Life after Twenty

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

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

Where Are My Children?

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

Occam's Razor

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

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

State of the Obvious

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

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

---

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

Reason #2837 I Like My Housing Situation

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

Landlady Chang: You're a weird little alien.

Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler

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

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

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

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

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

The After Morning

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

Road-o Clowns

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

Go U Nerds

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

Pretty in Pink

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

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

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

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

Something Like It

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

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

Waiter: Yes, ma'am, it is.

How You Say... Menteur

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

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

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

Chance of Meatballs

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grandiloquent Gal

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

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

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

Fried. Over. Easy.

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

Ba: I'll pray for your exam.

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Baba. At least someone is trying.

Enchilada Envy

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

One in a Million

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

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

Different Strokes

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

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

vs.

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

I'll let you guess who said what.

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

Pass the Buck

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

Lost Time

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

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

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

Chips Ahoy

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

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

It really, really is.

Fly

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

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

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

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

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

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