Conformity

Peer pressure can make all of us do stupid things, like impulsively buying 2 pints of Ben & Jerry ice cream on a rainy afternoon because we had to try the new flavors with the fudgey cores (verdict: hazelnut fudge, let's promise never to part ways).  Yes, Nancy, Heeyoung, and I each had to buy our own.  And even though each pint was $3.50 (more expensive than Jon had gotten at Safeway), once we saw the sign for "2 for $7," we decided that we all had to get 2 pints.  We just had to.  

On Thursday night, though, I was in desperate need of peer pressure.  There was a guest speaker in town and Advisor Who took us to dinner.  You all know how I love free food, especially as this was free food at fancy restaurant with Liz next to me.  And Who telling outrageous stories.  (The speaker's stories of cryptography and his son of many tongues, weren't too shabby either.)  It was all pretty good, actually, except that part where the waitress came to take orders for dessert and so I ordered, then no one else did.  And so yes, I was that kid, that ate the most free food Who had to offer.  And who everyone had to wait for.  I'm never ordering first again.

Liz (to me): Maybe Who will get dessert and you won't be alone.

Who (to waitress): Could I get an espresso?  But could you make it look like a dessert so she won't feel left out?

Moi: [mortified.  mortified.  mortified.]

Gradual Student

"Graduate student" is such a deceptive job title because I am so far from graduating.  Yesterday, I went to the bookstore to pick up index cards to make for studying. Like I've done countless times. I had the realization then that it was probably something most of my friends can't relate to anymore. Can you still remember back to the last time you made flash cards to study?  Yet for me, it was yesterday. Using the exact same trick I'd learned in middle school.

(This is how I feel about studying. Though I know I shouldn't whine because a. I haven't studied that hard this far and b. it's my 3rd to last exam ever!)

Significant Others

Today was Liz's Fun Day, and what a fun day it was.  There was a rope course (which brought back bad memories of Project Adventure- I was a much better sport in my younger days), there was Taboo, and there were equally generous servings of snack taking and smack talking.  It's no wonder that I love Liz.  Those are all of my favorite things (just kidding, I hate ropes, but today's ropes were great).  I just wish Liz portrayed me better to her friends.  

(after hearing a description of the day ahead from our guide)

Moi: I don't know if I want to be mentally and physically challenged.

Liz: But think of all the fun things you can tell Al that you did today!

Moi (to Liz's non-school friends): I should clarify.  Al is not my boyfriend-- he is my academic advisor. He will not hear about what I did today.

Kali: I don't know.  You guys were talking about scheduling orals with Al and I got very confused.

For future reference, Pretzels, "Orals" = comprehensive (departmental or school-wide) exam.  I clearly need more men in my life.

Beef and Turf

In academia, so much of getting through the program depends on our mentors- formal and informal- that we (well, Liz and I) can get a little possessive and petty over them.  The mentor may or may not be our favorite, but we better be on the mentor's favorite list.  This could be a difficult feat, however, when your mentor is Advisor Who and has scores of mentees all over the medical institution.

(a little after Liz told me about a journalist-turned-medical-student-wunderkind who Who often praises and who I'd never heard of until today, and immediately after I suggested we "destroy" said student)

Liz: You are taking this way worse than I thought you would.

A Pack of Crows

Is mass murder a hobby?  The question came up during a particularly divisive round of Scattergories Categories this past weekend, one that revealed the worst in just about every team.  Lisa and I are firmly in the 'yes' camp.  Some teams found it only palatable to give us the point on murder, but not mass.  Others, like Tiff and Michael, were more lenient.  "A hobby is anything you do for fun that's not your job."  Exactly.  (They may have been just protecting their behinds, their "two-timing" double points were potentially under threat depending on the ruling).  

In the end, Tuna, the great conscience, swayed enough nays for us to lose the points.  It cost us both the round and the game in a particularly tight race.  Which is a sad one to close out a night that began so promising, with Lisa and I in early dominations.  If one had to pinpoint where it all went downhill, it was probably when we got the category "Things that are above us" and decided to shoot for the moon with a long list of dead people.  The jury would only give us one.  Not even Martin Luther King Jr. could sway their stone cold hearts. "He's not above us because he's dead, but because he's morally superior," I argued between fits of hysterics, but all Priscilla would do was stare, shake her head, and say "One dead person."  

While I'm Sleeping

On sharing bunk beds as adults...

Moi (top bunk): Just so you know, I have a tendency to shake and hop up and down in my sleep. 

Lisa (bottom bunk): Just so you know, I have a tendency to suffocate other people in my sleep. 

Touché. 

Dear John

One of my favorite comebacks after someone has said “I love you,” or even, “I like you,” in a non-romantic context is to reply with, “Yes, but I think we should still see other people.”  I almost never pull it off.  But it’s a stupid joke I love to say.

 

Sometimes, my emails with Doc Nice are cordial, respectful, and right on business, because I am a professional.  Other times, they are a little goofy because Doc Nice is not just the nicest, he’s also a little goofy. Yesterday, as we traded emails to set up a call, I tried goofy.  I mentioned that I’d appreciate talking to him on the phone because I needed his guidance, but also because I like him— though we should see other people.  He responded in one all-business sentence specifying the time for our call.  Nothing else.

 

So I was a little startled by our conversation today:

 

Moi: Hello?  Sorry, I missed your call by a second-

 

Doc Nice: Did you get my voicemail?

 

Moi: No, I just saw that I missed-

 

Doc Nice: I cannot believe you’d tell me over email that you think we should see other people.

 

Moi: Wha?  Well- uh- I know it wasn't the best medium-

 

Doc Nice: Over email!  Not even a phone call.  I did not see it coming.  I thought things were going so well.

 

Apologizing for a faux break-up with a mentor probably crosses a few boundaries, but it also made my day.  Especially thinking of how he was carrying on this whole conversation inside a cab.  Nicely played, Nice Doc.  Nicely played.

Sights from the Motherland

We had a lot of fun with graffiti. 

Old school: Making my sandals right on the spot. 

Father is incredibly fond of finger guns. 

A Difference of Opinions

Trying on new glasses with Father and Mother yesterday. I put on a pair with black plastic frames. 

Father: You look like a PhD student in this. Very mod. 

Mother: Don't look like a PhD student. 

Father: I didn't mean it in a bookish way. I meant the kind that looks very smart and sexy. Like what's trendy now. 

Mother: But she's not sexy. 

Workaholic

The only people who have ever told me to "take it easy" or "don't work too hard" are people who have never worked with me.  Such admonishments usually come from relatives I'm not close with who think I lead the life of an ascetic academic.  I see workaholics the same way as I see physicians: I work with a lot of them, but only people who don't know me would ever mistake me for one.  

I sure looked the part on Tuesday morning though, with my laptop out on by baggage claim having just gotten off a red-eye, sending back last minute materials for a grant application (grant application- that's what people who do things have!).  Alas, it was all an illusion, just like how I spent 20 minutes working on a paper during a layover.  If I was truly driven, I would have used 4 hours on working and only 20 minutes for eating instead of the other way around.  And if I had just turned in the grant in earlier, I probably wouldn't been trading time-sensitive tables with the admin support from a different continent-- or better yet-- not taken a vacation in the middle of January.  But such are the choices that I have made.  

Shoot the Moon

Last week, I went to the dentist and discovered that a lifetime of supporting the industry has finally paid off.  I am the reason why the children of dentists are so well educated.  As always, I was nervous about the visit and convinced that I had a cavity (teeth ached when I ate sweets, or tried to floss- so I avoided both).  Plus, my gums had an absolute field week being weird.  By weird, I probably mean unclean.  

Yet, miracle of miracles, my new dentist pronounced me cavity-free.  The best news was when he proclaimed that I was not only cavity-free, but would probably have a hard time getting them in the future.  Such is the fate for people who have fillings on pretty much every tooth.  My teeth are so covered in fillings that there isn't room for cavities.  This must be what parents feel like when their children graduate from college and get their first paycheck.  My years of investment and pain are finally paying off.  Here's to never flossing again.

Joke on You

I spend a large portion of my day on gchat with Liz (reminds me of jlee88).  Her little words on the screen have been invaluable as we slog through this PhD process together.  We bounce ideas off of each other and vent and never talk about our advisors.  Consequently, we have begun thinking alike.  Too much so.

Yesterday, Advisor Who's email included a non sequitur about being in the "emergency room with son's ankle."  Liz gave me the biggest laugh of the day by telling me to ask where the rest of Son was.  Not because it was terribly funny.  But because I'd already picked up on the same line and made the very same stupid joke to Who.  I'd never felt prouder or groaned louder. 

In case you're aghast, we're not horrible people.  We care about children and their ankles.  But Who consistently makes us sit through jokes with punchlines like "is-th-mus be my lucky day."  It's only fair that we give back in turn.  

Too Sweet

It's been so long since I've written and it will probably be another long while until I write again.  This has been a very busy season.  Was it as busy as TAing, working, applying to graduate school, and taking classes full time?  I don't know.  But it's busy.

The student offices on the 6th floor, one of which I now occupy, are offices that most faculty members have access to.  I don't know how it works, but their keys open our offices.  This comes in very handy (for Liz, and only Liz) when one is locked out and doesn't want to summon security, but it's also very disconcerting when one opens the office door to discover that your advisor had previously broken in and left items for you on the desk.  This happens not infrequently.

Lately, Susan's advisor has bequeathed her with chocolates.  Mine?  A print out of a report I edited for him.  And a page from a journal.  Life isn't fair.  Naturally, I took a picture of the discrepancy and showed it to Advisor Who.  Naturally, he was not impressed.

Who: Are you sure that your office mate didn't steal your chocolates?  Are there other food items you have not discovered?

Hello, Old Friend

The wind is crazy out there in B'ton today. The kind of crazy I remember from Eddie Bert where I had to hold on to steady myself. The kind of crazy that rendered the $6 umbrella I hastily purchased immediately useless (I'd just gotten soaked earlier in the morning). Not only did I have no use for it, but I had to close it tightly in my hands to make sure it didn't fly away or cut me. Like an episode of Scandal, this weather is absolutely bananas. 

Not that I mind. It's been 24 hours of reuniting with old friends. Nik said that this was an American tradition-- meeting with friends before Thanksgiving-- and I guess she has a point. Between breakfast and lunch today, I'm hiding out from the weather at Flour Cafe right now--another old friend. If all goes well, I will have had meals with friends from high school, college, and grad school, and in that order, too, by the end of the day. All I need is Young Bo now (or Uzi, or Jen) to bridge the intervening years. 

(I used my scarf to cover my head from the rain)

Moi: I feel like a little orphan. 

Nik: You look like a babushka. 

Carbo Fully Loaded

Today was the annual color run in B'more.  I joined half a dozen friends post-run for brunch.  Not that I ran in the race.  I had breakfast then went to church.  They ran around.  And we met up to eat.  Just like how I like my Sundays to be.

Not only did I not start my day with exercise, my biscuit consumption sank to a new low.  Or maybe a new high.  

Ilene: What, do they know you by name?

Moi: Oh, we're long past that point.  

This morning, I didn't get a biscuit sandwich at the farmer's market.  I "just" got a slice of poundcake.  And Damian (the benevolent biscuit baron) expressed his disappointment.  "This isn't like you."  "But I also got a plain biscuit!"  "That's a little better.  I'm just surprised.  I thought you would have gone for the oxtail."  

Having 2 breakfasts isn't easy, Folks (2.5 if you count the bite of challah I stole before I left the house).  And sometimes, it means disappointing a few biscuit-makers along the way.

Staff Meals

I've been on a bread making kick lately.  A kind of kick I never would have gone on in B'ton.  There was no reason to when I could get olive ciabatta from the bocadillo shop downstairs, or brioche and pastries from Flour (oh sweet, Flour) two blocks over, or vendors like When Pigs Fly at the SoWA markets on Sundays.  Or hop over to Chinatown (cheap buns and rolls at the old Canto shops, the fancier Taiwanese stuff at 101).  Good bread existed everywhere.  Not Paris good or Taipei good.  But good enough.  Here in B'more, I've been on a bread kick out of laziness and desperation.  I live in a bread desert.  So last week, not wanting to go to the grocery store for disappointing subpar bread, I made it myself.  I tossed together a white bread-cheddar-salami-rustic-winging-it-without-a-recipe loaf.  It was good enough.

Today, I upped the ante with an actual recipe and made a challah boule.  The fun of saying both those words, together and separately, was worth the (very little) effort.  Turns out, yeast does most of the work in these situations.  I just had to measure and clean up.  The recipe said to wait for the bread to cool.  But I was impatient to have it with my dinner-of-breakfast-food-egg-scramble that I gladly burnt my hand for the fresh bread.  And I would gladly do it again for another taste at the fluffy, sweet, just-out-of-the-over taste.  

Burgers and Cookies

Jesse was in town for a conference yesterday, so we met up for lunch.  Because we graduated from the same program and our fields overlap slightly, meeting Jesse at the conference hotel meant quizzical looks from colleagues/acquaintances who were confused by my presence and why I was wearing jeans.  

Instead of taking Jesse to any proper B'More institutions, I had a hankering for 5 Guys, so we had greasy burgers and far too many fries.  Many cannibalism jokes ensued.  Followed by pertussis jokes.  And Malcolm Gladwell jokes.  In fact, the whole lunch can be summed simply as: laughter.  (We kept trying to organize our conversations for easy summary so Jesse could report the whole encounter back to Lisa in Boston.  There's a longer 7-point outline I won't bore you with.)  Though I suppose laughter is expected from the same harebrained team that brought you: Pitting Students Against Each Other to Make Grading More Fun.  (spoiler alert: it did)  

--- ---- ----

(scheduling a meeting with Advisor Who)

Moi: Instead of 1pm, could we make it 1:05?  So I can steal a cookie [from the lunch time seminar] ahead of our meeting.

Who: Or, you could go to the seminar [series that I run] so you'd actually be entitled to the cookie.

Moi: Touche.  

Bridge to Nowhere

This waterfall lies somewhere within the Petapsco State Park. At least we think it does. The park is poorly labeled. We arrived on Saturday morning eager to check out the many trails available only to find a complete lack of signage all over the vast park. Needless to say, I was not a happy camper. 

The one map we received looked like a placemat treasure map.  And managed to leave off all but 0.5 miles of our journey. None of the trails signs and markers provided any indication of how long the paths were or where they led. Yet there were plaques explaining local birds and the history of the quarries. The park system felt no need to impart any information on the dozens of trails covering hundreds of miles and levels of difficulty.  We ended up relying on the kindness of strangers. And going the opposite way of the Boy Scout troop with heavy packs and trekking poles. We were not prepared for such an expedition- wherever it was heading. 

In the end, we did find 1 lone posted map on our way out. Except it looked completely different from our experience of the park that we were thoroughly disoriented. And doubted if we'd really seen the falls at all. 

Boo Badly

It's been 4+ hours since Eldon said hi to Christine and me on his way to church, and I still can't stop shaking my head.  Christine and I were having a lovely morning, coming back from first service, and on our way to the farmer's market to have a still more lovely time, catching up, laughing, enjoying the fall sun, when Eldon jumped out of the bushes to say hi to us.

Grown man.  Hiding behind a planter.  On the way to church.  Waiting for us to walk by.  Just so he could jump out.

It was all so absurd and ridiculous and surprising that I was momentarily at a loss for words.  I could only say "I hate you," in between bouts of laughing.  Eldon jumping out of the bushes is exactly why I'm afraid to hiccup around him (and by association, Jess, for fear that she'd mention it).  He takes his scare tactics way too seriously.  Christine, however, put Eldon in his place and told him to scram.

Christine is the best.

Trucking On

   (Sometimes, a food truck is just a truck)

Dear Pretzels, 

I don't have too much to be proud of in my time in Charm City, but I'm proud that I've managed to stay alive and not ride in a single gypsy cab in 2.25 years. I've only been in a stranger' once in all this time. Not bad, huh?

Today, I add "not getting sick from possibly shady truck masquerading As food truck" onto that list. Sure, the truck didn't seem to have proper ventilation, sure it only took cash (so did the fancier truck park next to it-- stop evading taxes, Businesses of Bmore), and sure I was the only person I saw buying from the truck, but my fish sandwich was hot and fried to order. It was not a rip off (cough, truck next door, cough). The guy peeking his head from his window was super nice (again, cough, truck next door). And I got a story out of this.  All I had to do was gamble with my gastrointestinal system.  

A Series of Fortunate Events

Sachini and I were supposed to have dinner tonight.  I thought I'd be home for the afternoon, but because I discovered my work ethic late in the work day, I was still at school when it started pouring.  I hadn't heard back from Sachini and was worried that I'd be late and drenched.  Luckily, I ran into Sachini at school.  Because we go to the same school now (extra yay).  Like me, she didn't have an umbrella.  Luckily, Sachini has a husband.  Who has a car.  And an umbrella.  He picked us up and dropped us off with an umbrella.  Then picked us up again after dinner.  It was perfect and poor timing all at once.  

And even though we ordered what we always ordered, we were all extra full after dinner today.  That's a good thing, too.  

Happy Thursday.

Punciarello

As the old DoPE saying goes, "maybe it's something in the water."  Maybe it's the Diet Cokes.  Most likely though, it's just Advisor Who.  He was extra punchy today.

It was my fault for trying to be funny.  Sitting in a lunch time seminar that was starting to run over to our 1pm meeting, I emailed Who to say that I would be late, knowing full well that he was sitting across the room from me in the exact meeting.

I thought I was cool and clever by keeping a straight face as he read the email, but he called my 'bluff' by taking things one step farther.  He halted the seminar to bring it to a close, declaring "someone sitting in this room has informed me electronically that we are running over and have meetings to get to."

Moi: I didn't want you to actually end the talk right then.

Who: You're lucky I didn't call you out by name.  I almost did.

Later, I tried to score some free medical advice from Doctor Advisor Who.  Back at DoPE, Jen and I each had our own personal hierarchies of Superiors to Ask for Medical Advice (mine were Docs Nice, Query, and Whitecastle, respectively).  Here in B'more, I'm clearly still looking for the right person for the job:

Moi: Uh... how bad is it if you've had a bruise for 2 months?

Who: We would definitely need to cut off the limb.  Or face.  Depending on where it is.

Moi: OK, 'cause my erm, friend?  My friend has had this thing on the leg like this--

Who: Have you tried soap and water?  That just looks like discoloration.

Lessons learned: Never try to be fresh, or bruised, before your advisor.

Seattle

I know I haven't posted in a long while, Dear Pretzels. It's been a weird summer.  I'm about to reach peak summer travel in a few days when I head east to Idaho (I'm currently farther out West), with a stop in Spokane, of all places. It's been ... a ride. 

But today was great. Today I encountered what is now #1 on my Christmas wish list (see above). I had pie for lunch and ice cream twice. Saw Bo' friends, watched bike polo, and got to talk to Ash because her butt decided to call me. So there's that. I hope there'll be more days like this ahead and fewer silent stretches as summer draws to a close. 

Nine Titles

I'm used to failing Whitecastle miserably.  But turns out, I am fully capable of completely misunderstand other advisors, too.

(Advisor Who is at his computer, signing me up for a presentation I got semi-tricked into giving just 2 minutes earlier)

Who: What's your title?

Moi: M-S.

Who: No, what are you doing?

Moi: Doctoral student?  Third year?

Who: No, your research.

Moi: Oh, patient satisfaction and provider communication?

Who: OK, but make it more interesting.

Moi: ... ... ... 

The Puns

I have always hated knock-knock jokes.  They're a very American thing and I never found them funny.  Probably because I don't care much for puns.  That is, until I heard Mrs. Cho tell Ellis's joke last night.

(explaining how her son Ellis doesn't understand knock knock jokes)

Mrs. Cho: He'd say, "knock-knock?"

Who's there?

"A boy?"

A boy who?

"With no body."  

Favorite knock-knock ever.

The Long Goodbye

Life Advice from the Best:

(discussing the fact that I still need to rely on Whitecastle's largess for part time employment because I continue to be not married to a wealthy man)

Moi: Whenever I meet med students now, I just think, "gosh, you still have so much longer to go.  I don't have time for this."

Whitecastle: You can't think of it like that.  It's a long game.

Moi: More of an investment?

Whitecastle: Exactly.  You have to scoop them up before they make their fortunes.

Boston Brahmin

I don't have a Boston accent.  There's no good reason that I should.  I don't even have a New England accent.  Like most suburban kids of my generation, my speech is more characterized by a lack of regional accents than anything else.  Any distinction in my pronunciations can be attributed more to having English as a second language than where my high school was.  That's not to say, of course, that New England hasn't left a stamp on me.  I pronounce 'aunt' as it is spelled.  I say pee-b'dee instead of pea-bo-dy, and I know what you mean by a bubbler.  

Today, I realized that years of riding the MBTA (i.e. years of not having a car, i.e. years of being poor) have left deep marks.  Asking for a Charlie Card from a station agent, I realized that "Cha-lie card" sounds much more natural in my head than "Char-lie card."  Similarly, it's "Hay-ma-ket," not "Hay-mar-ket."  Who knows what else the MBTA has snuck into the recesses of my mind.  But once I find out, I'm sure I'll let you know.  If I see something, I'll say something.

I Once Was Lost

There but the grace of God, Pretzels, there but the grace of God.

Over the weekend, Nik came down from B'town to visit B'more.  She could not have picked a hotter weekend.  Or a weaker tour guide.  Being great students of geography and meteorology, we headed even farther south and went to D.C. and spent the bulk of our time walking, sweating, and pausing every 10 minutes to sit and hydrate.

It's hard to pick a lowlight* of the weekend.  The obvious choice would have been standing there, hunched over the canal in Georgetown, feeling like I was going to die because of food poisoning/heat exhaustion.  Actually, dying would have been an easy way out.  I feared I was going to fall on the street and poop in my pants.  

Yet, the real lowlight was the preceding 30 minutes, even before the stomach grumbling, when Nik and I went on what we thought was a walk through the park path but was really just a small, barely cleared path along a creek that had a lot of weeds to whack through along the way.  We both thought we were going to die, though for different reasons.  Nik was afraid we'd come upon a molester/murderer/dead body.  I was afraid that 1 errant slip would send me crashing into the creek below (instead, 1 errant slip just gave me a gigantic bruise).  I'm just glad we put on a brave face for each other and didn't share our fears in the woods.

Lesson Learned: If a path in the woods in the middle of a city looks too random and sparse to be a trail on the map, it most likely isn't the trail you are looking for.  

*To be fair, there were also a lot of highlights, a lot of them involved food and spending time with Nik.

Extra Key

I got some proper furniture today (not grown up proper, but at least grad school respectable).  The kind made with proper wood and sort of goes with the rest of the apartment.  I also got new earbuds that came in the mail.  Plus $50 IKEA gift card (thanks, Zipcar!  you're the best).  Plus some sushi.

In short, today has been a good, good day.  But what has made it extra great happened this afternoon.

That was when the smoke alarm in the office rang, and I smelled smoke as I walked into the hallway, and I was concerned for a second, until I realized that the microwave in the kitchen was spitting out smoke and overheard a girl talking about how embarrassing it was that her popcorn caught on fire and now the whole building had to evacuated.  Then I was just happy.  It wasn't me.  It so easily have been me.  Caught on the camera.  But it wasn't me.  It wasn't me.

Responsible Adults

Last night was a lesson in the detrimental effects of peer pressure.  Despite the fact that New Roommate Anna had just moved in, there were boxes all over the apartment to unpack, and I wanted to get work done in anticipation for Nik's visit-- despite all these things, when Carrie showed up in the last 4 minutes of New Roommate Anna's move to 'supervise', and suggested that I host a pool party this week, I thought it was a fabulous idea.  

Baltimore has been hot, hot, hot this week and last night was no exception.  For a moment last night, taking a dip in the pool, slurping popsicles with minors, eating Carrie's carrot chips* and C Lee's wonderful cherries, I believed it was all a fabulous idea.  When the pool closed and Mike(? C Lee?) suggested we go out for pho, that seemed fabulous, too.  And it was.  All of it was fabulous until I was in my PJs, ready for bed, and remembered all that I was supposed to write last night.  Perhaps I should have just called Carrie then.  She could have told me how being a PhD dropout will be fabulous, too.

*Ah yes, weird carrot chips.

Moi: I can't put my finger on it but this has a perfume-y aftertaste.

Carrie: The first bite tastes kind of weird, too.

Moi: So it tastes bad in the beginning and end.

Carrie: But the middle is so good.

Good People

Everyone should have a Doc Nice in their life (or a Prof Riles, or Doc Firewall or Prof Molten).  I am a student of Doc Whitecastle's brand of teaching, of gleaning nuggets of encouragement from a lot of sarcasm and put downs.  But sometimes, it is great to be cheered on by Doc Nice and be inspired on a lethargic, hot Friday afternoon.

Of course, kindness and sarcastic can also go hand in hand.

(earlier in our phone call, we established that I was feeling 'metered' today and not conveying my excitement with enough enthusiasm)

Doc Nice: (yawns) I'm sorry.  I'll be yawning throughout our conversation.  It's not from a lack of interest.  I'm just sleep deprived.

Moi: That's OK.  I have my metered response.  You have your yawning.  

Doc Nice: Whoa, I didn't say that that was OK.

Moi: I'm very sorry.  Please forgive me.  

Dear Toto

Last week, brainstorming for refreshments to serve the Christian fellowship at school, I came up what I thought was the simplest idea: the default meeting snacks of Box o' Joe and Munchkins (this post is brought to you by Dunkin' Donuts).  It's what everyone gets for a meeting when you don't want to put any thought into the food, right?

Turns out, outside of New England, coffee and Munchkins requires a lot of thought.  First, we had to find a DD.  There were none close to the school or by Natalie's neighborhood.  It fell on Aubrey to pick them up by car.  

And then there was the matter of the Munchkins.  It had to be explained to people.  (Am I not living in America?  On the east coast?!)  Natalie introduced the product (erroneously) as "small doughnuts," anticipating that the term would cause confusion.  I felt like an American abroad for the 4th of July, explaining my culture to the local population.  

At least no one called the doughnut holes Timbits.  I draw the line at Timbits.

Conjunction Junction

I remember a few years back, when I was either a freshman or still in middle school, talking to my brother and our friends about a movie coming out.  I couldn't remember the name of the movie, but I knew it was a one-word title.  "It's an adverb," I said.  

They laughed at me for that characterization, but when we finally remembered the title, sure enough, it's an adverb.  I wish I could remember the name now.  I have a problem with these things.  I was reminded of this little anecdote because it happened again tonight.  

Talking to Eldon, I was trying to remember the name of an action movie and all I could remember was, "It's based on a comic book, and there's a colon in it."  "A colon?"  "Yeah, there's a colon in it."

It took another couple of hours, but I finally got it-- Punisher: War Zone.

My memory may be flawed, but it's grammatically correct.  

Brrr, It's Cold In Here

I called home tonight.  Both Mother and Father happened to pick up the phone.  What followed was some really dark, dark jokes.

Moi: How are you guys?

Mother: Not good.

Moi: No?  Why not.

Mother: Your father hit me.  So I called the cops.

Moi: Yeah?  Did the cops come?

Father: No.

Moi: So they're racist cops?

Mother: They're racist.

Father: We shouldn't joke about these things.  

Stand Up Guys

At the student activities fair today, the Christian fellowship table was placed right next to the "Surgery and Public Health" table.  The surgery people never took their place their, to the chagrin of many incoming students.  And I got to break the news to them all.  For some reason, everyone wanted to make a joke about the no show.  

I went for the simple "they didn't make the cut."  Natalie said "they're still in surgery."  And a bunch of people (surgeons, I think) who stopped by found the no-show itself hilarious because "it's just like surgeons not to show up."  Maybe "hilarious" means something different to surgeons.

Dressing Like a Pro

(sidebar: A google search for 'dressing like a p-' leads to autocomplete suggestions of dressing like a professor, prostitute, and playboy bunny. What is this world coming to?)

The past few days has been the annual research meeting for health services research. At the sessions, I try my best, like the rest of my peers, to act professionally (wear heels), to network (gross), and connect with former colleagues (ask Doc Query about his kids' birthday parties). It all starts with the idea that if I dress the part, then I will act and feel the part. Unfortunately, looking nice in dresses seems to be the only thing I'm successful in.

Scenario 1: On the way to the restroom, I spot Advisor Who and Doc Nice, each engrossed in separate conversations. I mean to say hi to either, but seeing that it was too complicated to butt in, merely walk around them to head for the restroom, only to be called out:

Who: Is that who I think it is? You didn't just sneak by your mentor- your two mentors- without saying hello to either of us?

Moi: Uh... hello. (introduce myself to person he was talking to) 

Who: Were you heading somewhere?

Moi: Uh... bathroom? But I'd much rather stand here and talk with you two.

Person: The moment has passed?

Who: It depends.

(a thousand eye rolls)

Scenario 2: A group of us pile into the hotel elevator.  Half of us are heading up to a Hopkins reception, the other half, including Former Prof Not Atul, are not.

Moi: Sorry [Not Atul], this is a Hopkins-only event.

Not Atul: That's OK.  I understand.  It's for the few and the proud.

[Ilene commentary: This is where you should have stopped, but no, you had to mumble.]

Moi: (largely to myself and Ilene)  I'm starving.

Not Atul: What's that?

Moi: Oh... nothing.  I just said I'm starving.  I didn't mean for everyone to hear.

Not Atul: (loudly, to the whole elevator) She's starving, you guys, did you catch that?

Scenario 3: To meet up with Whitecastle for lunch, I patiently wait for him to field many questions and meet many people after his session.

Moi: I feel like a groupie.

Whitecastle: You sort of are.

A Case of the Tuesdays

Let's make this easy and just run through a list of graceful things that I did today:

-During a conference session, dropped Laura's poster tube on the ground, thereby causing a loud "thud" to reverberate throughout the room.

 -Got slightly lost leading Whitecastle to Alewife, causing both of us to walk an extra 3 blocks in the 90 degree weather (he was wearing a suit, and constantly aired his displeasure-- as he often is).

-Lost my grasp of the cabdriver's change, leading a dollar bill to fly away from my hand and down the sidewalk (and was luckily saved by a nearby construction worker).

 It has not been a smooth morning. In fact, it has been a hectic few days. Walking around with Laura's poster (while I didn't have anything to present myself) certainly didn't help.

 Whitecastle: So you had a poster here?

 Moi: No.

Whitecastle: You were just carrying a poster?

Moi: I can see how that would be confusing to you- but yes.

Thomases

This morning, I met up with Dwighters at what he described as "the courtyard on Dartmouth."  Having walked down Dartmouth Street a hundred times, I knew that there was no courtyard there.  Just a few paltry trees outside the mall where people sat and milled around as they waited for rides.  However, considering that Dwighters would be attending graduate school at Harvard this fall, I took him at his word and believed that maybe, just maybe, a new courtyard had sprouted on Dartmouth since I moved away 2 years ago.

That was not the case.  I found Dwighters sitting by a lonely little tree, sans bench, sans flowers, and right by the busy street. 

Moi: This is not a courtyard.

Dwighters: (motions to sign next to him)

(sign reads "Dartmouth Courtyard")

Moi: This felt like a set up.

Courtyard designations was the only thing we cast doubt on this morning.  There were lots of things to be skeptical of.

(later, leaving breakfast)

Moi: There was a long line for the bathroom.  This dude came out and apologized, he said, "I'm sorry I took so long in there.  I had an emergency-

Dwighters: I don't want to know-

Moi: Exactly.  But he said, I had an emergency contact situation.  I was so relieved.  It was the best possible emergency to have in a bathroom.

Dwighters: Likely story.

Moi: But he had a solution bottle and everything.

Dwighters: You carry around a bottle and suddenly everyone's gullible.   

Silent Alarms

My Big Cousin, who has moved all the way across the world (back) to Taiwan, brought his brood back for a rare visit to the east coast last week.  I've been lucky enough to spend some time with them all the past few days (and my own folks).  They left early this morning, at 3am, to catch a flight to Cali.  The Parents set their alarm for 3am to send them off.  

The first trouble with that logic is that they left at 3am.  

The second trouble is the assumption that one would be able to wake up at 3am to send them off.

Father has just roused himself out of bed, minutes after the departure, to check out what has transpired.  

"I guess they were pretty stealthy and quiet."

And Mother is still asleep.

Spreading the Clap

My wonderful big brother has done gone made this video.  It's hard not to smile at this.  It's even harder not to be proud of him.  The goal is that this video keeps spreading so that he becomes famous enough to score me some Parks & Rec connections.  He is not aware of this plan yet.  Watch and enjoy.

Mission Accomplished

Every summer, I feel compelled to go through what I term "Operation Attention Span."  After too many skimmed abstracts, half read papers, and Times articles read during lecture, after too many decompression sitcoms and youtube videos, I feel the need to learn how to behave like a proper, educated adult again, to read magazine pieces in one sitting, hold proper conversations without chatting on instant message, and perhaps read a book or two.

With a cold to nurse (thanks, Immune System, you have the best timing!) and no work this weekend (rather, no motivation to work), I dipped my toes of the endeavor yesterday afternoon and managed to read Much Ado About Nothing in one sitting.  What little progress that slim play was though, took a step backward in the evening as I managed to simultaneously keep my eyes on the Sox-Yankees game, the Bruins-Penguins game, a random movie on Comedy Central, as well as several games of Sudoku.  Not attention span's best moment.

Still fighting the cold today, I decided the gradual approach wasn't going to work and instead, since I was taking a sick day anyway, devoted myself to the copy of Cutting for Stone that had been sitting on my shelf the past few months, waiting for a moment such as this.  I finished all 657 pages today (paperback version- I imagine the hardcopy has fewer pages).  Congratulations.  I think my attention span is back.  I also think I need a more exciting life.  

He Who Must Not Be Named

More gems from the wedding.

(settling into our seats for the ceremony)

Guy: How do you guys know the bride or groom?

Moi: We went to grad school with Allison in Boston.

Guy: In Boston?  (turns to wife)  These ladies are Allison's friends.  From Harvard.  

Meredith: We don't like to throw that around.

Moi: Although to be honest, we're probably the smartest guests here.

Guy: My son went to Harvard for undergrad.  He's not that smart though.

(later)

Guy: (points to in row in front of us)  Now this guy, he's smart.  You guys should meet him.  

Nighty-O

Baseball ticket + drink + nachos + rail ticket to the game (and free ride back):

All for under $25.  And a come-from-behind win to boot.  Sometimes B'more lives up to its Charm City moniker.

Hold on to the Feeling

The last post was about the start of the wedding, this is about the perfect ending.

It was early Monday morning.  The first bus had already carried a number of guests back to the hotel, still more had driven home.  The dance floor had dwindled to a couple dozen at most.  The band had said its goodbyes, sang its last song, and we all cheered.  The lights came on.

But Allison's brother and a couple of friends were still up for dancing.  "One more song!  One more song!  One more song!"  It started slowly, then picked up steam as the chant reverberated throughout the room.  We stomped and clapped, then slowed again once we realized that the sound guy had already unplugged all the instrument.

The band shrugged at us helplessly, "we have no sound," they said.  But the guys didn't give up.  And finally, the band gave in.  

"I guess we'll have to do this a capella." 

I was skeptical how they'd give us a song to dance to without any back up.  They were a great band, but it was way beyond my bed time.  I had long changed into flip flops.  But then the singers stepped into the center of the floor--

Just a small town girl,

living in a lonely world-

We hooted.  We gathered in a circle.  We put our arms around each other.  We jumped up and down.  It was very difficult doing all these things at once.  But mostly, we belted our hearts out (or, in my case, belted, lip synced, and mumbled).  

Best. Ending. Ever.

All the World's a Blur

Allison's wedding was this past Sunday and it was the most fun I have had in a long while.  Granted, I have just wrapped up a school year, so the bar is fairly low but still, it was a rollicking good time.  The day had a portentous start.  Laura and I had planned, innocuously enough, to meet up at "the Krispy Kreme in Penn Station" to take the train to Long Island together.  We nearly didn't make it.  

(on the phone)

Laura: I'm afraid I picked a meeting place that doesn't exist.

Moi: What are you talking about?  I'm standing by a Krispy Kreme in Penn Station.

Laura: I don't see one.  I see a bunch of restaurants.

Moi: You have to come in more (no, she didn't).  Do you see a TGI Friday's?  

Laura: Oh yeah, let me go find you.

Ten minutes later, we had not found each other.  We then tried "the track by Auntie Anne's"-- I was standing at track 17, between 2 Auntie Anne stands.  So was Laura, but we couldn't see each other.  This went on for quite awhile.  It was all absurdly funny if we didn't have a train to catch.  We kept yelling into the phone, "But why don't I see you?"  All this time, we knew where the train tracks were but for whatever reason, thought it was much easier to meet at a mutually agreed upon landmark.  Until the train started boarding.  At that point, we decided that "The Train We Need to Be On" was a perfectly legitimate landmark to meet up at.  We also realized we were on different floors the whole time.  Hey, at least we were smart enough not to pick a Dunkin'.

Absolutely Fabulous

Dear Beignets:

I meant to write today.  I even wrote things down in my notebook and everything.  I went to a used book store and a museum and wandered around town getting blisters on my feet.  But then I got home and got very distracted with a BBC miniseries (Parade's End: think Downton Abbey, without the soap, and with way more words and unrequited love).  And now it's nighttime so I best be packing for Allison's wedding.  I'm off to Long Island for 24 hours.  As one does on Memorial Day weekend.

Be back soon.

Timing Is Everything

Today was the rare day that Ilene, Liz, and I were not only all on campus together, but had lunch together at the cafe.  We had meant to meet up at noon but ended up eating a little early because I got hungry and bored, and well, Ilene is always up for eating early.  So there we were, Liz and Ilene chatting as I tried to tackle The Largest Turkey Burger In the World, when who should stroll by but Kurt.

I never bump into Kurt.  He's always running of somewhere.  That's what comes of being in a dual program.  But today, he didn't run off.  Instead, he stopped and chatted with us and we talked about his seminar and comps and all this stuff and how his meeting with Judy got canceled, until finally:

Moi: If you're all done, then what're you doing here?

Kurt: To meet with you.  We're having lunch and talking about Who.

Moi: I thought that was next week.

Kurt: No, that's today.

Moi: At noon, right?  Oh, it's noon now.  Oh look, I'm here, eating lunch.  This is perfect.  

Sometimes, I forget meetings I'm supposed to have but still manage to show up at the exact right time and place.  And because I met with Kurt, I didn't have time to look up where my next meeting was, which was just as well, because Kurt knows how to navigate the hospital and with his fancy badge, cleared me through lots of doorways.  So that I only got lost 3 times going to my next meeting, and once on the way back.  Best coincidence ever.  

An Author By Any Other Size

The Case of the Missing Name has been resolved.  I've emailed and called The Journal and had my name (and Advisor's middle initial) restored.  The authors even wrote a response.  It's all very good fun and the most satisfying piece of 'work' that I've done lately.  If only letters to the editor counted toward papers for graduation.

All that remains now, is the puzzle of why my letter remains in a smaller font than both the letter that came before mine, and the authors' response.  I bet they're in cahoots with the plaque people.  I must have wronged a member of the Font Size Mob family some time in my youth, and they keep having their revenge.

An Author By Any Other Name

Last week, Advisor Who and I submitted a Letter to the Editor.  It was fun, and the first time I'd ever written a comment on an article.  I came up with the idea, Who made my words pretty, and I submitted it with both our names on it.  And didn't hear anything from the journal.

I assumed that that meant we had been passed over, but Who said that that might not be the case.  So I checked.  And indeed, it wasn't the case!  Our letter had been published.

It's just that, miraculously, my name was not.

Who's name is on there.

My words are on there.

But not my name.  

This is as perplexing as it is hilarious.  As frustrating as it absurd.  Like that time my name on the plaque was smaller than all the honorees before me.  History has a way of repeating itself to my disadvantage.

Peace of Christ

Anyone who was part of the Impromptu Hourlong Hallway Handholding Prayer Session of 2004 (Dwighters?) knows that I am not a fan of holding hands.  It is imposing, sweaty, and unsanitary.  However, I made an exception at church today in the name of Christian solidarity.  Handholding comes up at church not infrequently.  Whenever I want to resist (i.e. always) I remind myself of the the Woolwich church I attended back at the Bo'.  There, we ended each communion service with the whole congregation filing out of our pews to make a giant circle, joining hands, and singing Blest Be the Tie that Binds.  It was a tradition at once cheesy, simple, and deeply moving-- a reminder of what binds hilariously different people (like the old German man who welcomed us as the 'Oriental friends from afar') together.  

Today at church, the band played "They'll Know We Are Christians by Our Love," a classic from the 60s, as the service closed.  I love the song but couldn't help but note with alarm that as the song began, Josh, standing around the corner from me, was holding hands with his neighbors.  Soon, the clasp traveled down around the bend and Nancy, on my left, grabbed my hand.  I turned to Gene on my right and shrugged, "I guess we're holding hands." 

But Gene wasn't one for displays of Christian unity (I wish I knew that was an option, though I wouldn't have the heart to say no to Nancy).  He simply shook his head and kept his arms crossed.  Thinking that he misheard me, since the song was still and we were singing through all of this, I motioned to him again, and again, no go.  By now, our row was in near hysterics because of his flat out denial (though still trying to look composed and holy since people were deep in feeling the Christian love).  Finally, Stephanie, from the row behind, extended her hand to me.  Her row, too, had formed a line of clasped hands.  So there we were in the back, an amoeboid symbol of unity, weaving across pews, and completely cutting off Gene and Carrie.

We will work with each other/ we will work side by side/
And we'll guard each one's dignity/ and save each one's pride/
unless you're Gene Lee/
And they'll know we are Christians by our love/ by our love/
Yes, they'll know we are Christians by our love.

Insider Baseball

Lately, I've been working on a project that's in the final weeks of analysis and polish.  Whenever we discuss data issues and decide that it's something too technical to for the Client to care about, the big and little bosses say that it's too "inside baseball."  

Last night, we went over to Rachael's for a "clean-out-the-freezer" cookout then strolled over to Camden Yards for a game.  Our discussions were definitely not too inside baseball.  It took awhile just to establish what inning it was and Liz kept clapping for the wrong team.  Though I wrote in the fall of how fun it was to go to a game and how everyone cared about baseball, that was not the case last night.

We did stand and hoot and yell, but the loudest roar went to the ketchup, mustard, and relish scoreboard race (I had my money on Mustard and he delivered). By the start of the 8th inning, we were worn from an exhausting semester, a long day of work, and a barbecue bickering over who ate that wedge in Julia's cheesecake.  The O's were down 12-4 (my yelling "stop scoring" at the Rays didn't do the trick), and we started making our way home.

Then a guy jumped onto the field and it took the grounds crew quite awhile to catch up with him (and the cops awhile longer-- those guys are not in peak running form).  We left, but that apparently was just the start of the fun.  The O's ended up rallying, though not quite enough.  They scored 6 runs in the last 2 innings.  I took that hard and blamed myself and our absence for their inability to overcome the deficit.  Susan took a different approach.  She blamed the guy running shirtless across the field.  Had he been a full streaker, she reasoned, that would have energized the team enough to win.  Hard to argue with that logic.

Raw Food Diet

Last year, we used to make fun of Dan for his lunches because, well, he packed them like a boy.  That is to say, rather than making lunches, Dan packed raw ingredients.  A jar of peanut butter here, a packet of deli ham there, a grocery size bag of pretzels here, and an apple there.  He didn't eat too terribly, he just never made lunches.  

Fast forward a year plus and my eating habits have deteriorated so badly that I hardly ever pack lunch.  And when I do, as I did this morning, it looked something like this:

half a banana

package of lox

1 frozen bagel

I had to buy cream cheese from the school cafe, which the lady working there was nice enough to give me for free (after incredulously checking that I just wanted cream cheese 3 three times).  

Moi: Do you want some lox?

Ilene: Why are you so absurd?

Moi: What?  I have some extra for my lunch, do you want some?

Ilene: You are weird. 

(Ilene isn't very tolerant of people who don't pack lunch like her)

Civilization 101

This afternoon, I headed over to the Outpatient Center to meet with new colleagues on a project I'm joining.  On my way up, in the elevator, I realized that the guy riding up with me is one of the people I will be working with.  I "realized" it by intently reading his name badge, and avoiding eye contact, then saying, "I think we're heading to the same place."  All of that came off just slightly creepy.  But New Colleague was a nice guy and we struck up a conversation.  Soon, the elevator door opened (and what we thought was the 6th floor).  People got in.  And New Colleague realized that we were riding down.  

Apparently, both of us thought we were on the 6th floor when we had actually reached the 7th (our destination).  Because we both mistook the elevator number for the floor number.  Because, one could reasonably argue, we are both idiots.  So we rode down to the 4th floor.  Then the 2nd.  Then all the way down to the LL.

When the last rider exited, she very kindly explained that she was a temp worker at the hospital and used to make the same mistake all the time.  She told us where to look to know what floor we were on.  And to press '7' to get to the 7th floor.  It was all very sweet of her.

But really, she gave us a step by step tutorial on how to ride the elevator.  That's 1 MD/PhD.  1 PhD in training.  1 elevator tutorial.

If I Knew Then What I Know Now

Dear 9-Year-Old-Self

Learning to speak, read, write, and ultimately think in English is hard.  It takes awhile.  It's not super fun.  But one day, you will be so good at it that you will lose your native Chinese.  This is neither good nor bad.  It's just something that happens.  English will be your dominant tongue.  But one good thing out of all this is that you will be able to use the "English is my second language" card.  The more fluent you are, the more valuable this card will be.  Anytime you misspeak, and believe me, you will, you have this in your back pocket.  

Sincerely,

Your Older Self

---

Professor Tom: Do you have any questions for me?

Moi: No, I just met with CB and she answered them all.  I just need some time to decom- de-congest?  No, de-

Professor Tom: Decongest?  What?

Moi: No, decom- digest?  To digest this?  To unpack what we discussed.  (as I'm turning away)  Decompress!  

Professor Tom: Having trouble with words today?

Moi: This is my second language.

Professor Tom: This is unfair.  I wish I could use that excuse.

Affirmation

Hadn't hung out with Alice in a awhile, but tonight, we made up for lost time and headed to the blacksauce barbecue stand (followed by an excursion to Wegman's, both to walk off the food coma, and to stock up for future food comas).  When we got there, it was raining, we were starving, and had to park a short walk down the road.  But standing there, straining to read the chalkboard menu, and waiting in line to make our orders, things began to turn.  I heard the guys at the grill say, "Is that Joy that just walked by?"  That was a highlight*.  Actually, no.  That was just the beginning.  After the rain, a rainbow came out.  The bluegrass band came back out to play.  And then there was eating too much good food with Alice.  That was the true highlight of the week.

Damian: What'd you guys get?

Moi: The cauliflower, the beans, the oxtail sandwich, the pizza, and then the bread pudding.

Damian: That's a lot of food.

Moi: Yeah, we sampled most of your repertoire.

Damian: But no chorizo?

No, Guys.  Even gluttons have to draw the line somewhere.  

*How many biscuits must one have bought at the farmer's market that one would be recognized by the wonderful chefs just passing by?  Let's not think about that.  It's not public health.  

Kekavia Ka-ching

I have found the holy grail, Boys and Girls, and it's called "faculty candidate dinners."  I had had lunch with faculty candidates before, but who hasn't?  I'd been having them since my days at the Bo'.  But those lunches required work.  You had to tell them about the school and ask them questions and listen to their spiel.  A very pleasant process, yes, and one that I will keep signing up for (free food is free food), but I now have higher heights to aspire to.

Sachini had briefed me on these events before, which seems to happen more frequently in the biostat department, so I wasn't completely unaware.  But the faculty candidate dinner pretty much boils down to free dinner at fancy restaurant + pleasant small talk with candidate, faculty, and perhaps other students.  I hope we never find a suitable candidate.  There's no research to read up on.  I don't have to talk about my work interests.  Just free food and conversation (and, at tonight's restaurant, a visit to the fish display case to see where our dinner came from, at Who's insistence).  And you know me, they already had me at free food.  

Time Out

Our internet connection was down for several hours today.  This led to all sorts of disruptions.

Moi: We should call Comcast to see what's wrong.  Do you have Comcast's number?

Roommate: No.

---

Roommate: I'm heading out for yoga.  Since I can't look it up, do you know what the weather is like outside?

Moi: It was sort of like it was before.  If I had to guess, I'd say mid 60s?  But cold-ish?

O Interweb, how did we ever do without you?

Putting the STAR in Starving

The department ice cream social started at 3pm today and went until 4:30pm.

Lucky for me, I had a meeting at 3pm and another one at 4pm.

When I jokingly asked Professor Dub if he was going to the ice cream social at the start of our meeting, he was very sweet.  He even offered to raid the fridge before our meeting so we could get bootleg ice cream.  He made a self-deprecating comment about too much ice cream and then proceeded to pause every 5 minutes to comment on how he'd make sure we left enough time for me to grab some.  He was good on his promise.  I had never loved Professor Dub more.

-----

At my 4pm meeting with Who, I had had my ice cream fix but was still very hungry.  Halfway through the meeting, I forget to hide my hunger and priorities.

Advisor Who: Did you get an invite in the mail?

Moi: No?

Advisor Who: It's for dinner with a candidate.  Are you free tomorrow?

Moi: Ooh, which restaurant is it?

(pause)

Moi: Wait, I mean, what candidate?

Advisor Who: (judgmental look)  Check your email.

Only in B'More

My newfound friend Merci had dinner with even newer found friends last night.  She saw a man looking for a dog on the street.  She drove the man around in her car to look for the dog.  They did not find the dog.  But the man and his wife invited her over for dinner.  A couple of days later, other people found the dog and returned it.  These are all things that will never happen in B'town.  

----

On Friday, I was walking along with Advisor Who, discussing the meeting we'd just had, when we bumped into Anders.  The three of us then stopped in the lobby to discuss.  It was a little bit of a Who's On First scenario.  For the purposes of this story, it's also worth pointing out that we're all Asian.  

Who: (to me) About our meeting at 2pm.  Are we meeting at 2pm?

Moi: I don't have a meeting with you.

Anders: We're meeting at 2pm.

Who: Oh right.

Moi: Did you just get your Asians confused?  That's quite racist.

Who: It's OK.  It's all in the family.

Anders: So I'll see you at 2pm?

Who: No, I'm going to be late.  I double booked.  

Keep B'More Weird

It's hard to choose a favorite picture from this morning's kinetic sculpture race (waterfront edition).  Weird and Charming Weekend in the city continued this morning, with a visit to the kinetic sculpture race, where we saw Harry Potter, Angry Bird, the Alice in Wonderland caterpillar, a platypus, a tank, a dinosaur, 2 Flintstone sets, 2 crabs, and lots of other randomness.  It was a perfectly sunny and funny Saturday morning, made all the more wonderful by how friendly everyone here is.  We cheered for every float that passed and yelled helpful tips along the way (watch out for the log, veer left, be careful of the wind) and cheered all the more when they made their turn and got back on land.  Laid back, goofy, and requiring a lot of engineering and navigational skills (not to mention physical endurance), this race is the exact opposite of playing Bananagrams for me, and thus the exact type of non-competitive race that I would both be terrible at and be very upset that people weren't more competitive.

In the end, Gene, Carrie, Michelle and I got tired and hungry and traded getting good tacos and juices in favor of watching the rest of the race finish on land and mud.  Even as I type, there's a little fair going on outside my apartment (I've got my headphones on because I can't listen to the traffic cop's whistles for another minute).  Summer has arrived in B'more in full force, and it's going to be one random activity after another until the leaves start falling.

Things Said Among Friends

(as a small group, we made 150 brown bags for a homeless outreach group last night)

Moi: Are these sandwiches going to be OK unrefrigerated overnight?  (I didn't have room for all 150 in my fridge)

Carrie: Yeah.  I've definitely had sandwich that was left out longer and survived.

Bing:  Plus, none of us will be there tomorrow when they eat it.  So it's OK.

---

(as evening dawned at the food truck fest)

Moi: You look really cold.  Do you want my jacket?

Sachini: No, that's OK.

Moi: Oh thank God, because I'm really cold, too.  

Free Hug Day

Tonight was an essence-of-Baltimore kind of night.  Sachini, Ilene, Alene, and I met up by the train station for a food truck gathering.  Because that totally makes sense.  And had all sorts of fun people watching moments.  Like the drunk 14 year old who tried to get Sachini and Ilene's number.

Ilene: I can't hear you, come closer.

Sachini: (I can hear you.  Go away.)

Or the guy Ilene went on a bad date with who pretended not to see her after she said hi.  (Also after she said, "Is that the guy I went on a bad date with?")

There was also the guy giving free hugs.  And lots of food trucks.  Though not Woody's Taco Truck.  Everyone kept talking about Woody's Taco Truck.  

There was also the random school bus selling vintage clothes next to all the food trucks.  But that's just how people roll in B'more.  I can't wait for the summer and the endless festivals.  Mostly though, I just can't wait to be done with homework.  It really is the worst.

Life Lesson #120

Mulch can kind of looks like pulled pork.  I just noticed that today.  

Thanks for the Memories

I received a letter from the alma mater today.  It was a generic letter thanking me for my contribution.  Though this one was distinctive in the hand written note that went along with it.  That was very unusual.  Turns out, such are the thanks you get when you give $500 to the school.

That's right.  Due to a clerical error, I gave the school a full $500 more than I originally intended.  I did not notice until the thank you note remarked on my generosity.  No one has ever characterized my previous givings as generous.  

And now, I get to have the embarrassment of trying to get that money back.  Because disputing finances with non-profits is always fun, especially when it's with an institution you absolutely cherish.  And then there's that second embarrassment, of saying out loud how little I had originally planned on giving the school.  

I'm sorry, Bo', I know you've given me a lot.  Though to be fair, I've also given you hundreds of thousands of dollars (well, not me-- thanks again for the aid-- but you did charge somebody).  But one day, Bo', I will graduate (again).  I will have a job.  I will repay my loans, have a place to live, and maybe, just maybe, I'll give to the alumni fund without asking for any back.

Picking Up Where We Left Off

Dear Pretzels.  Sorry for the long, long absence.  I will be back, I promise.  My life will almost be sane again.  

Note to Self: When offering a piece of homemade cake to Advisor, it is perhaps wise to not announce it as "suck up cake," even if sucking up was the original intention.

(discussing the frustrations of a project in which I stalk docs online-- this following a life insurance collaboration where not enough people died for us to model mortality)

Moi: Waiting for med students to mess up.  And waiting for people to die.  That's pretty much my research agenda.

Advisor: Hope springs eternal!

Politics Is Local

Long time no see, Pretzels.

In today's segment of Rants Against the Times, I bring you this: a story of a high school student council election.  At a very expensive school.  This is what young journalists today can aspire to.  The article tries to frame it as something more than that, but the students speak for themselves:

"Ms. Peale said that she had been Mr. Williams' campaign manager — until he chose to run with Mr. Perkins. "He picked a boy and I got mad, so I decided to run myself," she said. "Junius picked Clark because he thought he would appeal most to girls who think he's cute, and to jocks."

Mr. Perkins took offense at this suggestion, saying that he and Mr. Williams ran together based on their previous student council experience and leadership qualities. -- NYT"

Dealing and Wheeling

I write awesome thank you cards.  It's one of my best skills.  Unfortunately, my poor mastery of other skills means that cards often don't meet their intended audience.  Skills like "holding onto the card," "finding a stamp," "addressing the envelope," and "putting card into mail slot."  These are all skills that I have failed at in the past two weeks.  I did, however, manage to hand deliver a thank you note to Advisor Who.

Who: The US Postal Service could have really used your postage.

I'm not convinced that he read the whole card (he read it in front of me), but he did like it enough to put it on his magnetic cabinets.  Which means that this card fared better than the 2-3 that preceded it.  My biggest achievement, however, was when he took down the pictures of his sons to make room.

He probably had enough magnets to fit all these things (other things on the cabinet: baby pictures of his boys, drawing by his son, and my postcard-thank-you-card).  But he was suddenly dismissive of his children, took them down, and tossed them on his desk-- a fate that surely, my card will face one day soon.  But for now, the score is

Moi: 1    Offsprings: 0

Learning From Mistakes

Sitting at lunch with Sukey and Michelle today, I relayed, probably for the 798th time, the story of how I thought Good Friday was The Day God Died.  We chuckled at the story.  Then Michelle did me one better.

She thought Jesus had an annual life cycle.  Born each year at Christmas, grew up to be a man in a few short months, died for us on Good Friday, and raised from the dead at Easter.  Every.  Single.  Year.  Rather than live in fear like me, she always marveled at how quickly Jesus grew up.  

People Who Teach Children About the Bible:  Be very careful how you pick your words the next few days.

Liberation

I remember trying to calculate my grade before grades would come out.  I remember summing up my grades before a final exam, trying to figure out what the lowest score I could get to achieve an A (or a B).  I remember multiplying quiz grades with anticipated participation points and homework grades and all sorts of complicated metrics.  

I had a scare today that made me realize how lucky I am to have left all that.  I suppose it's an easy sentiment to escape most of you.  Most of you are not still in school in your third decade.  But here I am, still taking classes, doing problem sets, and sitting through exams.  But without the grade anxiety.  

That is the beauty of 20 years of schooling.  There are no more schools to apply for.  I just don't care about my grades anymore.  And even if there were, I have gotten by very far whilst doing very little assigned reading.   

That cavalier attitude was almost tested this afternoon.  For a few hours, I was convinced that I'd get a C.  I also managed to convince Liz that she was about to get a C.  It would have been beautifully symmetric.  We'd have 3 apiece.  One each from high school, college, and now grad school.  I didn't need to do any math.  There was no leeway.  I was fairly certain that a C average plus a C average would result in a solid C.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.  Except for my calculations.  

Apparently, if you take a C average plus a C average, and add generous, merciful grade inflation, you get a solid B.    

You Are Not From Here

Two posts in two days, guys.  I must be procrastinating.

I met with a professor yesterday to explore collaborations and in the process, had never felt more New England. 

Moi: ... the town is called Westford.

Prof CSI: Is that how you'd say it with the locals though?

Moi: Oh, you mean, west-fuhd?  

Prof CSI: That's more like it!

I tried to explain to him that none of my friends grew up with thick (or any) Bostonian accents (because we didn't live in Southie or SNL sketches- go 495!). But he said it was because I didn't move to the Baystate until I was 9.  The cutoff age for accents is 7.  He then went on a whole exposition on how Bostonians pronounce 'caught' and 'cot' the same, and while I get the mild distinction, I also think he pronounces one of the two words completely wrong.  He is, however, a really cool professor.  I hope I get to work with him down the line.

(discussing where the Bo' is)

Moi: It's about 20, 30 minutes north of Portland.

Prof CSI: Wow, north of Portland.  What's up there?

Moi: Well, most of the state is north of Portland.

Prof CSI: Yeah, but who lives there?

Fair point, Professor.

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.