Is There a Canopy in Store for Me?

The past three months, I've shared quite few long subway rides with co-workers. I don't think they've ever gone too smoothly. The constant starting and stopping really messes with conversation. Pauses are more awkward than they have to be and well, the rides are just so darn long. Today, while talking with [edit: the resident biostat extraordinaire], the conversation came in fits and at one point, we got on the subject of nerdy jokes. I asked if there were any stats/epi (epidemiology) jokes. Apparently there are. Or maybe there aren't. As my co-worker started his joke, I grew increasingly concerned that it'd be so esoteric that I wouldn't get the punchline.

This is what he said:

A group of epidemiologists and biostatisticians get on a train. The epidemiologists all buy tickets, but the group of biostatisticians only buy one ticket. The epidemiologists are all amazed and say to each other, "wow, look at those guys, I wonder what they're up to." When the conductor comes buy and yells for tickets, the epidemiologists all present theirs, but the biostatisticians get up and all cram into the bathroom, so that when the conductor knocks on the door and yells for tickets, one hand sticks out and they only show one. The conductor buys it and moves on. The epidemiologists are amazed. On the return trip, the epidemiologists only buy one ticket for the group but the biostatisticians don't buy any. "I wonder what they're up to now," the epidemiologists say to one another. When the conductor goes around checking for tickets, all the epidemiologists go into the bathroom, they hear someone knock, so one epidemiologist sticks out his (or her) hand and gives the ticket- only to realize he (or she) has handed it to a biostatistician, who give it to the conductor. The moral of the story is that epidemiologists shouldn't just copy what biostatisticians do without figuring out why.

I'm not sure if I was supposed to laugh at the joke or with the joke. But I'm pretty sure that there's a more effective setup for this moral. Is this what lies ahead in adulthood and further schooling? Jokes like this? If that's so, then let me be a corporate shill. Let me be a Toys R Us kid.

My Own Judas

Doesn't it always suck when you think you have food poisoning and then you realize that unless the freshly brewed tea you just had was the culprit, you were responsible for the lunch you had a few hours ago, the very lunch that you believe is now making you sick? 

Yeah, it does.

Putting the Die in Diabetes

After a hearty bowl of pasta this evening (dubious restaurant, terrible service, surprisingly good food), we decided for a stroll and some dessert. We passed up the usual cannolis and gelato in search of something light, but all plans of that went into the rubbish when we came upon this:

[I removed the picture. After I killed too many keyboards drooling over them.]

Ice-cream filled donut with chocolate topping. It nearly killed me. In fact, it is still slowly killing me hours after the fact. Was it the best thing I'd ever tasted? No, not by far. But was it worth the loss of a few arteries as well as sensation of a couple of extremities to experience a donut covered in chocolate and filled with ice cream? Definitely. Plus, I think ice cream-filled dessert is magical. Mac's stains disappeared from his shirt shortly after eating his ice cream-filled brownie.

In Remembrance of Sunnier Days

Linda-three-ways. From this past weekend. It was hardly sunnier, but certainly warmer and the easy-going slowness and laziness of the weekend were much more enjoyable than the life-draining dullness that work has become in the last two days.

Where there is boredom, however, there is also camaraderie. Saw Lenny tonight and girl sucks at keeping in touch but she's also one of the easiest people for me to laugh with, especially now that she's eating meat again (her vegetarian conversion was the topic of my college essay)- she even ate a hot dog last week! And tomorrow, I walk through the sharp streets of Boston with a bona fide bleeder. Two dinners with two of my favorite people in one week. And I haven't even begun preparing my stomach for the Brazilian BBQ on Saturday- meeting friends outside of college sure is pricey, but boy is it also tasty.

One last note: if any of you are athletes, take heed, you do not want to play for Wentworth. Waiting for the T tonight, I had the chance to catch a bit of a soccer game. I witnessed a player get injured and walk to the sidelines with a trainer-type person. The injured player sat down while the trainer tended to a little black pack. He struggled with opening the pack a full three minutes before giving up and leaving to search through a bigger black bag for first aid materials. All this while, the player waited visible discomfort. At first I thought that the player couldn't have been seriously injured for him to have to wait so long. But after a few more minutes of scrambling and struggling, I saw the trainer finally put some gloves on (that seemed the trickiest task after bag-opening- two things they don't teach you in first aid), search some more, then tend to the player's wounds- on his head. Remember kids, if you're ever hurt at Wentworth, you'd be better off dragging your bloody self a couple of miles down the road to any number of world-class hospitals- especially since chances are, you'll probably end up there anyway.

In Cold Blood

Note to self: Weather.com is not to be trusted. Weather.com makes up vicious lies about how warm it is outside. Weather.com does not want the best of me. Weather.com wants me to shiver alone in the dark.

The World At Her Feet

Oysters at low tide
Originally uploaded by karinavans

I stole this picture of Jenny from Karina, because she's a better Flickr'er than I am. This was my favorite shot of our weekend. A few friends from the Bo', a few home cooked meals, and a few hours of warmth at the beach. Who could ask for more?

With Great Power

A co-worker left on Friday.  In the moving out process, I inherited both her label maker and 'Confidential' stamp.  I cannot believe the responsibilities I am entrusted with and have already begun abusing the privileges (see: notebook now covered in red stamp).  Brace yourselves for a storm of confidential letters. 

I Spy

I am in the world's longest chase for a patient's record ever.  From one hospital to another, though we are less than a mile apart, the process has been complicated by endless phone tags, sudden resignation, and intrigue (the package turning up at a mysterious address in Waltham, for example, when both of our hospitals are in Boston and the patient and her primary doc live much farther south).  All the twists and turns would be fun if this was a spy movie or an amusement park ride, but they're turning out rather tedious when it's my life and job.  I can't even step away from my cubicle to use the restroom because I'm expecting a call any second now and don't want to have to call her back and be put on hold for twenty minutes again. No one ever tells you when you sign up for these things that there's really no pee in P.I.

Admittance is the First Step

Enjoying it is the second.

At the beach this morning, overheard two girls, no more than six years old, chatting about their lives...

Girl #1: I'm an alcoholic.

Girl #2: Do you like it?

Light of the World

Talked to a stranger on the phone today who all the sudden had to go when I heard shouts of "Code Blue," and "Make sure you're wearing gloves" in the background.  He got a doc in our office all right, but I have no idea how he managed to misdial and reach my extension.

Saw Mac yesterday across the street, but he was too far away for me to stop and he would not pick up his cellphone. 

While waiting for the light to change yesterday, a man ran past all the cars to my side of the sidewalk with one hand out and a lighter in hand.  He dodged through the rows of cars just to light the lady's cigarette.  It was such a strange sight and I had no idea what to make of it. 

Off to the Cape for the weekend.  How very cliche, yet how very exciting.

Hardly Working

I think the elevator at work is daring me to take risks. But I'm not falling for that again.

Sign on elevator: Out of Order. Please Use Elevator.

Parking Perks

Why do rich people get all the breaks?

"All donors receive a t-shirt, $5 meal coupon to the BWH cafeteria, and successful donors will receive validated parking." - Urgent hospital-wide memo.

Regardless of credentials and career accomplishments, do we not breathe the same air? Bleed the same color red?

Advance Placements

From the Annals of What is This Doing in My House?:

Just kidding on that last one. I know exactly why that's there. Junior year Anatomy & Physiology. I always called it Jerry while Squeaky my partner insisted on some other name. I think it was Ezz.

Why You're Not Here

Oh, Dusty, Boston isn't always glamor and serving the poor and intentional community. Since being back in MA, I've only seen your beloved Mr. Simon twice. (I actually try not to hang out with him a lot). Granted, that's two more than you have, but who's keeping count? We also have unsafe bridges/tunnels, low-wages (not Boston- just Dwight, BP, and me), and a dearth of candy bars deep fried in oils with or without trans-fat. And our ideas of 'baseball' are rather limited, revolving around only 2 teams in the AL East. And, and... OK, those are the only things that I can think of. Sorry.

Back to work!

In Remembrance of Childhood

Now that I have most of the trappings of a person my age in the way of federal and state-issued identifications and licenses, now that I have joined the working masses, and now that I don't wear colorful sneakers every day of the week, I sometimes forget how odd it all began, that spending a good chunk of your childhood in churches and seminaries does make you a little different from everyone else. For example, when I was 4 or 5, playing 'wedding' in with other children of seminarians, we spent a lot less time focused on the walk down the aisle and a lot more focused on finding the right passage in Corinthians, our 'Dearly Beloved' speech, and how the benediction would go. Then there was the matter of communion...

Moi: ...when I was little, I used to play communion.

(Entire table looks at me, puzzled)

Dwight: Oh please, that's just something you said in your BP interview to get the job.

Jackie: No, I've heard of this. I've met a few PKs who have told me that before. They really do that.

Sarah: How do you 'play' communion?

Moi: Oh, it was like playing house but with real food. You take some grape juice and break some bread and bless it, and you say the whole "this is my body" bit.

Sarah: How's that different from real communion?

Moi: It wasn't the first Sunday of the month?

I think it was the ritual of it that was cool. Then once at a last supper for a retreat, we were playing when [our old youth minister] saw us and told us that that wasn't taking the Lord's Supper seriously and when people had joked about it in Paul's time in the Bible, they died. So we stopped playing.

Dwight: What a downer.

Gone 60 Seconds too Late

Dear Ricky-
Can I call you Ricky? I think your friends call you Rick, but your mom and her friends call you Ricky and I'm in the mood for a reprimand. From what I've heard from our parents, you're a little whiny, rather particular about your tailor-made suits, but essentially a grown man going to grad school and making your own living. What the freak made you think it was OK to return the car without calling ahead, without a full tank of gas, and doing it at 12:30 in the morning while your giggling friends looked on?

No peace. No love.

And certainly no Joyce.

Maybe They Need to Lay Out Six Stone Water Jars

Had a second week of communion at the church of the white grape juice and the juice there is still white! And there was less of it this week than the last, which makes me wonder about some citywide grape juice shortage in the city of Nashua, formerly named one of the best places to live in America. Or maybe the church is strapped for funds and cannot afford to buy more grape juice. And that's why they always collect the offering right after the Lord's Supper. How else could you explain white grape juice two weeks in a row? One week is understandable- a last minute emergency, a sudden dearth of juice at Market Basket- but two weeks, that's an extra seven days to prepare! If you can't come up with the goods in seven days, something seriously fishy is going on.

Incidentally, the cracker was as delicious this week as it was the last. It was crunchy perfection. and I'm pretty sure both leavened and seasoned. Maybe I've got to stop taking communion while hungry.

Second Helpings

How do you graciously bow second to a school that has suffered a great, indescribable tragedy this past year when you clearly know that your school deserves to be number one and that the other school only won because of pity votes?

Say what you may about the Bo's academic credentials, number six or seven, ACC boycott, conflated numbers, whatever- as long as I can continue to look comfortably and smugly down at Colby, I don't really care about rankings and outside perceptions. That is, except for the title of Best Campus Food, given almost annually to the Bo'. In my four years there, we only slipped to second once, and it's wasn't because our food wasn't the best, it was because- these are Wheaton kids' words and not mine- Wheaton kids are too polite and holy to say anything negative about their food.

But now we've slipped again, and Wheaton falling with us, to second and third respectively. And we lost to the title to a big school. Where the dining hall ladies can't possibly know you by name and how you like your omelets. Where the school year does not start with lobster. Where kids probably don't clamor for the Hungarian Mushroom Soup recipe. And where they won't bring back banana chocolate chip cake just because you asked. What's next-


-I'm sorry. I forget where I was going with this poor sportsmanship and indignation. I just made myself incredibly hungry. It's mighty morphin' latke time.

Leave the Latkes

Sometimes, after long stretches of eating Chinese, Vietnamese, and Thai, and too many hours spent wishing for the street food of Taiwan, I forget that I also like white people food. Like potato latkes. I cannot emphasize enough my love for latkes. They were, as some of you may recall, the sole reason that I crashed the town Hanukkah party with Creegan in our senior year of high school (she told them that we were thinking of converting. she didn't tell me that ahead of time). Sometimes, more than a British barmaid grandmother, I wish I had one that kept kosher.

Last night, Lauren and I had a completely whitey touristy night, but it was great nonetheless. And partly redeemed by the fact that I gave some girls directions and absentmindedly said Nawnth Station instead of North (not that I'm going to start going around in a Boston accent any time soon. Pretentious people don't speak with Boston accents). Lauren and I met up for dinner at Giacomo's, where a line actually formed outside the restaurant even before it opened. Some slightly late souls who only arrived 10 minutes before opening had to stand outside and watch us eat our entire dinner before getting a turn themselves. Afterwards, we did the requisite cannoli visit to Mike's Pastry and walked through Faneuil Hall. I want to say that I was embarrassed by going to all these tourist traps but you know what, the sight of balloon animals just makes me giddy. As I was eating my cannoli on a sidewalk bench, a group walked by...

Man 1: I could really go for a cannoli right now.

Man 2: Yeah, a chocolate covered one.

Man 1: With chocolate chips.

Woman: Like the one she's eating now?

(Everyone turns to stare at me as I take a messy bite of mine. I try to smile, but I've got a mouth full of cream and chocolate. Some more stares. A long pause.)

Man 2: Yeah, just like that.

I R Screwed?

For much of the past two weeks at work, I have been going through the division's old files and journals, sorting out papers while packing off boxes of journals (633 lb. in all) to be shipped off to Asia. Another great use of my hundred-K-plus education. (Seriously, if I hear one more crack about where that money is going, heads will roll and tails will spin. I am, natch, allowed to make the stupid jokes myself. As are my folks, as people who partly financed the education. But that's it.)

In the clean up process, one of my fellow research assistants came across a letter from 1984 from the IRS, claiming that our division chief neglected to submit a tax form for his consulting firm. She showed it to another research assistant, then another, and so the paper passed through another several others in the division. It was finally about to be laid to rest when a brilliant but devious doctor (yes, I'm just saying that on the slim off chance that he reads this. Shoring up the brownie points) laid his eyes on the document and hatched a brilliant but devious plan. Why just laugh about the IRS when we can pretend to be the IRS?

Thus the research assistants were dispatched to doctor a fresh note from the IRS demanding back payment. And because even among research assistants, I am lowly and easily-bossed-around, I was delegated the actual task of writing the letter though I took no part in the initial discovery. Not that I'm complaining. Compared to packing, organizing files, playing phone tag, making spreadsheets, as well as the humiliation of having to sign official letters with my "credentials" of "B.A.," forging a note from the IRS was easily the highlight of my week.

For now, the letter is off of my hands and in the secure palms of the evil genius doctor, who is making the final touches and of course, preparing to bear the brunt of what comes. (I've explained that I cannot bear to be fired; I need to put food on the table... for myself. But he said something about having a kid and not being in a good place for firing either. The way I see it, kids don't eat half as much as I do and are thus much more low-maintenance. Plus, he's a lot more employable than I am.) It's looking fifty-fifty right now whether the letter's recipient will find it hilarious or a betrayal of confidence and cause for fire. Just in case though, it may be a good idea for all of you to start clearing off the couches, leaving change all around the house, and inviting me for dinner. Just in case.

No Other Fount I Know

With all the excitement this past week, what with the dinners out and DVDs and ignoring the dishes in the sink and the ironing to be done, I forgot to share my communion story!

Had communion at a new church on Sunday and noticed that their wine looked decidedly different than any I'd ever seen. It was all very pale. My first thoughts went to hard alcohol, as in, "Wow, I've seen churches serve wine, but vodka? That's either very traditionalist or very progressive of them, I don't know which." Then my more sensible mind told my first instincts that I was crazy and no church would serve liquor, so perhaps the clear liquid was water, for the recovering alcoholics who couldn't partake in the red wine. But after one quick glance around the church, I realized that unless the church was lush with lushes, my theory was off. Turns out, it was white grape juice. (paired with the most delicious wafers I'd ever tasted. I think it was flavored) Finally, a church answered my age-old communion beverage dilemma (cranberry v. white grape juice in the case of a red grape shortage) head on and positioned themselves on the side of the fruit. I don't know if that was the choice I would have gone with, but the body tasted delicious, the white grape juice was hilarious and I think, for the time being, I've found a church.

All My Korean Children

There's a Chinese saying that every family has a book that's hard to read. I guess Chinese people really liked round-about metaphors. The phrase basically means that every family is dysfunctional in its own way. True, but some are more messed up than others. And because TChu and I are into comparisons and would-you-rathers, and who-could-take-who scenarios, he's come up with "Whose Family is Most Worthy of a Korean Soap Opera*?"

Over burgers (and a wimpy salad for wimpy Ranwei) this past Sunday, TChu, Ranwei, and I duked it out. Sure neither TChu and I had an uncle who's actually been kidnapped and held for ransom (with a priest dropping off the ransom for them- double awesome), but Ranwei didn't have much in the way of sketchy family history and quickly fell out of contention. And thus off we went, TChu and I, round after round: On the prestige side, Tim's family boasts a national scholar (a man that was essentially the smartest man in China in his time), but I have a great great who was a general for the emperor. In the way of rags-to-scholars, Tim's grandfather taught himself to read on a ship, but my grandfather was pulled out of school and had to secretly read books by candlelight so his mother wouldn't find out. I also have photogenic cousins and soaps only portray beautiful people. Tim's family has Chinese triad connections and a whole side of the family so shady that they no longer stay in touch. But I have relatives who have bought passports, had more than one family, and escaped in the dark of night. It looked like I was going to take the competition toward the end, what with secret sons and near-executions and writing screen plays and all- but I didn't have one story good enough to trump Tim's ace: a grandfather in the merchant marines who won the heart of a British lady and fathered two Chinese-British kids only to be recalled home and forced into an arranged marriage. Do you know how hard it must have been for a Chinese merchant marine to marry a British barkeep? How I wish I could have half British second cousins running around in the world not knowing whatever happened to their grandfather! And because of that fatal missing piece, I decided to call our family soap competition a draw. I didn't win, but there's no way I lost.

Is your family worthy of a Korean soap? I want to hear the stories.

*Oh, it's got to be Korean. I can't speak much for telenovelas, but from what I've sampled of North American, Asian, and some European soaps, I know that the Koreans do it best.

School Daze

Walking out of the train this morning, rushing between the commuter rail and subway as I do every day, I realized that lately, I have been having dreams of school.  Not nightmares of pop tests and disappointed professors, but dreams of walking into a table of friends and sitting down to join them as we talk about stupid nothings.  Realizations of waking up from dreams like that make me hate dreams.  I actually go to bed sometimes with the prayer that I won't have dreams in my sleep.  It's not that I don't have friends anymore.  I do.  I've been seeing a lot of them lately and really enjoying myself.  But at the Bo', as tired and busy as I always was, I was also always immersed in friends.  I was always late to appointments because I bumped into someone along the way.  It's September and I'm growing up.  I'm working, commuting, taking out the trash at night and loving it.  But there are moments like this morning when I'm suddenly caught off guard, and I miss the often maddening 'intellectual rigors,' the easy, lazy comraderie ("You use the science computer lab?  I do, too!" "Let's bump into each other again dinner-ish"), and the spontaneous conversations that happen every day at school.

LobstahFest 2007

The event used to be called LobsterFest 2007, until Holly reminded me of my place and suggested the more apropos LobstahFest.

Yesterday, Sarah and I schooled the Dorchester Three in eating lobster. They had apparently never been to country clubs or yachts or schools with $47K tuition (just went up $2000 this year) and had thus never learned how to properly dismember lobsters.

Note Sarah's claw as she explains to Dwighters the best way to remove the lobster tail- her favorite part. (As she explains, she likes some of that "hot lobster ass.")

We also played my smoothest round of Scrabble ever. I lost, as I often do when I'm not playing my dad, but it was glorious nonetheless. There was also Boggle after Scrabble, but I won't bore you with how that went down. Just remember, unless your name starts with P and ends in -eter Majeed, I could probably take you in Boggle.

Of course, the afternoon wasn't all nerdy word games. There was also a surprise pinata from Kat and Jackie (our Scrabble champ).

A doe-eyed cow pinata.

that we broke open with my mom's exercise equipment.

Best LobstahFest ending ever.

Dangerous Liasons

I stole these pictures from TIME magazine. This is a map comparing the conditions of bridges between states. Anyone see anything wrong with this map?

I do. Most states have a beige, sandy color, which means not very dangerous. But not my state- the only glaring red spot on the map.

Of the fifty states in the Union, I apparently live in the state with the second highest percentage of dangerous bridges. In fact, more than half of our bridges are dangerous. The next closest state is almost 20% less dangerous. New York looks like a safe little bubble compared to us.

My Compliments

I'd like to think my supervisor likes me. I try to be a nice little employee. And she's often generous with her compliments. Or at least I think she is. But sometimes, I'm just not sure.

Like when she has me do grunt work and apologizes, telling me that she knows I'm really smart and didn't pay $100,000 to stuff envelopes. Or yesterday, because I was trying to find her a book with a bigger font (because I'm perceptive and sweet like that), she told me that I was the next best thing to a seeing eye dog.

Thank you? Excuse me? Huh?

Judging Jeudi

Today, I was

hit by the T door

stood up by a patient

recognized by the sometimes panhandler by 7-11 (sometimes he asks for money, sometimes he just hangs out, and sometimes he's not there. I haven't really figured that one out).

I solved four sudoku puzzles with time to spare on the commuter rail. I also ate spoiled cabbage. And some nice pasta samples at Trader Joe's.

The lab people at one site now knows me as 'the pitiful kid whose patients never show up.' My supervisor deemed me 'a hoot and three quarters.' And the guy that hands out BostonNOW in the afternoons remembers me now. When I walked by him today without picking up a copy, he looked surprised, and yelled after me, "What? You don't need my papers now?" (But I already had one!)

Home

All summer long, I've been church hopping and not seeing a lot of my childhood church chums. There are a lot of reasons for it- on top of the fact that I'd been going to the plant church for years now, I'm also looking for a more permanent grown-up church now as opposed to summer reunions with youth group buddies. There's also busyness, following my dad as he preaches at different churches, being away, hosting visitors, laziness, and other uninteresting excuses.

But tonight, I got to hang out with a few friends from church- two I have known since 4th grade, one since high school, and one who is mostly new. It was lovely, as most hang outs with friends are, but what stuck with me was when we were all sitting down to eat (at the mall food court, very classy), Eric turned to me and said, "My mom asked me to ask about how your grandmother is doing," and Jon followed with, "Yeah, my mom asked, too."

And I realized then what a blessing these childhood chums were. Sure we talked a lot about stupid stuff like all the places Ken's fingers have been. But they aren't just friends. We have roots together. We have families that know each other and moms that inquire. And it was such a relief, after days of telling and asking, to be asked how my grandmother was doing, and to know that people were praying.

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.