One Tough Mutter

Last weekend, Lenny and I went to the Mutter Museum.  Because I have a love-hate relationship with medical museums.  And the contents of my stomach.  When I wasn't averting my gaze at all the gross forms of tuberculosis one could get or rifling through drawers of "Things Removed from People's Trachea," I was reminded of the museums of Eddie Bert and all the charms of haphazardly designed small museums.  At the Mutter, where I wandered around muttering "gross!" the displays would sometimes have captions.  And sometimes not.  There were whole display cases of unidentified bones.  Sometimes, there were special exhibits with lots of writings on the placards but not much to actually show for the narrative except for strips of cloth.  I was especially excited to see an exhibit called "the soap lady," because I thought that meant a lady who sells all different types of nice smelling soaps for me to smell (as my cohort discovered this week, I have been blessed with a keen nose).  I was sorely disappointed (and disgusted) to discover, however, that the  soap lady was really a mummified woman preserved by her own fat.  Gross.

(walking away from a dwarf display)
Moi: I just read a depressing story about a midget.

(a week later)
Lenny: I think "I just read a depressing story about a midget" should be the title of something- maybe your autobiography.

Grrr-eat

Earlier today, my lunch started with a cup of tomato basil soup and some potato chips.  But nobody noticed that.  They also didn't notice when I started on my pickle.  Then I started eating my sandwich. 

Julia: I love that you're having a pulled pork, mac' n' cheese grilled cheese sandwich.

Moi: I was hoping no one would notice.

[everyone talks about all that is in the sandwich]

Amber: [takes a picture of it]

Moi: It's on wheat bread.  Can't we talk about that?

Plus, I only ate half of it.  But people only see what they want to see.

The Puzzler

Courtesy of Will Shortz of the New York Times:

The name of what popular brand of medicine, when read backward, spells a phrase meaning ‘‘a forlorn informal shirt’’?

Doc Winner guessed Retaeb Efiw.  Close.  But not as good as:  Lonely T.

What the Philly Yo

If all goes well, I should be in Philly tomorrow, hanging with Lenny.  With her track record for disaster and mine for awkwardity, there's bound to be a story there somewhere.

I'll see you when I see you.

More or Less

While each glove finger, anklet, or undergarment was assigned a tracking serial number, it was also given a range of sizes-- from small and medium to large-- within which its astronaut-specific dimensions could be designated.  Once agreed upon, the only problem came with sizing the most intimate part of the suit assembly, the urinary collection device (UCD) the slid over the astronaut's penis.  After an "incident" with the first astronaut fitted for the device, the UCD's designations were changed from "Small, Medium, Large," to "Large," "Extra Large," and "Extra-Extra Large.  

-- from Spacesuit: Fashioning Apollo by Nicholas de Monchaux

Institutional Memory

It's spring break, y'alls.  And what better way to spend it than a roaring trip back to the famed Longwood Medical Area, seeing old professors, "colleagues," and meeting with Whitecastle.  Per usual, the visit was rushed; I ran late for everyone I tried to see (Sister Claire, I hope I'll swing around to your side one of these days).  Luckily, bruising my dignity only takes a few minutes.

(to start, Whitecastle first tried to convince me that working on his papers was worth more than getting good grades, then changed tactics to say that he can't be held responsible for my bad grades, and finally decided that I should learn to live with bad grades)

Whitecastle: Your parents will still love you if you get a B.  I promise they'll love you even if you get a C.

Moi: Maybe not a C.  Actually, my parents don't really follow the recent immigrant stereotype.  They don't demand high grades.

Whitecastle: Then they're to blame for your C's.  They set expectations too low.

Moi: But that's not how you're raising your kid, right?

Whitecastle: Of course, not.  Are you kidding me?  She better do well in everything.

(besides personal hits, there were also institutional gems)

Whitecastle: You just get a week off to do nothing?  What kind of second rate school is this?

Doc Winner: Maybe Hopkins students work so hard because they have to, just to keep up.

Moi: That's probably true.  No wait, I meant er, it's an excellent institution.

---
(regarding our new full professor)

Doc Winner: You know our biostatistician who looks like a civil war general?

Moi: No... wait, oh yeah.  He totally does.  A southern gentleman.

GenMod

Dear Pretzels, I have found a name for GenProf.  He shall be known as Prof Le Roy.  That is, until I forget about the name or come up with something better.  I didn't expect him to figure into our story.  But then I went into his office last week and he surprised me by remembering who I am.  Or at the very least, he remembered my allergy (which worries me, because it may also mean that he remembers that I never participated in his lectures, I was hoping to blend into the background).

Prof Le Roy: Are you here to see Prof Molten?

Moi: Yeah is-

Prof Le Roy: I have a llama in my office.  Is that going to be OK?

Not only is Le Roy funny.  He is perfectly in line with the recent trend in line crossing professors (see also, Advisor Who and the Case of the Roommate's Hands):

Prospective student: I'm allergic to dogs.

Prof Le Roy: That's not going to work then.  Now you can't come to my house to cook for me.

Moi: Did I miss- ?

Prof Le Roy: She was going to come over and teach me how to cook.

I don't know what the admission process is nowadays or what they discussed in the interview before I got there, but I am pretty sure that that was not OK.

All is Bright

I hung out with Alice tonight and in doing so, we accidentally had a great date.  If one of us had been a boy, we'd probably be sharing the story of this night with our grandchildren.  The movie stretched over to dinner and drinks, which stretched into a short drive for gelato, a walk along the waterfront, and gazing at the starlit night.  During our walk, we saw an old guy with a giant telescope in the square.  Because this is Baltimore.  So of course, there was a guy hanging out in the park with a giant telescope, chatting up strangers.  He first showed us Venus (which looked like a half moon because of where it is now), and then Jupiter and its four moons (I only saw 3, but I believe that there are 4).  It was amazing to see such a faraway planet so close.  Even the belt on Jupiter was visible.  That one faraway speck we saw with our naked eyes became one big speck and 4 little specks in the telescope.  Many of my friends have different beliefs than I do when it comes to God or different beliefs in what a god does, and appreciate nature differently, but when I see something like Jupiter and its moons lined up neatly around it, when I think of the human ingenuity that allows me to see something so far away, and the superhuman ingenuity that made something so specific so far away, I get awestruck and giddy.  I can't help but see God everywhere.

Neighborhood Watched

My neighborhood in B'more is very different from my neighborhood in B'ton.  For starters, it's much less posh.  This means that when I stumble out of my apartment for bread in sweats, I no longer find skinny girls in stilettos in the foyer, off to bellini brunch (mimosas are so middle class).  I no longer have a foyer.  There are students all over the place and the only people that obsess over their outfits are the arty college kids (there are as many art schools here as there were homeless shelters in the South End), with their moleskines tucked just so into the back pockets of their skinny jeans.  Wandering about the neighborhood on lazy Saturdays, unshowered and un-exercised, I fit right into the landscape.  That is, of course, until I run into someone.  And there I am, standing, with nowhere to hide, no crowd to slink into:  A newly purchased bag of chips in hand.  Hair unwashed.  No real schedule to keep.  That's the trouble with being a student and living in a student neighborhood.  There are hazards everywhere.  Though of course, I should just stop leaving the house unkempt. 

Moments Like This

My distaste for finals is absolutely clear.  I hate the stress dreams.  The poor eating habits.  The hours upon hours spent typing stupid papers.  Even weeks like this that were relatively mild (sure, I slept less than usual, but more than the average final week) still felt awful.  They always do.

But they always come to an end.  The relief I am riding now is one of the precious few genuine joys I have left about taking classes.  It's my favorite feeling.  Some final weeks call for celebrations with friends and the airing of grievances.  Tonight was the opposite of that and utterly perfect.  Sure, my spring break will be spent working, because I always over promise when it comes to vacation plans, but tonight, all that is far off.  Tonight, there was very good Thai take out to go with the very good State of Play.  No talking.  No writing.  No numbers.  Just simple satisfaction.

True Lies

It is finals week.  I am eating poorly and performing even poorer in my biostat practice exams.  On the plus side, Whitecastle is goading me into doing work for him, because in his logic, publications are worth more than As (at least he assumes I can get As).  That logic probably rings true for him as senior author.  Not me as 71st author.  But hey, that beats being 72nd.

Lately, I've been having trouble telling sarcasm from honesty.  Nicolatte and I kept bantering about how good the Managed Care textbook was until I realized that unlike myself, he really did not loathe the giant volume and actually enjoyed it for all its detailed information.  It's good to know that there are still genuine people in the world.  I just don't like being the one to harsh all their earnestness.

Moi: What are you going to do when she's in Australia next week?
Juan: Oh, I'm going to be devastated.
Moi: Right, you're going to be so lost.
Juan: Why are you laughing?

(later, relaying the story to Amber)
Amber: Yeah, he asked me why you thought it was funny.  He said, "did she not believe that I would miss you?"

If you knew Amber, you'd find this unbelievable, too.

Wait, Wait

The trouble with going to parties with both friends and faculty is that professors could join your conversation at any point, often when you're talking about topics that are not appropriate for their ears, like when Professor Dub joined in as Becca and I discussed the exact age at which it becomes appropriate to crash college concerts (still debatable) or when Advisor Who joined in just as Ilene and I were discussing the possibility of discovering illegitimate siblings.  The other trouble with going to parties with both friends and faculty is that we start joking around and once the banter starts flowing, I have a hard time holding back barbs for propriety..  I am immensely proud of myself, however, for refraining from the following last night:

Ilene: ... she thought liking seltzer was a Jewish thing, which I had never heard of-

Moi: I'd never heard that either.  It's not like seltzer helps you make money or anything.
---
Advisor Who: [potty trained 4-year-old son often forgets to wear pants]

Moi: Maybe if you wore pants around the house more, that wouldn't be a problem.
---
Professor Dub:
(I forget my Dub story, though he's our program head.  I only remember how hard it was to not say things I wanted to, and how proud of myself I was for catching myself and realizing that he was talking to Dub before asking Juan how his night of debauchery was)

That is not to say, of course, that I left with my dignity intact:

(discussing Advisor's bootleg Linsanity shirt and how I think watching JLin is like staring into the mirror)

Liz: Well, if you're really good at basketball, maybe we could tag team, play other people, and make some money.

Moi; You mean hustling?  Yeah!

Liz et Moi: We could be hustlers!

(Advisor and Molly stand aghast)

Standard and Poor

I hung out with Amber and Sachini tonight, a fine friend pairing if I say so myself.  To be honest, I was skeptical when Sachini filled up the parking meter for 3 hours, but we went right past the mark and the night of talking, laughing (often at the expense of foreigners, and being foreigners in the US, which we could all relate to), and mocking flew by.

(talking about the drinking test international drivers have to take)

Moi: So I got my license much later than the average person-

Amber: Haven't you learned by now not to compare yourself to normal people?

I'd take that from normal people.  But this was from an Australian who until recently, identified herself with a laminated license, so no, I haven't learned.  I am far more average than one might think.  My biostat grade, for one, is certainly not above average.   

Straight Outta PRI

My new favorite quote:

"I thought we were having a successful business relationship. I thought the same thing with Suge Knight and Ira Glass. You guys are all alike."  -- Ava, from Up All Night

Pretty in Numbers

Dear Secret Hopes and Dreams,
  As you can tell by my lack of posts, this has been a very busy week, one that has been consumed by work, of all things.  It's probably not a viable strategy to focus on minimum-wage work and ignore academics the week before finals, but hey, it puts bread on the table and assuages the wrath of Whitecastle.  I've spent most of the week (OK, only 16 hours, but I sleep a lot, and go to school) playing with tables and figures for him.  It felt like a nice throwback to my first days out of college.  Except for the realization that I'm still doing the same type of work and getting similar pay for what I was doing before becoming a Grand Master.  This afternoon, I sat down for another few hours of work ahead of me only to discover that Whitecastle had done gone fixed most of what needed to done himself, saving me lots of time, and making everything look incredibly spiffy.  He even made a funny about 'making graphs pretty'.  Which makes me beam with pride because that's a phrase I use.  This is almost on par with the day he told me I could get a research assistant to do my work.

Moral of the story for Whitecastle: If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.

Moral of the story for me: Unclear.  Maybe "God is merciful"?  I do know that the moral of next week will be that I should have been studying this week instead of working and blogging.  

---
(discussing Ashley's deep reflections on St. Teresa of Avila and visiting relics)

Moi: People get so tiny when they die.

Ash: Good reflection!  You should share that.

Take Off Your Clothes*

(relaying the day's events and phone losses to Lenny)

Lenny: You're a one-woman apocalypse.

Moi: Me?  A boulder hit your car.

Lenny: A TRUCK hit yours.

Moi: [You were in a plane that required] emergency landing!

Lenny: You got punched in the face.  By me!


That's Lenny: 0, Lenny's honesty: -1, Moi: 1,
U.S. Emergency Services: 8,870.


*I'm not being creepy, Interweb, it's just how we played Jinx in high school.

Phone Home

This is the story of 3 good Samaritans, 1 forgetful sloth, and 1 inattentive friend.  If you're pressed for time, let me tell you the moral of the story now: nothing good comes of exercising.

Quite uncharacteristically yesterday, I went to the 'gym' (is in quotes because the fitness center in our apartment complex is very small and sorry).  Quite characteristically, I left my phone there.  And did not realize it until 7 hours later.  I searched throughout my room for it.  Then I went back to the gym.  Logically, I knew that those were the only 2 places my phone could be.  But that did not stop me from checking the freezer, bathroom trash can, and under my bed.  We now know that sometime during the 7 hours, someone picked up my phone, texted Lois that it has been found and put into the closet in the gym, and put it there.  Unfortunately, Lois did not inform me of this right away.  Instead, she texted back, "hahaha, I think you have the wrong number."  Bad, Lois, bad.

Sometime after the first person texted Lois but before I realized my phone was gone, someone else discovered my phone.  And decided to take it from the closet.  I'm not sure why.  It made looking for my phone really difficult.  Especially since the person did not turn it into management immediately, or pick up any of my calls.  The person did, however, contact Ilene.  Twice.  We missed her the first time.  Which resulted in Ilene carrying the phone around her at every step.  Which resulted in said phone dropping into the toilet.  RIP, Ilene's iPhone.  24 hours later, Kind but Somewhat Dull Samaritan finally returned my phone to management.  They contact Roommate Claude.  She let me know.  And I was reunited with my phone.  We are living happily ever after.

The Pumpkin

(on a girl we'd known growing up)

Moi: Have you seen her lately?  I think she's all slutty now.

Brother: Ha.  Do you know what she's studying?

Moi: Business or marketing, something along those lines.

Brother: Yeah.  Slutty majors.

300

(warning: long entry)

            I remember once, when I was in the third grade, we’d somehow come across a list of the weight of fat foreigners.  They may have been athletes, or a page from a Weekly World News type of tabloid, featuring obese people around the world.  I don’t remember.  It’s quite possible I never read the page myself.  My brother did.  I just remember laughing heartily and uproariously. The numbers blew my mind.  300 kilograms seemed unimaginable on a person.  It was such an absurd figure.  Later on, I remember that someone, maybe an adult we’d shown this to, maybe my brother himself, suggested that perhaps the weight was in pounds and not kilograms.  So the 300 kg man may be closer to 150 kg.         

            I accepted that information without understanding it.  In those days, I was used to being presented facts I did not read myself or know ahead of time, though that was about to change.  At school, I was both the most popular and smartest kid in my class (that, too, would change).  But at home, I was, as always, the youngest and least well read, who had no basic English skills, no knowledge of Chinese history, and did not know what pounds were.  Or American football (I think some of the fat people were football players).  I just found it hilarious that people could be so big.  I was only about 25 kg then myself.  The idea that someone would be 6 times my size (or 12!) was comically incredible.  The world out there was unimaginably big.

            My third grade year was my last in Taiwan.  So much of my world would change and expand following that year.  I would learn to refer to people as heavy and not fat.  Hungry for everything Chinese in our Massachusetts apartment, I would read every single book in my house, first exhausting mine, than my brother’s books, then moving onto my seminarian parents’ collection, learning along the way, more about marriage counseling and missionary history than any 9-year old should.  Of course, I would also learn what American football is along the way, and lacking English skills, become the opposite of the smartest and most popular kid in my 4^th grade class. 

            But when I think back on the explosive joy I had in learning of 300 pound people, and contrast that with the dull knowledge of pound, feet, and Fahrenheit conversions that came in the New England years afterward, I don’t begrudge growing up.  Nor the fading aura of awe that used to surround my parents and my brother whenever I lifted my eyes toward them.   I’m a big kid, now.  This comes with growing up.  But when I marvel at the size of 300 pound linemen and consider how much more of me there could be, it’s still an incredible thought.  

Retrospective Burn

Does a day in D.C. ever go the way it's planned?  No.  For one thing, it didn't snow in D.C. today.  My lovely brother came to the Mid-Atlantic region last night.  I discovered his plans via facebook.  We're tight like that.  The original plan was brunch with Alex, then meeting up with Brother, and if I was lucky, to watch him shoot (music video, not heroin, or people).  That then turned to lunch (Guatemalan) with Alex and Brother.  Followed by coffee with Marie.  The coffee part remained true.  And it was great that Marie understood the unpredictability of family (we did, after all, dash out of brunch to go see her brother's girlfriend's new puppy).  But in the end, after many arrangements and rearrangements and waiting on the vagaries of artists, I had lunch with Alex (Potbelly's, quite the opposite of Guatemalan), followed by coffee and dessert with Marie, during which I caved and got the 300+ calorie shortbread I had resisted earlier in the morning ("The 380 count was for shortbread that was half dipped in chocolate, but this doesn't have chocolate.  I bet that frosting had 300 calories, and the cookie was only 80."  "Plus, you're eating it after lunch, calories are always lighter after lunch."-- public health in action).  Then I met up with Brother but didn't get to see him work.  The plan went from ramen to Peruvian chicken to Chilean grill to finally, Vietnamese.  So yes, I have been eating all day.  The food hasn't been particularly great, but the company has been wonderful.  As much as I like to ogle at menus and obsess about where to eat, none of that actually matters when I'm with people I like.  In retrospect, that's probably why it was always important that MC TChu, Ranwei, and I ate at good restaurants whenever we hung out.

Innocence Found

Just minutes ago, I was stalking Sarah on facebook and came across a photo of her son, Aaron, smiling under a Superman umbrella, which I presume he got for his birthday.  The picture made me very happy, and I thought, "remember when an umbrella seemed like an awesome birthday present?  Oh childhood."  Then I looked into my backpack and discovered I had packed a snack for class.  Then got very excited about my crackers.  And was comforted by the fact that decades later (decades!?  I really am getting old), that simple joy (or simpleton Joy?) is still there.  Umbrellas are still very cool and crackers can make a whole morning.