How Beautiful Their Feet

The other day, I overheard two teenage guys talking about their shoes on the subway, more specifically, they were talking about their outfits for the first day of school and how many pairs of shoes they'd bought for the summer. One boy said that by summer's end, he would probably have spent a thousand dollars on shoes, because on top of what he has already bought, he still has to get "the black and white ones, the high top Dunks, and the Air Jordans."

In any other situation, I probably would have shaken my head at the materialist excess of these kids, shaken my head for the My Super Sweet Sixteen generation that spends so much without batting an eye- kids for whom cost means nothing and social standings everything. But there was such innocence in the way these two guys were talking, and such giddiness, too. At one point, the boy with three or four more pairs of shoes to buy even started dancing out of excitement for his new sneakers and all the outfits he has planned for the coming semester (they may or may not have been high, because I'm a girl and yet I've never seen people this happy over footwear before). Their joy was so palpable that it was infectious, so that for a few minutes, listening to them talk of wanting nothing more than to go back to school with their shiny new shoes, I couldn't help but be glad for them.

(It also helped that there was a Puma tent sale this weekend and I got some nice swag super cheap. $20 sneakers always put me in a good mood.)

Pleasantly Surprised

I never know what's going to happen when Mother goes to the grocery store. She's an impulse buyer who likes to try out new foods and that usually translates to bringing home really random things. Like coconuts. And artichokes. And chocolate covered pretzels.

The other day, I asked her to buy some yogurt, so yesterday, she returned home with four different flavors and brands of yogurt- because she wasn't sure what I wanted.

But she also gave me a delightful surprise: we had lobsters for dinner! Just the two of us. Lobsters and ribs and really sweet corn. It was so special and unexpected. We all need a little spontaneous lobster dinner in our lives.

Office Space: UK

My cubicle will soon be on British television! A recording crew was in the office today interviewing our division chief, the boss of my boss, and filming little segments of him strolling down the office hallway (it took just three takes. This man has been on CNN, 60 Minutes, World News Tonight, the Daily Show, etc., etc. ...ITV doesn't faze him.) I didn't make it into any shots, but a tiny segment of my cubicle wall should.

After the shoot, as I was covering the phones for our secretary, I got a call from one of the ITV people. She was waiting downstairs for an interview with another doctor, who was apparently in a meeting with our chief. She gave me his name and told me to tell him that they were waiting. "He's the one with a cap," she said, "at least he was wearing a cap earlier today."

What sane professional wears a cap during a meeting? Turns out, no sane professional wears a cap during a meeting. Which was why, when I barged in on the very important meeting, I wasn't sure who of the two strangers in the room I should address. I looked to the dead air between the two as best as I could and asked weakly for a Dr. Brozan.

"I'm a doctor now?" he said with a chuckle.

I didn't really know what to do with that. Because I was told that he was. And I think google said that he was. (Though google image totally got him wrong.) So I sheepishly gave him his message (I think I annoyed our chief), and got dashed out of the room. And this is why I'll never make it big in the UK.

With a Twist

The PuMan (remember him? I hardly do) would probably dispute me on this, but oh, what ironic happenings are occurring in my neighborhood.

Remember the good for nothing neighbor boy who shot a BB through my guest room window? His parents are supposed to pay for the damages. The father came by a few weeks ago to inspect the window and semi-apologize (not sure what the exact odds are of accidental firings resulting from kids arguing over possession of the gun that just happen to aim upward and directly onto the neighbor's window). Since the father had said (actually, he penned notes to us, which he pinned to our door... not the most effective communicator in the world) that he'd like to bring someone by this week to take out our window, Mother called today to check up on the process. The scoundrel's mother picked up. Apparently, everything is up in the air. Her husband (dirtbag's father) has suffered a nervous breakdown.

When Mother broke this to me, I laughed. The timing and everything about the news just seemed so absurd. Though I have noticed that that is not how most people take the news. People seem to either be upset by the delays or feel bad for the man suffering a nervous breakdown (how are you reacting?). But how ironic that the person most shaken (and stirred) is not the people whose house was actually fired upon, who can't be sure if their neighbors are racist, stupid, or just hate this specific Chinese family but feel unsafe either way- no, we're fine- but it's the guy paying his brother-in-law to fix the windows. And how ironic that it happens this week, right when our window was finally supposed to be fixed? I expected hassles along the way and for things to be on the rocks with the neighbors, but who'd ever expect a nervous breakdown to slow things down? In this age of starlets, jail, and rehab, it's almost refreshing that the neighbor took the more classic and restrained approach and had a nervous breakdown his wife felt comfortable sharing with neighbors.

Don't Kids Use Backseats Anymore?

Teenagers of the City (of every hair style and social clique):
What is it about the subway that makes you think that it's OK to make out here? Is it the crowd of commuters during rush hour traffic? Some of us would like to go home with our eyesight intact.

-Upchucking Charlie

Maybe He Was Adopted

Anyone else see something funny with this?

"[Innkeepers] are trying to prey on people's prejudice under the guise of patriotism," says Asian American Hotel Owners Association (AAHOA) president Fred Schwartz."

 

Maybe Moses Was Also In A Hurry

Last Friday, I was on a mad dash for the commuter rail (note to self: dash would probably seem less maddening and exhausting if I was in better shape. Should consider 'exercise') when I heard a voice call out my name. It was an acquaintance from the Bo' coming down on the escalator as I was about to run up. I turned around and yelled a quick 'hey!' but was in such a rush that I really couldn't stop to chat. And my brain was so oxygen-deprived at that point that instead of explaining to Rachel that I wasn't being rude but I was in a rush to catch the commuter rail, I shouted out "I'm in a hurry!" - which led all the people on the escalator, who believed I was shouting at them, to first stare and then promptly part for me to pass through. It was rather embarrassing on many levels. Perhaps only two. But that still seems plenty.

New Canaan

Dear Diary:
Sometimes I forget that there are people less fortunate than myself, people who have no access to views of the ocean, with no access, in fact, to variations in landscape, vegetation, or cultures of any sort. I can get so complacent sometimes in this land of great ass.

PS. In my defense, I am blaming all the negativity on the poor performance of the Red Sox this past weekend.

The (un)Comelywealth

Aw. That title was sort of clever!

The past few years, I find myself often defending Massachusetts and Boston whilst talking with people whose home states weren't the birthplace of the American Revolution and who did not go to high schools with bells cast by America's founding fathers. Yet as I become older and better acquainted with Boston, it becomes less of a fun magical place and more of a really little city with a cumbersome transit system and not a lot of diversity. I still like it and all, but compared to lots of other cities, it's becoming less of something to brag about. Perhaps this poem I found on Bostonist* best captures my feelings toward the state:

by Eugene Mirman

Massachusetts, so hard to spell,
yet in love with you, so hard I fell
6.4 million smiles live here holding their elitism, education- and elitism again- so dear

and health care.

You're the cradle of liberty, but don't let it get to your head-
oh- too late.
You have a really great ass Massachusetts.
Nobody is crazy beautiful like a model,
but nobody is really ugly either.
I love you.

I love you.


*Link not included because the site is pretty lame and I don't plan on ever returning. I don't think you'd want to waste your time there, either. It's bad enough that you're reading this.

Hey There, Delilah

I have the strength of ten thousand men.

OK, that was a complete lie. Anyone that has done any service project with me (that's actually a lot of people, because I'm a good person with an award to prove it) knows that I do not lift well. I was not blessed with great biceps. I even need help starting lawn mowers (and thus always made my junior highers do it for me at BP). Just this past Wednesday, I watched for an hour and a half as our family friends helped load a new bed and mattress Mother ordered and some car seats into our van and then later, into someone's basement. I was wearing a skirt then, and I think the family friends took that to mean 'incapable of lifting,' a misconception I was happy to live with.

But today, I faced the task of installing the third row seat of our van all by myself. Father had taken it out so we could move all my Bo' junk home. But Father left for Taiwan last week and didn't put the seat back. And Mother has a bad back. She suggested calling our neighbors to help. Horrified by the idea of asking strangers for help, I took it upon myself to move the monstrosity back into the van. This involved much straining and dragging and strategizing. I had to rest half of the seat onto a bucket of sand first (the bucket of sand wasn't very light either), then lift the other half onto the van. There was also lots of pushing and dragging. Once the seat was lifted to car level, Mother helped a little in nudging the seat a little farther into the van, but once inside, I had to actually install the seats myself. When I opened the van manual to figure out how exactly to lock the seats in, I saw warning labels that suggested that at least two people were necessary to move the seats, lest someone gets injured. Beat that, Average American Male.

When the ordeal was all over, I told Mother not to tell anyone about this. I like to keep my superhuman feats under wraps because exploiting the damsel in distress image gets me out of lots of heavy lifting.

Mother: What am I stupid? Of course, I won't tell anyone about this. If I did we'd never get any help again.

Softly into the Night

Had an absolute nightmare last night that it was the first day of classes but rather unexpectedly, instead of showing up to classes, we were all going to the field to play softball in assigned groups. Apparently, I was not ready for softball. I thought I had two more hours to get ready for classes and was still in pajamas (which had to be rolled up and knotted) and worst of all, flip flops. I thought about just hiding the fact that I was in flip flops from the coach (we all got coaches for our teams and I did not endear myself to mine) but then it started raining. And it became obvious that I was wearing flip flops. Especially when some mean girl pulled me by the back of my shirt and caused my feet to slide across the mud. (Now that I think about it, that was a really cool move.) I tried to borrow some from Rachel and Connie, but they were both wearing Wellies. Damn BCF freshmen. Damn stressful softball. In the end, I tried to buy some sneakers but then whoa, out of nowhere, here is the kicker- an Olsen twin lent me her shoes! They weren't quite sneakers but really soft white leather sandals that weren't quite like ballet flats but similar and really cute, so who was I to turn down shoes from an Olsen? One Olsen was dressed in white, another in black, and I think we traded some banter about how we hate each other but not really. At that point, my subconscious realized, 'hold up, this is ridiculous,' and I woke up.

Gak and Grey

If you still bother checking, happy birthday, Bobby. May your future be grammatically correct. May your year of do-goodery and minimal salary bring you the admiration of bounties of co-eds.

If not, have a very merry unbirthday to everyone else.

L'Etranger

Mother didn't cook today. Or maybe yesterday. But I interacted with many strangers.

I chatted with a lady in the supermarket about Spicy Guacamole Pringles. We think it's a new flavor. It's new to us at least. (Not very spicy, but pretty great tasting.)

I gave a lady directions to the Prudential. Because I am city savvy and all knowing.

I called the FDA. The FDA Drug Line is surprisingly easy to get through. Not surprisingly though, is how absolutely unhelpful they were.

I saw two teenagers that needed to get off of the subway and get into a room. Actually, they probably shouldn't be allowed in a room alone. They need time outs from each other.

I caught sight of a kid I went to high school with, sitting across the aisle from him on the train. Not wanting awkward small talk, I avoided looking at him for the 40-minute train ride. As we prepared to leave the train, I practiced my "oh, hey! I'm so surprised to see you here" face only to not catch his glance at all. Perhaps he too, was pretending not to see me. Perhaps he didn't see me. Perhaps it wasn't that kid after all.

The Hurricane

Whenever I'm alone in the elevator with just one other person, I like to move to the corner opposite of the other person. Standing there, with my arms on the corner railings, makes me feel like we're in a boxing match instead of a boring elevator ride. Only the winner leaves the shaft alive.

Millions for Me

In a group email today, the supervisor mentioned 'a talented RA (research assistant),' meaning me. And just when I thought she was being nice and sweet...

Supervisor: And how did you sign that email again?

Moi: Totally talented RA?

Supervisor: There was an asterisks, too.

Moi: 'Totally talented, except for when I mess up.' I added that line.

Supervisor: I'd get rid of it. We all mess up. You're still talented.

Moi: Can we call me Talent then, instead of Peaches?

Supervisor: Nope. I still like Peaches better. Have a good night, Peaches.

Bread on the Table

Had communion had at a rather large church today- not the mega churches of the tens of thousands- but a few thousand nonetheless, and noticed that they definitely skimped on their communion. My plastic cup of grape juice was barely half full.

------
Reading a flyer from the Lexington police department, who are asking the town for higher wages...

Mother: Hey, their annual starting salary is higher (by only $79) than yours and they're actually asking for more money.

Moi: I don't think making as much money as I do is something to be proud of. It's not very hard to make more money than I do.

The Spaniard

On the upcoming biopics on Che Guevara (The Argentine and Guerilla):

"To add to the story's authenticity, the two movies will largely be filmed in Spain, and the dialog will almost entirely be in Spanish." -IGN.com

Seriously?

Yeah, I've Got That

True friends who have seen me at my most neurotic know that I have a preferred pen model not available in the United States, the Pilot BPS-GP series, either in 0.7 or 0.5. Stationery is one of those cheaper areas in life that I can afford to be a detailed snob in. I was ecstatic to find out, therefore, that for once in my life, I work in an office that's not on a tight budget (that didn't stop them from paying me low wages, but we're trying to look beyond that right now) and can order from the Staples catalogue to my heart's content. I waited for three weeks and finally, my ugly standard-issue stapler showed signs of breaking. I checked with the proper authorities and was told that I could go ahead and order a new one. And order I did.

This stapler comes highly recommended from Megan- the Staples One-Touch Stapler with Staple Gun Power. It looks groovy albeit a little clunky, but the stapling power is amazing. One flick and BAM! Your paper is stapled and Bob's your uncle. I actually put off stapling several piles of paper in anticipation of this new stapler. And yesterday, as the division secretary went around handing out our Staples orders, Jen, the other new research assistant and I giddily opened each order and shared with each other both our bounties and joys. I let her try my stapler (hers is cool, too, it staples flat)- and she shrieked in surprise at how easily the stapler stapled- and then she gave me a box of tissues she ordered. It was like Christmas, but with stationery instead of Jesus.

My question now: What should I do with my old stapler? Am I allowed to throw it away? It doesn't seem very kosher or eco-friendly, especially since it still staples, though it requires some special flicking every time you use it. Do kids in war-torn countries need second-hand staplers?

The Free Stuff

Every day on my commute, there is a three-way battle between myself, the Metro vendor, and the BostonNOW vendor outside of North Station. It's the same daily routine. In the mornings, I say 'no, thank you,' to both while feeling slightly guilty and in the afternoon, I grab whichever is closest to me and avoid eye contact with the other vendor. It gets awkward sometimes when they stand next to each other and I have to make a choice between the two. They're both free papers and they're both terrible, but they also help kill some time and well, the vendors are rather heartbreaking. Handing out free newspapers to commuters in a rush in the summer heat while acting friendly and personable cannot be lucrative or very enjoyable.

Just how bad are the papers? Here's a quote from a restaurant review yesterday:

"The restaurant traffic is steady, with the most people eating at meal times." Wow. Really, wow.

Maybe this writer should also review books for the Orient. Snap! I just went there, Gak!

Justice Is Inebriated, Awkwardity Is Alert

Supervisor: The other day, my husband, the district attorney says to me, 'You know, if I had to do it again right now, I don't think I could get through college.' I asked him, why, is it the pressure? 'No, it's the drinking. They're so strict about underage drinking at bars now, and fake IDs are so much harder to get. I couldn't have gotten through college without drinking.'

Moi: Um, I don't know this for sure, but I've heard that college students today still drink.

----

In other news, awkwardity (yeah, haven't used that word in awhile) follows me around like a plague. A plague that follows people. It seems like every day, I have a conversation I'm not sure quite how to finish. And every day, I open the door to find someone there and we do this weird 'oops, sorry, hi' thing. And every day, I pass someone in the hallway and there's a weird moment because we can't decide whether to say hello or to make small talk. I have a feeling that the problem isn't just me. But that everyone I work with is awkward because they're so insanely smart and nerdy. Sometimes though, I'm quite capable of creating awkward situations all by myself. Today, I tried to be friendly for once and and wave to a co-worker across the street. Unfortunately, it led to an awkward bump-in with random passerby and we ended up doing a little 'go ahead, no you go ahead' dance right in the middle of a busy street, much to the amusement of the co-worker I was waving at. I should probably just stop waving at people as a rule. I also tried to wave at Lisa today, who was waiting for me at the T stop for our lunch date, and ended up catching the gaze of yet another stranger walking down the street. He looked at once confused and pleased that I was waving at him.

Scarlet Stain

Maybe some people just shouldn't wear white, even between the months of May and September. Every time I've worn my new white shirt, I've stained it almost immediately. Today, I confused my shirt for the napkin on my lap and wiped my greasy fingers on it. At this rate, I'm just surprised that there isn't snot on the shirt.

The over-sensitive automatic toilets at work always flush as I enter the stall. Which always makes me want to pee even more. But I always feel like I should wait until it's done flushing. Out of courtesy for the toilet.

When I grow to be very old, I hope that I, too, can find a research assistant who I can both befriend and torment by not following directions and keeping her on the phone to chat about alternative medicine and my eating intolerances, neither of which have nothing to with the study that I am currently enrolled in, the very one that I have already messed up twice.

A Guide to Recognizing Your Martyrs

I've been getting a lot of mileage out of the martyr question (don't worry, T Chu, your stoning is still the most outstanding) and a few days ago, I asked it to Mother, who preferred getting shot. It's a legit answer, but seemed quite modern, plain, and just a tad disappointing, so I told her about Nate, who wanted to jump off of a building...

Moi: ... but I told him that that wasn't really martyring.

Mother: Well, if he was in a cage and someone pushed him off of a building, that would be martyrdom.


***

Hesitating to cross the very broad street on Friday, with its many lanes and many cars, I took a moment to just let the heat beat down on me and stare with resignation and all the cars that were going places while I stood still. Then out of nowhere, a bike whizzed past me. "They can't run over all of us at once," he said, "come on!" And he led me through traffic, like a black knight in shining armour.

BP Reunion Debrief

I was not coerced into writing this post in any way.

(Nate Dawg, Jackie, and Dwighters)

The summer of 2004, which I spent with the Boston Project, was one of the best times of my life. That summer, I was pushed to grow, serve and forge relationships in an incredible way. When the summer came to an end, I worried about how quickly the experience would fade from me and when the ties I'd form with my co-workers - people who cut bagels (Katie) and split oranges (G-Pak) for me- would fray. After all, what common ground did we have other than those ten tiring weeks together? How far could inside jokes take us?

My questions were answered yesterday, when I hung out with a few BP vets. Turns out, even outside of BP, there were plenty of things we could talk about and do together, like making out. We also traded Alfredo recipes (don't trust the Mennonites), toured Joey Fatone's crib, ran around in the pouring rain, caught pneumonia, and shared inappropriate zoo stories. Below are some pictures from my super fantastic earth boggling and mind shattering BP Saturday, pictures that I was not obliged or pressured to post here in any way...

(P.S. Dusty, your friend Dwight is alive and well. I saw him with my very eyes. He is a little pink though. I couldn't tell if he was feverish, sun burnt, or if that was his natural complexion.)

Nate takes the most flattering of pictures.

Katie, censored by the Triscuit box.

I don't know why Nate only took pictures of busts and bottoms, but inside those jeans lie a very special band aid.

Would somebody please pay attention to the boy?

T Travelogues

On the train ride home this morning, gazing out the window and marveling at how speed and grass meshes together into one green blur, I caught sight of the man in the seat in front of me. Halfway to our destination on the half-filled train, he was using the window as a mirror to pop his pimple. It seemed like a private moment, so I looked down and went back to my book.

When I ride the commuter rail and subway for my commute, I cover pretty long distances so finding a seat is almost never a problem. Even though I always manage to snag a seat, I still worry about crowds because crowds mean people without seats. And people without seats tend to look forlornly at people with seats. I never know who I'm supposed to give up my seat to, afraid of offending people by my acts of omission as well as commission. There are a few safe bets though: oxygen tanks, preggers, and those that walk with canes. Those people will always be grateful. Everyone else becomes one tricky haze and I generally try to avoid eye contact in those situations. Today though, I gave my seat to a lady that I instinctively knew didn't deserve one: She was well dressed, maybe late-50's, but very healthy- healthy enough to walk toward the empty seats in the back if she really wanted. After flailing around for a couple of stops, the woman decided to stand next to my seat, an arm on the back of my seat and another on the seat in front of me, completely shielding me from the aisle. She looked ridiculously out of place, dangerously close to me, but generally forgivable until she opened her mouth. "I'm sorry but I'm about to kill myself," she said. Not a suicidal cry for help, no. But an over dramatic suburban woman who compares the experience of riding public transportation to that of taking her own life. I got up just so she would stop talking to me. I told her she could have my seat, tried to ignore it when she told me that my mother taught me good manners in the most patronizing manner possible, and moved toward the back of the car, to hang out with the oxygen tanks, preggers, and those that walk with canes.

It's Where the Strangers Are

As I'm about to turn into my driveway tonight, Father tells me to watch out for the other cars in the driveway, as there are quite a few. Why? I ask. Why are there cars here and whose cars are they? Oh, it's just that Mother has about ten people over, that's all. It's a farewell dinner for a family I'd never met. I don't mind the guests much but you see, some of them have reproduced and have children. Children not of the adorable bumbling variety, but school age ones that shriek and tell each other boring stories and try to sound grown-up by commenting that she is watching her favorite show and that "nothing good is on" when I could see that clearly, baby girl, you have landed on the Spanish channel by chance and really have no idea what's going on, children that answer the door to my house shouting "Do I know you?! Do I know you!?" at my guests. And the saddest thing of all? She actually knows them better than I do.

Day-O

There is now a little sign on my cubicle wall counting the number of mess-up free work days since. It now stands at 0. Though it should probably be in the negatives to account for multiple screw ups in one day. At least the supervisor liked my dress. (I told you I cleaned up well.) And from the looks of it, free lunch on Thursday!

Post Script:

My what a difference a year makes. I'm about a year older and dozens of millions poorer than Ms. Lohan, but- not to toot my own horn or anything- so, so, so much wiser. I may be a screw-up at work, but I've never been arrested twice, or gone to rehab twice, or caught with a "small" amount of cocaine.

Favorite line of the People* coverage:

"The driver who called police turned out to be the mother of Lindsay Lohan's personal assistant," said Padilla. "Just prior to the chase – but I'm not sure exactly how much time prior – the personal assistant had quit."



*So I read People today, whatever. Back off, I've had a long day.

Old Unfaithful

Don't know why, but from the park where the concert was on Friday night, was a very clear view of a Greek flag flying proudly in the beautiful summer sky. Lowell has the highest concentration of Cambodians in the US and apparently, a small but loyal number of Greeks, too.

Kids 'R' Us

Passed a baby boutique today with a sign in the window that said "european children," annoying lower case and everything. I wonder if that's where Wolfgang got his new daughter.

As a research assistant, I see very, very, very few patients because most of our studies aren't clinical. Today, however, I had a chance to get out of the office and into a clinic only to be stood up by my subject. This, however, afforded me the chance to get about as close to watching a full soaps episode as I've ever gotten. I only stuck around for 40 minutes, but there was a bomb explosion, abduction, seduction of a naive Irish nun by Italian man, flashback parallels, reading of other people's letters, people being arranged to meet by unknown hands and of course, the classic memory loss and unrequited love. I don't know how people keep up with all this. Those 40 minutes took a lot out of me.

It's always edifying when people at work refer to your cubicle as a pigeon-hole. Or remark on how your $40+ K-a-year tuition prepared you to label envelopes all day. But then there are those glimmers of sheer joy at work, like today, when I discovered that my computer could now print double sided and Caitlin- the other new hire- shared in my excitement. Knowing that I could now cross asking for a new printer/computer off of my Christmas wish list? That was a life affirming moment that just made my day.

Loose Talk

Mother: But you're so good at schmoozing.

Moi: No, I hate schmoozing and obligatory chit chat. I can do it but I don't like it.

Mother: You're always doing it to me.

Moi: What do you mean? How do I schmooze with you?

Mother: When you come home from work, you always say hi, ask me about my day, say 'how are you doing?'

Moi: Um, that's not schmoozing. I was genuinely curious about how you were feeling. Because you are my mother. That's what families do, Mother. They talk with each other without expecting anything in return.

Footloose

Dear Barefoot Girl Standing in Line of the Parking Garage Bathroom:

Who are you, Britney Spears? Ew. Ew. Eeeeeew!

Sincerely,

Bound Feet



(Context: Went to a Nickel Creek concert last night (Claire, if you're reading this, I went to a Nickel Creek concert last night! I am becoming just like you) and all over the park were barefoot crunchies, being smelly and unsanitary. People, we've had foot gear for literally thousands of years, why eschew all that human achievement now? Jesus wore sandals. We should all follow his example. I understand the need to feel the earth when you're on some pristine green lawn or walking alongside the beach, but streets of Lowell? Parking garage? And again, public restroom? What exactly are you nostalgic for- tetanus?)

The Anniversary

It's been a little over a month since I started my semi-grown-up employment. So far, work has been trickier and less funny than I had imagined, but also much more manageable. I would offer more introspective thoughts but I'm just giddy with the realization that I may not be lactose intolerant after all. Went on a really random work field trip yesterday that took me some really nice Nutella gelato. There was no stomach upset at all, just some brown stains on my new shirt. I didn't mind the little stain so much until my supervisor said, "That's rather embarrassing, especially on a white blouse," which was a good cue for me to know that I should be embarrassed.

The division is full of people who are givers of life, not just through their work but their extracurricular activities as well. In the year 2007 alone, seven new babies were born/are expected to be born. That's about 1 in 3 division members, including one doctor who was afraid to go home to his very pregnant wife last night. They had planned on going away from the weekend but he had just realized yesterday that he was on call for the weekend.

(On the baby plethora phenom)

Nice Old Stat Lady: You guys should watch out that you're not next.

Moi: (sigh) Fine, I won't sleep around then.

(Saying that line was one of those moments when the world comes to a halt and I realize that instead of conversing, I was watching an image of my foot being engulfed by my mouth. Luckily, Nice Old Stat Lady was much funnier and more understanding than anticipated. She just laughed heartily and nodded.)

The Special Commute

The 7:18 train was delayed this morning. And when it did show up, it was shorter than usual. I felt silly riding on the short bus. But it was a really long short bus because it was a train. That was almost poetic of me.

Some notes to self:

A. However delicious Vietnamese coffees are, you are too old to be drinking espressos with dinner.

B. When a supervisor says that a doc has "interesting detective work" for you, do not get overexcited, as the doc only wants you to call medical records. People who work in medical records, by the way, are "just angry paper pushers who are really anal," which was probably why the doc had you made the call in the first place.

C. Stick with pack lunches from Mother, however 4th grade they make you feel. There are apparently rats all over the hospital cafes and office buildings.

More Mad Martha

Some more photos from this past weekend (and my what a glorious weekend- baking on Friday, dehydration Saturday, then Brazilian barbecue + shopping + lobster on Sunday. Short of a Sox-Yankees series and/or meeting Jesus, can you think of a better combination?).

That's Amy, being slowly buried in the sand and eating my shorts.

Christina, who had a tiring afternoon slowly covering Amy with sand. She also takes the cake for my new favorite sacrilegious question: what's your preferred method of martyrdom? That is, of course, if you are willing to die for your faith. Some people aren't:

Sarah: Oh, I've already told God, I ain't martyring. I prefer massages and pedicures.

And some people aren't quite familiar with methods of martyrdom:

Nate: I'd like to jump out of a building.

The girl in yellow in the middle was totally posing. And pulled it off much better than these two fools.

Supervisor: Starting tomorrow [when a new research assistant with my initials and last name is starting], can we change your name to Peaches to make things easier?

Moi: Why do I have to change? What about the new kid?

Supervisor: 'Cause she's older than you. Now, I'm thinking sort of a Cher thing, no last name, just Peaches. Is that OK?

Respect just follows me wherever I go.

And Not a Drop to Drink

Went to gorgeous Martha's Vineyard yesterday. But what's a day hanging out with childhood friends, riding bikes, sitting on the beach, and seeing Bo' folks without a little embarrassment? Boy, was yesterday embarrassing. I had always assumed that 'dehydration' was slightly made up, that drinking your water was up there with flossing and taking vitamins- crazy, healthy stuff for weaklings or really intense folks. I mean, isn't thirst usually a good indicator of whether you should have water or not? How could people not have enough water in them? I had gone through a summer of landscape work at BP, and went to the deserts of China, all without any hiccups, but as I learned yesterday, even someone as young and relatively invincible like me (i.e. pretty out of shape) can fall prey to dehydration. Yesterday, after biking for only about a mile, Nate and I stopped so my wondrous Puma bag could be strapped to his bike (Maria: Thank God you have that backpack, I'd never recognize you without it.) All was well until I stood up and suddenly felt lightheaded. Then things looked splotchy. Then I told Nate I wanted to sit down. Then I stood up again because sitting down seemed weak. Then I couldn't see. Then I stood still for five minutes holding onto my bike trying to compose myself and not freak out Nate too much or crash down onto the road. All I could process at the time was that the world was fuzzy and my arms tingly. Then slowly I could see again. At that point sitting down didn't seem so unreasonable. And Nate made me drink lots of liquids. After some more humbling resting, my weakness left me and I finished the bike ride, albeit much later than everyone else. Lesson here, boys and girls, is that having enough fluids in your body is much more important than having a bathroom nearby because holding your pee in is a lot easier to do than trying to make your eyes see when you're blind from dehydration.

Can You Not Hear Me Now?

Lately, I've come across quite a few people who go to such great lengths to scold what they consider impolite behavior that they come off as enormous jerks.  Yesterday, I was talking on the cell phone with Emily when the elevator door opened.  I hadn't expected three other people to already be in the elevator, waiting to ride down, but I didn't think it would have been right to just hang up on Emily.  So I entered, talked in a much softer voice, then smiled sheepishly and apologetically at the three already in the elevator.  I also mouthed a 'sorry' to all of them.  This, however, was not enough of a sign of contrition to my fellow riders.  When I told Emily, "I'm flexible, so whenever you come will be fine," one of the ladies on the elevator looked at me and said, "Congratulations!  I'm glad you're flexible!" and laughed obnoxiously.  The elevator ride got extra awkward from then on.  And I couldn't exactly explain to Emily what was going on.  The lesson here, boys and girls, is that being rude is much more socially unacceptable at any time than small faux pas like talking on your cellphone in the elevator, especially when you already look like you're sorry.  And you're only trying to set a time to meet.  Because being nosy isn't neighborly.  I don't think the lady would have dared talked to me like that if I was older and looked like I might be a doctor.  Stupid youthful complexion.

Say Hey Kid

I wish I was smooth like Willie Mays. Or that I could hit a ball. But no, not me. Instead, when people in my office, nice and friendly people who I don't quite know yet, bump into me in the hallways, bathroom, and on the street and nicely say hi to me and call me by name, all I can utter is "Oh, hey!" and walk away. It's only moments later, when I'm all by myself again, that I remember that it's during those encounters that I'm supposed to generate friendly chatter. That's how relationships are made and where friends come from. Sometimes, I forget these things. And now I have an office full of people who think I'm brusque, avoids people in the office, and am only capable of producing monosyllabic greetings.

Being socially awkward, however, still beats being fired- a topic I probably shouldn't joke about just yet.

(yesterday)

Doctor Man: Hey, can you do me one more favor?

Moi: No.

Doctor Man: Well, then you're fired. It's pretty simple.

Moi: Awn. Fine. I'll do it. Don't fire me.

(this afternoon)

Doctor Man: Good job on those graphs you sent me.

Moi: Oh yeah? So I'm not getting fired?

Doctor Man: No, probably not.

Moi: Yes! Safe for the week!

Doctor: Well, the week's still young. It's only Wednesday.

I hope I make it through Friday.

Who Was and Is and Is to Come

Dear Future Me:
Am I going to be responsible for this? These classes/labs/lectures are rather boring and there's no way I will need to know how to use these programs in real life. I think I'll pass notes instead. My lab partner/friend/stranger sitting next to me is probably taking all of this down.

Sincerely sleeping through this,

Past Me


Dear Past Me:
You stupid, stupid, fool. Why didn't you learn how to use SPSS properly? Or figure out Access? Or even bother writing down how you're supposed to craft proper lab reports and lit reviews. Had you had any sense to do just one more iota of work, my life now would be so much easier and so much less of an embarrassment. Did $160,000 buy you nothing?

Sincerely pissed,

Present Me


Dear Present Me:
Yes, time travel has been made possible. Fret not and work hard not, I am coming to fix everything.

Sincerely and speedily,

Future Me


Dear Future Me:
Perhaps you should have paid more attention in time traveling class. Since your visit, I keep getting grainier and grainier. And living with three legs hasn't been easy. Why can't you and I just buckle down and learn our lessons like we're supposed to?

Sincerely,

Present-ish Me


Dear Future Me:
Just a heads up: Present Me is kind of uptight.

Sincerely slacking,

Past Me

Tar-jay Practice

A disclaimer: This post is less funny than usual.

I used to think that the extent of the stupidity of our neighbor's children was their penchant for sledding down our hill and toward oncoming traffic. Sure their endless fund raisers for 4-H and Brownies and schools were annoying but generally, we put up with them, especially when they sold us Scouts cookies. Then last week, Father discovered a BB gun crack through our guest room window and they got a whole lot less cute and a whole lot more stupid. I oscillate between trying to shrug the event off and thinking what could have happened had it cracked through both window layers, what if someone was there, what if he shoots at us again, what if, what if, what if. It is, after all, right next to the guest room bed. I'm not even sure how old the boy is this year; he must be in middle school now. I can't figure why he'd want to shoot our house except for the fact that, like Everest, we're here. We've always been nice to him, but he seems to have a little bigot streak in him. Years ago, he and some little friend got in trouble for repeatedly ringing our doorbell then running away screaming something about the Chinese. I called up his mother today and tried to let her have it. But she was so apologetic and soft spoken that it really took the fun out of it. And of course, it wasn't she I wanted to passive aggressively yell at. I didn't even get to say my line about "we'd like to believe that this wasn't racially motivated but we don't know that for sure." Beside me wanting to say that for the guilt factor, this is what sucks about being on the receiving end of something so senseless. I never know if someone hates me for me, for my skin color, or if that person is just plain stupid. Is it my fault or his? What's not to like about me? Would he have done it to another family? And suddenly, this pellet out of a stupid toy gun is making me completely self conscious instead of letting me direct my anger at him. But that's just what happens when your skin is a different color.

Not the window that was shot, but a view of my family's gourd collection.

Hodge Podge

Some things I've been forgetting to share, humorless bullet form:

• Went to a restaurant yesterday whose bathroom had a sign that read "Sorry, we're closed on Mondays," because their restroom, much like churches and museums, apparently get a lot of wear over the weekend.

• Bringing new urgency to the subject of salvation, last weekend, at the Chinese church in Portland, it was discovered minutes before service that it was communion Sunday. And the lady in charge had forgotten communion. So her daughter had to drive home in a jiff, grab the tablecloths, matzo, and grape juice, then rush back to church to prep everything while the worship leader stalled. Sort of wish I had witnessed that instead of visit the Bo'.

• The first two weeks of work, I had 0 paper cuts. Last week I had two. And today I had three and a half. At this exponential rate I'm going, I don't expect to have any fingers left by year's end, but a giant bloody stump.
  

Insufferable Intolerance

I am a rather easy going and accepting person.  Having lived and traveled throughout Asia, Europe, and North America, I have met many peoples, seen many places, and learned to appreciate many that are different from me.  There isn't much that I am intolerant of these days, except apparently, lactose.  I started having my doubts about lactose a few summers ago, whilst working at BP, but later found out that those stomach upsets were mainly because I was always full before I ate my ice cream.  This year, however, it's been different.  And persistent.  And though I am not as racked by pain and upsets as many who are lactose intolerant are, I believe that I am in the beginning stages of intolerance.  I can't finish those cafe shakes I love and I can't even finish a small now without feeling sick.  All of this is rather heartbreaking because I love ice cream.  I do not say that as one would about a shirt or a color.  I.  Love.  Ice cream.  There is always ice cream in our freezer no matter the season and when you ask me what my favorite ice cream flavor is, I will tell you that you cannot choose a favorite child.  If pushed, I will break it down for you for my favorite Ben and Jerry's, Haggen Daz, and Kimball's flavors (representing the zenith in inventive flavors, classics, and local farmstands), as well as plain flavors when those three are not available.  Do not even ask me about toppings and sundaes, because that's a whole other eating strategy and vanilla bean is always the best for that.  What all this rambling is trying to express is that I heart ice cream, and my gradual lactose intolerance is hurting me on so many different levels, especially now, when there is such social pressure to partake of ice cream.  It's how I bond with co-workers.  It's how W-ford kids and I get together.  Just today, in search of an air-conditioned store (apparently unheard of in Central Square except for one dry cleaning place that looked very inviting- Jared, however, refused to sacrifice his shirt for the group's wellbeing), I spent $3.40 on ice cream that I was neither hungry for nor enjoyed much.  And there wasn't even AC.  If I could have one thing for Christmas, it'd be peace on earth.  But if I could have two things, it'd be the ability to process ice cream.  And, if Santa's feeling generous, maybe I could get a better tolerance for alcohol and some aldehyde dehydrogenase, too.  That'd rock.

My Children, Walking Hand in Hand

Pretty sure I just woke up from a dream in which we rode the bus to a Spiderman party. As in everyone there wore a Spidey costume, mask, tights, and everything. It was great fun. I had a robe over my costume though. Afterwards, I somehow lost my leg but decided to get an HPV vaccine and, hobbling around in the clinic, realized that I knew the staff there (they were fellow creative writing kids at the Bo') and we ended up playing virtual bowling. I have no idea how or why any of this happened.

Murder on the Express

The 5:30 train is the express train, which means that it takes only 40 minutes when it normally takes 50 to reach the last station. Yesterday, however, on a nice and clear day free of precipitation, the express train slowed to a halt. A tree had apparently fallen and though no one was there to witness it, we did feel its impact. Five minutes out of the station, we came to a halt and stayed that way for nearly an hour as we waited for tracks to be cleared and other trains to pass us. What kind of weak a$s tree falls on a perfectly sunny, windless day and ruins the express train?

I suppose I wouldn't know what kind of tree. Now that I've started working, I feel rather removed from nature (not because I hug so many trees at home, but because sitting in the air-conditioned living room, I get a great view of our leafy back yard). Just today, when the research assistants all grabbed ice cream, I suggested we all grab a table to sit (because sometimes we just bring our ice cream upstairs, right back to work, which defeats the whole time-killing purpose of these trips). Caitlin suggested we go outside instead and I looked at her as if she told me that there was no B3 bomber. I had actually forgotten that we were steps from outside. That we could go outside. That there was an outside.

Caitlin: You know, outside? Natural sunlight? There's a whole new world out there.

Jump on It

This week has been surprisingly filled with catching up with friends from everywhere, which has been incredibly pleasant. Even today's two-minute talk with Erin was pretty awesome, as it reminded me of all of her stubborn non-sense of yesteryear.

Moi: How come I haven't see you in two weeks?

Erin: I ride this train every day!

Moi: I thought you only work three days a week.

Erin: I do. But I'm on this train whenever I ride it!

I wish I had more stories about absurd co-workers. Or any. But they're all too nice and normal and smart. The closest one I have is one of a fellow research assistant who decided to paint her bookshelf around 2am because she couldn't fall asleep. That wasn't half as good as J-Wo's co-worker story, which involved a drive to York, ME through the night, bloody feet, showering at work, and guys wearing each other's too tight polo shirts. Crazy people, please join DOPE to make my life more interesting. I spent most of the day reading articles and preparing a lit review. It felt a lot like doing homework. Except I couldn't just leave and take a bad grade. Or bug the people next to me. Or copy someone else's answers. So really, it wasn't like doing homework at all.

Gently Rise and Softly Call

My mother, the minister-

Moi: Ma, I get off work early today.

Mother: That's great! Should we par-tay?

Moi: Partay?

Mother: Yeah, let's partay. Let's go out for drinks.

Moi: I don't want to drink with you. You can't handle your liquor.

Mother: Sure I can. I was just acting that last time. Come on, mother and daughter. It'll be your first time at a bar, right?

Moi: Of course it's not my first time.

Mother: No? So the truth comes out at last!

Moi: What truth, woman? I've told you so many stories set in bars.

Mother: But that was just beer, right? Beer doesn't count.

She ended up spending a quiet evening at home.

Spoil the Child

Went to the Harvard Medical library today on some errands and had the great opportunity to take a little detour and see the skull of one Phineas Gage. And the rod that went through his face (now engraved, forever claiming its authenticity as the rod that went through Phineas's face). When that happened, it went something like this:
All the little projects I've worked on in the past two weeks, all the people I've met and conversations I've had- none of that added together compared to how awesome it was today to be able to see that skull, along with a few other medical anomalies on display in the library cases. There was also the random portrait of some genteel man with a finger in a skull. It was a bit odd. But man, those ten minutes really made the past two weeks worthwhile. I also loved how everyone else in the division shared my enthusiasm for the skull. No one thought it was gross. Everyone knew who he was and everyone was fascinated.

Say Anything

When I don't know how to say something in another language that I know how to say in English, or when I foresee that a long explanation will be needed somewhere down the line and know that I don't have the vocabulary or patience for such an explanation, I usually switch tracks and simplify my answers, most often in Chinese, to a quick "I don't know" or "not much of anything, really."  This tactic, while very efficient for me, leads many Chinese people I meet to believe that I am quite dull, and not of the boring variety, but the plain stupid kind.

Plan Bee

Last week, I received my first grown-up paycheck. Oh, I had such big plans for that check. Even with taxes and everything, it was going to be enough to live comfortably. We were going to go out to for an expensive dinner and blow the money on ridiculous foods. My treat. Then I received my check. And realized that the government already laid its grubby fingers on my hard work and I had very little money to waste. Suddenly, fasting seemed like a very good idea.

(en route up to Maine)

Moi: Do you want shot gun?

Mother: Uh huh.

Moi: Then why're you getting in the back?

Mother: I don't want it. I said 'uh huh.'

Moi: But 'uh huh' means 'yes,' if you don't want it you say 'nah uh.'

Mother: That's not how I interpret things.

Bloody Friday

Back when I worked at the CSRC, we liked to make office trips out of getting coffee, going to 'the Magee,' or helping out with some society-changing-do-gooder event. At DOPE, however, office trips are apparently made of blood donating runs. Yesterday, the office coordinator rounded up a few of the research assistants and coordinators to give the gift of life as a group. There was going to be a trip to the ice cream parlor for those that gave blood. While I love my Larochelle twins and believe that donating blood is very important (always loved it when my dad gave blood 'cause the Taiwanese Red Cross gave out these delicious crackers just the right balance between sweet and salty), I've never given blood myself. I used to dodge behind the weight limit and when that went bust, decided to volunteer at drives instead of give blood. Now for two more months, I have a convenient malaria advisory travelling restriction preventing me from being a great person. While I was happy not to feel woozy and pricked, another research assistant in the office, Lil', was upset to find that she was restricted from giving blood. Some people apparently want to help people and do not hide behind excuses. I tried to empathize with her indignations but found it really difficult. So we had our own ice cream run instead. Hers slightly bitter, mine wonderfully sweet and painless.

Like Harrison Ford

Moi: Because of [these boxes at the entry way of my cubicle], every time I turn around, I think there's something standing behind me.

Supervisor: So what you're saying is that you're paranoid?

... I guess so? I don't think my supervisor is reading me right. She also called me a 'hip hop goddess' 'cause I used the word "word" in an email. I don't think the words 'hip hop' or 'goddess' have ever been used to describe any part of me before.

The RMV sort of hates me. The way Jon's stomach hates lactose ("it sprays, like a gas gun"). The way Carol, Jon, and my skin hates alcohol. The way we hate Nate for not getting the Asian curse. But the post office loves me. As does Riles. And mosquitoes. I would tell you about all these stories, but not now, not with this attention span. Perhaps tomorrow, when I'm no longer working late to make up for the hours I missed this morning getting yelled at by the RMV ladies.

OK Girl

At my mother's naturalization exam today, the adjudicator dictated sentence for her to write. Her sentence, he said, was "I have two wonderful children," to which she replied, "they're just ok."

I love you too, mom.

That's one more American citizens in our household now (pending ceremony in August). Three down, one more to go. Count it again and we're all 100% Taiwanese, which is pretty awesome.


Is it wrong to still be amused by words like annal, which isn't even pronounced anything like an anatomical term? Because every time I pass the magazine racks at work and see the Annals of Epidemiology and Annals of Medicine, I can't help but giggle. Also couldn't stop smiling at the sight of a doctor's neon green, fitted, short sleeved shirt today. It looked like a cross between a bike jersey and something he'd wear to a sleazy club, though I don't think either one was the look he was going for. It looked so inappropriate and silly on him that it completely made my day. I cracked a smile every time I passed his office.

And Three for Tea

Suddenly crave three very specific and very British items:

1. Treacle pudding.

2. McVitie's digestives (plain and/or plain chocolate).

3. A plate of Mosque lamb curry, spinach curry, plus nan.

+ +

On the Railroads

What do I do for a living? I wish I knew. It still hasn't sunken in yet, after a week, that I have a job. I've had jobs before, but not like this, not for the long run. It still hasn't sunken in yet that a month ago, I was interviewing with these people and then I left, they conferred, and asked for me back. Now I work in their midst. I am still just counting down the days to the three month mark, after which they could still fire me at any point they wanted, but with slightly more difficulty than right now. Probation/trial periods make me tense.

What I could tell you then, Monica Yellow (congratulations, btw, on being a teacher for a whole year! everyone should give Mon their store of gold stars for the semester- I've saved up 8) and anyone else that is interested, is where I work and what my title is. I am a research assistant. I don't work in a lab. I work in an office. I don't pipette. I stuff envelopes, make graphs, and compile databases. We are a small but growing division of a major Boston hospital. It's quite a strange relief to be associated with a prestigious hospital after all these years of 'And where'd you go to school?' and 'What was your major again?' It's as if I am somehow legit now because I have a job at a hospital, which is absolutely absurd. Family friends and strangers alike would always frown when I explained where I went to school and what I studied- two things I'm quite proud of- but once I mention my job now, they'd let out an 'ah' and smile, as if to say, "You turned out ok after all." But I'm not a doctor. Nor a nurse. Nor some brilliant researcher. I'm as illegit today as I was last week. I just happen to address envelopes for really smart people.

The Envelope, Please

Dear Diary,
Yesterday was a rather fun and interesting day at work. I edited some graphs, addressed some envelopes, worked on an online course, entered some handprint data, had some ice cream, and met with a doctor to discuss a new project. Today, I finished the course and did some research, which took about an hour and a half, then spent the rest of the day stamping and addressing envelopes. I did about 509 in all, which isn't even that impressive. But each envelope was so time consuming, required so many different things to be stuck on it and that's what I did for an entire day. Tomorrow, I stuff the envelopes. And next week, they say, the packets get bigger. I love work!

PS: Number of people who know my name (first and last): Everyone- because there's only one new kid, because they have better memories than I do, and because it's written on my cubicle. Number of people whose full names I know? Three.

IV Is No JT

Yesterday, at the division-wide presentations (with excellent free lunch! I suddenly love talks that completely go over my head)...

Intelligent Stat Docotor Man: In case any of you had doubts whether IV (instrumental variable) is sexy, this study on the relationship between school preference and rivers [being used as an example] was on the front page of the Wall Street Journal a few weeks ago.

Boss of Bosses: Yeah because even in grad school, the Wall Street Journal is considered sexy.

Intelligent Stat Doctor Man: Touche.



Cati, upon discovering that I work for DOPE (division acronym): You have a job! Woohoo! ... But it concerns me that they are paying you with drugs...

The Daily Grind

First official day of work today, felt very official and legit with own mug and desk and computer and everything. My favorite part of the day was when we made a caravan of four chairs on wheels to transport huge boxes of mailings. Everyone in the office had a good laugh at us as we slowly paraded past them. Being the first day, everything went by pretty fast and a lot went over my head. Shook a lot of hands, including one very special one belonging to the head of the division, namely, the boss of my supervisor and pretty much everyone else in the division. He seems like super guy.

Moi: (after mumbling something about it's nice meeting him)... I saw you on the Daily Show!

Boss Man: (chuckles modestly) Ah yes, my one claim to fame (this from a man with his own wikipedia page). That was the pinnacle of my career.

Moi: Everything was just downhill from there?

Boss Man: Nothing in my life before it or since then compares.

(It comes out in conversation that he was just on World News Tonight last week and the week before... a fact I was previously unaware of)

Boss Man: Yeah, that was fun but Peter Jennings... no wait, what's his name, Charles Gibson, just isn't the same as Jon Stewart.

Whose Woods These Are

I went outside to turn off the sprinklers and found this picture, which I found interesting. The mosquitoes outside, however, found me very interesting, poked through my sweatshirt and pajama pants, and stung me four times in as many minutes.

So I'm sitting here, checking my baseball scores and minding my own business when I hear this persistent whirring coming from the direction of my parents' room, like a weak vacuum cleaner. I go investigate and find my father, 9:30 at night, kneeling and hunched over, gently feeding paper into his shredder.

Moi: Bah, what are you doing? Are you evading taxes?

Father (unconvincingly): No... you are.

Three Winning Aspects of Employee Orientation

1. The pop quizzes on health and safety (including questions like "True or false, do you know where the MSDS sheets are located in your department? Questions whose answers we were told were true).

2. The thrilling video on infection risks.

3. The realization that pigeons smell like dog poop.

Runners up:

The good five minutes the security officer spent discussing code pink, including the line, "We all know what an infant looks like, it's not like a ten year old boy at all."

The orientation facilitator, on chain letters: "I did it once and nothing happened... (someone in the audience speaks up)... well, yes, I got pregnant, that I did."

Thing that Puzzles Me About My House/Family #447

Discovered today that there is a paper shredder in the master bathroom. Why, parents, why?

TB or Not TB

Went for my pre-employment tuberculosis (consumption, for those of us who have trouble pronouncing the word) screening today.  Like most good immigrant to this country, my left arm bears the mark of a previous tuberculosis vaccination, which means that every TB skin test I take is automatically positive.  After being stuck once in seventh grade, most doctors now send me straight to the X-ray round (though I had to have quite a lengthy argument with the now-dismissed Dr. Jeff because of it).  This morning, as usual, I informed the nurse practitioner that I have had the BCG vaccine, thinking that she'd send me to X-ray.  But she looked at my chart and noticed that I'd been in two summers ago.  "Now, normally we require a clear X-ray from within a year but yours is from two years ago," she remarked.  "What have you been doing in your year in between?"  "Um, going to school?"  "And where is this school?"  "Up in Maine."  "All right, then.  You probably didn't come in contact with TB.  I'm going to say that you don't have to get the X-ray."  And thus, I was cleared of tuberculosis and declared fit for employment.  I'm not sure if that was the most ethical thing to do, but it sure made my life easier.  I probably even saved the hospital some money on useless X-rays, so thank you, hassle-free Nurse Practitioner.  I won't let you down and contract the disease.

 

Mother: You did tell her that you went to China, right?

 

Moi: No... but I don't have TB, so it's ok.  Really, I swear I don't have it. 

Dying Lesson, Cont'd

No, I was aware of the pretend dye job. But that means that they still look exactly the same. Isn't that still problematic? Also, wouldn't it be more impressive if they made them think that they dyed their hair then actually dyed their hair some other color? Perhaps a haircut, too? Even a cap would be nice. All very Hiding from Authorities 101 stuff.

PS. Do you actually watch that show, Gak? Anyone else? You can tell me all about it. Family and I have been bonding over So You Think You Can Dance.

A Lesson on Dying

I don't know if you've been aware, but there's this new show out called Will Traveller or Who is Will Traveller or something. It was heavily advertised during Grey's (RIP Dr. Burke). Except for catching a few minutes last week, I haven't really watched the show because there is something fundamental about the characters that bothers me. The whole premise is that there are two guys who are framed by their friend and they are on the run from the law and have lots of exciting chase sequences every week. But I can't get over how they always look the same. If you are trying to evade authorities at every turn, and your picture is widely advertised to the public, wouldn't you want to dye your hair? Get a hair cut? Dress differently, too? Have you not seen any action movies at all? I mean, Dr. Kimble did it best, but you don't have to be smart like him to figure out that disguising yourself is a key part of not getting caught.

A Life Ordinary

I had a wonderfully pleasant evening last night, hanging out with Emily, who is quite possibly my oldest friend from home. When I first moved to this town in the sixth grade, she was assigned to be my friend by Ms. Brady. We both resented each other for the assignment at first, but then grew to be good friends. Last night, we went out to see The Waitress, a most enjoyable chick flick, and afterwards, were hungry for pie. Unfortunately, we live in the type of town where the Starbucks is closed by 9:30pm, along with anywhere else that might serve pie or tea. So we went over her house, had tea, and sat around the dining room table talking with the family, trying to catch up about our friends but realizing that we both suck at keeping in touch, and admiring her dad's origami pieces. It was a different type of hanging out and going out than what we had both pictured, but the mango black tea was lovely, the conversations great, and her father does magic with origami. I hope you have evenings like that, too.

Lost in Translation

Dear Sneezing People in the Buffet Line:

I cannot believe that I actually have to address not just one person, but people. Have you no decency? No, you do not chuckle about it, no you do not pretend that nothing happened, and no you do not keep scooping that tofu dessert I was eyeing. Step away from the food, cover your mouths, and say 'excuse me!'

No Blessings from,

Outraged but Conflicted about My Love for Buffet Line Tofu Dessert

Thinking Inside

Who of us, upon seeing an empty crate, has not had the urge to put it over our heads and pretend to be an alien robot?

M-m-me So Holy

Props again to anyone to know the title reference.

Moi: What silly person left a hymnal in the bathroom?

Mother: Aren't I so holy?

What's in your bathroom?

Buyer's Remorse

One can do a lot of things with $170,000. An open lot in Canada, a John Deere 9660, or a 2004 Fleetwood Revolution RV, among other things. Or a full-priced Bo' education.

Father didn't pay full price for the Bo' education, but he has paid enough and four years later, he's showing a bit of buyer's remorse. Well, first, he tricked me into installing a printer for him. He started by saying that "we" should put the printer together. Then asked if I needed his help. Then reasoned that since I would be using the printer a lot more than he would (because of all the papers I write at home? what?), I should install it without grumbling.

Moi (holding the heavy printer): Can you help me pull this box off?

Father: Is this how they taught you at college?

(later)

Moi (talking to myself): Now where is that toner?

Father (sigh): You're sure you graduated from college?

Sad thing is, I actually learned quite a bit about printers, toners, and copiers in college. It was my most consistent extra-curricular activity and I pride myself in knowing my way through things with ink cartridges.

Unfinished Business

I discovered a big, lively spider in my room today. I swatted at it but it got away before I could kill it, which means that there's now a live, angry spider roaming around my room as I am about to head to bed. Thirteen years after I first saw the movie at Y camp, my second week in the States, Arachnidphobia continues to freak me out just a little bit.

About a month after the offer was first, well, offered to me, HR finally contacted me. Headed into Boston today to sign some paperwork, thus propelling me one step closer to becoming a DOPE employee. Does your division have such a great acronym? I think not. I was all excited about being in the same building as a Stop & Shop, then I discover today that HR is stored right in the Prudential Mall, across from Aldo shoes. Its close proximity to a wealth of window and actual shopping glories makes it a zillion times better than my division and a zillion times more fun to work there. I like talking about HR and saying HR instead of 'human resources.' It makes me feel grown up and ergo legit.

Had subpar bubble tea today in Chinatown. I needed something cool and refreshing after sitting in a hair salon, waiting for my mother, and listening to catty old ladies chatter for quite a few hours this afternoon. The subpar quality was quite unexpected and rather disappointing. Saradonyx, where's the good bubble tea place you took me to?

PS: While researching (aka googling) whether proper bubble tea should have ice cubes (I don't think so), I came upon this question: "is bubble tea the same thing as a smoothie? I love bubble tea and I just want to know the difference!" When I read that, I died a little inside.

Bonhoeffer to You

The picture has nothing to do with what I am about to tell you. Waiting for my father today, I settled in a soon-to-be-open cafe for about an hour. There, I met the two owners, who kept trying to make small talk as I tried to read. It's been happening to me a lot the past two weeks, the making of small talk with friendly people who mean well, but who I really have nothing to say to because I don't know them. I find the situations incredibly frustrating because I want to reciprocate the niceness but it's always so painful grasping at things to talk about and we end up making stupid comments about the weather.

They were a young couple, the husband originally from Sweden and the wife from the area, though she had spent some time living in China. (I believe the husband's ice breaker was "so which part of China is your family from?" Not a very good start, but he turned out to be genuine and not ignorant.) When I first entered, the wife was sitting at a table with books and papers all about her, looking very studious, as one would when preparing for the LSATs or perhaps an important presentation. Turns out, she was reading The Complete Idiot's Guide to Starting and Running a Coffee Bar, always a good sign a week from opening day. The place did look gorgeous, though, much classier than your usual Starbucks and bigger, too. The couple was wicked friendly. They kept offering me drinks or to get me a cookie even though I had just met them. It was very hard turning them down over and over again. And so Bonhoeffer's Cafe and Espresso, even though I find your title rather redundant, you have my endorsement.

Opening June 18th.

Walden-ford II

More from my walk in the woods:

Who needs Maine when you can get scenery like this at home? Like I've said for years, once you've seen one tree, you've pretty much seen them all.

We saw this geese family cross the street. Our hearts were warmed. (Sneaky subliminal message #1: Gak, it is imperative that you insist that it was I, not Sesame, that got you the Bo' job. Your future wealth rests upon the fact.)

My mother being silly.
Mother: You really get a kick out of unflattering pictures, huh?
Moi: Why yes, yes I do.

(Subliminal message #2: Dusty, I'm quite saddened and nay, disappointed, that job security ranks higher on your priority list than visiting the great northeast. I guess I will see you when I see you.)

Whenever I see this picture, I think this would be an awesome setting for an old frontier movie about cowboys, outlaws, and... water departments in the woods.

Walden-ford

I went to the woods (with Mother) because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

But then we passed a snake, which I would have been fine with, but Mother had to stop and point and yell 'look, look, a snake! a snake!' until finally I had to turn and look at the small slithering creature. And just when I was back to breathing normal and thinking that maybe snakes aren't so scary, Mother reminded me once again that there was a brood of snakes in our own backyard. And suddenly I didn't need to discover nature any more.

At the end of our walk in the woods, Mother also insisted on taking a loop instead of walking home the way we had come from. The loop was much, much longer than we had anticipated.But afforded some great views of rural life tucked into our well manicured suburbia.

Mad Lib

Swung by the local library yesterday and discovered that there's now a little cafe on the lower level. They're selling dollar coffees in the young adult section. Apparently, they're allowing, nay, encouraging drinks in the library. Now, when I was young, people drank coffees in cafes and read books in libraries. I mean, the very cornerstones of the library are no food, no drink, and free books (with no late fees if you can manage. That's very likely the best and only desirable characteristic of this town: no library late fees). What satisfaction am I supposed to derive from sneaking food into the library if they profit from this practice? What's next, charging for books? Outdoor voices? Is nothing sacred!?

Goldilocks

Uncovered my father's outdated laptop whilst cleaning my room the other day. Here it is, a little baby of a computer but remarkably thick, sitting atop my own giant, soon-to-be-outdated but much flatter laptop.

Spare the Rod

I have got to stop telling stories with my mother in it. It is not helping with the post-college cool-twenty-something vibes. Then again, neither is a glamorous life as a research assistant nor a house in the suburbs. Darn you, prime of my life.

But the other day, I was le tired. And this being my last lazy vacation before my foray into the ranks of the employed, I should be able to sleep and wake when and where I want. But no. You see, Mother had a series of Korean soap DVDs that she had to finish by the next day. And because we had guests and her computer was in the guest room, Mother had to find another computer to watch the soaps on. (Using the DVD player would have been too public. She wanted to watch the show, yes, but she didn't want our guests to know.) Somehow, my computer was the logical choice. So late Saturday night, Mother made herself comfortable at my desk. I was banished from my room, barred from going to bed early so I could wake up for church- for visiting the house of the Lord. Instead, I was forced to stay up late and watch TV alone so Mother could finish watching her Korean soap opera. It's only by the grace of God, really, I suppose, that with the type of parenting I received, I still managed to graduate from college.

Working It

My parents just recently returned home from a two-month trip away, so there's a lot of unread mail and unheard messages in the house. Last night, Mother played a message for me from a research division asking me for a second interview.

Moi: Oh, you can delete that, I turned them down last month.

Mother: Are you sure? You don't want to call her back.

Moi: I already told her I wasn't interested.

Mother: Why not? You should still call her back.

Moi: Because I already have a job.

Mother: Right. But are you sure you don't want this one?

Of course, HR has yet to tell me anything about orientation, so I am not 100% confident that I have my job. Everything should be ok. We've talked on the phone (once) and emailed. But I'm not updating any facebook statuses until I sign that shiney* contract.

*I understand that contracts aren't actually shiney. Unless mine's diamond encrusted. That would be dope. But as I understand it, mine will not be so overflowing with benefits and pay that it could be considered shiney and is actually quite lacking in the sheen department. But I like the word, so back off.

Day Job

Today I showered, ate breakfast sausages, took communion, and had four petite lamb chops. I sauteed mushrooms, played with tools to fix and install a DVD player, cut my finger on sheet metal, uploaded and downsized. I offered help, I danced, clasped. I watched: a slideshow on a trip to Kenya, a wicked intense baseball game, and a movie about Chinese chess. I did well in boggle, shivered, and flossed. All in all, a very satisfactory day. What did you do with your Sunday?

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall

One of Mother's most frequent criticisms of us is that we are too arrogant. She describes a lot of people as arrogant. This morning, I asked her to name someone that she did not consider arrogant. Here's who made the short list:

1. Me (She was just saying that. She doesn't actually believe this.)
2. Mother

Moi: What about Jesus?

Mother: He is God, not man.

Moi: While on earth he was fully man and fully God. And he was pretty humble.

Mother: Maybe Ginger (my mother's good friend) should go on the list.

Moi: Is that before or after Jesus?

Mother: Doesn't matter, as long as she comes before me.

Mother's Revised List of the Four Most Humble of the Land:

1. Me
2. Ginger
3. Mother
4. Jesus

Beat that, Jesus.