhealthy amount of television while my bottom slowly melds together with the couch. I will bake. And, if I am lucky, I will see people from the awesome portions of my childhood and youth. Sometimes it's Punty. Sometimes Emily. Today, best of all, it was Less Accomplished Pan and Carol. I would trade at least 3 sashimi dinners for lunch at Olive Garden with those 2.

Awakening

New England winters have twisted our sense of right and wrong, perverted our senses of justice and temperature, and fomented in our hearts a notion that spring is right around the corner. Earlier this morning, I overhear a couple as they're taking their young daughter out of the car...

Lady: Oh, her hat!

Man: Come on, honey, it's nice out.

Lady: It's 26 degrees out.

But it was so nice out. With the sun shining, it almost looked warm.

In Which I Prove to be 457 Years Old

Take a long work week. Mix in fatigue. A modest (and I mean modest) amount of alcohol. Chill music. Quiet party in the suburbs. And me. With my yearning for sweats and soft pillows.

What do you get? Dozing off on three different modes of transportation, jumbled words, and I am still home before midnight. Past Me would be very disappointed at Present Me.

Mature Content Warning

The RAs (OK, Young Bo' and I) thought it'd be cute to make Valentines for everyone in the office as part of a big brownie points sweeps week.  So we did.  But as Young Bo' was taping 2 Hershey Kisses to each heart cutout yesterday, she realized that they looked… bosomy, standing next to each other like that.  She was skeptical whether we should stick with that configuration but I assured her that the Division was more mature than that, and plus, 2 Hershey Kisses together could look like any number of things, such as 2 neurotransmitters.  This morning, most people seemed to not notice the resemblence and really appreciate our kiss-ass (and kick-ass) Kisses.  Then again, most people are not Sister Claire...

Sister: Are you handing out stripper candies?

Young Bo': That's what I thought, too, but she said it was OK.

Sister: I think to her, strippers are OK.

Moi: Hey, those candies could look like eyes, or neurotransmitters.  I thought people were more mature than this.

Sister: If only I could get these paper strips to twirl like tassels, they'd really look like it.  Thanks for the stripper candies, guys.

Away from Ordinary

A. Clean new sheets! I am so excited for bed tonight.

B. Either something in my washer or detergent has gone terribly wrong, because my entire load of fresh laundry smells of Corona. Not that I'm complaining. But it is a wee bit disturbing.

Heart of Gold

Overheard at church on Sunday, uttered by old lady behind me, regarding the children choir's performance:

"The children will be singing?  Oh, goodness.  Well, that's too bad."

Past Perfect

Moi: I have a fridge full of food and an empty wallet... so I'm going out to dinner with my friend. Down the line, forty-year-old-me is going to hate twenty-something-me.

Jen: Are you sure twenty-five-year-old-you isn't going to hate twenty-four-year-old-you?

Moi: Twenty-five-year-old-me will be in school and accruing debt. Twenty-five-year-old-me doesn't get to make value judgments.

In other news- dinner party on Sunday, catch up with Lisa last night, large group tonight where I saw friends and made connections to volunteer-- what do you know, I'm feeling really at home this week yet I may or may not be moving in a few months...

Glutton Thumb

Quick, somebody bring me the economic stimuls package and let me touch it. My fingers can do no wrong. (Except perhaps turn my daughters into a delicious pile of dough.) Just look at these parmesean pull-apart rolls that I made in preparation for a dinner party tomorrow. (Thank you, Gourmet magazine)

Pied Pacer

I don't know if you remember my last pacing-at-the-T-stop story. It attracted the attention of a nice boy who thought I was cold. He gave me advice on how to stay warm. There was an awkward silence. Since then, I have taken that lesson and tried not to pace too vigorously at T stops. But alas, waiting for the bus is boring and I'm fidgety. So the other night, I paced myself gently behind the bus shelter, trying to do so in as unnoticeable a manner as possible.

Unfortunately, I was noticed. Not only so, but I was inspirational as well. A middle aged woman who had previously been standing still decided that she, too, ought to pace around the bus shelter. But she didn't stop there. Her arms shot out wildly as she walked about, like Tourette spasms. Her attention grabbing flails made me uncomfortable, as I was worried that we were quickly becoming a marching duo of dunces in the eyes of others. So I slowed my steps and eventually stopped, trying to act as cool as possible. Even in my inaction, however, I was inspirational. Soon, crazy arms stopped pacing as well (but her arms never stopped flailing). I'm a regular ol' pied piper. For freaks at least.

Pertinent to Nothing

Apropos is one of my favorite words. It is French, ergo classy. It sounds funny. And it's very useful. Not everyone, however, is a fan of that word.

Gak made fun of me for using that word in Chicago and said that "it sounds like it should be italicized." Although he did concede that Professor Franco also used the word. I'm OK with having things in common with Franco.

Just last night, I commented that Charlene's Micah 6:8 shirt was apropos of the occasion and she said, "That's old school. That's such a 90's word."

I don't know what either of these two kids' problems are. Apropos was a fine Wordly Wise word in 6th grade and it will continue to be a part of my extensive vocabulary.

Cane and Enabler

When I get ridiculous food cravings (i.e. when I don't want to work), I need someone with the good senses to set me straight.  Young Bo' is not that person.  She is what you would call an "enabler."

Moi: I want a bag of chips right now. 

Young Bo': Oh, I'll split it with you.

Moi: And wings.

Young Bo': Chicken tenders.

Moi: No, ribs.

Young Bo': Chicken tenders with BBQ sause.  From Thorne.

Moi: Popcorn chicken from Thorne.

(the next 4 minutes are spent discussing the merits of chicken tenders and popcorn chicken from Thorne)

Moi: Why do we do this to ourselves?

Young Bo': For the memories.

PS. I forget sometimes that not everyone went to the Bo'.  Thorne is one of 2 dining halls at the Bo', and much preferred by people with good taste.

One Treasure

Sure, we're in an economic crisis, but people are still throwing away perfectly good household items. Found by the condo recycling bin last night: a perfectly good sombrero. I'm going to play with this for at least a week before I toss it myself.

Run, Fat Girl, Run

I'm all for people being cheered up or amused by the little things in life.  I just don't like it when I'm that little thing.

During morning peak hours, the hospital shuttle leaves every ten minutes.  Naturally, I took this to mean that one leaves at 8:20, another 8:30, 8:40, and so forth.  Not so with these shuttles.  The "8:20" now likes to leave at 8:18.  The 8:30 at 8:29.  Which would be fine had my morning routine not been planned down to the last minute.  Actually, that still would have been fine had someone just told me that they were now all leaving slightly early.  I have chased after the shuttles the past 2 mornings.  This morning, I even had to run half a block more than usual and run all the way to the stop sign.  (Don't even try to question my time keeping, my new watch is calibrated against satellite signals… more on that story later) 

Moi: I'm pretty sure the bus driver does it just to watch me run.

(the suddenly empathetic) Whitecastle: Well, it's gotta be a shit job.  They need something to cheer them up.  'Hey look, there's that little Asian girl again.  Look at her run.  She looks so funny.'  'Hey look, it's the old man with the cane.  Let's make him run.  Oh, why is he clutching his chest?  The old man has fallen over.'

Moi: That old man never makes the bus.

Truthful Ground

On the validity of the groundhog day hog versus the tooth fairy.

Young Bo': Of course it's real. How else do you get your [tooth] money?

Moi: When a tooth rattles, I pick a fight and get someone to punch me in the face. Tooth gets knocked out. I threaten to sue. Why, how do you get money?

Young Bo': I just go to the strip club.

Amazing

Grace is a 40+ degree sunny day in February.  Grace is the man using his feet to stop his brake-less bike from running me down.  Grace is certainly not running after the bus in my big backpack yelling "whoa," but grace is catching it.

Taking One for the Team

MC TChu and I are nothing if not consummate team players in the game of Gastronomy.

(Wow, that sentence holds way more promise than this entry actually entails.)

A couple of months ago, TChu and I talked about not having yum cha'ed for a very long time. Then I had some dim sum. He had some dim sum. We had some weeknight dim sum. I had dim sum three times in a span of a month. Even for me, that was extreme. I announced to all my friends that (sorry, VDu) I was out of commision for at least another month. The pai gwat would just have to wait.

But the pai gwat is a persistent cut of meat and my resolve against it useless. Last week, Ellie and TChu tossed out the idea of Sunday dim sum. I had no choice but to consent. And then Alex called up and asked if I would dim sum on Saturday. Here's the thing. If I was weak against pai gwat, I'm a mere puddle against Alex. It's impossible to say 'no' to the lady. But I thought, if I'm going down, TChu is coming with me. So there we were at Hei La Moon yesterday, having been dim sum'med out weeks earlier, sipping tea, hailing carts, eating, and laughing, knowing full well that we had another long day of this ahead of us. Not much ties us in common (Jesus, Bo', disdain for hippies), but give us a kid from BCF, a chance for food and fellowship, and that's an offer we can't say no to, no matter how many spareribs we have to chew through.

PS. I could really use some salt and pepper shrimp in my system. Anyone?

Emory and Ivory

Personal phone call. Giant leather folder. And some sort of CD. OK, Rollins School of Public Health. You have my attention.

Beside Myself

Earlier today, I had a conversation with our Decision Scientist (coolest title ever) about the article we had both read in the Times about how President Obama likes Honest Tea, the same brand of bottled organic tea that we like.  When I got back to my desk and realized how ridiculous that all sounded- the liberal media, the organic tea I learned to love at the Bo', and the golden boy new president, I cursed myself a little.  Then I went to lunch at O'Natural (tastes like it sounds), where I bumped into Zvi and we talked graduate schools.  Now I just want to throw up.

The only thought keeping it all down is that of Young Bo' bladder.  I think she's just saying ridiculous things today to make me quote her:

Young Bo':  My kiwi bladder is so unhappy today.

Young Bo': I think my left wrist is anorexic.

Young Bo': Now, we use nice words about Big People.  NiceDoc is a big person.

(The last one is a response to what I said to Zvi when I bumped into him at O'Naturals with NiceDoc in tow.  Zvi greeted me with a customarily warm "Hey, loser."  To which I instinctively replied, "Hey, wuss."  Then I realized that I was there with NiceDoc, who was unaccustomed to such coarse language.  And then I spent 30 seconds debating whether I should introduce him as Doctor Nice or just Nice.  Thus completely ruining the nice lunch and goodwill with my awkwardity and insult.  Good going, Me.)

Nugget of Wisdom du Jour

Bean curd ("dried tofu"- the uncultured should google image it yourself) looks like bean turd.

Click Away

I have these noble small group friends. My new Jesus friends in Boston. Some of these people (or just one? I don't know) started an organization called One Home Many Hopes, which provides a home to orphaned girls of Kenya. I know. Amazing. Boring. What does it have to do with me?

Well, a mass email went out today for folks to help One Home Many Hopes win some money from Virgin America, which is giving away $25,000 to the two most popular Boston charities. All I had to do was register and vote. I usually hate this kind of stuff but after messing up at work today, I thought I needed to do some good. So I voted.

Then I voted again.

That was where things went wrong. Terribly wrong. Not only is voting twice dishonest, it also takes votes away. (Shhh... NOBODY tell my new small group this, please. They think I'm holy. Probably because I always make everything into a competition and then beat them out for kingdom points.) I took votes and money away from orphaned Kenyans.

And then I clicked again just to make sure that the votes really did go down... it did.

On my end, I've asked Lenny to make up for my bad, but if you so feel compelled, please vote on behalf of One Home Many Hopes. They really are great. And I really need you to cover for me.

Caveat: You need a Boston address, so please make one up. I like the zip code 02120 because it's palindromic. Just enter your info and click on the airplane on the left. Lenny said that they chop off a finger for every fraudulent vote. Gak was more pragmatic:

Gak: You should only feel guilty if they lose by one vote... but you don't really need to feel guilty since another worthy cause will have won. See, you can have your whiskey and drink it too.

Runner Up Quotes Du Jour:

1. Young Bo': I have a bladder the size of a kiwi.

2. Zvi: I also hate the Chinese.

Laura: (appalled and gasping)

Moi: Racist!

(Context: at lunch, I had rattled off things that I hated- carrots, ginger, cilantro, and added Chinese people for kicks. Unfortunately for Zvi, no one had heard that line except for him. And I didn't explain that to anyone when he uttered his joke. Consequently, Laura is now afraid of Zvi.)

God, Country, and Jabbar

There it goes ago.  Someone else spotted him without even blinking.  It's second nature to these people.  Ingrained in their subconscious.  Everyone above the age of 35 in the office knows that the holder of the NBA's record for most points scored is Kareem Abdul Jabbar.  How or why, I do not know.  Maybe their wheaties had different ingredients than our wheaties.  But they sure love the man.

SuperFan

I was about to start the entry with the question "Is it really only Tuesday?" Then I checked my watch and it said "WE" for "Wednesday. Thank God.

This week has been moving at an infuriating slow pace. Work has been incredibly busy. But on a much graver note, my social life has taken quite the blow. Just last week, I was out every night and wishing I had more time to see my children, and this week? Monday night free screening was "sold out." And tonight? I was triple booked but thanks to inclement weather, every single plan fell through. Ellie's family obligation just cleared my Saturday. Em still hasn't called about Friday. And I found out this afternoon that Superbowl Sunday is fast approaching and I have no plans. No plans on Superbowl Sunday. I might as well unfriend everyone on Facebook. Young Bo' put it best when she said, "In one week you went from being social to little miss nothing." It is exactly like that.

But alas, good must triumph over evil. I cannot accept defeat. Young Bo' and I have made Superbowl throwdowns to see who would have a better Sunday. She's threatening snowboarding plus a party, which means that the only way to beat her is by going to more parties. Preferably three. So, Internet Friend, I implore you. Look deep into your heart and find a place to take me in on Superbowl Sunday. I must not lose another challenge to Young Bo'. The year is just beginning and I need something to live for.

Water World

Dear L.L.Bean-
If your name wasn't Leon Leonwood Bean, I would probably name a child after you. But unfortunately, it is, so I'll probably name my son something conventional, like Ethan. Still, I do want to thank you for keeping me dry today as I walked half a mile in near flood conditions. Sure, your clothes are never chic or flattering, but dressed hood to toe in Bean today (winter parka, plain sweater, hiking socks, hiking boots) and looking ridiculous among the business casual Boston crowd, I had never been so wet and so dry. There were skeptics as I waded through six inches of water all around me, but I knew deep down, that if you could get me through four years in Maine, you could surely get me through my icy trek home. My coat, my pants, my bag, were all drenched, and yet my body was dry and my toes refreshingly comfortable, blissfully ignorant of the hazardous conditions outside. Outstanding work, gentleman. Outstanding.

Sincerely,

Dry and Humored

Miles from Riles

It just slipped out of me. I hadn't said those words for so long that even I was surprised. One minute, I was discussing a documentary with my roommate and her friends and the next, I heard a voice saying, "... those children were performing to societal expectations. In China, there has become this disconnect between ritual and meaning, where traditions are still valued but they have become empty symbols..." by the time I realized that the voice was mine, it was too late. I had already lost them and could only make eye contact with Lenny, the anthro major (and who I correctly introduced as Elise tonight, on my second try).

Soc has tainted the way I see the world. And I like it.

Rhyme Time

Apologies for not coming up with a better title. I think I've found my new church and I think I love the pastor. Or I hate him. I don't know. I have a complex relationship with puns, word plays, and funny/offensive oversimplifications of ethnic groups. At today's service, the pastor ended with Joseph Lowery's now famous benediction-

Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get in back, when brown can stick around ... when yellow will be mellow ... when the red man can get ahead, man; and when white will embrace what is right-

Then added a few lines of his own-

- when Hamas will say no mas, when Israel will be real, when the US will use less, and every tongue confess, every knee bow down... (I forget the rest; I was trying not to snicker)

that all those who do justice and love mercy say Amen.

Oldie, and Maybe a Goodie

Haven't done an audio post in forever, felt restless this morning, and thought I'd share an old poem with you.

PS. I meant to say that this was my first spoken word attempt instead of 'is.'

Gabcast! Popepotsie #4

Eye of the Beholder

Three references, three differences of opinion:

Riles (God, I miss Riles): All of these schools have to take you. They have to.

Whitecastle: I suspect you'll get into at least one [of the biggies].

Band Man: I don't know what they were thinking.

Thanks, everyone. I hope some of you are more right than others.

Fort Awesome

Doc to Be, or Binks from now on, had several big shipments in the office on Friday. These big shipments came in exciting big, sturdy, boxes that now take up much of the hallway outside his office as well as the space inside his office. You know how I feel about big boxes.

Moi: Do you have plans for these boxes? Have people been asking you this all day long?

Binks: (breaks out laughing) No one has asked me that. I'll probably send them off to a summer camp for disadvantaged boxes. They can no longer serve their life purpose. Why, do you have a plan for them?

Moi: No, it's just that they'd make such good forts.

Binks: Were you thinking of having a division fort? 5:30 after work sometime, a little division fort party?

Moi: Don't tempt me, Binks. Don't tempt me.

Little Girl I Carried

The trouble with Lenny is that even though at any given moment, I can think up half a dozen things to mock her merciless for, she can do the same of me. Today I mentioned that we'd known each other for ten years...

Moi: I don't know if it's ten. It just seemed like a convenient number.

Lenny: Actually, it's eleven. We met in 1998.

Moi: What, is that exact date tattooed somewhere? Why do you know this so readily?

Lenny: Well, we met in math league.

Moi: I thought we agreed to never mention that in public.

Hear My Plea

I'd be impressed if someone got the title reference. It's not erudite. But I would be surprised.

Last week, Sarah asked me about Chinese New Year celebrations in Boston. The question led me to march down the stairs and ask my parents if they knew Chinese New Year would be next week. They did. Sarah then decided not to wait for my answer and phoned up brother, who can still out Chinese me in the goings of Boston from a thousand miles away (or wherever the West coast is, I am not clear on such matters). Then today, Former Roommate Amy (not to be confused with me) said that she couldn't make it to dinner next Monday...

Moi: Turns out, she has to eat dinner with her family to celebrate Chinese New Year. Who knew?

Lenny: You're not so good at being Chinese, are you?

I speak the language. I eat the foods. And I don't understand why these people are all trying to show me up. Don't make me pull out my membership card now.

Heal Thyself

The docs that I work with are educated and mature, yes, but not always above making fun of collaborators with unfortunate names during meetings.  Take Choo Choo (rearranged to protect my privacy), for example, it's a Nigerian name.

DocQuery: Choo Choo?

Doc Whitecastle: Don't make any culturally insensitive comments.  We have a Kenyan president now.

Chief: Say, Query, why was Choo Choo in Boston for last month?

DocQuery: Training. 


If I was ever given the resources and authorities to designate Christmas presents to those in my office, I would simply separate the office into good and bad.  Those who use EndNote to make theirs and my life easier will be on the good list.  Those who don't go on the bad.  Goods get goods.  Bads get energy-inefficient coal.  Today, I'm working on a grant application written by both those who fall in both sides of the camp.  One doc has everything cited nicely in EndNote and included a library attachment.  The other doc used footnotes with citations like: "XX's book."  "YY Report."  And my favorite:  "The Dutch Guys."  It's going to be a cold, long winter for some of us.

On My Knees

Perhaps the reason that God gave us two knees is that we only need one and the other merely acts as a spare. I'm really hoping that's the case because my right one won't be with me much longer. Two weeks ago, I slipped on the ice and landed right on the knee, bruising it badly. Since I still have a bruise on my shin from 2007, I was at first worried that this bruise would also not dissipate, and was heartened to discover yesterday that the knee was slowly returning to normal color. Until this morning: When I once again slipped on the ice and landed on the exact same spot. I'm not even going to ice it this time, I'm just waiting for my titanium replacement.

Frick and Frack

Who needs a sidekick when you can have a Young Bo'?

Moi: Can you still have grace [toward a person] and still slap the person?

Young Bo': Maybe if you don't lick your hand before you slap.


(working on our board, which features an 'Obama is my homeboy President!' t-shirt design)

Young Bo': I don't like that exclamation point.  Should we leave it there?

Moi: Lady please, let's not carried away.  That would be ridiculous.


(on Obama's inauguration speech)

Sister Claire: I thought he started slow but ended well.

Moi: Well, he had to depress us first because it's easier to build people up if you tear them down first.

Sister Claire: I wouldn't know.  I've never tried.

Moi: See [Young Bo'] here, you can mock her all you want and tomorrow morning, just say 'hi' to her and she'll love you.  See?

Young Bo': Except that I don't love you.

Turtle Turtle

I don't feel constrained by cultural expectations or bound by Confucianism. It feels silly stating that but I'm always surprised by the number of people who think that I feel chained to something. I don't. But place an East Asian elder next to me and I feel inexplicably obligated to bow my head and smile at them. I let them cut me. I want them to think well of me in a way that I do not want anyone of any other generation or race to think of me. I don't know why. Just the other night, I was on the bus when I happened to catch the gaze of an old Chinese lady. Per usual, I nodded my head and smiled at her (to be fair, I nod my head and smile at everyone I make eye contact with) and she said in Cantonese, half to me and half to my companion, "Ho' len ah." Which means "it's so cold" in Cantonese, a dialect that I do not speak. I considered my options: speaking to her in Mandarin (which she'd probably understand) or imitating what she said in my butchered-Cantonese, and after considering the potential awkwardness of both situations, I chose the least awkward route:

I nodded my head and waved goodbye as I hopped off the bus. (Ellie: Did you say 'bye' in Cantonese? Moi: I said 'bye' in English, which is pretty much the same 'bye' as it is in Mandarin and Chinese.)

It's not my fault that I go to such lengths to avoid awkwardity in any form, be it silences or stories that go on too long. Terrible things happen when I don't take precaution and I find myself as I did on Friday night-- at the same meet & greet party with the girl whose apartment I had wanted to live in, but who turned Lenny and me down based on my immaculate facebook profile (seriously- I dare you to pick a character flaw from my profile). And then friended Lenny the day after she turned us down. Not only did we bump into each other, I call her by the wrong name, and had to remind her why we knew each other, but she had to spend five minutes explaining why she didn't pick me. Somebody owes me for those five minutes.

Flashy Photography Please

I was recognized last night. I was cold. I was headache-y. And I was waiting for the T at Harvard when this girl tapped on my shoulder and asked if I had gone to the Bo'. I recognized her face but had forgotten her name (she was a year ahead of me) but she was so sweet and gentle and remembered my name. (fame!) She said, "We've never met but you were famous for your many good deeds." Ridiculous and untrue, but very flattering-- so much so that it almost makes me want to do something great so I could be recognized more often. Though that would seem to require more effort than I care to muster. So I'll just settle for seeing another familiar face on an already Bo'-riffic Saturday.

Spring Awakening

We are well into winter and today, in the midst of the bitter cold, I suddenly started craving baseball. Busy with housing, GREs, and youth group this summer, I hardly kept up with baseball and now, after so much time away, I miss those boys terribly. Saturdays on the couch cannot come fast enough.

Things I'm Excited For

1. Next week, it's going to get up to 38 degrees. I know! I'm not going to wear a hat and it's going to be friggin' awesome.


2. (sitting at my desk on Friday...)

Moi: eIRB. Nice!

Young Bo': Did you just get excited over the IRB?

Moi: No, eIRB. But, yes. I may have.


3. (I have come back from the future to change my past expectations, how trippy is that?) My new watch. After 3 months, no longer will I rely on my cellphone, the Silver Line monitor, or the kindness of strangers. I can look at my wrist and bam, it will tell me the time. It's 9:52 right now in the future.

The Gatekeeper

(shortly after making a cutting joke to follow his manorexia joke... Zvi really is a terrible person)

Moi: You know how you guys were talking about Zadie Smith last time and I didn't know who she was? And how that made me really self conscious and feel inadequate? It just made me feel terrible, I started questioning my worth and the quality of my Bo' education-

Zvi: Yes, go on.

Moi: I read a piece of hers in the New Yorker about her brother and humor the other day and it made me feel better.

Crisis solved.

When Europe Met Chicago

Look, a collage of my time in Chicago, about two months too late. You'll notice that the tag line "European Jazz Meets Chicago" features prominently here. This may lead you to think that that was a big part of our trip. It was a loud part. There are some things that should not meet and perhaps Europe and Jazz should join that list, along with water and oil fire, and failure and me. We arrived late to the show and only caught the last few songs of an experimental jazz group. There were parts that looked like jazz (the instruments certainly did), was structured like jazz, built off of the same riffs as jazz, and yet it sounded... loud. Very loud. And extreme- it was a hard, metal sounding jazz. Not that there's anything wrong with it. Just not the thrashing good time I expected, that's all.

Tell Me What You Really Think

The picture above is the turkey I braised for Thanksgiving. Because I am awesome. And my Picasa just started working again so I'm posting pictures. The complimentary meal the hospital is offering all its employees, however, will not be half as nice. The hospital made that quite clear, as you can see for yourself on the bottom of our coupon. Spend it wisely, yes, just not on food you would want to eat. But it's OK, hospital, nobly saving lives daily is reward enough for me.

Freezer Burn

Do not ask me to produce the office salad tongs. I can only bring you one tong. But we no longer have tongs. As usual, this incidence was not entirely my fault. They shouldn't have placed the bucket the tongs should be stored in on top of the fridge. And should not have made the fridge and buckets so tall. And cover the fridge on two sides so there was no one to lean in close. And the only way to place the tongs was to attack from the top. Just one look told me that that was impossible. I turned to Young Bo', who gave me another look, one said, "You actually think I can do better?" I didn't think so. And had no choice but to toss the tongs into the bucket. The first one went in nice and cleanly. The second one was where my troubles lay. It skidded around the rim of the bucket, but instead of dropping, slid right past to the edge of the fridge and dropped all the way down toward the bottom, enclosed by 3 walls and the back of the fridge. Young Bo' and I looked at each other, very quickly realized that there was no way we could retrieve the tong, and decided to pretend it never existed. So good sir, do not ask me to produce the office salad tongs. I know not what you speak of.

Go Big

After a day and a half of randomizing and sorting and generally messing with our study data and spending time with my friend Excel (we're not on speaking terms. Excel knows why.), and then doing things wrong and changing minds and restarting, I couldn't imagine hearing any sweeter words than when Whitecastle finally declared, two minutes before five o'clock: All set. You can go now.

Well, Jason's words came close: I love it when you talk apes.

It's been so busy at work that I find myself doing work most of the time. Instead of plotting what to eat for dinner. Or read the Times. Sometimes, being told to go is exactly what I needed to hear. That does not mean, of course, that a great chunk of my day is not still spent displeasing my superiors.

(It's lunch time and DocNice slowly heaps one tablespoon of dressing after another onto his salad until it is a giant red blob)

Moi: Do you have enough salad there in your dressing?

Whitecastle: You know, the next RAs we hire can't be as lippy as the ones we have now. None of them have any respect.

(he then "usurps my position in line" [his words, not mine] while I lean over to grab a sandwich)

Moi: Please, go ahead in front of me, Doctor Whitecastle.

Whitecastle: Exactly.

Inconvenient Weather

Remember how a couple of months ago, it was unseasonably warm and everyone said, "Oh, look at the mess climate change has wrought"? What happened to those good old days, eh? I am so tired of wearing my winter boots.

Alarmed and Fabulous

 

After a long struggle to fall asleep last night, I was awakened by the blare of alarm at 12:30am. Landlady Chang and I both grabbed our keys, hats, and jackets and stumbled down the stairs, only to discover that our neighbors were all either cooler than us and had places to be at 12:30 on Sunday morning (in our defense, it was snowing and we both had very full evenings) or they were sure to be burnt to a crisp in event of a real fire, as there were only a few other people in the lobby. It was there that we also discovered that we didn't have to wait in the snow. Apparently, a drunken man (possibly a tenant, though most likely a homeless man) had pulled the alarm on the first floor because he was suffering chest pains. Once we saw that someone was taking care of him, we headed upstairs, I put on my headphones, and we watched for big trucks from our window. The fire department was the first to arrive, followed closely by the first of two ambulance. The five minute ETA was rather impressive. Until you consider how the hospital, police, and fire department are all on the same street, on the same side of the road, and within a quarter of a mile from the building. Did I mention that there was no traffic? Perhaps they had to finish stitching that last row lest they lose count.

The ever responsive po-pos were the last to arrive, showing up just as the ambulances were leaving (the guy was able to walk to the car himself), and after they had apparently been paged not to arrive. Which was too bad since three squad cars showed up. I did mention that they're just down the block, right? Thanks, Boston's greatest. For all their efforts, however, none of our service people could turn off the alarm. Landlady Chang checked when she yelled out the window. A very empathetic paramedic yelled back that he was sorry but they didn't know who was turning off the alarm. And it was only then, when all the flashing lights pulled away in the snow (final tally: 1 ambulatory patient, 1 fire truck, 2 ambulances, 3 police cars, 30 minutes of traffic standstill) that we realized that our fun was just beginning. Apparently, the fire department does not control the fire alarm. Building management does. And unlike our hospital, police, and fire stations, building management is not down the street, but far, far away. Which led to Landlady and I to walk all over the apartment trying to find the "quietest spot" (definitely not the bedrooms)-- and how we ended up huddled in her closet discussing how fortunate it was that we were not deaf (only one of our alarms have a light, and it was not working very well), how we'd break the windows and jump in case we were ever trapped by a fire directly outside our door (throw a chair at the living room window) and what, if anything we'd bring with us when we jumped (a sleeping bag to cushion the fall). Oh, Skidmore Dying Cow days, how I long for the alarms of yore.

I Want to Live Forever

I like how old I am right now. And how void of responsibilities. Although this means that I am also void of assets and credentials, I am OK for the time being if it means that I can also be the snarky brat at grown-up parties.

Last night, Dorothy from Small Group invited the group and some of her real friends over for a spread of delicious tapas (which she cooked and served in a pretty dress and heels). Erik the Blonde and I were probably the youngest folks there (I know, the term 'young' as applied to me gets more relative each day). Katy and Jason were probably not too far behind. In short, it was Small Group vs. the Adults. And we showed what we thought of the arrangement.

As the party progressed, a couple came in with their dog in a sweater...

Jason: Oh God. First babies now dogs? What do people think this is?

Moi: I know. I was thinking the exact same thing. Except I wasn't joking.

Jason: I'm not joking either. This is ridiculous.

Head Spin

 

This is what I had been wearing in my apartment the past hour (the last half of which spent huddled in Landlady Chang's closet). Headphones. Hat. Winter jacket. Yellow pajama pants (not shown). Quite coincidentally, that was almost exactly how long a fire alarm had been raging in our building.

More details to come, along with a discussion on the merits (potentially and realized) of living between a hospital and the fire department. But for now, I just want to curl up and sleep.

Sign of the Times

Seriously, NY Times, do you want me to hate you? Flying first class instead of private jets, private chefs instead of restaurant events, more reliance on condo concierges... I stay up late just worried sick about these people sometimes.

Straight Faced Sentiment

Ironic Observation of the Week:

Teenage boy, exclaiming to his annoying friends for the whole train to hear: You know who I hate? Obnoxious people. (in a proud tone as if he had just learned the word obnoixious) They're all loud and "look at me, I'm ridiculous!"

My heart nearly stopped laughing. Or perhaps it was clogged. I do eat a lot of fried food. And oh, teenagers should not be allowed on the T in groups of more than 3.

DeMeaning of Work

Sister Claire should have a second career as a motivational speaker. Maybe she already does. Maybe that's why she leaves so early everyday. This afternoon, Young Bo' and I were talking, a bit too lately, about proctor-cests during our days at the Bo' when Sister Claire walked by, exclaimed that she didn't know how we do it, and walked off, leaving us with gaping mouths and a fear that we had done wrong (it's a healthy fear, because-- as Sister Claire, Whitecasle, DocQuery, and anyone else will tell you-- I mess up a lot). Turns out though, she wasn't talking about our wrongs. She didn't know how we could do our jobs of filling in tables and entering data. One afternoon of it and she had apparently had enough.

Claire: I hope [my niece] doesn't grow up to be a research assistant. Or a SAS programmer.

Moi: Well, we get a white board to play with.

Claire: No wonder you guys are always so excited about the board.

No wonder, indeed. And I was just getting used to the idea of doing homework-type work for eight hours a day. That board, and the thought of returning home to eat my made-from-scratch pizza, are the two things that get me out of bed in the morning. That and erm, all the starving children in the world that need my help.

When the Moon

I know I'm sometimes a bit the kid who cried hungry, but I mean it today. My stomach will not be filled. I started the evening with a nice bowl of cereal, ate some rice and stir fry, a couple of slices of homemade pizza (with homemade dough. Because I am unstoppable. I dare you to name something I cannot make), and topped off with more rice. Still, I am hungry. I don't know what else to do. Eating certainly isn't doing anything. Doctor, doctor, pull this tapeworm out of me, please.

Speaking of doctors, I don't know how this has happened either, but people around me have come to believe that puns are socially acceptable and even socially desirable. These new small group folks make puns like it's their way to salvation and at work, too, they just abound. The current RA white board features a "Know Thy Ties" guide and riffs on the three prominent styles in the division (with the bowtie as "choice of the chosen"-- my favorite word play thus far this year, though unfortunately unacknowledged by DocQuery) and this morning, we found that someone had attached a picture on it. Of Thaksin Shinawatra, the former Prime Minister of Thailand, in a necktie. The significance of the picture was lost on us for much of the day. Until, sadly, Jeremy had to explain it to us. The Prime Minister, you see, is Thai. Know. Thy. Thai. Ah heh. We were not impressed with his pun, and he was not impressed with our denseness. A disappointing work day all around.

Two to Five

Dinner Diary:

Crustless cheesecake. Chocolate molten cake. Four bites of leftover rice from lunch. Brown butter cupcake. Sweet mung bean soup.

In the Father, Son, and Awkwardness

I was still shy when I got baptized in the fifth grade. Not as shy as when I was really little, but in front of strangers, and enjoyed neither crowds nor the attention of adults. I remember being in the water tank in the incredibly heavy choir robe and that when the pastor asked me whatever questions, I said yes. And that afterward, there was only stillness. The entire church was looking at me, especially all my peers. But the pastor did not hear me. I wasn't sure if I should repeat myself. I was only 11. And shy. So there I stood. And he stood. And the whole congregation leaned in. Just waiting in silence.

Finally, my brother spoke up. "He asked you a question," he said, which did not particularly help the situation. Unless by 'help,' one meant 'make everyone laugh at me.' "I already answered," I mumbled in annoyance, and quietly, with embarrassment, said yes again. The pastor took another minute. Then in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit, dunked me. And that, was my dramatic confession of faith.

Over Dramatic Little Bastards

Unless a school is ready to make an offer, they should not be allowed to start emails with "Congratulations!"

Just putting that out there.

In other news, I am currently icing my knee with a pack of edamame beans and feeling 79 years old. But also feeling very relieved to be finally icing this knee.

Fugnably Late

I feel threatened by boys (particular straight ones) who are more stylish than I am.  Spotted on the train this morning: a guy solidly in his twenties (grad student?) in skinny jeans, legwarmers, a puffy vinyl jacket (aquamarine), big red scarf, and a highlighted, very jagged and dramatic haircut.  I didn't say he looked good, I just said style-ish, but he's about 137% trendier than I will ever be and 129% trendier than I would ever want to be.

All Through the Town

Spotted on the bus on new year's eve: a young man, in a ski mask, counting a wad of cash. Interesting.

Happy New Year

[My friends] think I'm Christian-ish, but I'm not.  I'm just a bad Christian.  A bad born again Christian and certainly, like the apostle Peter, I am capable of denying it, of presenting myself as a leftist liberation theology enthusiast and maybe sort of vaguely Jesus-y bon vivant.  But it's not true… I just love the guy. I just love Jesus, it's that simple.
-Anne Lamott on This American Life

Board at Work

Name that show: That imagination of yours is an absolute curse.

Sometimes I wonder how much good I would be able to do for the world if I harnessed my creative energies toward work, or even poetry. For today's RA white board, Young Bo' decided on the theme (name that movie) and film and I set about creating the three clues:

1. It was released before any of the RAs were born (Jen squeaked under by just a month)
2. It features the holder of the NBA's most points scored title
3. Don't call me Shirley.

The third one gives it away, I know, but we were all wicked impressed when DocNice walked by, admitted that he was bored, took one look at our board, and said, "Huh. Kareem Abdul Jabbar was in Airplane!? I didn't know that." The ease with which he got all aspects of our riddle got me thinking. And no longer was I satisfied with having a board to amuse me at work. I wanted to go farther.

And that was how Young Bo' and I found ourselves systematically going through a list of everyone in the division. We placed bets on who would and would not be able to name the movie. It's a game of both luck (not everyone stops by the board, not everyone ventures guesses, not everyone is in the office), and strategy (who in the office fits this special blend of generation timing, nerdiness, and pop culture knowledge?). The loser has to make a pair of paper-cup-floss-telephones for the winner. And work just got slightly more exciting. Slightly more bearable.

KendleLand

Perhaps the title is a stretch.

I'm not one to pick favorites, but if you held a gun to my head, or even a plate of salt and pepper ribs in front of me, and made me choose a favorite kid at my dad's church, I would have to say that the current honors go to the Lam brothers. Jeffrey is in first grade and Kendle is about three and a half. Except when they are both hyper and goofy together, the two are near opposites in character. Jeffrey is quiet and detail oriented; he likes patterns, numbers, and often brings home test scores over 100. I used to love playing with him just because he was so shy. For better or worse, he's not shy around church anymore. Kendle was never quiet. Being short, he looks younger than you might expect and as a result, gets away with that much more. He's a natural charmer, a favorite among the youth group girls, and knows how to employ it to his advantage. Not so academically inclined as his brother (and perhaps not at all), Kendle is instead a natural story teller. He told me this morning about the sled he got for Christmas that flew into the air and how he had to cut a hole in the sky to get back down and how he also got an edible lamp as bright as the sun and a super monkey that speaks English (but not Chinese). Not only Kendle a story teller, he also has a very smart mouth for a three and a half year old and a mind that has become very difficult to trick.

Earlier this week, his grandmother told him she was going back to China...

Kendle: Good. Now I can eat all the candies I want and no one will stop me.

Grandmother: No, you can't. The police will come get you.

Kendle: No. They won't know when I'm eating candies secretly.

Status Update Update

Oh, Charlie. I don't doubt that we would have a close match in Boggle. BriWi on the other hand, he stands no chance.

Cowabunga

Ignore most of this video and scroll straight to 2:01-- 2:44. This clip is a few months old, but it's new and thrilling to me. This girl made my day. From this day forth, I am celebrating every victory with a "I get a cow" song and strut.

Boxing Day Bumbles

My mother has disappeared from the house. A couple of hours earlier, she came in to ask me to bring a kid to the mall. I told her I'd think about it. Hopped in the shower. Came out, and was told that her car is gone. Kid still in the house. Don't know what just happened. Six people in the house, nobody has any news. In broad daylight, too. Perhaps some kangaroo boxers will straighten it out for us.

Status Update

My throat hurts and seems intent on hurting for awhile. Can't seem to stop watching cruel and ridiculous Japanese reality shows on Hulu, though they never seem to show a concluding episode. Played Boggle, UNO, Mousie Mouse, Connect 5, and Set today, and could not help but want to win every single one (I did quite well, thank you). Mother stood up to sing 'happy birthday' to me in a restaurant and we just had a conversation about Evita. Merry Christmas.

Tomorrow, I cook, I work, I exercise, I act like a normal person.

Jolly Old Time

Mother and I arrived half an hour early for the Christmas eve service last night-- unfortunate, because we were due to arrive a whole hour early. You'd think we would get Christmas down by now, but no. Mother was still wrapping presents up until we had to leave. When we arrived at the church, we found the power out on the first two floors of the building (the church is on the third). The poor usher spent his evening shining a flashlight up the stairs. (Had we been on time, we would have found ourselves locked out because of the outage. Turns out building management is hard to track down on Christmas eve) This new sanctuary where my dad's church is temporarily holding service has terrible acoustics, so even as we were climbing the stairs up, we could hear the roar of the congregation, the chatter, the frantic setting up, the screaming children. You'd think Christmas eve services would get old, that the setting up would run smoothly, but no. It's the same play, same songs, same service each year, yet always slightly different. The wisecracking wise men, the awkward transitions and stumbles, hilarious kids as sheep, the mumbling unenthusiastic youths, and the grand candle lighting finale at the end when everyone lights a candle and sings to Silent Night-- no, it doesn't get old. My Jesus doesn't get old. So if it takes all this bustle, chaos, and ritual to make us remember, then that's our shame, but I'm glad when we do remember. Jesus, Man, God, coming down then, coming again, that doesn't get old. That's a part of my every day.

Spirit of the Swap

$5 limit.  An invitation with a Bible verse guilting people into sharing.  "Creativity encouraged."  And the hottest gift last year were greeting cards from the Holocaust Museum.  Sounds like a goofy sacrilegious gift swap (my favorite kind), no?  No.  Which made my presents look awesome at the Christmas party with my new small group.  Turned out, everyone not only went over the $5 limit, but wrapped their totally legit presents beautifully.  And then there was me.  With my adorable "I believe" set with a wind-up Santa toy, the cheesiest Obama pin I could locate, and sparklers.  Who doesn't love sparklers (and Obama and Santa)?  Perhaps the Republican who received it. Who even knew there were Republicans in Massachusetts?  From Michigan/California at that! 

Not only did I get shown up on the swapping front, but Erik the Blonde whupped everyone on the treats to eat front.  I brought homemade bean dip and eggnog.  Respectable, yes.  But Erik brought good wine (because he says he knows the difference, the rest of us just nod along), smoked turkey, sliced red peppers, sun dried tomato cheese spread, sliced apples, and Triscuits (I'm forgetting an item here).  AND homemade sugar cookies, frosting, and 4 different kinds of sprinkles.  How am I supposed to earn kingdom points and win with him as my competition?  (At least there were no butterfly finger sandwiches a la Longmuir.  I'll be ready next time, Blonde)  And how are we supposed to enjoy Christmas without atrocious holiday sweaters, inappropriate chocolates, or ironic (but not that ironic) Obama pins?  I tried, folk(s), but I'm afraid the Christmas spirit is just being lost on my new small group. 

Medicaid. Medicant.

Looking for cold medicine last night, Mother first tried to get my to take Nyquil. ("I can't, I need to wake up before 6" "It's OK, I'll wake you") Then take some pills from China that "really works." I know deep in my heart that she is not trying to kill me. But knowing won't mean much when my heart stops beating.

Christmas Hit List

Hello (non-Jewish) Jason. I've been waiting for you.

(That worked on two levels for me, but probably just one for everyone else. Or less.)

Today on the RA white board, we put down our Christmas wish list (presented here in its entirety):

• Good will toward me
• Barbie and the Diamond Castle Princess Liana Doll (Doc Fischer of Men: "If you want Barbie DVDs, I have more than I would care for." "What's on Barbie DVDs?" "Trust me, you don't want to know")
  
• The candy dispenser always has Sour Patch Kids, never Mike & Ikes
• Cure for rabies
• Not get lost during a journal club
• Not be scared of Doc Whitecastle

Quite mysteriously, the RAs came back from our lunch break and discovered the board changed. We were no longer scared of Whitecastle but wished to "Not be scared of the dark." Interestingly enough, too, it was all in Whitecastle's handwriting- how all this was changed by itself... sounds like a Christmas miracle to me.

Also miraculous: the amount of sweets I had today. Dark chocolate. Fudge. Peanut butter fudge. Sour worm gummies. Donut. Cheesecake. Underservedly-fancy-gum-drop. Blueberry mini muffin. Chinese egg custard. But it's OK, folks. I had a banana for breakfast.

Chef's Notes

Salting an eggplant (known as degorging) draws out the vegetable's moisture and can remove much of its bitterness as well as lend a smoother texture.  Salting an eggplant can also make it very salty.  Thus rinsing carefully after salting is crucial to the whole process.  Just putting that out there.  Sometimes they don't emphasize the rinsing enough. 

Also, anyone else think the letter K should go before the J?  I am having trouble alphabetizing today.

Strange Kindness

Blogger deleted one of my entries. It was probably the best one of the year, too. I wrote it in iambic pentameter and the ending would have brought tears to anyone's eyes. But mostly it was about the awesome Christmas present Young Bo' and I made for Nice Doc and Whitecastle- their own two-cups-and-floss telephone set decorated with Calvin, Hobbes, and snowflakes (or as Whitecastle called them, "the tiger and the boy"). Too bad Blogger hates you.

Depending on the time of day, there are many things that I hate. Chief among them: waiting for the bus and running after the bus, both of which I end up doing at least once a week. Last night, with the snow and ice on the ground and the bus still half a block away, I started slowly running, but it was more of a token gesture to tell myself I tried, I didn't actually think I had a chance of making it. But this man standing between myself and the bus saw me, "Are you after the bus?" he asked. Out of breath and flustered, I don't remember responding, just grunting and shooting out my hand, as if flagging down a cab. "Hold up!" he yelled back to the bus driver, "someone's coming." When I ran past the man with a hoarse, "thank you," he just said "don't worry, it'll wait for you, don't worry." And in moments like that (and mercifully, there were actually a lot of moments like that this weekend), there is no animus toward the MBTA, just a swelling of appreciation for a stranger. Best stranger of the year.

... of a white Christmas

From today's Times Magazine, on Mexico's groundbreaking anti-poverty program:

...the [Oportunidades] payments, helpful as they are, are still heartbreakingly small. Emma Pasarán in the town of Venustiano Carranza in Puebla, told me that one of the benefits of the program is that “I am never without money. If my daughter says, ‘Mom, I need a pencil,’ I can say to her, ‘Here’s the money.’ ” She mimes taking a coin out of her purse, a proud smile on her face. In the same town, I talked to Elia Valderrama Vargas, a mother of three, in her dirt-floor house, about the jobs that will be open to her soon-to-be-educated children. “My husband cuts weeds with a machete,” she told me. “My children will be able to work in a tortilla factory because they’ll know how to cobrar” — how to add purchases and give change. For Pasarán, buying a pencil on a whim was the fulfillment of a dream; for Valderrama, it was seeing her children in indoor work.

Happy Hump Day

Eating surprisingly good chili cheese fries in the food court before the office party tonight. Hands down the highlight of the week. Sitting there with Young Bo', digging in to the hot gooey mess, talking about how much we both sucked at physics in retrospect, and doing all of this with the uncertainty of the party ahead of us- it was a gift of a moment.

The actual party was pretty nice, though once again, everyone was disappointingly well behaved. I may have said some stupid things. But all the docs kids were adorable. Everyone was under three in age and height. Doctor Greene's girl loved my dress. Doc Query's son knew his animals (and they weren't just your barn yard variety), but not to be outdone, Doc Nice's girl? Knew where her elbows and wrists are. None of them compared, of course, to how happy little Julian was. He just kept laughing about everything. And whenever we asked about what he was doing, he would explain that he was just pretending. I hope everyone gets to a chance to be as happy as he was tonight.

Runner up awesome moment: When one of the spouses pulled out a little flute and started performing. The look on everyone's faces? Priceless.

Opened the Window

Yesterday, we put up on the RA white board a map of the office and red circles around who was sick as a sort of Division travel advisory, so people would know who to avoid. This did not sit well with Whitecastle, who found himself on the red list.

Whitecastle: This is offensive.

Moi: It's a public health measure.

Whitecastle: I'm not coughing on anyone. This isn't how the flu spreads. It's about droplet transmission. I should make you read about flu transmission.

Moi: It's for the good of the group.

Whitecastle: [Young Bo'], you're here, too. You should be upset.

Moi: Whose handwriting do you think that is?

With that, Whitecastle took the marker and proclaimed himself free of the flu. "Allergies" he explained, though no one is buying it. Office Christmas party tomorrow. Can't wait to pull out my sitar.

Lend Thy Light

Sister Claire, questioning my (excessive) commitment to the RA white board (featuring new posts at least 3 times a week):  The time you spend on these things… are you covered by a grant to do this?

It's only the one part of my day during which I can shine, Claire. 

Speaking of shining bright and starry nights, MC TChu pulled out his fancy phone the other night to reveal a picture of a decked out Christmas tree in his living room…

Moi: Are there presents under the tree?

TChu: No.

Moi: Are you [and the housemates] even going to be here for Christmas?

TChu: No.

Moi: Yet you have a giant Christmas tree-

TChu: -because we have a twelve foot ceiling.

Incredible Edible Me

Tonight, as it often happens, I ran after the T with a big backpack jostling down my back. I had to run about a block on the rough Brookline terrain, and- because I run faster than the speed of light/trolley train- just managed to catch it in time. Only to remember that I had just gone grocery shopping. I had two packages of frozen edamames and 1 bag of frozen spinach in my backpack. And a carton of eggs. All that pounding against the pavement and banging against the frozen vegetables did a number on my joints. I couldn't imagine what happened to the eggs inside my bag. But- sit down for this one folks, grab your handkerchief and brace yourselves for an early Christmas miracle- not a single egg was harmed in the making of this story. Not even the slightest crack. Those little eggs are cool, collected, and sitting pretty in my fridge, each with smooth little cheeks. I am writing congratulatory letters to my congresschickens as we speak.

Public Hygiene

My new, supposedly orange zest scented, body wash smells like bleu cheese.

We've all had stories of not being a morning person, of putting on the wrong sock or forgetting the keys. None of these stories, I learned last night, can compare to that of Anthony's. You see, friend[s], a few weeks ago, whilst passing a store front window on the way to work, Anthony saw that there was shampoo in his hair. "By then," he said, "I had already driven to work and stopped to get coffee at Dunkin' Donuts. No one said anything." Perhaps they were afraid that they wake him from this nightmare. And somehow this man in allowed to operate vehicles at 60 mph in such a state. There ought to be laws against these things.

I feel as if I'm writing too many words so let me just pause a second for you to let this sink in.

Anthony spent a good hour going to the coffee shop and then driving to work all the whilst not realizing that he still had shampoo in his hair.

The boy takes four showers a day. You would think he would have learned by now. In the end, Anthony bought a few bottles of water from Stop & Shop and had to rinse off in the parking garage, clearing his head and landing himself on my short list of favorite anecdotes.

Reasong #6.8 Why I Love Being Out of School

Because having a B.A. is glorious.

Nah. Weekends. That's why. In my senior year, that stretch of time between Thursday evening and Monday were consumed by readings and my honors project. I didn’t even have classes on Fridays or Monday mornings, it was just filled with work study and school work, a dark, long stretch with the occasional episode of Grey’s, brunch, or a quick drink somewhere. I love how things have changed, how it’s 12:10AM on Sunday and I’ve hardly spent any time in my apartment this weekend, how I got to volunteer, doze off during a movie, take a nap, meet up with friends for dinner, then head across town for a farewell party without feeling guilty. I love being out of school so that when I bump into old friends from the Bo', I appreciate it. I love staying up late on Saturday and thinking, “oh, it’s OK, I still have Sunday tomorrow.” It’s a feeling I’ve never had before. Granted, I still have to do schoolwork tomorrow, but only a couple hours’ worth. No more GREs, apps, or school for awhile… I’m optimistic for my social life. Perhaps the mid-20s is when I bloom and finally become cool.

But in October, Jodi’s mother lost her job managing a huge dental practice in the Bronx, then landed one closer to home that requires more hours for less money. Pilates was dropped, along with takeout sushi dinners, and Jodi’s allowance, which covers lunch during the week, slipped to $60. Instead of having a tutor, Jodi has become a tutor, earning $150 a week through that and baby-sitting.

NYTimes, if you write one more story about poor rich people this holiday season, I'm going to give you something to write about. I know I choose to read the paper and its snottiness is part of the charm. But the stories of housekeepers and nannies being let go and $100 allowances slashed to $60 have got to stop.

Of Thieves and Lions

Earlier tonight, we had a Bo' round table at Grendel's (a table we worked hard and bargained for) with a bunch of random kids that some knew better than others (me being the common thread), just the way I like things. And because Young Bo' lives a life of lies, she held up her friends' dinner just to meet up with us, then ditched us after just one drink. Tim also left early, under mysterious circumstances, throwing money on the table and abruptly running out. Maybe it's something with '08ers. But we forgave them, especially Young Bo', because she's awesome. And we're afraid of her menopausal mood swings.

Colin the Cynic...

Moi: My commute to the T is even shorter if I cut through the housing project.

Colin: 'Cause you're running the whole way?

(on the CandyLand competition tomorrow)

Moi: I don't want to spend $10 to play CandyLand.

Amy: $10 is only for families. It's $5 and you get to beat little kids.

Zvi: Can we be a family?

Colin: Yeah, the Manson family.

All in all, it was $15 for one drink, a split dinner, nachos, and Ben & Jerry's ice cream. Just the type of low key evening I was looking for after so many crazy nights. Sure, everyone else split for parties and bars, but I'm secure enough in my social life to be pleased with a quiet Friday evening. But please stay friends with me. Pretty please.

Fit to Print

Yesterday, Doc Query surprised me at my desk and demanded that I go to the Times' page. I had to pretend that I wasn't already browsing and set papers down to make it look like I was working.

Doc Query: Check out the front page, right there-

Moi: Hey! That's the article. Hey! They don't mention your name.

Doc Query: Yeah. They don't mention yours either. None of them did. What's up with that?

I don't know why I don't get personal shout outs in medical journals or the lay press. But it was very nice of Doc Query to mention that as I was trying to pretend to be happy for him. One silver lining though: If you squint real close at 0:24 of this clip, you just might be able to see my name. You might need to freeze frame the thing and blow it up. And even then I'm not sure what article the guy is really holding up, but look, ma, I'm big in Japan!

Demand of the Times

From today's Times.

The case did not produce a court ruling offering guidelines for honoring donors’ intent. But it did highlight how difficult and costly it can be to challenge wealthy universities. Even without going to trial, each side had spent more than $40 million on the case.

Ah, thank you donors. Thank you, college. I could have gone to school for a very long time on $40 million.

Time are a Changing

Yesterday, Young' Bo' and I defined the word ballin' for the office on our PSA white board.  And when we had done so, we were shocked to find out from those of a certain age that they, too, had heard of ballin' but that it had a very different meaning.  (in stage whisper)  It means to have sex.  Seriously.  Ballin'.  Who knew? 

Someone in the office has the ice cream truck tune as a ring tone.  That person has not been at their desk for the past hour.  Yet someone keeps trying to reach that person.  And I am slowly going insane.

Regrets

I had planned to update you on my life. I had jotted notes down in my Moleskine. I had planned on staying in tonight, preparing my long-shot program application, maybe watching some TV, and going to bed early. Then suddenly, it’s 11pm and I’m at Lindsey Lohan’s myspace blog. I don’t know how these things happen. And 400 word essays take a lot longer to write than I remembered. My computer flipped out on me. My application unsaved. And I just bought myself another quiet night in by the computer. Goodbye, Thursday night plans.

ILOVERMONT

In my years in New England, this is what I've learned of what people do in Vermont:
look at leaves
be cold
be rustic
have barn parties
farm and raise a family
hike
talk about Ben & Jerry

I have never known a trip to Vermont to be otherwise. This weekend was no different. Went up to a town whose locales were never made clear to me with my new small group. We hiked, we had a fire, we ate bacon and eggs, and we were very cold. Of course we played games (though not many) and of course I won them. And then I was schooled by a 1980's piece of technology: the Super NES Super Mario. That game is so freaking hard. Mostly, however, we hung out and just talked. Just one group coming together.

Odds and Ends

Wanted to get out a compilation from the work week before I left for the weekend:

It's Good to be Wanted

Earlier this week, Sister Claire noticed that the dark vs. white Thanksgiving poll was still up.  It did not please her. 

Sister Claire: Now that you're a published author, you're too busy to change the board?  (Her success rate is so high that, sometimes, I feel like Sister Claire stops by just to make it into these entries, and oh, now that Thanksgiving is over, the fugitive wild turkeys in her neighborhood have returned)


It's Good to Pay Attention in Sunday School

Remember the Great Zacchaeus Debate of '06?  An update: according to Thomas the Irishman, Zacchaeus was a "very little man."  And Jesus did go over his house for tea.  Why are the Brits and Irish so strange?  And why can't they accept him as a wee one?

It's Good to Be Young

Yesterday, Young Bo' and I put up a picture of Zac Efron under a new feature of the white board, "What the Kids Are Into."  But the young heart throb was not well received as apparently no one in the Division, even those with kids, had ever heard of him.  So today, we replaced Zac with a poll on favorite Ma Query desserts (Doc Query brought in a trio this week), but Jen was not pleased with the shift.  (By the by, let me just say that I'm glad I've never met Ma Query because if I ever do, I just might be compelled to kiss her for her magical baking) 

Jen P: But I want to know what the kids are into.

Moi: You'll have to wait for part 2 of the series to come out then.

Jen P: Josh and I find this very helpful.  We feel we're out of touch.


And It Feels Good to be a Reader of the Times

(the Bo' alums, we took some time out of our stories and mockery lunch today and talked books)

Moi: I was re-reading Salinger's Franny and Zooey just a few days ago.  Reading that liberal, Northeast elitism, it just felt so-

Laura: Comfortable?

Moi: Yeah!  I loved it.

Ah, the Bo'.  I'm so glad that you fashioned dozens of kids who are just like me.

Dim the Nights Go

Weeknight dim sum. Sounds terrible, I know. No carts. No crowds. And on a weeknight, too. But it was glorious tonight, finishing a table of food, then heading over for bubble tea and some more talking. Sometimes I forget how much I like my friends.

I would savor in all this more and tell you some amusing work stories, but I've got a retreat to pack for, birthday present to buy, study to read, critique to write, and a summer program to apply to. It's a crazy Thursday night and I only have an hour left. Wish me luck!

JAM-On It

My name and credentials are on a page of a big medical journal. It's no NEJM, BMJ, or Annals. But take one more guess and you'd be right on. I have an issue on hand with tomorrow's date and my name on it, trying to act as nonchalantly as possible at work (while ringing up my parents-- thank God we don't speak English with each other) but my heart is beating fast. No one likes a gloat and other than the RAs here, everyone else is used to seeing their name in things. And since my mom hung up on me ("That's good, I have a call waiting, bye!"), I'm sharing my excitement with you. I hope I get to get used to this like the other docs, but that may never happen. For now, I'm psyched. I can't wait to go home and do a victory dance. In fact, I might just go into a quiet stairwell to dance crazy for a minute. This is going on my Big Moments of 2008 list. In fact, let's put this a place behind "Winning the Thesis Award" on the All Time Great list.

PS. Less than an hour since I've gotten my copy and it's already got a rip. Thanks, Young Bo'.

All Your Bases

I had quite the baking weekend the last few days. I didn't get around to the cracked pepper crackers I wanted to make, but I did make cranberry rolls, 2 batches of banana bread, and some cookies. All this meant that I got to bring leftover cookies into work, and cookies translate into brownie points. I called them by "Covering My Bases" cookies, because Lord knows that I need to shore up on good will when I have the opportunity. Big Chief assured me that the cookies were worth "a good four mistakes." Which means that should last me until Wednesday.

In other news, Carol's experiences this week are shedding light on the fact that they do call the birthing process "labor" for a very good reason as it is apparently quite labor intensive. Who would've thunk? Whenever, however, and whatever happens, in this season of advent, we eagerly await the arrival of Jeremy-Joy, who's sure to be the best loved baby boy in the tri-state area.