Title Fine

You have noticed that I've posted fewer entries lately. It's because I've been tired since 1978.

For the past few weeks, maybe even month, Ashley and I have been repeating the same refrains to many, many different people. "It's about a hot tub that's also a time machine." "Of course, it's not as good as The Hangover- that's not the point." And "What's not to understand? The title explains everything."

We don't know what everyone's deals are. Well, we do know. "Simpletons," Ashley so aptly pinpointed. But the movie had us pumped. I'm talking international dance troupes type of pumped levels. And so this afternoon, we went for it. "We have to... go," was what we told people as we left school. "If I said we're going to the movies," Ashley wisely speculated, "They'd ask us which one. It was easier not to say anything." But ain't no matter. We recruited no one else for the ride. In fact, there were only 10 people in the theater. But there was popcorn. Dibs. John Cusack. Obscene bear. The 80's. And when we got out, sunshine. And a glorious, glorious day.

Life after Twenty

If I had a nickel for every person I've told this story to, I might be able to buy a stamp.  But I like this story. 

I felt sore this morning.  And yesterday, yoo.  I have a sneaking suspicion it all has to do with Sunday.   I was sitting on the couch on Sunday, minding my own business, reading Prof BSketch's book "for pleasure" (worst idea ever) and trying to 'sabbath,' when I caught an exercise program on PBS.  That should have been the tip off.  But I figured, hey, what's a little light exercise from PBS?  So, I followed along with the program.  I even sweated.  The random man-in-lab-coat who popped up every few minutes to talk about bones and fiber also should have been a tip-off.  But it wasn't.  Until 15 minutes later, when I found out the name of the program.  Firming after Fifty.

Where Are My Children?

It's 4:25AM. About ten minutes ago, a car outside our window decided that its alarm should go off. For ten minutes. (with a 20 second break every minute) I first tried to sleep through it. Laugh about it. Then finally decided to get up, put on some earplugs (thank you, microlab), headphones, music, and do some reading. That's when, of course, the alarm just stopped for good. And now it's just me. 4:27AM. Doing readings alone in the kitchen.

Occam's Razor

For the past few days, I've been discovering cuts all over my hands, and most recently, a cut on my wrist. I don't remember getting these gashes and don't usually notice until I see blood. Or wash my hands with lime juice. Since it's been increasingly humid lately and my hands do not seem drier than usual, there can only be three possible explanations:

1. My skin is mutating. It has evolved into phenotypically smooth, normal skin even as its dry, easily crackling traits remain.
   
2. My subconscious is trying to kill me. I have been self-inflicting cuts in my sleep. Probably something to do with my mother. Or my hierarchy of needs.
3. Stigmata.
   

State of the Obvious

You don't need to tell me that the bill isn't perfect. For those of us in school, it's far less progressive than we'd envisioned, set too far into the future, with far too many side deals. Even the bill's viability is still in peril. I know.

But for the last few days, we've set aside our caution and allowed ourselves to smile a little. Coming back from spring break, "Did you see it last night?" was among the most popular salutations ("You mean, did I watch the meaningless procedural vote that not even PBS decided to carry? Yes, yes, I did."). In a new quarter of classes, my professors in every discipline- from management to ethics to quantitative methods- all addressed the reform bill and why it's relevant to our studies. All of this makes me glad that I'm in this school at this time, learning these things.

---

Professor Steve: In this case, you have some losers- not in a social sense. In a policy sense.

Reason #2837 I Like My Housing Situation

Moi: I feel that the daffodils are staring at me when I look at them. They're like weird little aliens.

Landlady Chang: You're a weird little alien.

Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler

Yesterday, for the first time in months, the sun's rays delivered the warmth they'd promised.

It was even warm enough for flip flops.
Perfect for my museum adventure.

This is where Flavia works. There are dead birds everywhere.
But I wasn't allowed to take a picture.

The museum next door was much friendlier.
They were even open to the public.

Sometime in the early afternoon, I got tired and started taking pictures of myself.
Here I am-- in a new poncho, flip flops, a contented shadow in front of the security guard's favorite artwork-- happy.

The After Morning

It's 9:30AM.  I've already been out of the house for two hours.  Eaten a French toast Monte Cristo (so not recommended before 9AM, but spectacular any time thereafter) in a bookstore/cafe.  And walked the two miles to the office (don't know why I bothered, that sandwich is still sitting pretty in my stomach).  I may be a morning person, but not this kind of morning person.  Now I'm just going to sit in front of the computer and hope no one notices that I'm dozing.  And that no lives need saving this morning.

Road-o Clowns

I love my whiteboard at work (sometimes I'm the only one), so it greatly pleases me to see other people having fun with their work.
Found these on my way down Mass Ave today.

Go U Nerds

It is St. Patrick's day, one of Reland's most notable holidays. How did I celebrate? I went to a lecture with a group of Bo' kids (and had 2 dinners, which, I suppose, is how I celebrate best). We were all psyched for the alumni lecture series tonight and the chance to hear a Bo' prof again. Just for kicks. The way it should be. Amy even brought her entire office. And on Sunday, Mac and I have a little posse attending Professor BSketch's book talk. Because spring is here, I love my Bo' buds, and it's about time I acquired some new topics to speak vaguely intelligently on.

Pretty in Pink

The sunshine makes me hopeful that lobster season will soon be upon us.  Lobsters!  I'm better suited to live by seasons than calendar.  Yesterday, I nearly showed up for a lecture a week early and missed another lunch presentation, simply because I cannot read calendars. 

That was all before the pedicure.  In honor of spring and break, Meredith and I ducked out of work for a couple of hours.  I wanted ice cream, but we got pretty toes instead.  (The salon lady took one look at me and said, "Eyebrows?"  Thanks.  I know they're out of control, but I'm here for toes.)  The whole wonderful experience took longer than expected and I wasn't in proper foot gear, so when it came time to snap back to reality, I had to rush back to the office in those free flimsy fake flip flops.  You try shuffling down the block and crossing the street in paper-thin sandals with holes in them.  (But what was the alternative?  Put my socks back on and smear the polish?  Heck no.) 

Coincidentally, yesterday was the first time hospital security asked to see my badge in 3 years.  Something about my orange faux flops waddle, my jeans rolled up, and the socks and sneakers in my hand seemed out of place to him.  But I made it.  Up the elevator.  Down the hallway.  Sneaked past the supervisor's office (empty- thank God), motioned "shh..." to the secretary, and scurried to my office.  In retrospect, it's too bad that the conference room has glass walls and is across from my office.  And that its doors were open.  With my supervisor inside.  Along with Chief, Vice Chief, Whitecastle and everyone else.  Had I read the calendar, I would've known that there was a division-wide meeting yesterday.

Just as well though- saved me the trouble of showing off my toes to everyone individually.

Something Like It

My Mother cannot eat spicy foods. She would like to. She used to. But presently, she cannot. It upsets her body. It's a fact that she has had a hard time accepting, and often tries to find ways of skirting around the issue in restaurants.

Mother: Is the Ma-la Lamb (literally "numbingly spicy lamb" in Chinese) hot?

Waiter: Yes, ma'am, it is.

How You Say... Menteur

Mother sometimes asks for my help with English phrases and idioms. 

Mother: If you're running late, you can say, "something kept us," right?  Or "something came up?"

Moi: You could.  But you should probably say, "sorry, we're late" since nothing has come up.  I was with you all afternoon.

Chance of Meatballs

This entry is long and painful so as to mirror the wet agony I experienced yesterday afternoon. The day started out innocently enough, with promises of Flour Bakery brunch and a free MicroBrew fest.

Too bad 40,000 other people had the same idea and there was the terrible, terrible rain. Liz and I spent the day drinking coffee and eating baked goods ("Could I have the last chocolate croissant?" "That's a spinach and feta turnover." "How about the raisin scone then?" "It's actually orange cranberry." "Filthy little hippie.")

Soon enough, 4PM rolled around and I still hadn't gone to Trader Joe's to pick up what I needed for the potluck dinner. "Why don't you just go to the one in Central?" Grand idea. Unfortunately, there was no Trader Joe's anywhere along Mass Ave. Or close to Central Square. I looked. Finally, at 75% soaking capacity and not trusting the Starbucks girl's vague pointers, I had to call TChu-- that smug, punctual, bastard with a great sense of direction. And as I walked southeast on Magazine, I cursed him under my breath for a. using ordinal directions* and b. being absolutely right.

By the time I reached Trader Joe's, I was beyond saturation point and ready to use my last lifeline. Kevin. ("I can pick you up, but where are you?" "Um... I came from Central but that's not... I'm in a plaza with a Starbucks..." "Could you put Joy back on the phone? She usually knows where she is.") Of course I pretended that he should only stop by if "it's on the way." And I just "wanted to see when he was going to dinner." And of course, he saw through it, picked me up, and made a wholly questionable pasta salad we all had to compliment.

Then Nic let me use her dryer, sleep in the daybed, and made everything better.

*I spent most of my 4th grade year not comprehending English. Consequently, I have a strong dislike for everything I missed in school that year: ordinal directions, state capitals, and Little House on the Prairie.

Grandiloquent Gal

When I lived with Holly Creepster, we hung faux "glamor shots" of ourselves on the wall, referred to each other as "old Basil," and lemons as "poor man's lime." (The first was a different kind of ridic but a failure nonetheless) We were just amateurs back then. Pretending to be pretentious and grilling SPAM on a George Foreman. I need to learn to carry this sort of bombast:

Another ticketholder, a dancer and choreographer, said she yearned for theater and art that aspired to a fresh aesthetic, rather than the Broadway fare that rarely impresses her. “You talk about the play, about plays as literature, about the sets, about the ideas. ... I don’t want to be elitist, but the fact is there’s an elitism to self-education.” --NYT

Perhaps with opera tonight (thanks wonderful Tyler) I shall. Finals are over, but the real tests in class are just beginning.

Fried. Over. Easy.

I remember a time when finals were spread out over a week following 2 days of reading period (or freaking Eddie Burt where we had 3 weeks of 'reading period') and we'd complain if we'd had 2 finals on one day. Perhaps you don't remember this. The Bo' was a very different place. Where they gave us goody bags with flu shots and popcorn packages during finals (You should have heard the obsequious raves about the 2 hours of free smoothies we had this week, You would've thought they they'd killed a heifer for each of us). This week, I had 4 finals within a 26 hour period.

Ba: I'll pray for your exam.

Moi: (feeling guilty because I hadn't studied-- I'd given up on my pass/fail class) Just pray that I pass.

Ba: What? I'll pray you do really well.

Moi: I'm just taking the class pass fail. I need maybe a C.

Ba: It's OK. I'll still pray that you get an A.

Thanks, Baba. At least someone is trying.

Enchilada Envy

Why am I doing in this frozen wasteland when there's a place called Donut Taco Palace II in Austin, TX?

One in a Million

Ah, Professor B(l)ender. Forty percent of your class is a waste of my time and you underestimate my intelligence. But you're nevertheless fascinating and great for sound bites.

B(l)ender: The farther you get away from Boston, the more people are impressed with a Harvard degree. In Massachusetts, policy advisers who are Harvard graduates-- they're on the T every day. Deval Patrick can throw them to the wind.

Different Strokes

In applying for a fellowship, I asked both FRiles and Whitecastle to write reference letters for me. They did. And so today, I brought them identical presents to their respective offices. This was how they responded:

"Oh, thank you, but you didn't have to do that."

vs.

"OK, why're you sucking up this time?"

I'll let you guess who said what.

Also, FRiles has opened up my mind to potato chip cookies. I cannot wait to try it.

Pass the Buck

On my walk to the shuttle the other day, saw a guy asleep in his wheelchair. His dentures plopped out and fell onto his chest. The whole experience made going to school all the more exciting.

Lost Time

This past week, I subsisted mainly on free pizza, cheese, crackers, trail mix, (as I write this, this kid outside just fell on his bike and is shrieking and shaking his elbow up and down-- so dramatic, reminds me of a young Dwight), instant noodles and dumpling soup. When I did spend money on food, it was Thursday night, when I devoured an entire chicken in my hunger (it was a plate of chicken fingers, but the place did them weird so they came in giant steaks). I foresee the upcoming finals week to be just as pitiful, so I've started cooking in preparation.

Last night, I made alternative chicken nuggets. Though the recipe had a fancier, Spanish name. The best compliment I've ever received on this is that it tastes like Chick-fil-a. And look, fresh fruit and vegetables for the first time since Wednesday.

This morning, stuffed French toast. The powdered sugar was spread almost perfectly until I knocked the bag and giant clumps fell out. And the picture is terrible regardless (watch how I care) but I get to eat this. And that's not terrible or ugly.

Chips Ahoy

Yesterday, Josh and I met to schedule a meeting.  We walked over to his desk so he could check his schedule and enter the event in his Blackberry.  I wrote "1:30" on my hand.  (then spent the afternoon trying to figure out why those numbers were on my hand)  Precisely because I'm so meticulous in my calendar-keeping, I was pleasantly surprised to discover a reception for the master's students after class last night.  Everyone else seemed to have known about this.  Sadly, the spread there was the most fresh vegetables I'd had all week (sugar snap peas, cucumber slices, and yellow tomatoes), though judging from the way everyone else swarmed the tables, I wasn't the only one.  There were at least 6 types of cheeses (two chevres alone) and I may have sampled them all.  And sugar cane shrimp that looked like sugar cane French fries.  Just how much cheese, crackers, chips and dip did I have last night?  Enough that I didn't eat dinner.  Though that may have been psychological.  I'd planned to have Easy Mac (with canned corn- to make it a balanced meal) for dinner and the thought of more lactose was intolerable.

Lenny: Life is so hard for you, isn't it?

It really, really is.

Fly

Every little child learns
if you can't see dreams
your eyes are blind

I used to have dreams. I used to want to be somebody. I used to aspire to greatness. Nowadays, my butt hurts from too much sitting and my soul has apparently died. Let's run down a list of things I have done in my dream the past few days:

3. Forget to do law readings (this one hit a little close to home)

2. Turned down from Harvard's PhD program (WTF, brain? I didn't even know I was applying). As consolation, I was accepted into Amherst's PhD program. It's apparently very good.

1. Find an extra week's worth of Claritin (sadly, waking up to find out that this was all a dream actually made me the most upset)

My sub-conscious is actually more lame than myself. It shouldn't make me feel good. But it does. I so rarely out-cool people.

Head and Shoulders

Tonight, I picked up my phone and realized that my mother had already started the conversation without me.

Mother: What channel is Saturday Night Fever on? Do we have that channel?

Moi: The movie? I don't know if it's playing.

Mother: No, the show. Saturday Night something.

Moi: Saturday Night Live comes on at 11:30.

Mother: Oh. I thought it was on Saturdays at 8. Do you want to grow your hair out?

Moi: No.

Mother: At least to your shoulders? I read somewhere that men don't like women with short hair.

Buttoned Down

They should really rename cardigans "wrinkled shirt cover ups."  Because that's why I'm wearing one today.  I'm also wearing my I'm-a-big-kid interview pants.  (and a giant backpack + parka to the interview, because I did not have time to look like a real professional today.  I'm just an impostor looking for a job).

Doc I-forget-his-nickname-Winkler(?), father of two and supporter of Van Halen, spent 10 minutes this morning discussing last night's women's free skate program, using words like "magnificent," "sensational" and weighing in on Mirai Nagasu's chances in 4 years.  I spent 10 minutes trying to coagulate my heart back into solid form.

Butterfly in the Sky

One (of many) shameful secret about my past is that I do not read very well. It's not that I'm dyslexic. But I've slipped through the cracks of the public school system. Year after year, they passed me onto the next grade until finally, I'm in Grade 17 (shudder) and have misread the syllabus twice this week. The first meant that I finished a paper two days early- a mostly harmless mistake- but the second meant that I thought I had a week left to do my case and planned next week accordingly when I don't actually have a week left. Then again, what are weekends for if not writing research papers?

Professor B(l)ender (not to be confused with Professor Builder): One thing I love about Republicans- they're incredibly consistent. Who should pay for health care? Individuals. Government should stay out. Children should get jobs.

Loft Story

Have you ever wondered what was going on outside but didn't want to look out the window?  Those of us in my office building now have a solution for that.  The new hospital live cam positioned out onto the street.  You can watch a livestream of people come and go at the traffic intersection all day long (via hospital intranet- sorry outside stalkers!).  You can even take snap shots.  It's about the best toy ever.  Even though the resolution isn't perfect and scope limited, so we're not sure why the camera is even there.  Almost as good an investment of our money as that time the Bo' commissioned a fleet of waffle makers with the school seal on it (I know those waffle makers have their loyal fans who love the 'syrup pocket' it afforded in the middle, but I like my waffles gridded and that shining sun interfered).  Needless to say, the office had a field day with this (while Whitecastle questioned why the view looked so much like the view from my window.  I have no comment).  And because we're nerds, we joked in terms of the type of data we could collect from the livestream.  I love nerds.

Probably not good uses of my time:  browsing the web for Air Jordan Spizikes I'm not going to buy.  But my sneakers are wet right now, this paper is not writing itself, and I've got kicks envy.

The Big Tuna

In the past two days, I have visited Professor Papa 6 times and only managed to see him on the very last try, while Laura found him on the first go.  Naturally, this led to a lot of awkward lurking and smiling at the receptionist as I walked past Papa's office and back.  Many times a day.  He was as elusive as the giant squid.  Though not half as giant or dangerous, and much more economically sound.

Moi: I need to slip out early.  I'm trying to catch a professor.

Jen: Is that what kids are calling it nowadays?

(later, when I finally caught him)

Moi: So, it's OK if I take bribes and kickbacks?

Prof. Papa: It's all money, right?  That's how you learn economics.

(when we ran out of things to say and I had to make an exit)

Moi: I need to run to class.

Prof. Papa: Make sure you don't injure yourself when you run.  Take your time.

Yes, it appears that this sociology majoring, chemistry minoring and English-dabbling liberal arts wanderer, who partook in almost every department's courses except government and econ- the two that the Bo' was most solid in- is on my way to becoming a TA in economics.  Sure, I avoided them like Sunday night dinners at Thorne, and only got my grade in this class because of generous curves (the grade curve- I don't have curves of my own), this isn't an entirely new venture for me.  I oversaw semesters, nay- years, of upper-level chemistry without any real mastery of the subject.  And, except for that boy who kept burning his hand with chemicals, we all survived unscathed.

Darling Clementines

Favorite thing about having ridiculous professors who all know each other, cite each other, and assign each other's work?

The familiar way in which they disparage each other.

It's Joe this and Bill that and Kathy snarked that Michael seems to think he has a new idea.

That, and unexpectedly spotting Professor Builder in a PBS special last night.

Room with a View

Many notes to self:

1. It's not a good idea to make black bean soup in a freshly laundered white shirt.

2. If and when said soup splatters onto said shirt, it is important to wash it as soon as possible.

3. It is just as important, however, to check if the blinds are up in the living room, and if the blinds on all 3 walls are up, especially on a sunny afternoon, to refrain from applying detergent on the shirt and washing it at the sink then and there, while still wearing the shirt.

4. If you find passerby staring below, stare back.

I saw dancing lions and dragons this morning. Did you?

Away from the Mucky Muck

Last weekend, I accidentally poured hot oil on the back of my hand. It didn't hurt for long, but has left a dark, twisted streak. It will probably disappear in another week. But for the time being, whenever I look down at the mark, I feel like a wizard.

Up Against the Ivy Wall

(brilliant title, an inside joke I will be sure to get)

The key to walking past security without an ID?  Waving at the guard.  Especially the young one.  He'll wave back, pretending to recognize you as well.

It Was No American Pie

(those fries are cookies. the patties are beer-cheddar cakes that taste like beer. and the ketchup is the world's most amazing frosting: it contains bacon and cheddar)

Let's file this under yet another "Thing I Never Thought I'd Do," along with eating scorpions, winning a slam, missing Maine winters, and wearing crimson. (Though thank God, I don't actually wear crimson gear. How embarrassing would that be?) I spent last night baking cupcakes to look like sliders.

Do I have better things to do with my time? Perhaps four papers to write and more books to read? A million times yes. Did I really need to open my case this morning when the bus driver asked what I'd made? Probably not. "Cupcakes" would have sufficed.

But there was a department bake off at stake (I go to such a dorky school- love it) and I had a gray haired Nancy to impress. I always have a gray haired Nancy to impress. (We're calling her FRiles from now on. Faux-Riles.) And because this is America, where hard work is rewarded when we pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, I took the the top prize in creativity.

Second to winning, the best part of the bake off was talking to Professor FOQ (friend of Query), who impressed with homemade chocolate marshmallow things. I'm floundering in her class, so it was good to let her see that I'm at least capable of some skills. Like mixing. Cutting. And pasting.

Professor FOQ: Are you from the Midwest? Where'd you get the bag?

Moi: Uh... see how you can see 'Bon Chon chicken' on the side? I just taped a Whitecastle logo over it.

Taxation without Representation

Note to Self: Despite making a handsome killing off of you on tuition, The University is still trying to take your money anyway you can, particularly through overpriced beverages.  It'd be best to stick with swiping as many tea bags, bottled water, and whatever else you can pocket at receptions, finals week spreads, or talks you wouldn't normally attend. 

Note to Whoever is Playing Creepy Keyboard Music in the Lab: Why aren't you picking up on my passive aggressive signals?  Shut it.

Corny, Cheesy Original

(Parmesan & cheddar polenta with tomatoes, onions, and chicken)

How badly am I avoiding this law brief? Despite a fridge full of dumplings and soup, I made polenta from scratch yesterday (and more dumplings). And since it can't be eaten unadorned, I made a tomato sauce to go with it. Tonight, it was the exact kind of leftover one would want on a wet, snowy night.

Restaurants should make veggie sliders out of shiitakes. They taste 14 times meatier than portabellos. And really, isn't that why people eat veggie burgers?

Best part about living next to a city hospital? (Other than living without fear of gun shots) My 0.5 mile walk to the shuttle is always cleanly shoveled.

Converse Chucks: Useless on snow days.

Fair Game

"Of Soup and Love, the first is best." --Thomas Fuller, Gnomologia (1732)

I stole this from Nick. Who stole it from a roommate's cookbook. Nick also made a funny joke about Bitter Melon(choly) soup. He's on a roll. But I made 2 soups and 2 stocks this past week. So I'm keeping the quote.

Tiger Valentine

Really regretting not taking any pictures of my dinner last night. But I was so excited to eat, there was no time to capture anything for prosperity. Prosperity was in the eating. In a last minute urge to celebrate the lunar new year (i.e. eat dumplings), I had a few folks over- folks who had nothing better to do on a Saturday night- and put them to work making dumplings to our hearts' delight. Well, some hearts' delight. Some people scolded others for not making dumplings as pretty as his dexterous Japanese fingers would allow. And then told Mer that her fried edamames aren't to be eaten, but thrown to feed the new year monsters. Yeah, I don't know either. I think Kos was just bitter that his country sold out and celebrates the new year in January. And that he went to the lesser of Maine's small liberal arts schools (though not Colby-phew).

Photos I would have posted had I had them:

[hot & sour soup]

[shrimp pork dumplings]

[sticky rice]

[red bean rice cakes]

Virgin Suicides

Is this the best journal article title ever?  I don't want to be hyperbolic here, but I think we've at least got a contender in our hands:

Occult Nipple Involvement in Breast Cancer*

Zvi: I was thinking about a research article linking virgin sacrifices and curses to breast cancer.

Moi: How much would that suck?  To be sacrificed and have cancer?

Zvi: I guess that'd show her

*Fine, the full title is Occult Nipple Involvement in Breast Cancer: Clinicopathologic Findings in 316 Consecutive Mastectomy Specimens.  And I know what occult means.  Stupid killjoy. 

If You Learned It

Last semester, office hours with Professor Papa were great. Not only did he make economics not scary, he made it exciting. But office hour with Professor Builder? Astounding. He spent half of it tearing into Doc Whitecastle's study design (as I explained it to him, so it was probably completely my fault and not Whitecastle's), but rather than feel annoyed, I just kept thinking, "I can't believe I'm sitting across from the man who designed my country's health care system." (Not this country. No one's that crazy.) He's a professor in his 70's who still takes the bus to cross campuses, teaches, publishes, works 12-hour-days, designs nations, and then spends 30 minutes talking to a first-year student. He doesn't have to do any of it. And yet he does it all.

It doesn't feel right to adopt him as a grandfather. Maybe he can be my great uncle.

Lazy Tuesday

A lot happened yesterday. I sat in a professor's empty office and called her cell phone from her office phone. That was a little weird. She let me know that my paper was in the wrong direction. That wasn't weird, but it wasn't cool. A bunch of us had lunch off campus and it was pretty much the happiest school day lunch anyone has ever had. I mean, I used to love third Mondays in 4th grade when we had tater tots and hot dogs with chicken noodle soup, but this was yellow tail and sweet potatoes and shrimp tempura maki plus soup, salad (good one, too), and dessert, and talking with like minded funny people about gender and rights on an unusually sunny January day all for under $15. I mean, sure, I should have spent that time doing readings, rewriting my paper, and working in the office, but I say, bygones. The day went on fast forward after that until I got home and the pace slowed just enough for me to pull a meatloaf out of the oven, bake some potato chips, brownies and a chicken. But that's all in the past now. Today, there is snow outside and I'm inside making chicken soup, doing readings, and content that the week is mostly over.

A View from Above

Last night, Ashley was interested in the view from my windows. I think something about his walk through the brownstones and into my neighborhood raised suspicions about the safety of his surroundings. (It didn't help that Kerwin kept pointing out the window saying "that's where my friend got mugged.") So we stared out the window for awhile (the dinner party was quite the rager) and discovered 2 "parking enforcement officers" (apparently the PC term for meter maids and men) in the middle of the street with an instrument on the ground. The man seemed to be trying to sweep his ticket writing apparatus across the road while the woman watched, but for a few minutes, we couldn't actually figure out what he was trying to do. It looked like he was alternately measuring something on the ground or trying to swing the little machine around. Then it happened. And we couldn't believe our good luck.

The guy tied his equipment around his foot and swung it while skipping, essentially playing "skip it" with the electronic pad he writes tickets with. It was bloody brilliant. He was excited. The woman was excited. And the four of us above were stunned. "Are we really watching this?" "I feel like someone should be taping this." "Oh, they're looking this way, turn around!"

Best. Parking Enforcement Officer Stalking Moment. Ever.

Away from Me, Daredevil

(I did, but the bread did not survive the walk upstairs intact.)

Living in a gentrifying zone is paying off wonderfully. This morning, soup on the stove (courtesy of gracious Dorothy) and procrastinating, I found myself wanting for some bread in my bread-less apartment. So I put on a sweatshirt and rolled downstairs to the overpriced 'provision' store, where I picked up a loaf, still relatively fresh from the Cape this morning. (Note to self: the two blocks to the post box is too far to run to in a sweatshirt). I got my bread, chatted with the cashier lady, and skipped upstairs to my warm soup, brandishing the baguette all the way (it's an impossible impulse, how can anyone walk with a baguette and not want to sword fight?). It's dangerous living above fancy cheeses, breads, and chocolate (and cured meats!), but it's a danger I was born to take on.

Week Redux

It's easy to write about work because it doesn't require much writing. If I was to actually sit down and think through what happened this week, I'd probably talk about the inexorable pull of drinks at The Pig on us. We spent much of last semester and this week talking about switching to a new pub for end-of-the-week drinks and yet somehow found us all there on Thursday night again, eating the same Tuscan fries (since I was abstaining) and complaining about the service. I may have also gone back and had more addictive fries for lunch on Friday- and they're not even good fries, they just sprinkle a generous amount of fake Parmesan on it. Or maybe I'd talk about how Professor Builder (not to be confused with Professor B(l)ender) is like the gentle, sagacious grandfather I'd never had (except that I have 2 real ones, plus another 'grandfather I'd never had'). Or how people named Nancy will always come up to bat for me. And intimidate me.

But like I said, too much effort. So here's a little blurb on the lack of trust between Whitecastle and myself.

Moi: You look great today. And I love what you've done with your office.

Whitecastle: What did you do now?

Moi: What I did? No, I need something from you.

Orange You Glad

I love that depending on how this interaction is read, it could seem like Doc Query and I are being sarcastic to each other, that only one of us is and vice versa, or that both of us are being completely genuine. I was a part of this conversation, but even now, I'm not sure how to read this:

Query: I submitted the piece.

Moi: The Drugs thing?

Query: Now you'll have a line on your CV that says that you've published in Drugs. It's what you've always wanted?

Moi: Oh that's fantastic.

Query: Aren't you so glad to have met me?

Many vs. Food

I've had a tough week against food. And I didn't even climb into a giant recycling bin and plow through piles of paper to rescue the chicken wings I accidentally tossed in a fit of recycling zeal. I just ate the salty, crunchy fruit of Landlady Chang's labor when she did that. (Sorry, Chang. It was too ridiculous not to share.)

Every other morning, Lu semi-accidentally eats what she sets aside for dinner at 9:35AM. And this week, I understand why. We've been cursed with bottomless stomachs. Yesterday, I accidentally ate both my lunch and dinner for lunch, despite repeatedly telling myself that I wasn't going to. And this morning, I had 1/3 of an acorn squash for breakfast. It's not a part of any complete breakfast but I had no milk, bread, yogurt, or any other breakfast facilitators in house. Not even rice. Just squash. (and leftover crab dip)

Before you start dialing protective services, however, chillax. Food and I have made up. In glorious fashion. They served turkey sandwich with fixings today at the school cafeteria. With a side of crunchy sweet potato fries. How did they know? I don't know. But that's our song. And now food and I will never fight again.

Our Town

I've referred to the hometown as W-ville or W-ford or W-town in one way or another since I've been writing.  Nick likes to call it "Dub-City."  But Nick lives in Eugene, OR, so we don't put much stock in what he says.  Regardless of the name, Dub City has been a sleepy suburb for years, where computer engineers settle, the children do well on standardized tests (you're welcome, town!), and everyone spends their weekends at Market Basket.

The neighborhood where I live now is very different.  For one thing, there's a housing project across the street.  And two shelters within walking distance.  Plus two more resource center/soup kitchens.  There's also a crazy man who rides around shouting things on his bicycle.  I'm always impressed by how well crazy guy rides his bike and obeys the rules of traffic.  I've seen him yell a lot of babble at people, but he's never hit anyone with his bike.

All of this should make the following statistic interesting:

Number of gun fatalities in Dub-City since 2010:  4

Number of gun fatalities in current neighborhood: 0

Homicides in Dub-City is turning out for 2010 what the crack-addled teacher scandal did in 2002.  Except it's a lot less funny.  And was 2002 really 8 years ago?

Joe Somebody

A few people have been airing complaints about my quips this week. I stand by my principle of only operating at the level of my audience.

Whitecastle: That's just a way for journals to get more money out of poor academics.

Moi: Like academics have anything better to spend money on.

Whitecastle: Like my mortgage?

Moi: Psh, mortgage-

Whitecastle: Shmortgage? That was predictable.

That low grade burn was not so predictable. But it's good to have Whitecastle back. Two weeks ago, I gave him a cookie and all he said was 'thank you'. It made me very uncomfortable.

Potent Quotables

By the end of May, I would have taken 15 classes in my first year at school. It was easy at the Bo', the days of the Band Man and Riles and Walty, but coming up with 15 nicknames a year is hard. I'm pretty proud of Prof. Rafa and Papa, but have no names for my current four thus far. Though I've discovered that every lecture can generally be categorized in one of three ways:

The self deprecating:

"Do we have any chalk? Of course not. Why would I? This is Harvard."

The me-deprecating:

"Nurses and medical technicians today have a starting salary of $60,000 with a bachelor degree, but you guys would be lucky to- well, you made a mistake."

And the ridiculous:

"When we were setting this definition at the WHO..."

"Eight countries have approached me to shape their health care reform."

But Not Least

For magical reasons that are unclear to me (because I don't know magic), my first name does not appear in the school directory.  This makes it very difficult for people to stalk me.  It also explains why people think my last name is Lawrence.  Mostly though, it leads to many emails in which people address me by my first name as if it's my last.  No matter how I sign my emails. 

Yes, I realize that I have not strung more than a few sentences together for an entry since school has started, but in my defense, I was the first person in line at the bookstore today to buy a textbook, and the ego is too fragile to construct narratives.

Loop Dreams

Seven courses and 21.25 credits into my first year and of course, my first solid A would come in SAS Programming.  (And my two worst grades in epidemiology, as in the study that is a part of the name of the research division I've worked for since graduation). 

Lesson learned: listen more to Sister Claire and far less to Whitecastle and the other docs.

Devil in the Details

From "Individual Rights versus the Public's Health- 100 Years after Jacobson v. Massachusetts," New England Journal of Medicine, W.E. Parmet, RA Goodman, and Amy Farber, 2005:

... Dr. Immanuel Pfeiffer, who had become infamous in February 1902, when he contracted smallpox after visiting Boston's smallpox hospital on a dare from the director of the Boston Board of Health.

The lengths people will go to conceal their crushes.

Arabia, by Way of Taiwan

Ashley is one of my favorite new school people.  She's amazingly kind and funny.  And special.

Ashley: I wanted to email you over break but realized that I didn't know your last name.  Is it Lawrence?

Close.  So close.

On the one hand, I wish Partners in Health would stop sending depressing emails every day. On the other hand, I hope they never do. That it's never comfortable enough to forget.

Soul (Food) Mates

Have I mentioned that school has started? It has. Today, our prof let us know that our health care issues course was going to focus on evaluating the reform implementation process, but due to the events of the last week, that's not happening anymore. Then she told us about her first job out of school and how close they got to reform 30 years ago. All of this could have depressed me, but I was too busy being hungry.

Moi: She was talking about solutions outside of the market but lost me once she said "food stamps."

Marie: I know. I was thinking of all the things I could buy at the grocery store.

Moi: I was thinking of the hot food buffet at S&S. It doesn't accept EBT.

Take It Slowly

It's my second first day of school (of the school year). That sentence had a lot of qualifiers. Point is, the spring term starts today. My first class is in 19 minutes. Yet I am sitting here, updating this. You see, I thought I was so ready for this term. I bought new notebooks. I halfheartedly cleaned my room. I checked the course website and tried to buy books early. And then I relaxed. Apparently, too soon. Just discovered that there's a good 100 pages of reading I need to do for today's classes that are not going to get done. And there's school tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that, too. Each with its own readings. And joys.

Week in Review

This week, I've ridden SUV, cab (sedan), Amtrak, commuter rail, subway, bus, and mini-van.

I've gone to an engagement party, a baby shower, and received two wedding Save-the-Dates.

There was Jamaican chicken, Korean fried chicken, roadside chicken, Indian chicken curry, Italian chicken sausage, and probably some Chinese chicken in there, too, though I can't be sure.

I played 40 games of Super Mario Wii and lost 75% of the time. But whupped up in baby shower anagrams.

My face turned red with lunch wine, dessert champagne, midnight beer, and random questionable orange post-fried chicken alcohol drink (which was sneaky and unfair). Thus proving that empty stomachs don't matter. Neither does drink frequency. The redness is a curse to stay. A curse that even parents and their friends find it funny.

Before Beauty

Last week, I complained about feeling old amongst kids I used to babysit. But I forget how much fun it is to hang out with people who've known me for years. Like the good folks of BP. One of the best things about hanging out with BP'ers is that no matter what, sooner or later, the conversation turns to past staff. And having been on TBPM periphery for so long means that I have seen a lot of staff through the years. Like one Sir Abshire.

I've mentioned this before, but I like to tell people that Dusty and I became friends when I was in the eighth grade (it was the week of my graduation- I had to skip a day to speak at my graduation) and he was my college-age counselor. Because that sounds shady. Just like telling people I live with my former service camp counselor.

Tonight, I brought out the same line and story, only to be called out by Glenna. And Glenna is a code I haven't been able to crack in the last 10 years. Her smarts can stun me into silence.

Glenna: Are you saying that I'm old? Because he's younger than me.

Moi: ... the quiche was delicious?

Throwing on My Louis Vuitton

Surprisingly recent pop reference in the title. Good for myself.

It's been awhile, Dear Diary. And I don't have much to say except that I have been incredibly busy. Which is great, because school starts on Monday. What better way to prepare for the craziness than get myself worn out right before it all begins again?

My good friends know that one of my favorite winter accessories (after my Puma legwarmer scarf that I lost last year) is my fake Louis Vuitton scarf. I'd rather it didn't say Louis Vuitton on it, but I like the colors, it's warm, and so obviously fake and uncharacteristic that I get a kick every time I wear it.

(on the subway in NYC)

Zvi: Did you see the guy next to you?

Moi: No.

Zvi: He had the same Louis Vuitton pattern. Except he had the purse. And you wore the scarf.

Of course, New York. Of course.

Think it Twice

So, I voted this morning. Then I think my dad canceled mine out. Though I can't be sure. A lot of people's votes canceled mine out. And then I got dropped off in Boston. Ate lunch. And thought, let's do this in New York. So I hopped on a train and here I am. On a weeknight. No concrete plans. (everyone apparently works or goes to school-- who knew I had such responsible friends?) And I'm pretty psyched for tomorrow.

Walking the Plank

This Friday, I was invited back to the church youth group of my... youth, as an esteemed speaker. A little over 10 years since Jon and I were Adam and Eve in a church summer camp production, we came together again to give a talk to middle and high schoolers about identity.

Sitting there in the youth room and witnessing the shrieking during the ice breaker, I turned to Mrs. Cho, the same sarcastic counselor of my youth, and asked, "How does this not make you feel old?" "I do," she said, "every week." She wore Velcro DC sneakers and a hooded sweatshirt that night, prompting many smart remarks from us on her skate park ways. And a lot more not-as-smart jibes from the youths.

Judge not, that ye be not judged. This morning, sitting on a pew at my father's church (not to be confused with church of youth or Pastor Paul's church... I was in many houses of worship this weekend), one of my own youth group kids came up to me and passed judgment on me, my kicks, and my entire identity.

"I thought you were a skater boy."

"I'm wearing an orange cardigan and a pea coat-"

"And you sound tired."

"Thanks."

"I'm just saying, I saw your sneakers and your hair and I thought you were a skater boy."

"Really, thank you."

Righteous Brothers

At church this morning, Pastor Paul announced that he had a rebuke to issue. Just a mild one, he said, but a rebuke nonetheless. Pastor Paul, I learned, had been out of the country for the last couple of weeks, and did not have much internet access. In his absence, he felt that the church had become lax in some areas. Perhaps just one in particular: he felt that the church had failed in not praying hard enough. For the Patriots.

Going with the Flow

Late Thursday night, I got back to the home home after my parents' had already fallen asleep. It'd only been a couple of weeks since I'd been there so I didn't expect much of a change. I was therefore surprised to find a big shopping bag in my room, filled with little boxes.

Boxes of tampons. Apparently, Mother is not only crazy, but she hangs out with crazy people. They're attracted to each other by scent. A friend of her friend likes to stockpile on things like feminine hygiene products. She, however, has hit menopause and now finds herself without any use for her boxes. So my mother took them in. Because she has a use for them. That use being to pass along to her daughter. I've shopped at Costco, people, and this is beyond Costco. I have 15 boxes of tampons. Mother suggested I "give them away to friends to share."

So, friends, if anyone needs a box, just give a holler. It'll be the best present from my mom's friend's friend to my mom to me and that I could pass onto you.

5:30PM-6:30PM

I had simple plans for my evening last night: home, frozen pizza, call Thomas, church. But it was not meant to be. Instead, I got started on the frozen pizza and realized that my phone was missing. First Landlady Chang called it. Then I got on IM with Jen and discovered the phone was at work. Then I got on Landlady Chang's phone and discovered that I had dinner plans. Via IM, Jen and I concocted a brilliant phone drop plan that had me rushing downtown and waiting for her train to pass by Park Street at just the right time then run upstairs for my dinner meet. It was all very complicated and timed precisely. In the end, I was even early for church. If my life was television, all that would have aired during sweeps, because it was that fast paced. You're welcome, world.

Slow Down, Joneses

Prof. Papa is a fit man and a funny man, so sometimes you can almost forget that he's old. But some times, it's at the forefront.

Prof. Papa: And now they've got these new things- blue DVDs?

Moi: You mean blu-ray discs?

He then posed similarly adorable questions about facebook and twitter and I beamed. Too bad I've completely run out of fake questions to ask him. It's going to have to be awkward chance hellos for the next 18 months.

There was apparently a shooting by the home home the other day. Everyone keeps asking us about it and me and the folks keep saying "What happened?"

It's completely bugging me right now that I can't remember a really funny comment someone made at dinner tonight. It was either Keith or David. Might be Dwighters, but probably not. (only men can be funny, of course.) If I could I'd share it with you.

But I'm the Customer

I can't quite put my finger on this. There's nothing obviously wrong with the cover art, the grammar, the manufacturer, or even the taste (Landlady Chang: "It tastes like Taiwan.") so maybe it's the well worn wrapping or my own prejudices, but something is off about this bar of chocolate Mother gave me. There are some proportions that are just not right.

Head Game

What's grosser than spotting a rat in the park? Spotting a dead rat.

And what's even more disturbing than spotting a dead rat? How about the head of a dead rat? And since rats don't really have heads, it was more the bloody face stump of a rat. Threat of crime, walking alone late at night, old drunks-- none of that bother me has I walk through the park but now, for the first time, I'm afraid of going by that park.

My bad streak with librarians/bookstore clerks continues. Not only did my librarian not know who Evely Waugh was today, but once he saw my name and he turned and asked, "Do you have a brother who's a pharmacist?" "Nope. Not at all." "Oh, I know someone by that name and just thought..." Yeah, I know a few people as well.

In Cold Weather

Watched It's Complicated last night. I'm not proud of the choice. But Meredith's friend's story got me through the movie. Her friend, you see, went to see the movie about divorcee parents having an affair with her divorced mother. And ran into her dad and stepmom at the same movie.

Afterward, we were all craving food and headed over Lizzie's for ice cream. Well, all except Alison who kept talking about how cold it was and how she just came back from "70 degree weather" on the "West coast" and this "isn't normal." It all reminded me of this picture:

Fleece and hoodie vs. giant parka

And this conversation I had with a mom the other night, at midnight, because the woman has no sense of time. Or cold. The woman is coming from Taiwan to Boston with her daughter:

Stranger's Mother: Is it cold there?

Moi: (again remembering the picture) It's not bad right now, but it will be in the teens and twenties Farehnheit when you arrive.

Stranger's Mother: Well, we brought hats and scarves.

Moi: (trying to roll my eyes but eye lids were too heavy with fatigue-)

Stranger's Mother: Teens and twenties... is that like five, ten degrees Celsius? That's not so bad, right?

Moi: Um, no. It's below zero Celsius.

Stranger's Mother: Oh.

Such Low Heights

Like a misbehaved/dyslexic child, I was sent out of line at the post office today.  Twice.  The first time I reached the counter, the lady thought my zip code looked wrong.  Then looked up the zip code of a town in a different state on the computer.  Then handed me a giant book of codes and told me to come back later, without waiting in line.  As I have expressed before, I have trouble with things in alphabetical order and always have to sing that stupid song.  Plus, the listings were in alphabetical order by state names but only the initials showed on every page.  Very confusing.  Alas, the town I needed was not listed where I should expect it, but the surrounding zips looked close enough that I didn't think I had a problem.  So I tried to go back to the counter.  Except that the lady ushering me just ended her shift.  And I had to go back to the end of the line.  When I finally got to the counter again and explained why I had the post office's book of zip codes (from 2003, by the way), the new lady explained that I had to search from the index by the front of the state section.  Not the front of the book or the back of the book.  Because post office books don't operate under the same principles and conventions as normal books.  She flipped to the right page.  But instead of waiting the five seconds for me to scan down for the right number, had me step out of line yet again.  At that point, I really wanted to pull out my student ID and explain that I could both read and count and this whole thing shouldn't be that complicated.  But I stepped aside, and let the system take its course. 

The snow is coming down in big flakes but not accumulating.  Just the way I like it.

Chasing the Dragon

I just found my allergy pills in my drawer and re-discovered that they are blue. Which means that the white pills I've been taken for the past week were not allergy pills. If anyone could shed light on what they are, that would be hugely helpful. Thanks.

PS. Today's my parents' wedding anniversary. Everyone wish them well.

Downhill Both Ways

Went sledding again last night. Different hill. Different folks. And not these pictures. These are from last week. It was too dark last night for any good pictures. And at the end, I didn't want any photographic evidence of our night. It took some awkward maneuvering for Kev and I to both go down the hill on the same saucer. And now Helsinki won't stop talking about me losing my pearls.

On that note... it appears that after a semester of gamely fighting off germs, my immune system has decided that Winter Session would be all right for getting sick. All the time. And so I'm nursing my second cold of the month. At least I got free pizza tonight. And speed communion at church. It was like normal communion, except 10 times faster. So you had to chomp down the body of Christ as you walked down the aisle back to your seat. I'll tell you about it sometime.

Grey Ghosts Anatomy

Islets of Langerhans.

Thank you, Mr. Casserly. That came in handy last night in Scattergories: body parts that start with I. Sometimes, when the occasion arises, I can still nerd it up with the best of them.

The Squeakel

I resolve to write more poems next year. And make Alvin Lau my friend. But only if that doesn't require too much effort. Stalking is becoming tiring.

I'd seen some of his poems a couple of years ago and lately, his Tiger Woods poem had been on my mind. I finally dug it up today:



And then I discovered this, and I had to go to the ER because my heart melted in its entirety:

Call Me Claus

How do I explain this in a way that interests you?

I am "working from home" this week. I thought I'd brought everything home that I'd need but I forgot one little detail: the super secure password and user name to a collaborative project. Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time I'd done this. Last month, Jen had to search around for a half used Post-It on my desk while I anxiously sat in the computer lab. This time, Uzi was tasked with breaking into my work computer to find the emails which contained a time-sensitive link to a password. And scrambling around for that darn Post-It. It took a lot of sleuthing and inconveniencing Uzi to retrieve everything, but I was driven by a fear of having to explain to Whitecastle that I'd lost the new password and account name they'd just set up. Fear of Whitecastle is a powerful force. It can move mountains, it can move grown men to tears, and it got the work done.

Until he wrote back and asked if I could upload the files for him. He's out of town, you see, and left his password in the office.

Things that are Springing to Mind

It's 6PM, do you know where your second cousin once removed is? I know where mine is.

Yes, my grandfather's cousin's daughter, who I have met a total of one time (and my mother as well) is staying with us for a few days. Of course, I didn't recognize her. I couldn't even pick an Asian face I'd met two weeks before from a choir of twenty cherubic faces, did you really think I could remember a face from three years ago out of a billion?

I had Korean beef with Carol yesterday. And hot grass jelly that burnt my throat but warmed my heart. Best of all, however, we spotted a head. A statue head. In a random driveway in Chelmsford, in front of the inflatable snowman. We don't know anything about the family except that they live on a hill, but they've got the head of a Greek statue shrieking in pain and lying on the grass.

John Malkovich: When I was a child, we used to suck on pennies. You know what I'm saying? And it was a delight.

Latchkey Kid

I have just said goodbye for my parents for the week, my mother at least. She'd been busy all week with the Christmas services and preaching this morning, and now that that's all over, Mother just popped in the first disc of her Chinese soaps (there're 2 Korean sets waiting after that). I don't expect her to cook anything or acknowledge my presence until the 15th (which is too bad since I've had 0 motherly cooking since arriving last week, lots of fatherly meals though).

Father said that if Mother would only watch one episode tonight, he'd cook dinner for a year. After the first episode was over, she triumphantly stood up and declared that she wasn't cooking in 2010-- only to circle back to the couch a few minutes later and continue watching. Father seems to think she'll go to bed around 2AM. I'm not so optimistic. I'm guessing at least 3:30AM.

Tomato, Tomato

Up in the Air is the name of a movie currently playing. It is also a common phrase, meaning something is yet undecided. Chelsea understands one of these things. And has asked me what we're seeing tonight at least three different times ("how do you know what time we're watching if you don't know the movie?").

Whose Mother is This

Reason #493 Why Thanksgiving Is My Favorite Holiday: It doesn't make my mother as crazy.

I'm rinsing shampoo out of my hair when I hear Mother yelling and knocking outside. I can't make out what she's saying so I have no choice but to turn the water off and shiver.

Mother: Oh, were you taking a shower?

Moi: Yes. I am taking a shower right now.

Mother: I need to do that, too.

Moi: Yes, but I'm in the shower right now.

Mother: These presents you wrapped, which one-

Moi: I'm in the shower right now.

Dress for Success

When I'm home, I tend to moonlight as a lumberjack/small time con artist re-entering society.

Talking about the clothes we find in our closets at home-

Emily: That's why I've resisted skinny jeans for so long. I remember the trauma of being the only one wearing tapered jeans in middle school.

Moi: Pretty sure there were two of us.

Hill of Broken Dreams

We went sledding down the old town dump today. Just like we used to do when we were little. As in high school. We thought of doing something else, but we're all car-less and stuck in "Dub-City"- just like we used to when we were little. Sledding was just a short walk from our houses and required no other price except the indignity of walking by with sleds as high school kids sped by. Then again, we were used to that.

I always sled with one glove.

Happy Emily

Author and Perfecter

You've probably noticed already, but I was the fifth author of a paper in Alimentary Pharmacology & Therapeutics about half a year ago. Though the paper has been available online for a year, I was never informed of this and probably would never have noticed, until Jen's sharp eye spotted it this morning on someone else's CV.

"Is this you?"

"Well, a lot of people have these initials. And I have no idea what this paper is about-"

But we spent a good fifteen minutes digging, and alas, it really was me. Thanks for letting me know, docs. But thanks mostly for including me on a paper I really don't know anything about but still managed to pump some numbers out for. Just in time for Christmas.

Soon we will look back on this and laugh

I share a family phone plan with my parents. This usually works very well in that they share in my employee discount and I pay nothing. Because my parents love me. Or they did until this morning.

Just discovered that our cell service has been suspended. I'm assuming that this is because they were out of town for a month and forgot to pay a bill. (Seriously, ATT? Three days before Christmas?) But I could be wrong. Tim thinks it's a test of faith.

All's I know is, my dad said he'd either pick me up "before 2pm" today or "after 3pm." Do you know how many hours of the day fit that description? More than 20.

I'm trying to think of solutions to this dilemma, but they all seem to involve "call home." "Call Dad." "Call Mom." "Call Pete." Or some variation thereof...

The Loneliest Number

Three tales about one:

I got my annual TB screening today. And my H1N1 vaccine. Partly because I'm a good public health doobie but mostly because getting a shot was more fun than work. The nurse took my friendliness to be excessive enthusiasm and kept saying things like, "I've never seen anyone so excited for a shot," and "I bet you got the seasonal vaccine already." He also said that of the forty-some people he'd shot up thus far today, I was the first one to bleed. Here's to being number one.

After three failed attempts, I finally tracked Prof. Papa down today and got him to sign a book for my folks. "Feel free," I said, "to write 'your daughter is the greatest student I've ever had.'" With our graded exams sitting right next to us, he declined.

Our long-planned Cuban dinner tonight took a Mexican turn last night and when the restaurant was found closed today, we went Chinese instead. I vetoed Tim and Ranwei and insisted we get only half a Peking duck. It was the only suggestion they listened to but at least I had a voice. Not everyone was so lucky. Though now, three hours later, I'm wishing we had gone for the full instead.

Let's Roll

The ladies at the blue coffee house around the corner are very strong willed. I am not. Not when it comes to them at least. The coffee house isn't actually around the corner from me. And I doubt they serve coffee. It's in Chinatown but I don't know its name in either English or Chinese. I don't think anyone does. But everyone knows which one I'm taking about. It's the corner one with the blue awning that I think says 'Coffee House." It's an older shop, which means don't go there for delicate and pretty cakes and little pastries. But the custards are right on. Their meat baos are large and cheap. And best of all, I just discovered that they make mahn-to, my favorite bread rolls. (the list goes mahn-to, brioche, Taiwanese white bread, garlic ciabatta...)

Whenever I go in there, they're always trying to sell me items that I do not want and yesterday was no exception. "Two mahn-to, please." "Fresh or frozen?" "Fresh." "They're all out." "OK, frozen." "We don't sell them individually, you have to buy them in packs." "Uh..." "It's just $4 a pack." "Well, OK." So I bought eight instead. Total pushover.

Hickory Dickory Dock

I've known Lenny since the eighth grade. We've shared the same 4 friends through high school. Picked llama wool together. Traveled to France together. Done global warming presentations together. Yet she's always been a little different. For one thing, teachers always liked her better. (Then again, they liked Squeaky, too. And Punty. Emily. Everyone else.)

In fact, here is a list of things that Lenny has experienced that I have not:

Graduate near the top of the class. Lung collapse. Emergency plane landing. Hit by a boulder whilst driving. Commute a mouse to work.

As if I didn't have enough urban nightmares, that last one is all I can think about now. Lenny went to work this week, opened up her messenger bag, and discovered a half eaten lunch. Along with a mouse. A mouse that had gotten into her bag at the apartment and hitched a ride to work. Most traumatic container opening ever.

PS. List of things that I have experienced that Lenny has not: Ace Advanced Food & Nutrition with Mrs. Irwin.

Cheap Shots

I worked a full day at work today for the first time since this summer. It was a good day. I was shooed off of a project before I even expressed interest, but my lunch was delicious. Jen's having a girl. Josh is getting married. Sister Claire is discouraging me from working for tests and grades. And there is inter-office tension in the air that I'm not fully aware of but keep eavesdropping on. (I sit next to the kitchenette now. It's an absolute curse. I miss my old pre-student seat terribly) And oh. The boss called me a cheap date.

(discussing, for the fortieth time, how we got scooped)

Moi: I'm sorry, those guys offered me a hundred bucks for the story. It seemed like a good idea.

Whitecastle: That's right, you're a cheap date.

Moi: Whoa. It was a hundred dollars plus two drinks.

Whitecastle: Oh yeah, that's all you can handle.

Of course, we have the same conversations every week about what classes I'm taking, where the projects are at, and what I studied in college, but drinks, he remembers.

Kissing Down

As a joke once, but only with three quarters seriousness, Prof Papa once suggested that his book would make great Christmas presents for our parents. And when I thought about it deeper, it really made sense as a Christmas present. So I ordered the book and hoped that he could sign it for my folks. It all seemed like a cute, brown-nosey thing to do, that would get me on the good student list. The idea seemed especially good since Marie mentioned that it was a good read. Then Louise. Then Laura. And everyone else.

Moi: You have it, too? Does everyone have his book?

Laura: It was on the syllabus.

Moi: Oh. So I probably shouldn't tell him that I just got this two days ago?

The Bells I Hear

Before 8:30 AM, access to the computer labs require key access.  Two to three times a week, I'm usually in the labs five to ten minutes after 8:30, so that piece of information never concerned me.  Until today.  When I tried to push the door and it would not budge.  I just leaned on the door for about ten seconds, too tired to comprehend what was happening.  Then I tried pulling the door.  Then leaned in again.  All of this was witnessed by some kid I don't know coming out of the lab, who kindly opened the door for me.  Glad I could make your morning, kid.

In about four hours, my three finals of the day will be over (though the last exam won't be turned in until 1:30PM and class won't end until 3:30PM- oh yes, she's lecturing after the exam but it's OK, my brain shut down as of 9:25PM last night).  I have 0 clean clothes except what I'm wearing (timed it just right).  1 meal left in the fridge/cupboards.  And 2 urgently overdue emails.  Though really, my life isn't that much of a mess.  And I'm thinking I'll celebrate the end of school by going into work early tomorrow to prepare for a meeting I am otherwise unprepared for. 

Be back soon.

Under My Nose

I step out of the computer lab for two minutes to eat a few bites of my breakfast sandwich and when I return, my chair is gone.  My books and papers are still here, the monitor on, and the seat probably still warm.  Of all the chairs to steal in the lab (and there are plenty this morning), why steal one that you know someone is sitting in? I hope the butt grooves that I made prove uncomfortable for my chair thief.  That's probably unlikely.  I make such nice butt grooves.

Final Stretch

I have nothing to say to you until finals are over.

Three Letter Word

I remember taking archery at Camp Happy T Ranch one summer, our counselor JP (the subject of many crushes though I failed to see his appeal) intentionally mispronounced everyone's name during roll call.  He said that he knew he was bound to trip over someone's name, so he might as well mess up everybody's.  Until he got to mine.  "That sounds right," someone complained.  "Yeah, you try messing this one up."

Yet, the good people we are collaborating with at work have succeeded.  They have misspelled my name.  My first name.  Twice.  One that they finally corrected a few months ago.  (Doc Whitecastle didn't think I was important enough to correct them, though he made DocNice point out when they mispronounced his name)  And one that they made afresh yesterday.  Maybe they just hate me, but like kids who get less than 25% on 4-choice multiple choice questions- I just don't understand- it's possible, but the odds were completely against them. 

Blind Lunch

I had a birthday. Some presents. Some problem sets. Some sleep. No energy to debrief any of this.

I also had lunch with Professor Papa as part of a school event. As always the case with school, it was totally intense and if you didn't RSVP fast enough, the invitation was rescinded and given to someone else. Other than that though, we weren't given much information.

Prof Papa: What were you guys told about this event?

Student: They just said, do you want to eat with professors? We signed up via student news.

Moi: What did they tell you?

Prof Papa: They said, do you want to come to this lunch?

Mo: Hm. I was told we'd get A's in the class.

Prof Papa (considers proposition): That's fair. OK.

Best lunch moment, runner up (second to salmon): Learning about, then laughing as a table at, how doctors in one Chinese hospital wear helmets to work to protect themselves from patients.
...

Suck it, Hellasinki:

"If the dolphins say, "Don't kill us, that's not such a great policy,"- no, don't listen to them."
-- Professor Papa

Strange Indeed

School and I have a Dr. Jekyll type of relationship.  During the day when I'm going to classes and seeing people, we get along swimmingly.  When I hear the piano playing on my way to epi lab, I tend to forget that it's 8:30 in the morning on a Friday, or that the fifty thou I handed over would be a lot better spent on things that are not grand pianos in the cafeteria, and I smile, thinking of how nice it is that I go to school with such talented people and that we have a piano in our public space.  When the sun goes down, however, the cursing begins.  The problem sets.  The procrastination.  The studying.  The grades.  The stress.  They all tumble out at night, when I'm not listening to Doc Little Man's soothing voice or commenting on how Doc Tevye has really let her appearances go.  But it's still bright outside (at least it was when I started writing) and I just met with my adviser, who's super nice and at least pretended she knew who I was.  So, school, you're grand for now.

Foul Shots

(Sadly, these weren't the worst pictures of the night. )

In concept, chocolate wine didn't seem like a bad idea. I've had chocolate raspberry port. Ranwei has had chocolate raspberry brandy. And Marie and Amy (photographer and graphee) both like chocolate stout. And yet, as the night went on, though everyone but the un-peer-pressurable Ashley tried it, and all the other bottles were emptied, this remained stubbornly full. Amy must've passed her cup to half a dozen other people just to finish her tiny bit (it's OK, the alcohol kills the germs- plus, baby Amelia was vaccinated Friday). It came from Brunswick, looked like Yahoo, but tasted even worse.

Speaking of hygiene, nutritionist-in-training Lena here is eating a chip off of a stranger's plate. From a table crowded with empty cups and half eaten pie. "Whose chips are those?" Everyone asked of the abandoned nachos as they entered the kitchen. But no one knew. So we all abstained, however hard it was, since Havarti + chips + pineapple salsa = brilliance. Finally, Lena walked in and grabbed a chip. "Were those yours?" "No." "Oh. OK."

Amy's head is getting crushed as she indulges in decadent blueberry pie. How much do I need to explain? I've already given you the picture.

Yeah, it was a pretty awesome birthday party.

Left Behind

I go to school with crazies.  That's with a capital King Tut crunkers C.  Today, you see, marked the beginning of course registrations for the spring term.  When I learned this from Laura, who had visited the registrar's office on Monday to find out the exact hour registration would begin, I thought, "That's super, I will deal with this over the weekend."  But apparently, things get competitive.  And Laura was the 20th person to stop by the registrar's office that day.  So I wavered.  And yesterday, the intensity of all the in-class schedule comparing and Excel sheets made me realize that everyone else had their priorities set and I did not.  "I will join the crazies," I said to myself, "I will register for classes first thing Thursday morning."  It seemed perfectly reasonable, if not a bit zealous.  But while "a bit zealous" can get you far, far into the real world, it turns out that at school, my little bit of zealousness would have been better served learning "would you like fries with that?" in different languages ("Souhaitez-vous frites avec ça?").  By the time I got to campus at 8:35AM, everyone else had already registered for classes.  I was lucky I was to have gotten all my choices.  "The other policy class," Amy told me, "was full by 1AM."  How do people even know that?  I was sleeping at 1AM.  And si, yo quiero papas fritas con eso.

My Achy Breaky Pot

I had two WTH moments today.  I would think of a third for balance (does standing next to Atul Gwande for 5 seconds count?), but my judgment is rather clouded today.

Chance beyond chance today, I came across a paper in a prestigious cancer journal, written by an old, old friend from middle school.  It must have just come out.  It was a complete fluke, but now, the people who read her facebook wall will think that I regularly read important cancer journals.  I'm OK with that.
--
There are 2 Asian grocery stores down the street from me.  I usually prefer the farther one since the closer one attracts a fair number of drunks and/or belligerents.  (Then again, so does my entire neighborhood.)  Today, however, I didn't go the extra mile.  It turns out, I wasn't the only one skimping on quality.  The lady in front of me bought a tea pot and when she went to pay for it, the very helpful cashier asked, "Did you make sure that it doesn't leak?  We have a no refund policy."

"How do I check that it doesn't leak?"

"Put water in it."

"What?  How?  I don't have any water."

"You can get some water."

"Now?  Where?"

"There's water where you found the tea pot."

Apparently, the store has a vat of water by the pots where the customers can test the vessels for themselves.  Helpful, yes.  But, so are litmus strips for arsenic.  I like my stores better when they only sell non-leaking teapots.