Identity Thief

On days like today, I marvel at how Young Me managed to perform well enough for the likes of Doc Nice and Doc Whitecastle to keep offering me work to foot the bills.  It's a nice reminder this finals week, as I'm juggling B's and work and carving time to just think about what a dissertation might be, to know that somewhere back then, Young Me, with far fewer skills than I currently possess, managed to be employable and make a good impression. 

Of course, it's not so good an impression that Whitecastle respects me and Nice doesn't start emails with "Dude*."  But it's good enough.

I called Whitecastle this afternoon, as he asked me to, and promptly after I said "Hello?" He broke out in laughter.  Apparently, the research assistant manning the phones had told him that there was "a woman with a scheduled call" with him.  I found that to be an accurate assessment of the situation.  Whitecastle found it hilarious that the words "woman" and "call" applied to me.  

Whitecastle:  I thought it was something else, but it's just you!  

Moi: [?]

Whitecastle: You didn't tell him who you were?

Moi: I don't think he knows who I am.

*He really likes to do that, which just further confuses my mind.  I have a hard enough time not calling colleagues 'dude' as is.  I am || close to blurting a "dude" in Advisor Who's office.

Mum's the Word

Blue tits (and siskins) are garden birds.  Of the Northern European variety.  Though Nick tells me that we have plenty of tits in the US.  I'll take his word for it and not investigate via google.  Learning all this today, after Hannah casually dropped how she loved watching blue tits in a Scottish cafe in her newsletter, made me very sad to be sitting in B'more, not speaking the Queen's English.

Hands Across American

Dear Neglected Diary. 

  I can't believe I haven't told you this story.  I should have a long time ago.  In fact, I dreamt about it a few weeks ago.  You see lately, my dreams have become my to-do list.  Last night, I dreamt that I cleaned the toilet bowl and took out the trash.  When I was young, I dreamt of being a poet.  Then I went to grad school.

  But let's not get distracted.  A few months ago, Advisor Who, Liz, Geraldine, and me met in Who's office, ostensibly to talk about the course we were teaching, but it was mostly to watch Who spin yarn.  Advisor Who, when he is on a roll with goofy ideas, is a delight to witness.  The meeting began with him assigning nicknames for all of us, he ran out of steam after just two, so Liz got called "the sidekick."  Which devolved into a discussion on kicking and psychics (he likes to keep his pun grounds covered). 

  It would have been too easy to let it end there and gotten back to the syllabus revisions we needed to do.  It would have been wise.  But we instead went on a tangent on this day being Who's late grandmother's birthday (sorry?).  Where do we go from that revelation?  Why of course, a seance.  The perfect bridge between sidekick and psychic.  Who had the 4 of us hold hands around the table "to see if his grandmother would impart any wisdom."  "Are we really doing this?"  I kept asking.  And then I stopped asking.  Because we'd bowed our heads in silence.

  During the entire stretch (it felt like a long while), I kept thinking, "where is he going from here?  Now that he's committed, how could he possibly pull off this gag?"  Of course, he couldn't.  There wasn't anywhere to go after a fake seance.  There was nothing.  We looked up at each other.  "Well, I didn't get anything."  And went back, finally, to the tasks at hand.

Dissertation Damnation

I hope that this is a post I can look back at years from now (will this place even last that long?) and laugh.  But for now, trying to come up with ideas for my dissertation has been a process of racking my brain [for hours, days, weeks], finally coming up with ideas, then realizing [hours, days, weeks] that someone else has come up with the idea.  Sometimes as a product that they sell to make money.  Sometimes as an article in JAMA.  Not yet as something that I can work on.  

You Are Not Wood

This made me giggle in my Sunday Times today.  It is, per the Times' ridiculousness, an article on a basic romain salad:

The Canlis is in some measure a basic steakhouse salad: chopped romaine with bacon and croutons and cherry tomatoes, all cloaked in a thick, lemony dressing that recalls Caesar (you all did love him once, and not without cause).

A sly Shakespeare shout out.  This is why I love the Times.  It also reminded me of a New Yorker piece on Depardieu earlier this month:

The pigeons appeared in the fall...  "Pigeon" connoted a sucker or a chump. The pigeons wrote letters, too. One was delivered on YouTube by an animated bird, who warbled sadly from the pavement against a backdrop of commuters' calves. "Monsieur le Président," he sang, "It's been years now / that I've worked like an ass / to augment my wealth / that I didn't steal / Unlike the others who have left / I had confidence / I stayed in France / and you betrayed me." Tomorrow morning, he was flying away.

I read this when I should have been paying attention to my biostatistics lecture and audibly gasped.  We had to learn the song the parody was based on in Didi's French class.  I am smart enough to catch a French satire reference!  There's hope still for that PhD.

Lenny: Please tell me you've lorded [your knowledge of Le Deserteur] over someone.

Home Plate

I remember the first time I met my Scottish Jesus friends.  I showed up at Hannah's birthday party without ever meeting her.  She made marzipan fruit, butterfly tea sandwiches, and generally overwhelmed me with amazingness.  The icing on the cake was making some sort of Bible joke with Andy and the guys.  Then Andy made some crack about how it was a pity that Dave wasn't better looking and I fell in love with this group of friends.  

That same feeling has been hard to replicate.  I've had new work friends, school friends, more new school friends, and new Jesus friends in every city.  That confidence in a whole group of people and feeling exactly like you belong isn't found often, but I have been lucky to catch glimpses of it.  Today was one such instance.

I went out to Peruvian chicken with a group of new church friends for lunch.  There was a lot of back and forth over what people were getting-- some people were splitting half chicken combos while others contemplated getting platters-- until somehow a plan was hatched and 6 of us went in on sharing "Family Special #2," which included 2 chickens, 4 sides and drinks.  Later, contently drinking my sugar sweetened beverage (which I almost never drink) with my greasy chicken, I glanced up to notice one of the guys who'd gotten an order by himself.  Along with chicken, his boxed lunch also had broccoli and peppers and other colorful nutrients.  

Moi: Oh yeah.  Vegetables.  I like that we never even considered it as a side [in our very lengthy and heated discussions in line over how best to utilize our 4 sides].

Someone points to our double order of plantains-- "Fruit."

Someone else points to our order of fries-- "Vegetables."

Someone picks at the scallions in our rice.  And the green dipping sauce.  "More vegetables."

"Yeah, I don't know what you're talking about."

Moi: I'm sorry guys.  I was wrong.  We ordered plenty of vegetables.

Family style meals without vegetables.  If that's not love, I don't know what is.

Of Knives and Naifs

The TSA and I have a little routine.  Every three months or so, I give the TSA a small, classic Swiss Army knife.  Sometimes it's a red one.  Sometimes it's purple.  Sometimes I remember the knife and dump it into a trash can or a TSA receptacle.  Sometimes the TSA finds a knife in my backpack that I thought I'd lost, and then throws it out for me ("Oh!  I'd been looking for that."  "Well, we have some extra tools to help us find them... but I'm still going to have to throw this out").  In the days before I flew regularly (i.e. the days when I didn't live in the 6th deadliest city in America), I used to hang onto knives for years.  I'd remember to take it off my keychain and put it into my checked bags and everything.  Nowadays, I gift my little, non-threatening gadget to the TSA once every other trip.

To remedy this problem and stop hemorrhaging money (why do I need a Swiss Army knife?  tweezers!  scissors!  nail file!  and a really dull blade.  who doesn't want to carry such fun around?), I recently made my first eBay purchase and bought a lot of 5 knives (probably from the TSA- they do a brisk confiscated goods resale business) on the cheap.  It's really not as unabomber as it sounds.  I promise.  Except, well, it is to eBay.  And now I get email notifications of all sorts of knife sales.  No matter how I try to unsubscribe from the emails.  eBay really wants me to bid on more weaponry.

Moi: These are totally innocuous tools.

TChu: Guns are innocuous until they kill someone.  Come on, public health PhD.

Touche, TChu.  Touche.

Bueller, Bueller?

My new biostatistics course isn't very interesting.  But the professor is slowing thawing my cold heart.  I can always relate to an awkward professor.

Professor:  That was a reference from She's Having a Baby.  Oh my gosh.  This was an experiment.  To see how out of touch I am with the students.  Moving on.

The Scouts Had a Point

This is the last week of winter break and though I've been going into the office for work the past week and have been working off and on for the past two and a half, on a good day without any meetings, I can still get away with dressing like a schlub (well, I often do that) and not bumping into anyone I know except the security guards and CB.  I don't need to impress CB.

I had a late start this morning (CB calls it "life administration"), didn't make the gun policy summit I had intended to, and didn't get around to leaving for school, un-showered, until about 11am.  Luckily, I bumped into CB (my J'Hop "little boss") at the bus shuttle.  It's OK to be super late to work if your supervisor is also a slacker.  

It was another hour until I got into a work groove at school and put the gun policy summit live webcast on as background noise (as some do) and discovered, via a Q & A session, that Prof Papa was in attendance.  He's a big deal in guns, but since he wasn't a presenter (his co-author was, and I pretended to be surprised to see him at breakfast yesterday even though I totally hoped to bump into him), I thought he'd stayed in Boston.  He may have meant to tell me in an email yesterday, but what he ended up sending was the word "Howdyrff."  I couldn't tell what that meant.

Super excited to see Prof Papa in B'more, I grabbed my ID, left the office, and ran down 2 blocks to catch the last 5 minutes of the summit so that I could say hi.  Did I mention that I was wearing flannel today?  And grey sneakers?  I really didn't expect to see anyone.  What I ended up doing however, was seeing Papa in my disheveled form, meeting a colleague of his, seeing many of mine, and having lunch with 3 of my friends.  Lesson learned: It's always a good idea to shower.

Just Kidding

Professor Tom's jokes are the stuff ulcers are made of.  Unfortunately, he quite appreciates humor, especially at his research assistants' expense.

Prof. Tom: Christine tells me that you have all the answers to what I'll be asking in our meeting today.

Moi: Christine is a liar.

Prof. Tom: No, she's not.  I've worked with her for a very long time.

Moi: She can't make promises she can't keep like that.

Prof. Tom: Well, she's not making them for herself.  They're for you.  

Moi: That hardly seems fair.

Prof. Tom: Life is challenging and full on unfair situations.  You've got 5 minutes before the meeting.  That's plenty of time.

(Just lost 2 minutes writing this entry instead of preparing.  Priorities.)

Revenge

Earlier tonight, Nicolae, Rachael, Lydia, and I couldn't decide on what movie on Netflix or Rachael's collection that we all wanted to watch together.  Or which of the dramas airing tonight (Pro Downton: The ladies.  Against Downton: Nicolae).  But we could all agree to pause the discussion for 30 minutes and watch a 60 Minutes segment on robotics.  Then get into a debate about labor automation.  

Because we are nerds.  Very, very big nerds.

Company Policy

Had a great night of Korean noodles and fried pork with Alice, followed by an H-Mart run to stock up on Asian cooking essentials (like soy sauce paste and dumplings) and some non-essentials (like guava and seaweed chips).  For hours after dinner, I talked about how full I was.  Alice was unimpressed.

Moi: (hours after dinner) I am still so full.  

Alice: I don't know why you're surprised.  This happens every time we hang out.  We eat a lot of food.

Power of One

As someone who does not have a lot of money, I keep my finances in pretty good order.  Not as good as someone who budgets properly, but I at least always pay my credit card on time and always have a little money in the bank (it helps to not have nice things).  So I was pretty confused why Target turned me down for a credit card a few months back.  I can't afford to shop at many places, but Target?  I can afford Targets flimsy bookcases.

A bajillion frustrated phone calls and one very illuminating one later, I finally figured it all out.  Well, a very, very helpful customer service person figured it out.  I'm thankful that I talked to her today, and not the other dozen unhelpful people before her.  Turns out, precision matters.  And typos can ruin credits.  Because I had a student loan under a wrong social that ballooned into a vicious catch-22.  Whenever I got an angry letter or call, I'd call back, identify myself with my correct info, and they wouldn't see the typo account and would tell me that I was crazy or I should call someone else or it wasn't their problem.  I don't know what made the representative today look a little deeper than everyone else I'd talked to in the last year (on and off... I didn't think it was that big a deal since I was in school and my loans are in deferment and no one seemed to be willing to track down my phantom loans, but Wrong Social Me wasn't in school, hence the angry calls).  But something clicked this morning and it all got sorted out (ish, pending lots of paperwork).  

One misplaced number.  One helpful person.  One financial disaster averted (we think).

My Side of the Mountain

After all these years, it still astounds me how scenes of simple beauty like this just exist in New England backyards.  (Just as how, after all these months, it still astounds me how many places aren't walk-able in B'more.)  Last week, I decided to be Chelsea's "outdoorsy friend" (chortle, chortle) and we went snow shoeing in other people's backyards (also a 'national park' but just barely one at that).  Despite the 1.25 doctorates between us, it took awhile just to find a proper trail.  Though only some of the blame should go toward our poor map reading skills.  The unmarked "parking lots" (um, indents on the side of the road) and barricades with "Warning: Do Not Enter" signs where trails should be also made it all difficult.  But, we endured, found a proper lean-to should we have needed one (see below) and got our toes terribly numb.  When it was all over, we went for hot chocolate at Dunkin Donuts.  Because that's what people do in Massachusetts.    

Thanksgiving 2013

It's been 5 years since we've left the Bo' (going on 6) and every year, we've tried to have a Thanksgiving meal together.  It's a challenging feat because we're never all in the same city on Thanksgiving (though the Wongs were kind enough to adopt me one year) and the season gets so clogged with other holiday events.  The "we" also shifts year by year.  But the Bo' Thanksgiving meal was one of those rare moments when we all acknowledged that these friendships and familiarity we shared felt like family and ate together in celebration of that (and the abundant meat that was served in the usually protein-stingy dining halls).  I think we managed to eat our (pre) Thanksgiving meal actually before Thanksgiving just once.  Last year was the first time it happened in January.  And this year followed the model set by 2011.  Except with oysters.

Do you see what a thing of beauty this is?  I can't believe I went to the same school as the guy that made this happen.  Turns out, you can learn how to start your own oyster business with a liberal arts education.  Nic brought oysters (he claims that winter is a great time for them because they're nice a fat, though if you ask him in a few months, he'll also tell you that summer is the best season for oysters...) and we all ate to our hearts' content.  I had never gotten full from oysters before.  Nor have I had so many sweet, plump, and fresh oysters.  But I did yesterday.

I get that almost everyone loved their college experience.  And most people liked their colleges, too.  But I am convinced that the Bo' is just a little bit special.  There's a loyalty and closeness that I don't see elsewhere (hence the record breaking reunion attendance).  We talked for hours yesterday, not just about each other, and the goofy things we did, but we talked nerdily, of courses that stumped us and professors that shaped us, for no other reason than because those memories are blended in with "good college times."

(on her freshman year history class)

LT: That was such a hard class.  If you guys ever-

Joe: If we ever what?

Nic: Don't take that class for a grade?  If we're ever taking classes at Bowdoin College again?

We did pretty well in our gathering yesterday.  We had econ, psychology, environmental studies, chemistry, biology, and sociology represented.  Among us, only Dr. Regis is practicing medicine (though no longer in med school).  It seemed, however, that everyone else in our class is on their way to becoming a doctor.  "Whatever happened to so-and-so?"  "Really?  Med school?" we kept asking ourselves, "Wasn't he a romance language major?"  "Wasn't he going to be an economist?"  "Didn't he swim around the world?"  Maybe med schools aren't as selective as they let on.

Two Subway Tokens

(we don't have tokens anymore and the subway prices went up, but "1.25 Charlie ticket ride" didn't have the same ring)

For the price of 2 healthy B'more biscuit last Sunday, (former roommate) Amy (not to be confused with me) and I each got 2 small balls of battered, melted chocolate.  This was our "pre-dessert snack" that we picked up on the walk from lunch to dessert.  The South End really is a very small, walkable neighborhood.  The chocolate beignets, pricey though they were, were so warm and inviting that Boston strangers were compelled to chat with us, even stopping us on the streets to ask us where we got the delectable bites.

(in the chocolate shop, after a woman gave us her tips for eating the hot beignets, completely unprompted) 

Daughter: I want to eat this later.

Woman: We can't bring this home to eat because daddy can't know that we were here.

Humble Pie

Every time I feel haughty about studying at the first, largest, and (one of?) the best schools of my field, I need only to pick up a paper to grade to be reminded that getting into this school doesn't seem that hard.

Comments I had to make on graduate student papers today:

• These [7 pages of] claims need to be backed by citations.
• Wikipedia is not a reasonable substitute for peer reviewed literature.
• If you are going to cite Wikipedia, at least put it in proper citation format.  You can't just have the URL.
  

If It Doesn't Fit

It was a classic case of whodunit (well, "What's wrong with it?") and as the resident brain of the family, Mother called on me for help in solving the case.

One key fact to know: Mother has smaller feet than I do.

Mother: Try on these shoes.

Moi: (try on left shoe) It's way too big.

Mother: Try the other one, too, so I can figure out why these shoes fit funny.

Moi: It's also too big.

Mother: Oh!  I see.  

Season's Greetings

Dear Class:

  Just because the teaching staff extended the paper deadline until Sunday at 5pm and said offhandedly that we're here to help, does not mean that we want to answer questions about your final paper over the holiday weekend.  

Sincerely,

Your fa-la-la-la-TA

---

Dear Student:

  No, "pediatric diabetes" is not a "research question."  Questions are full sentences that end with a question mark.  E.g. Were you dropped on the head as a child?  How are we graduating from the same institution?  How do you already have an MD?

Sincerely,

Your fa-la-la-la-TA

And I Feel... Tired

The world is about to end, y'alls, and I'm sitting here, procrastinating from packing for my trip home (home home, not Great Eternal Home).

Before I left school today, however, I picked up some very important insights from Prof. Tom.

Prof. Tom: (signed some last minute paperwork from me) This won't really matter since the world is ending tomorrow.

Moi: But it's already tomorrow in other parts of the world?  We haven't heard anything.

Prof. Tom: It's the Mayans.  They didn't care what's going on in the Philippines.  The date is set on their calendar.

Moi: I'm sorry.  That was foolish of me.  We're in the same time zone.

Great Sympathizer

Jen and I started our jobs 3 weeks apart.  (Young Bo' joined us a year after.)  She has seen all the same personalities I have, googled the same Excel tricks, and we went on to the same school afterward (though a year apart).  That's not why Jen is awesome.  (She is meticulous, quiet funny, deprecating funny, 'gets it' completely, efficient, generous, a good eater, etc.)  But it is awesome for me that when I wake up from a disturbing dream involving Whitecastle's daughter's birthday party, even now, years after we've hung up our research assistant hats (ok, still sort of wearing it), she's understands the terror.

Moi: It wasn't that the party was stressful, but he was just so chill and friendly and I think he was growing a short ponytail-

Jen: Who are you and what have you done with Whitecastle!?

Moi: Exactly!  That was what made it stressful for everyone.

Knowledge is Power

Nerds ruin everything.  They (we?) can't just pick a hobby.  They have to read everything there is about the hobby.  Including health benefits and risks.  And ruin all the phone.  Yesterday, a corporate client group was in town for a meeting.  Over lunch, we discovered that both Prof. Fudge and Client were avid runners who'd recently completed half marathons.  Client had one just over the weekend and flew in from Texas for the meeting.  

Fudge: So your legs felt OK to fly afterwards?

Client: Yeah, they felt great.

Fudge: That's good, because don't they say that you're more at risk for blood clots and thrombosis if you fly long distance after a race?

Client: I did not know that.

And how're you getting home tonight?  Best advice ever, Fudge.

He's Not There

I have been a TA for Advisor Who this past quarter.  It's been a fun, startling ride.  As a part of online courses at J Hop, we have these things called "LiveTalks," which are giant Skype session/webinar/live online discussions for the course.  Who likes to wander into these sessions (that he leads) as close to the start time (and oftentimes after it) as possible.  Partly because he's extremely busy.  And party because it's hilarious making his TAs very nervous.

Last night, however, I decided not to sweat it when the clock hit 6 and Who still hadn't showed, and the studio tech came in to ask, "You said that someone else was joining you, right?"  I took a "if you can't beat them, join'em" approach, and together, (well, mostly Who) thoroughly enjoyed making other students nervous.  Because when Who did join, he decided it would be fun to cold call people.  During online discussions, it's very easy to just put the talk on in the background and ignore what's going on in the session and focus instead on the matters at hand, like channel surfing or eating dinner.  And that must have been why Kurt did not answer when Who decided to not-so-randomly call on him.  Which just led Who to pick on Kurt some more.  Forming a beautiful, vicious cycle.

(during a brief pause as we waited for students to respond)

Moi: Kurt is still silent on the issue.

Who How long do you think it will be until Kurt comes back from his kitchen?  Or gets up from his couch and the Wii?

Moi: Kurt has a very big kitchen. 

(later, after the session was over)

Who: Kurt is my advisee, and he's smarter than most, that's why I knew it was OK to pick on him.

Moi: Oh I know... I mean er, ... we have never discussed having you as an advisor before.

Welcome to the Gun Show

Over the last 1.5 years, we have established many things here.  Two principles stand out in particular.  OK, maybe 3. 

1. I will always have advisors who mock.  (I think I actually work best this way.  Prof Fudge is all nice all the time and that is one of the most challenging aspects of working with him.)  Of course, none of them need to be told this. 

2. PhD school, public health blog, and this wonderful space.  It's like that old college formula: sleep, friends, and work.  You can only have 2 of the 3. 

3. In Bmore.  They just do things differently.

Today, we're talking #3.  Other cities, for example, have tree lighting ceremonies and special trees from Canada, Santas, and whatnot.  Charm City has a "monument lighting" celebration.  They put Christmas lights on George Washington.  And we all stand dangerously close to fireworks.  Because they shoot them from the base of the monument.  (which means that, thanks to location, location, location, the fireworks were pointed directly toward my apartment complex)  That everyone has come to see.  It seems like a giant safety hazard.  But no one seems to be complaining.

City. Literally. Ablaze.

Last year, I kept naively asking, "But we're 2 miles from the Harbor, how will we see the fireworks?"

Fireworks should never be close enough to smell. 

Charm City

I am a master of the silly, inconsequential mistakes.  I've never fallen off of the top of a bunk bed, but I have fallen off of the bottom bunk.  Thrice.  And thoughI haven't lost my apartment key just yet, I have locked my keys inside the office.  Lately, in an effort to not forget my office keys, I have taken a page from Eva's book and begun leaving my keys in the office door.  Unfortunately, I work on a floor where people look out for each other.

People kept knocking on my door today to tell me that my keys are in the door.  Not just my peers, but the cleaning lady, and a professor, too.  People really don't want me to lose my keys.  Too bad their good will is getting in the way of my key-remembering strategy.

A Million Little Pieces

It's not that Mother lies.  She tells stories.  Especially about presents.  Every object has an elaborate back story.  It runs in the family.  Her brother is the same way.  Sometimes she gets so used to telling stories and the stories become so convincing, it becomes hard to tell fiction from fiction.

(I found an ugly, knobbly candlestick holder in our cabinets yesterday)

Moi: Why do you have this?  What is this?

Mother: It's from the Lutheran church.  It's hand carved by one of their missionaries from some place faraway.

Moi: Then why does it say "Do good and forget me" on it?

Mother: Oh.  Maybe I just picked it up from their Free pile.  I don't remember.  

If I Were a Rich Kid

Whenever Mother sees my Pumas, she tells me that I need a new pair of sneakers.  This has happened every time I have come home in the last year.

Mother: You need new shoes.

Moi: These are new.  I got them last year.

Mother: But they're so tattered.

Moi: That's intentional.  The fringes are supposed to be like that.

Mother You are too poor to be wearing intentionally tattered clothes.

Little Thanks

It's darn near vacation time, Dear Pretzels.  I can finally catch half a breath and write some posts.  It's too bad that I don't have anything to write about since I go to school and work all day.  The best things about today have all been the little things, and they've been things that only matter to me.  But they've been so satisfying.  Like finding my key card.  Successfully merging a funny data set.  Making a dinner  out of scallion pancake and creamed brussel sprouts.  Doing laundry.  And watching Storage Wars.  Days like this (and surviving New England winters) is why we have Thanksgiving.

Master of None

Actual questions I have received today regarding the course I am TA'ing:  

"The syllabus says that the midterm is due on the 30th and will become available a week before.  Does this mean that it will be posted on the 23rd?"

Yes.

"The syllabus says that the midterm will be posted on the 23rd and due on the 30th.  Will the midterm be timed?"

No.

Is the [open-book, take-home, week-long midterm for the online course] going to be proctored?

No.

First Steps First

Do you want the good news first or the bad news?  As a worry-wart-cynic, I always choose the bad news first:

It's in the American Journal of Managed Care.  As a web-exclusive.

In this context, I guess it would have made more sense to start with the good news:

I'm a first author!  It's my first time as a first author.  

Doc Whitecastle has been alternatively encouraging and disparaging of this accomplishment.  I believe he's aiming for 100% encouragement, but the reality of it all slips through.

(discussing a paper in progress on which, if published, I would also be first author)

Whitecastle: If [journal under review] accepts this.  That'd be great.  It'd mean you're first author on a [journal under review] paper.

Moi: Which is a lot better than an online exclusive.

Whitecastle: Yeah.  The worst part of that was that it was the American Journal of Managed Care of all places.  

The indignities don't end there.  Whitecastle asked me for a PDF of the article today (encouraging) but I haven't found a way to procure one.  

Poor Grad Student

I felt like the little drummer boy for the first half of last week, nervously awaiting a team meeting on The Big Project That Puts Bread on the Table.  It didn't help that the night before, Professor Tom (i.e. Big Boss) stopped by my office (I have a real office to myself, with a door and everything-- that's how big this project is) to say that he looked forward to my input at the meeting.  He was half joking when he responded to my look of alarm with "Well, that's why I gave you this office, right?"

But half serious was too much serious for me.  I am very junior on the project and usually spend group meetings nodding and turning my head to say, "Prof Fudge?" whenever a question is posed in my general direction.  On Wednesday, I watched, aghast, pa rum rum rum drumming in my head, as the other teams presented their updates with detailed tables, slides, and plans, knowing full well that I had no gifts to bring and that Fudge only drew up a plan the night before.  When I was called on, I replied with a suave, "Yes, um, Fudge?"  It drew unintended laughs.

In the end, I blubbered a few sentences and Prof Tom was generous enough to find them sufficient.  Later, he said that he "had to" call on me because I was sitting next to him.  In actuality, Amber, silent throughout the meeting, was sitting next to him.  I was next to Amber.  Maybe she was so stealthy that he didn't even notice her.

Note to self: Be more like Amber.

Biscuitheads

I bumped into Prof. Molten at the biscuit stand at the farmer's market this morning.  As Alene would say, the encounter was quite the 'treat,' as it involved both Molten and blacksauce biscuits (bumping into Michelle at the same place last week was also pretty nice, but don't tell her that I said that, we're engaged in a competition either for each other or other people's approval, it is not clear).

(discussing where I was going to church after my biscuit breakfast; I blanked on the address/neighborhood because my head isn't big enough to store such things)

Moi: It's just a few blocks that way.  In this pretty old building.  On the edge of nice and shady.  (pause)  Well, a lot of B'more is on the edge of nice and shady.

Molten: I was going to say.  I think my whole run here was on the edge of nice and shady.

As it tends to occur with people I've ever temporarily looked up to, Prof. Molten has recently entered a vegetarian stage.  When it came to the Band Man, Ira Glass, and Lenny, I either outgrew my role model and/or the vegetarianism was only temporary.  It's too early to tell if either will happen with Prof. Molten (OK, fairly certain her awesomeness will never cease to amaze me), but I take comfort in knowing that she still has her priorities right.

(she mentioned that the previous week, she only had time to get a pit beef sandwich for her husband but not donuts for the kids)

Moi: So you didn't even get a chance to get something you could eat?

Molten: Oh no.  I had my biscuit first.  That's non-negotiable every week.

Now that's a public health authority with her nutrition priorities in order.

Coughing and Wheezing Kind of Day

I had my fortnightly meeting with Advisor Who this morning.  Usually, I arrive to find someone else already in his office, deep into conversation, because Who tends to overbook his Wednesday mornings.  This morning, I was pleasantly surprised to find that no one had usurped my spot.  Though that surprise soon turned unpleasant when I realized that the office was completely empty. No visitors.  But no Who, either.

When we finally did get to meet, I ran down a list of first-person asthma vignettes for a pilot study, many of them included complaints of shortness of breath, until Advisor Who stopped me.

Who: No, you don't have asthma.  You're just really out of shape.  I'm concerned that you're drawing a lot from your personal experience.

Ah, Mentor Who Insults My Level of Fitness.  This would be something to write home about, if every single mentor in the last 10 years hadn't been the exact same way.  I just have one of those faces.  And it's just one of those days.

Poo and Pee Kind of Day

One of my favorite things to do, whenever I worked with a junior high youth group during my summer at the Boston Project, was to tell the youths that we were not to have any talk of poop and pee at the dinner table while saying the words poop and pee as many times as possible.  I can't help it, these are funny words.

I gave you that introduction to prepare you for the line that has made me laugh all day.  Though perhaps I should be paving my ground in other ways, and remind you that I am a doctoral student, a serious thinker, a sophisticated poet, a responsible teaching assistant, and loving daughter.  The class I am TA'ing this term has the acronym "AHSPO."  It's a lot shorter and more convenient than spelling out the whole course title, but it makes for an unfortunate pronunciation.  No matter how I try, it inevitably rhymes with a**hole (or a**hole with a British accent).  Writing a poll for the class today, I decided to tack on a fun question soliciting alternative pronunciations/solutions.  Which brings me back to the line that made me crack up in class, then close the browser and turn my head so I wouldn't burst out laughing, the suggestion that made me smile all day long:  ass-poo.

Someone wrote ass-poo.  It's the little things that remind me why I got into TA'ing.

UPDATE: (Jesse, upon hearing what I found funny) "Why are the smart ones always so troubled mentally?  Ass-poo?"

Mental Marathon

Meredith, Allison, Laura, and I all converged at Marie's apartment in DC this weekend for our semi-annual get together of lots of walking, board gaming, eating, and healthcare-talk catch up.  Marie was a gracious hostess, kicking out Bryant and making us coffee and toast every morning.  Sadly, we did not play Bananagrams, opting instead for Apples-to-Apples (we prefer fruit-based games).  It led to hours of humor, mostly dark, as I somehow managed to acquire a hand with "Hiroshima 1945," "Pearl Harbor Attack," "Adolf Hitler," "Atomic Bomb," and "Anne Frank."  The game culminated to a heated 3-way tie for game point among the lefties.  Though it should not surprise anyone that the tie was broken by a win by yours truly.  I am just that good.

The real highlight of the weekend though, was our dinner at Birch & Barley.  We began the meal with complimentary, ridiculously light creme fraiche biscuits and olive rolls (you know how I feel about good biscuits).  And kept on adding on the starch from there.  Overwhelmed by the many words on the menu and in the end, we deferred to the waiter to pair our beers (yes, beer pairings, did you expect anything less with the exposed brick walls, the lanterns, and distressed-wood look?).  Giving up on picking and choosing among all the delectable options, we just said, "1 of everything from the pasta section, please."  Plus a side of mac'n'cheese.  Because you can never have too many simple carbohydrates between public health professionals.

Pumpkin Eater

Dear Neglected Journal.  I ventured out to the great outdoors this past weekend.  Actually, I ventured toward D.C. and Punty and was driven out to the great outdoors in a leisurely, sun-dappled car ride nap.  But I arrived at the outdoors nevertheless.  Only to discover an orchard full of little children (and excellent cider donuts) and other mishaps.  Like how Punty's apple-picking trip came too late in the season, so we picked pumpkins instead (like that time we got blueberries instead of apples from a shady orchard in Maine... I have terrible luck with apples).  And she accidentally picked the farm her friend didn't recommend.  And by "pick pumpkins," I really mean "intimidate all the children off of the hayride, walk into half empty pumpkin field, wander around for 15 minutes as Punty picks pumpkin, then ride back into the store where Punty ditches said pumpkin for a prettier one from the bin."  I love it when I'm not the one that messes up.  On our way out, Liz ran into car trouble, so we camped out on the side of the road with a blanket and picnic.  It was the only time during the day that the outdoors cooperated.  The grass was nice, the sky was mostly clear, and the air was crisp.  It just came at the cost of a $2200 engine.  Lesson learned?  Avoid the outdoors.  Nothing good comes of it.

Center for Talented Toddlers

On the way to Important Yet Terrible Talk With Excellent Reception Food today, we bumped into Greg.  While we were all excited for the opening of the drug research center (this was, after all, before the Terrible Talk), Greg had bigger things on his mind: the education of his 3-year old.  He had a parent-teacher conference to attend, 2 letters of recommendation to obtain, and a very detailed pre-school application to fill out.  In describing all this, he inadvertently uttered my favorite sentences of the day.

Greg: One of the questions was, "how does your child deal with adversity?"  Uh... he cries.

Center for Awkward Youths

It's finals season again (coinciding with Neeson season).  This means that the weeks are generally gross.  But Thursday night was a brief, wondrous reprieve from it all, one of those nights with so many good elements, I don't know where to begin.  Empanadas from the biscuit people I adore.  Actually, a whole dinner from them.  Chill bluegrass music.  Al fresco dining amid trees, Christmas lights, and a little fire.  And of course, the lovely, lovely company.  It wasn't just that Sachini and Catherine are past ridiculous in their fun/nice distributions (off the charts on both scales), but also that we got to spend much of the evening discussing Mike's nerdy past.  I thought I could relate to him, Geek Camp alum-to-alum (ah, CTY), but he went far beyond a couple of misguided summers and into real hardcore stuff, with a special math and science high school (that Landlady Chang and Brother also went to), then teaching Nerd Camp, getting blacklisted, and then of course, back full circle to biostatistics here.  I had never felt so cool in my life.  Nor so proud that I 'only' spent 2 summers at Geek Camp.

Blazing Furnace

Expecting the Worst
Hanging out in my room last night, I suddenly heard a thump and little pop sound, followed by silence.  I didn't think Roommate Megan was moving anything heavy, but thought I'd check, fearing that someone had broken into the apartment or a surrounding one (ah, adjusting expectations in B'more).  Once I stepped into the empty living room, however, I saw that no such break-ins had occurred.  Then I smelled smoke.  Then I saw smoke coming from the heater closet. Then I saw a spark and rushed into Megan's room.

Two Public Health Experts One Mini Fire
There were a couple of minutes of chaos as we tried to figure out what to do, tried to get a closer look at the heater then jump away when we saw flames, and tried to see if we had a fire extinguisher anywhere (we don't; we should).  We then decided that calling 911 seemed like the right thing to do even though the fire was most probably out.  Right after Megan hung up, we panicked.  Not because of the fire.  But because we were both about to go to bed and not wearing presentable clothes.  She changed.  I borrowed a sweatshirt from her and kept the flowery white PJ half shorts because the heater was right outside my door and I didn't want to walk by another possible spark.

B'more's Best
The firefighters arrived in minutes.  They were everything one could expect them to be.  Calm, reassuring, and mostly seemed like they knew what they were doing.  We were right to call them, they said (I wonder if they tell everyone that).  They smelled the apartment and saw the blackened water heater.  "Yup, that's a fire all right."  Then they just chilled a little bit since everything was under control.  Somebody turned off the hot water.  Somebody decided they should leave a tag on the water heater.  Someone located a tag in his helmet.  Nobody had a pen.  Except for me.  I always have pens.

Super Confused Super
The next step was calling the emergency maintenance number, which put me in touch with Brian the Maintenance Manager.  "Wasn't I just in your apartment this afternoon?"  "Yes, yes, you fixed a drain.  Thank you!"  "I didn't touch your water heater."  "I know you didn't.  But it still burned up."  "Can you explain this again?  You're saying it caught on fire?"  "Yes, sir, it burst into flames." "I just don't understand.  This has never happened before."  "It's the first time for me, too.  But it happened."  "Well, do you want me to-- right now, I don't have a --"  "You should come first thing tomorrow morning."  "OK.  That's good.  Because it's 11 o'clock now."  Who knew I had a talent for talking supers through difficult situations?  I did.

This Happened Tonight

I know it's been quiet here lately.  But at the very least, this will be explained.  Tomorrow.  After I get some sleep.  And perhaps, a new water heater.

My Best Work All Week

Yet another pirate research joke.  There are a lot of pirate statisticians out there.

Cut

Last week, I decided to live beyond my means (like the people who got us into this recession) and treated myself to a nice chef's knife.  Not ridiculously fancy, but fancy enough.  It cost about the same as my (Target) microwave.  It arrived today.  And has me excited to chop vegetables.  Considering the cost savings in adverted health utilization this knife will bring because I'm eating more vegetables, it's probably an investment win in the long run (then again, living longer = more health expenditures, what a conundrum; such is the curse of learning health economics).

(Two pictures from last weekend below.  It appears that we're all terrible at having our picture taken.  This suits Brother's purposes because he takes artistic photos and can bring the best out of people in natural settings.  But it does terribly for having family pictures.)

Two good photographers.  In one terrible picture.

Everyone says they look alike.  I don't see it.

Hail Kaiser

I love a good goof who spins a good yarn.

(discussing his friend Kaiser)

Doc Nice: You know the Kaiser foundation?  She's from that family.

Moi: Whoa.  That's amazing.  That's really important.  Do you think she's related to the Kaisers of the roll?

Doc Nice: Probably.  If you're going to start a health system, you need some seed money, and I bet that that's where it came from.

Moi: It makes perfect sense.  If you feed people simple carbohydrates, they'll get sick and enter the health system.

Doc Nice: You know, isn't Kaiser German for king or something?  I bet they're also related to that.

Moi: OK, now you're just stretching this too far.  Let's not get carried away.  They are not German kings.

Doc Nice: I'm sorry.  You're right.  I was just goofing off.

One Last September Post

(Mother, preparing for her sermon on Saturday night)

Mother froze on stage this morning.  She was delivering a sermon at a church in Boston and suddenly forgot what city I was living in, instead she said, "My son flew back from California and my daughter from ... from ... from ... (and this point, her friends and I start snickering in the back pew) uh... Johns Hopkins."  You could say that she panicked in the moment.  You could also say that even now, I'm not sure that she knows where I live.  It took her awhile to acclimate to the fact that B'more is south of Boston.

(defending the integrity of her Costco-bought giant bottle of sangria)

Mother: Your Father and them don't like it, they think it tastes weird, but I think it's great.  

I Solve

Pretzels, I'm so proud of my investigative skills that I am going to put down my problem set for a few minutes just to tell you all about it.  I got a text about 30 minutes ago from a number that wasn't in my phone.  All I had to go on was that the person went to the Bo' (207 area code and you don't live in Maine?  You went to the Bo'), probably wasn't part of the JWo-VitaK crowd, and was in SF.

Not Jared.  Not Lily.  They would be in my phone.  Facebook told me that Zvi had just arrived in SF, but he should be in my phone.  A quick check, however, revealed sometime in the process of switching from one antiquated flip phone to another to another, his entry got deleted.  Then I checked his facebook profile and his number was listed there and I figured everything out.

OK.  That wasn't as dramatic as it played out in real time and maybe it didn't require that many skills, but let me have this one.  I certainly don't have my problem set figured out.

People in Glass Houses

Have really nice windows.  And views.  I would love to live in a glass apartment.  I felt bad about the low output this month (lowest ever! it's hard maintaining two blogs) and thought I'd share a quick, cheap anecdote courtesy of Mary.

Mary still works regularly with Doc Whitecastle and Doc Nice while I work with them only a couple of days a month.  As such, Mary has way more opportunities for ridiculous Doctor moments.  She happened to be in town on Friday and this was what I learned over frozen yogurt.

(discussing our low research assistant wages and how her raise had to be capped at 2%)

Mary: After my annual review, [Whitecastle] told me that I was lucky.  His annual raise is only 1%.

Sunday Routine

(I had to promise not to sell this picture for profit.  Ha.)

 Biscuits. Church. Homework.  That is essentially my B'more Sunday routine.  It may even be the order of preference for such things.  Every Sunday morning, I wake up, shower and whatnot, then go see some guys underneath the highway about some biscuits.  I used to roam the whole of the farmer's market.  I used to eat jerk fish and donuts and fried mushrooms (and actually buy produce from time to time).  Those were my B.B.-- before biscuit-- days.  In my A.B. days, I only go to first service now (they're always sold out by 2nd service).  And I eat too much simple carbohydrates.

Fishy Crabs

Last night, our cohort ('PhD class') tried to round up a big group to grab crabs.  Done in by problem sets, only 7 of us actually made it.  Given my work load, it was both the best and worst decision of my day.  Other than Tara and Greg, whose Mid-Atlantic + Pacific-Northwest upbringings gave them an edge, we weren't particularly discernible crab eaters.  We had trouble even finding crabs on the menu.  We were, however, wonderful with numbers and logic.  Much to the waiter's chagrin.

Julia (representing the table): How many crabs do people normally eat?

Waiter: Four to six.

Julia: When you say four to six, what size is that?

Waiter: All sizes.  Medium, large, or extra-large.  Seven of you here, why don't we start with two and a half dozen large ones?  And some appetizers?

Julia: Your estimates seem highly variable and unlikely.

(In the end, we got soups, fritters, and 2 dozen large ones, were all stuffed, and still had leftovers.  Nice try, Tricky Waiter.)

Big Bliss

(The title is a Say Yes to the Dress shout out.  It's OK that I watch that show, because I balance it all out by getting a PhD)  

Remember how I used to have a blog?  And I would tell you about my life in amusing vignettes?  I hardly remember it.  The past couple of weeks have been a blur of work.  I've worked so hard that I haven't read every human interest story in the Times for weeks now, hardly kept up with royalty gossip (except they keep losing their clothes!), and haven't worked on perfecting my weigh-your-own fro-yo combo since classes started.  

But yesterday, Miss Sachini got married, so I pretended I wasn't coming down with a cold and completely clueless about how to do my econometrics homework, and had me some fun.  I keep saying this about my friends' weddings because they keep having awesome ones, but this was one of the happiest, loveliest, most ridiculous celebrations I've been a part of.  This one had the added bonus of everyone on both sides of the family being as genuine, chill, fun, and lefty as the happy couple themselves. 

One of the many highlights of the wedding last night was that B'more finally cooled down enough to warrant long sleeves.  The realization that I might need sleeves, and thus needed to coordinate an extra piece of clothing, dawned on me 4 minutes before departure time and led to a frantic gchat with Liz in which we discussed "Is it OK to wear a light white jacket to a wedding?"  After I explained to Liz that, yes, the bride was wearing white and no, the bridesmaids were not (a la Pippa... and old time folks), we decided that it all came down to this:  is the bride crazy?

Well, you can see how we both felt about that question.

 

Au Contraire My Tear

For one of my relatively new research projects (in which I predict when you will die), I am working on a group with both Advisor Who and Professor Fudge.  Mostly Professor Fudge.  I catch a glimpse of Advisor Who once every 12-16 days.  Whenever I do, he assures me that he is working hard on the project.  I am never convinced.

Professor Fudge is mild mannered, understanding, and takes himself absolutely seriously.  In short, he's the opposite of every mentor I have ever had (especially one whose name starts with W and ends in Hitecastle).  Working with him has been absolutely encouraging and bewildering at once.

Today, our meeting ended with me in tears.  I have left many offices in tears, but never because I was sad.  Today was no exception.  It's my stupid dry eyes.  Like (really inaccurate) clockwork, my eyes dry up in the late afternoon/early evening daily and I have a little cry.  Unfortunately, the cry today came moments after we discovered that I messed up my analysis and would have to redo a couple of days of work.

With any other professor, it would've been "too bad, suck it up, bring me the new results and we'll go from there."  Not Fudge.  He felt bad.  He told me a really long story about how these professional survey people at a prominent university messed up their analysis.  And it was sometime during this story that my eyes started tearing up.

With any other professor, I would've made a joke and that would've been that.  Not Fudge.  When I told Fudge my eyes were dry, it just sounded like I was covering up.  Being the earnest man that he is, he felt even worse.  He told me that mistakes were a part of the process.  The meeting ended as all our meetings do: awkward, and with me breaking into a near run.

Reader, I've never had a mentor who did not put me down.  Now in 20th grade, I don't know if I'm ready for one.

Darn Yankees

We don't take good pictures of ourselves.

I would be really impressed if you could tell where we were just by the picture above.  I would be equally impressed if you saw the pictures below and couldn't make out where we were.  Though for very different reasons.

(we were really high up for a few innings)

A couple of days ago, Rachael tried to rally a group of us for baseball.  Everyone else had commitments so in the end, it was just the two of us, the Orioles, and the Yankees.  

Things I Was Looking Forward To Before the Game: 

Being able to afford a Yankees ticket.

Some monstrous hot dog topped with mac n' cheese and crab 

(or pit beef BBQ, I would've been happy with either)

Chen Wei-Ying!  (i.e. watching a healthy, decent Taiwanese pitcher have a good game) 

How the Game Turned Out:

Chen had a great night... for about 3 innings.  

Settled for a polish sausage with all the works.  Less special, but still delicious.  

Hours later, really settled for limp fries and cheese sauce.  Even less special, still hit the spot.

The Yankees come to town (and win) and the park wasn't full of obnoxious machismo, drunken bros, and the feeling that a fight is about to break out?  I love this park.  I want to go every week.  

Unlike my last visit, people actually filled the seats and watched the game last night (this being September, tied for first last night, and playing the Yankees might have had something to do with it).  I had great, fun.  Sure, singing Sweet Caroline is special and all, but everything is so much less crowded here, the seats more comfortable, and the fans (and staff) so friendly that one lady even stopped me to tell me to not carry my bag behind me lest I get pick pocketed.  Then again, chances of being pick pocketed much lower in Boston...

Reality Bites

(all ready for my first day of 20th grade this morning)

Today was a much more stressful first day of school than I had expected, despite the happy arrival of my new TV this afternoon, despite the delicious cherries I ate, and despite the sausage-leek-pasta I made tonight.  I don't know why, despite all these marvels, the day still produced an unsettling feeling.  That's why I am ending the evening reading about mosquito bites (abscesses in particular) and listening to rain noise.  Two of my favorite things to do to pass the time.  It was in all this googling about mosquito bites-

(Sidebar: Somehow, sleeping over Nish's immaculate, air-conditioned, 8th floor apartment in September, I managed to get 2 mosquito bites on my hands.  Needless to say, they are inconvenient, itchy, and abscess-y.  I haven't even scratched it.  The bites, being inconveniently placed, just keep brushing up against things that irritate.  So much so that I considered buying $70+ worth of herbal ointments from Hong Kong.)  

It was in all this googling about mosquito bites that I realized that I never told you about the Living Mosquito Bite that so marred my Malaysia trip last year.  I can't believe I never mentioned it. It only occupied 60% of my mind the entire trip.  Maybe Last Year Me didn't want to gross you out.  Present Me doesn't care.  

I won't show you any pictures.  What you imagine will probably be more horrifying.  I will say that my mosquito bite gone wrong reached such a point that when Dwight and I were touring the herbal garden, a woman who worked there pointed at it and animatedly discussed it with another man.  I thought she'd recommend some medicinal salve.  Instead, she just said, "You need to see a doctor."  

Malaysia: 0  Mosquito: 1  Moi: -3938

Office Space, Part 2

(discussing the office we are sharing, the one with only one chair and one computer)

Amber: So you're here, too?

Moi: Yeah, but don't worry, this is only temporary.

Amber: Me too.  I'll be moving into that space down the hall when it opens up in the fall.

Moi: Wait, that's what they told me, too.

Office Space

Number of professors who want me to have a work space on the 6th floor: 2

Advisor Who and another professor I'm working closely with for a project are both on the 6th floor.  To them, it made sense to have me right around the corner since questions will invariably come up as I play with data.

Number of offices I have on the 6th floor: 0

Number of offices I have on the 3rd floor: 2

Number of people I displaced to take over Room 304: 2

Ah, academic bureaucracy.

Surfer Gurl

Professor Molten is the nicest professor here at J'Hop. Professor Molten used to think of me as a Bostonian. But ever since we talked about tacos once a few months ago, Professor Molten has gotten into her head that I am from California. It is a hard habit to shake. Unless, that is, I try Alice's plan.

 Moi: ... and then she said, "that's the Californian in you." I just nodded. It was easier that way. 

Alice: You need to start talking about clam chowder.

 Moi: I had wicked good chowdah at Haaaaavuhd? Alice: Exactly.

Not Again

I'm running out of ways to say how proud I am of my brother. He went and debuted another music video (this time, he made it with Ben, who's practically a brother, ergo, practically my brother). In me news? I re-installed my toy sofa because I realized that I set up my backboard wrong the first time around. I nearly won a game in Scrabble (should be able to wrap it up soon). And I finally took out the trash. After decades of being the-sibling-with-the-grades, I'm starting to understand what it feels like to be the black sheep.

Bigger Inside than Outside

I often feel like I have to remind Advisor Who of my existence, and following that, prompt him on who I am and what I might need from him.  It's nothing against him; he's just very busy, even as he's very cheerful and willing to help.  Nevertheless, after a year here, I'm happy to wander the halls and be able to pop into an office for a quick hello (even if he wasn't entirely certain why I was there to do that).  I remember how it felt last fall, when all I wanted was to feel familiar again, to walk down the street and have someone to say hi to, some landmark I'd recognize, and someplace that made me feel like I belonged.  It's not that Boston ever felt homey, but it was a city I knew.  Longwood meant work and school and friends/colleagues/professors, even people-whose-faces-I-want-to-avoid.  At this time last year, B'more meant nothing except confusion and overwhelming newness.

Who: So, d'you have fun?

Moi: Well, no big fun.  I didn't do anything exciting, but there was little fun.

Who: We don't have to catalog all the little fun you had.

---
I've mentioned this before, but talking to Advisor Who and Doc Nice inevitably turn into a namedropping game that I can't win.  They're just way more important than I am.  This point was again driven in this week.

(on where we had tacos last week)

Moi: Tiny storefront in B'more.
DocNice: The White House

(on where we stayed at the Cape)

Moi: Marie's aunt's friend's house.
Advisor Who: The National Academy of Science compound.

Grammar Gestapo

Nish came to town today.  We had too much brunch then made our way toward the harbor where we found the cutest park in the city.  A park that emphasizes spelling is my kind of outdoor space.

Price of Doing Business

I went to my bathroom this morning and was startled to discover a blood stain on the door.  I don't remember stabbing anyone at my doorsteps.  The blood, it appears, came as a result of a cut on my thumb.  How it drifted and flowed all the way down to the foot of the door, I am not sure.  All I know is that furniture assembly is a dangerous business, even when it is something as innocuous as a small nightstand with but one drawer.  Such a process can take entire afternoons and lead to deep cuts and dramatic rivers of blood as one attempts to rip open a band aid one-handed (Band-Aid brand band aids don't come with easy-pull tabs anymore, which led to a great struggle).  And yes, furniture assembly becomes exponentially more difficult and dangerous when it is done with one hand/thumb elevated to prevent further bloodbaths.  Said Father, "See, your father is good for some things, right?"  He is greatly missed down here in B'more.

Busy Day Today

I made a couch today. Not exactly from scratch. But close enough. It's a very small couch.  I want to call it 'Tiny Dancer.'  I also want to nap on the couch because my arms are very sore. But alas, I must shower, put on presentable clothes, and head south to DC for dinner.

Strapped

Anyone who says that we live in a cashless society has not tried to actually live two weeks without cash. Granted, I was doing pretty well without cash for much of the month, until I tried to deposit a check and realized that my bank card expired. That made the check deposit really difficult. It also made obtaining cash really difficult. Which made commerce very difficult. Mostly commerce that involves food. That is to say, all the important commercial transactions in life. Bank cards expire all the time. Except my new one got sent to B'more. And I was not in B'more. I know, I live a hard life. But I live it as a cautionary tale for you.

If He Be Awesome

This is why all throughout school, I was known always as "Pete's sister."  My brother directed this.  He is all sorts of awesome.  See the whole NPR post here.

Hair's to Me

A hairdresser complimented my hair today.  Well, not the previous haircut ("bangs cut too short," which explains my new haircut "looks weird on the right, but will get better as the hair grows"), but my hair itself.  It is apparently "healthy."  After a lifetime of being yelled at by hairdressers for using both too much and too little conditioner and all sorts of other flaws, this is welcome news.  It is so unexpected, much like that one time I went to the dentist and did not have any cavities, that I am committing a whole blog entry to it to commemorate the event.  Happy healthy hair day, everyone.

Water Ice

This was an installation in the RISD museum in Providence.  Isn't it pretty?  Too bad this was all we could say about it.  This, and "I wish I could run through the glass."  This is all to say, the museum was mostly lost on us.

The More Things Change

I just had a phone conversation with Lenny that went something like this:

Lenny: I can't talk now, I'm in Chile.

Moi: Isn't this call super expensive then?  Why'd you even pick up?

Lenny: I thought it was an emergency.

Moi: (from me?) It's not.

I had decided to call Lenny because I'm clearing out my bedroom in my home home and had just come across an old planner.  In it, I found an entry that said "calc test" in Lenny's handwriting.  Then entry was crossed out.  Next to it, I had written "I hate Lenny."  Apparently, Lenny used to go through my planner adding phantom test dates.  This is why I'm OK running up her phone bill.

Fishy Tales

At lunch today, in a Chinese restaurant overlooking the Merrimack Valley in Dracut, we saw a couple of guys fishing in the waters and releasing their catch back into the water.  The Merrimack used to be a heavily polluted river because of all the factories in the area.  The fishermen prompted Mother to strike up conversation with the waiter about whether he'd ever fished there.  He said that, oh yes, the river was great for fishing.  The kitchen staff do it all the time and there are some large fish there, even bass.  They do it for fun, of course, not to eat.  The chef lost a fishing pole recently because the fish was so big.  They gather around the restaurant because of the food waste that goes into the river.  They were so plentiful that they didn't even need to fish with a real rod, just a string and stick.  They'd set them up, tie to a tree, and return every once in awhile to check on the lines.  The entire tale sounded fantastical.  We smiled and nodded at his story, taking it all in, until we left the restaurant and got into the car.

Mother: They're not supposed to dump food into the river, right?  That's illegal.

Father:  And no Chinese chef ever 'fishes for fun.'  Remember never to order fish at this place.

Near Miss

Yesterday was a near-perfect day in food.  If only I'd gotten dessert.  I went down to Providence for the day and sweated, ate, and repeated the two many times over.  The morning began with Gruyere croissants en route into the city.  We paused for some anthropology and art before "Lunch Part 1": seafood pancakes from a food truck.  Then there was the detour for lemonade/iced tea.  And "Lunch Part 2": half order eggs Benedict with pulled pork hash at a place we all likened to "Other Side Cafe in Boston, except with really good food.  And capable service."  Despite its hipster-dive atmosphere, I can't recommend Julian's enough.  It does vegan, vegetarian, and fatty meat all so well.  (Laura made sure of this.  "Just to make sure, the 'soy marinaded steak' is actual meat, right?")  To burn all this off, we slowly walked around a lake, only to circle back to town for early happy hour (Pacifico, hummus, corn fritters) as Z-the-Underaged watched.  He also got to compare restaurant notes with Laura.  Lesson learned?  Undergrad Boys and Grad School Women run in very different restaurant/bar scenes.  We learned that lesson again when we decamped to our next stop: an absurdly twee tapas bar where we had yet more food amid high ceilings, exposed beams, chalkboard menus, and a quirky waitress.

Like I said, a terribly trendy and wonderful food day.  My only regret was that we didn't have dessert (we were too full and lacked foresight).  Because miraculous as it sounds, by the time I got home around 11pm, I was hungry again.

Lola

There was a girl in a pink skirt yesterday and the whole train loved her.  She was first spotted as the train emerged onto street level.  As soon as she saw the train, she started running, and we started watching.  She almost caught up to the train at the stop.  But traffic didn't go her way and she couldn't cross the street in time to catch the train.  By the time we reached the next stop, however, she was there waiting for us.  She had run in her skirt and pretty sandals through the city blocks and beat the train.  The conductor suggested she join the Olympics.  People congratulated her.  Guys high-fived her as they exited.  It turned out that she didn't really need to hurry.  She had 30 minutes to pass two stops.

"But I didn't want to walk in the heat anymore."
"So you ran instead?"
"I didn't think about it very well."

Someone suggested that she ride all the way to the VA just to get her money's worth.  Her logic may have been faulty, but the running was great.  And it was wonderful, free entertainment for a Thursday morning.

Portion Control

(removing the tag off of my new jeans)

Mother: You don't need to tell everyone what size you are.

Moi: But I so rarely get to be such a small size.  I know that they keep altering the sizes-

Mother: Exactly.  This would be an extra large in China.

Thanks, Mother.

Jack of All Trades

That Jesus was right.  It is hard serving two masters.  (Or did he say you shouldn't serve 2 masters?  Semantics.)  It's taking a lot of brain power to barely maintain 1 blog.  Adding on another one, why, I can feel my cerebrospinal fluid drying out.  Not that you have missed out on much.  I did not take a spectacular fall during a softball game and shatter my hand to pieces, or trip and fall in the middle of the street a couple of weeks later.  I did not talk to a Times columnist about dog poop.  I have just been quietly working in the suburbs, only going into town for Whitecastle's disapproval.  My big project of the day?  Cleaning up my childhood room.  And figuring out why there are several feet of white nylon rope at the foot of my window.

Sheep Go to Heaven

I am in need of the help of a good five-year old.  I have used my fingers to count multiple times this morning.  I have been so flummoxed that I just emailed Whitecastle for help in reconciling the counting discrepancies in our review. We have been working with collaborators for about a year now on this project.  Between the five of us, there are 3 MDs, 2.25 PhDs. and 2 Masters of Science.  And yet we can't figure out if our review has 10 or 12 studies.  It shouldn't be this hard, but right now, it all feels just a little overwhelming.

Silent Alarm

Katy's alarm woke Nik up at 5:30 am today.  Nik wondered if Katy had pressed snooze and needed to be woken up.  Then, because it was 5:30, she fell back asleep.  Katy's alarm also woke me up at 5:30 am today.  I wondered if Katy had somehow gotten up without my notice.  Then, because it was 5:30, I fell back asleep.  

About an hour later, my alarm rang.  It woke me up.  I stirred and thought, "I guess she left and I didn't hear her."  Unfortunately, neither my alarm nor Katy's alarm woke Katy up.  And she had a flight to catch.  Five minutes later, Katy shot up in her bed and blurted.  "Oh sh*t!"  And that's how I ended up at the airport in my pajamas.  And how Nik and I managed to get back, change, go out for breakfast (and come up with a brilliant baking idea-- pumpkin bread with Raisinets) and return again, all by 9am.  It was a very productive morning.

Peer to Peer

Dear Reviewer 1:
  The feeling is mutual.

Sincerely,

Annoyed and Reviewed