Lay of the Land

Note to self: If one does not cook and pack a good lunch the night before, one will not eat a good lunch at noon.  Similarly, if one slacks off and half-asses making a lunch, someone will notice the shift in quality the next day, and that someone is you, you moron.

 

Lunches have stopped appearing magically before my eyes.  Dinners, too.  I miss my wealth of polar points.

Great Expectations

Over the past two weeks, I thought a great deal about things. I pondered death and aging, race relations, the meaning of homeland, Joe Torre's legacy, and other weighty matters I was going to share with you. But my internet was conveniently down during most of that time. And while I could still tell you my views on all these things, the momentum has sort of passed. And new things are coming to my attention. Like all the pregnancy speculations surrounding Jennifer Lopez.

I really hope J. Lo is pregnant. Because it'd really suck if she wasn't and everyone just assumed that she was.

Elephant in the Yard

Went for an afternoon stroll in Hukou's "old town" with my parents last week. We ventured into the courtyard of a Catholic church and made our way up a small hill. This was our first view of the top. For some reason, Mother thought the most interesting things on the hill were the green apples on the tree. Nothing else seemed out of place to her.

Closet Comforts

I hate phone calls.  And having the grunt job of doing nothing all week but calling dozens of pharma companies does not make me like phone calls any better.  In fact, surprisingly, it makes me resent making calls all the more.  There is one perk to making calls all day though- at least for today.  I get to use a closet office of one of our part-time programmers.  The office has no windows and the door locks behind it.  It's not even within our division suite but accessed through the main hallway, right next to the copy room.  Do you see how beautiful this is?  There is no one watching over my shoulders as I type.  There is no one watching over my shoulders as I do anything.  No one is here but me.  When I grow up, I want to have a closet office all to myself.  Until then, I've got two more hours of this to enjoy.  Then for the rest of the week, I'm doing calls in an open space where people can see and hear.  And where I cannot watch videos during my down time, as I can here.  I should strive to be a programmer.  And program things.

Sidelined

Almost back. The internet at home has been down since I've been home and now it's finally back up. I know, whose internet is ever down anymore? It all seems very 90's. And even though I'm late for work, I can't resist checking to see if every site I ever needed was still there. There are videos to be watched, people to gripe about, and pictures to post. Fingers crossed that the good fate continues tonight, when I get home.

Jesus Loves Me This I Know

There are a lot of bad drivers in Taiwan.  Or perhaps they're all really good drivers.  Everyone's is aggressive, no one uses turn signals, and there's a lot of passing in narrow lanes with incoming traffic.  Taiwanese drivers make Boston drivers look like Hello Kitty.  Whenever Father and Mother see an especially atrocious and rude driver, being the sociologically insensitive generalizers that they are, they like to accuse the other sex of the offense.  So riding in the car is a lot of "psh, women drivers."  "I bet that was a guy.  Only a man would drive like that."  "All bad drivers are women."  "No, they're men.  Look at that one."  "Women."  "Men."  "Women."  "Men."  Really, I can't believe I'm leaving all this fun tomorrow to go home to ride in the sanctuary of my own car to my own music.

 

 

(As father tries to pull out of a tight parking space in a tiny garage today...)

 

Moi: Why don't you just hit the car [badly parked in front of us]?  No one will see but us and Jesus and I'm sure Jesus will forgive you.

 

Father: That's great about Jesus, but if I scratch his car, I also scratch my car.  I don't want the car to get scratched.

 

Sometimes, Jesus' grace just doesn't quite cut it.

Farewell My Vacation

Leaving for Boston via Tokyo then San Francisco tomorrow morning, which means that tomorrow, I'll be saying goodbye to my blissful two-weeks off of work.  Don't actually know when I'll have such a carefree stretch of time off again.  Perhaps not for months, or even years.  We'll see. 

 

So I bid adieu tonight to Taiwan.  To street vendor food at every corner (beef balls, salty fried chicken, freshly steamed bread, etc., etc.), 7-11's that can do anything you need it to, from bill paying to DVD pick-ups to child rearing, to grandparents, aunts, family friends, parents, and brother.  Goodbye to mountain climbing, endless shopping and ridiculously cute things, to living among the mentally challenged and smelly dogs who love me.  Goodbye to small cars and reckless driving, to waking up late, and not exercising mind, body, or soul.  To baseball games in the morning, Korean Grey's Anatomy ripoff at 10pm, and snacks all day long.  To people who look like me and also speak Mandarin with a Taiwanese accent.  To being a tourist and discovering rural poverty in my own country, and to so much more I can't remember right now.  I hope I can see all of you again soon.  For the time being, I'm off to the Commonwealth.

Grandfather Clause

Grandfather (dad's side, so not the one I hung out with last summer) seems to be the only person in the world convinced that I can and should become a doctor.  Not that I'm not considering, but he's completely dead set on it.  And have you ever tried to say 'no, let's wait and see how smart I am' to your ninty-year old grandfather?  It's very hard.  You know what else is hard?  Remembering three languages at the age of ninty.  He speaks Taiwanese mostly, Mandarin to me, the youngest grandchild who knows the least Taiwanese, and somewhere in the back of his mind, is Japanese, which he speaks to no one nowadays but still keeps fresh.  I hope I keep my tongues like that when I'm old.  It'd come in especially handy for cross-culture TV watching.

 

I have never seen a Korean soap I haven't shaken my head at (though sometimes I keep watching, and watching) and a Japanese game show I don't enjoy.  I don't like the shows for their zaniness, but there's an earnestness and innocence in the contestants that you don't see in reality TV in the States.  On the game show I watched today, two chefs duked it out over three courses using the finest of ingredients.  In today's case, it was kobe beef against some really, really expensive tuna.  What happens is that the two chefs make their ridiculously luxurious food that normal people could never afford to eat, then a panel of celebrities vote on whose food they'd rather have.  Those that vote for the winning chef get to eat the food and those that vote for the loser don't.  It's very simple yet extremely cruel.  You basically watch two people make equally mouth watering food in front of you, have to somehow choose between the two, and if you make the wrong choice, you end up watching other people eat really good food while you sit there with nothing.  My mom said they once had an episode with kids on the panel.  And a few of the losing kids started crying when the winners started eating.  That ought to teach the kids not to strive for things they may not reach.

Myth of the Model Lush

My extended family does not know me very well.  It has something with my shyness growing up, with the fact that I am the youngest on my dad's side of the family, and that our family never lived close to any other members of the extended family.  They just know me from the occasional visits during the holidays, visits that became more rare as the years went by.  Thus, there are many family myths about me based off of impressions and outdated tidbits and perhaps stories from my parents, because all parents are obligated to share proud stories of their children.  According to family myths, I am good and serious and quiet and above all, an excellent student.  That's pretty much all that they know about me.  Except for one more thing- 

 

there seems to be the mistaken impression that I can handle my alcohol.  It's a myth that both sides of my extended family believe.  I'm not sure how all this happened, but I guess it goes back to my visit before the last (the summer going into my junior year of high school, about six years ago), a visit that has apparently made an impression.  Twice this trip, I've declined offers of beer or drank very little only to have an aunt comment that it was ok and bring up that they remembered I could drink quite a bit.  "No, not really," I replied modestly the first time, but my aunt said, "no, I remember you keeping up with your uncle quite well."  I remember my uncle filling my glass with beer all night to see if I'd loosen up if drunk, and a bit disappointed that nothing much happened.  But it couldn't have been more than two cans of beer.  And some nasty home brewed wine.  I don't know how the myth developed on my mom's side.  I probably drank so much with yet another uncle that I blacked out the whole experience.  Though it's not likely.  Because everyone knows that goody PKs who are short and have an aldehyde dehydrogenase deficiency can down drinks with the best of them. 

 

Go Sox. 

Vacation Vexations

For the past few days, I have been away on a vacation within my vacation, sightseeing in parts of Taiwan that I haven't been before and some I have many moons ago.  It has also been a vacation, I suppose from my sanity, as I somehow got talked into waking up early to go hiking at 5 am yesterday.  I don't exercise regularly, let alone climb things with summits.  Summits and I don't get see eye to eye.  Perhaps because they're so high up.  And yet, yesterday, I was there hiking away for a good 4 hours.  That's one sixth of my day I could have spent not moving.  And making cracks about the Bible. 

 

Brother:  4 am?  That's before either Jesus or the sun gets up.

 

Mother:  Before Jesus gets up?  "Indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep."*

 

Brother:  Pretty sure that's talking about his dad and not Jesus.

 

(earlier, trying to convince our family friend to skip her Bible study the next morning to hang out with us- we have lots of friends who are pastors that need to be convinced away from sermon prep and fasting to hang out with the family)

 

Brother:  What's there to study?  Everything in the Bible is truth, that's all they need to know.

 

Moi: Yeah, if they haven't figured out the Bible at this point, there's probably no saving them.

 

 

 

 

*The quote, my heathen friend(s?), is from Psalm 121, one that should be easily recognizable to my Judeo-Christian friends.  Unless they're bad Judeo-Christians.   

Tell Me Where in the World Is...

I swear, if one more person asks me how I'm doing in China...

Reason #21 Why I Love Chinar

(slash why I felt oppressed by its faceless bureaucracy my entire time there)

 

For the easily confused, let me explain that I am not in Chinar right now.  I'm in Taiwan.  Yet this story is about Chinar, not Taiwan.  You got that?  I heard this from one of our greatest family friends.  She was on a ten-hour bus ride to Beijing, and about eight hours into the ride, traffic halted.  For a very long time.  So much so that passengers and drivers alike got out of their vehicles to relieve themselves and chat.  And cuss.  For a very long time.  Our friend said that they had tried to hold the flow in in the hopes of not having to use any public restrooms between lunch and Beijing, but as the afternoon wore on, they started feeling miserable and traffic still wasn't moving.  Her and her friend were teh only two people who didn't get off the bus to pee on teh side of the road so finally, the bus driver turned to her and asked, "Miss, how badly do you have to go?"  And let her use the lavatory in the back of the bus.  Which was apparently locked the entire ride.  All the other passengers had to just find a spot along the highway, our friend inspired special pity.  Soon after, the sun settled down and the toll workers packed up and went home.  That's right.  Buses, cars, and people were all still jammed along the road, but the highway workers, assuming that their work was done (if no one moves, what's there to collect?), left for the night.  Around dinner time, our friend noticed that people all around her were digging into bowls of instant noodles.  "Strange!  How did they all come prepared?" she wondered, "what are the chances that everyone packed noodles?"  She soon found the answer when she heard the call of noodle vendors walking along the highway.  The traffic problem is apparently so regular and prevalent outside of Beijing that there are regular food vendors that walk along the highways, selling nourishment to weary travellers.  These people's livelihood depend on traffic to be so backed up that people literally stand still for hours.  At one point late in the night, amidst much ruckus and complaining and patronizing between passengers, it was announced that everyone should go to sleep because they weren't going anywhere.  And so people got back into their cars and buses and tried to sleep.  Around 1am, traffic started moving inch by inch, and around 4am, which was about 12 hours later than expected, our friend finally arrived in Beijing. Stories like that make me grateful that my ridiculous commute is 'only' an hour and a half long.  And that the very, very worst traffic only adds forty-five minutes to any drive instead of twelve God-forsake and bathroom-less hours.

 

Conversation highlights along the way:

 

Friend: So what happens, say, if a person has a heart attack in this traffic?

Local 1: Sucks to be that person.

 

 

Local 2: Socialist state, my foot!  Look at this mess.  These people ought to be lined up and shot.

I See Starving People

At the age of near-ninety, my grandfather is almost blind and has a poor sense of taste, but he apparently has a fourth sense about body fat.  When I went to say hi to him this morning, he commented that I had lost weight.  Everyone else around told him that that was not true.  To which he replied that it was probably because he hadn't seen me in about ten years.  Then everyone pointed out it was actually one, as I was just here last summer.  He also said that I should not diet.  When people repeatedly tried to tell him that I had not lost weight (and some commented that I had actually gained a few pounds), he very diplomatically said that I was the ideal weight.  Maybe he divined all this from our handshake.  I don't know, but I'm a believer in grandpa.  I'm also inclined to believe my grandmother's nursing aide, who said that I had not only lost weight but have also grown taller.  Since last summer.  There are some lies that are just so outrageous that they have to be true.

Dispatch from the Motherland

I have decided that I must bring my camera with me everywhere.  Forgot to do that this morning and now I have one less day of memories on record.  Staying in with the relatives is actually a very boring affair here.  Cable has been down for days because of a typhoon that passed a few days ago.  Can't even watch the Liberation Day fireworks on TV.  But outside- outside lies a world of excellent street eats for cheap and stores just brimming with cute stationary and bags, all paid for by the parents (decision not to change money into local currency is oen of wisest decision made in months). 

Things I Am Allergic To

(Hello, I'm in Taiwan)

 

Dust

 

Llama wool

 

Ginkgo biloba (not really, but how cool would that be?)

 

Unknown additive in cheap Chinese seafood products (for a brief period in 8th grade, still don't know what it is or what was up)

 

Physics

 

and now newly acquired:  Every single room in my grandfather's house.  And, as Jesus says, "There are many rooms in my grandfather's house."

Goodbye for Now

I am sitting next to two fools in the local library who are having trouble finding four sources for a paper on Lincoln.  It makes me sad knowing that they go to one of the better high schools in the state.  And that judging by appearances, they're probably two of the better students at school (they look very B+).  They've tracked down one book, but can't figure out where exactly it is.  The fools are stuck on "how they (the library) organize this (books)."

 

My internet is down.  Again.  This makes life very inconvenient.  Especially when I need to read emails in Chinese.  But that's OK, because I'm going off to Taiwan on Columbus day.  So I probably won't blog for awhile.  Did I forget to tell you ahead of time?  Apparently, I've been forgetting to tell a lot of people.  Last weekend at the Bo', full of eating out and not moving much at all earned me about three pounds of flesh.  I wonder what two weeks of excess will do and I can't wait to find out.

Healthy Hydrogens

Strange things are happening in the city and they keep interfering with my commute.  On Wednesday, two blocks were closed to traffic, fire engines were posted everywhere, helicopters hovered over buildings, and the T stopped because of a mysterious gas leak by the Longwood/Harvard School of Public Health area that turned out to be a non-issue.  A non-issue but a huge traffic nightmare.  Then this morning, I arrived at North Station to find the biggest crowd I had ever seen there, but of course, nobody knew why.  But the kicker was what happened after I got off of the subway to walk into work.  Traffic that had been going on smoothly was suddenly halted as two cops on motorbikes with full sirens sped to the middle of the busy intersection, stopped, and started directing traffic by hand.  Then left after five minutes.  Sometimes, I think traffic is a bit like God.  Mysterious, odd-number of letters, and affects my life in profound ways I never expect.

Moi: ... they said it's a hydrogen leak.  But hydrogen isn't that harmful right?

Lenny: Well...

(I think about what I said for a second)

Moi: Oh, except when they make bombs.  Right.  But what I don't understand is, why do they have hydrogen at the school of public health? 

Lenny: To make bombs.

Moi: At the school of public health?

Lenny: They never said public health was only about positive impact.  It's just studying impact.  A bomb would have a negative impact on the public, and they'll study why.

Really can't wait until Lenny's MPH program starts next year.

The Man, The Legend, The Firefighter

Regis has the same birthday as me.  But that's pretty much where the similarities end.  He's an eagle scout, biologist, and soccer player.  Fighter of fires, destroyer of darkness, and a beacon of truth.  He's spending his year after graduation in Africa right now, saving children from AIDS through soccer and goodness.  His absence has left a hole in many hearts.  And whenever I'm around his friends, they can't stop talking about him.

Moi: I missed the train by six minutes!  Now I have to wait another hour.  So mad.

Mac: You should've ran.

Moi: I did!  But there's no way I can make up six minutes' time by running.  The train was already gone by the time the subway pulled in.

Mac: Regis would have run.  He would've caught it. 

Moi: It was six minutes!  He would've had to run so fast that the earth spun backwards on its axis and turned back time to catch it.

Mac: Haven't you met Regis?  Regis could've done it.

Gawky Pocky

Co-worker Jen, one of my favorite people in the office and a fellow suburban Massachusetts Taiwanese-American (though my first-generation-ness makes me far more fobby than she is), just turned down my offer of a Pocky stick.  A Men's Pocky stick at that.  (For the unawares, Men's Pocky is covered in dark chocolate instead of the regular milk and far superior to original Pocky, just as Men are far more superior than the rest of the world.) 

"I don't know why," she said, "but a chocolate covered pretzel stick just doesn't appeal to me. 

"But it's on a stick!"

"Tell you the truth, I actually prefer the American chocolate-covered pretzels."

"Because it's so salty?"

"Yeah, I think so."

Pocky is not an inferior pretzel.  Pocky is fine.  It is slender.  It is Asian childhood, well-known secret, and homesickness relieved.  This rejection ranks up there with other food-related tragedies such as the Vegetarian Revelation of the Band Man: Not as devastating as the Vegetarian Revelation of Ira Glass (second only in conversion heart breaks to Lenny), but certainly far worse than Day Thorne Serves Raspberry Pancakes instead of the Banana Chocolate Advertised, an event which caused me to be despondent all morning, comforted only by those fluffy, freshly made raspberry chocolate chip pancakes from Thorne.  God, I miss a good Thorne breakfast.

President of One

Never a huge B Mills fan in my four years at the Bo', I was thrilled to hear this story over the weekend...

There's some year-long fine arts series going on at the Bo' meant to coincide with the re-opening of our art museum, and as part of that series, many hotshot artsy speakers are invited onto campus.  Last week was the opening of the series and after the talk, B Mills, like the great socializing and fundraising president that he is, went up to the esteemed speaker to introduce himself.

B Mills: Hello, I'm president Barry Mills, I just wanted to thank you for coming, I really enjoyed your talk.

Speaker: President of what?

(Awkward pause)

B Mills: ... of the college.

Speaker: Oh.

(Longer awkward pause)

Nosiness of Strangers

I saw a lot of strangers today. And though I didn't need their help, many of them tried to help me. Lenny said it has something to do with my perma-confused face. She has a perma-nervous face. It's the eyebrows we were born with, people! What're we supposed to do about it?

Earlier this evening, four fighter jets opening the division series fly over head and rudely disrupted my conversation with Lenny, so I said stupidly, "Well, that was loud. I hope the folks at Fenway are OK." The comment somehow led a passerby to decide that a. it was OK to stop and talk to us and that b. I was confused/made anxious by the sight of fighter jets. "Those planes are just for the Sox game tonight," he explained uselessly. Thank you, kind sir, is that why they're at Fenway?

Then in the MFA, a guard stopped me to give me directions to the coat check as I was walking toward it to check my bags, prompting Lenny to remark, "you're just full of awkward encounters today, aren't you?" But the day's business wasn't over yet. Standing harmless in the middle of a gallery, talking amongst ourselves and discussing what it would've been like had we met at the Winslow exhibit we saw many years ago, Lenny and I were approached by an old lady. She asked if we were looking for the drawing class. No, woman, we're admiring the paintings. And that's why we're standing in front of them. And pointing.

Is northern iciness dead? Am I wearing a sign that says "come white saviors, I'm helpless"? Why can't people leave me alone?

In a slightly opposite vein, caught a later train to usual tonight (with a brief detour at Mac's) and happened to sit next to a man I had nicknamed "black man with yellow duffel from the 7:16 train"- one of many people I recognize from my daily commute. Tonight, we nodded in recognition of each other, said hi, and left each other alone for most of the ride. Then, as the train was finally pulling close to the stop, we made small talk about long days and where we worked and where we lived. No unsolicited offers to help, no uninvited thoughts on the weather-we stuck very close to mutual ground, and that is how you talk to strangers, people.

Arrgh You Just Happy to See Me?

There's a new post hidden under the Monday one. Blogger is weird like that.

Favorite lines from the weekend...

Moi: You know what's the opposite of a cougar? A pirate.

Rachel: I don't hate pirates! I just hate people who talk like them.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
(on why impossible crushes won't work)

Sesame: ...so he's not the commitment type?

Moi: Well, he's the type that's committed to his wife and child. And people he's actually in a relationship with.

Moody Monday

Stats on my battle against this Monday morning thus far.

Monday	Moi
Woke up 30 minutes late	Managed to be on time for work
Skipped breakfast
Bumped into another car in parking lot	Jury is still out on damages, but doesn't look like I scratched anything.
Score: 3	Score: 1

From the Day We Arrive on the Planet

After four years on campus and four months away, my return last Friday was hazy, tiring, and exhilarating. Then on Saturday morning, everything seemed to come full circle.

The day started off in this room. And quickly moved onto a shower. In a freshman dorm. With shower shoes and a shampoo caddy and everything. Just like four years ago, it was a humbling and pomegranate-y experience. (And no, I'm not shady. I just stayed with the wondrous Megan, interior decorator extraordinaire and head proctor over some very trusting first years.) Since my key no longer worked on campus, I relied on the good graces of freshmen to let me into the building. All weekend long, they opened the doors for me without asking who I was. So long as I knocked on the door, no matter the hour, they were willing to let a complete stranger in. This just days after the head of security gave them all a talk on not opening the door to strangers. You know, I don't think they're a very bright group.

Later in the morning, after a much-needed visit to Grand City (don't know why, but I can't find a place near home that'd serve corned beef hash, fried eggs, and English muffins with a side of old-people-watching for less than five dollars. Starbucks doesn't have any of those things), I met up with Professor BSketch. She probably shouldn't be called BSketch anymore because she's not sketch. Anyway, in a great reversal of student-teacher roles, she brought me an apple. A wonderfully fresh, crisp, and tart apple. I love the taste of societally ascribed roles crumbling away.

Then there was the hug, which actually took place on Friday. Many moons ago, when our upper-level soc seminar ended, the Band Man invited our class over for holiday cookies and guacamole (and I totally wowed everyone with my potato pancakes). We all lingered much longer than anticipated that afternoon, partly because it was bittersweet for one of everyone's favorite class to be ending, but mostly because it was reading period and no one wanted to read. When it was finally time to go, Band Woman mentioned that Band Man was "a hugger"- a comment that none of us knew what to do with. Chris may have hugged him in response. The rest of us just milled around mumbling our goodbyes. Until Diem, who was dropped often and hard as a child, shouted "Group hug!"

At first, I tried to laugh it off. But a couple of people actually started linking arms. And soon the rest of us couldn't back off. It all happened so fast. Suddenly, the ten or so of us found ourselves huddled together. We shared a group hug. Followed quickly by an awkward pause. Until we promised never to speak of the moment to anyone. I mean, I'm nerdy as hell, but even I understood how wrong it was for us to group hug. Except I just broke the promise. And will probably get leprosy now.

Anyway, to bring this all back full circle, as I made my Riley House rounds on Friday, I hugged a couple of professors in the process. Band Man included. And as we all know is stated in the Handbook of Hugs, each new hug erases the awkwardness of all previous hugs, so all is wiped clean and smooth.

Gordy: I bet you're still shaking from the experience. I know I would be.

Diem: No! You know no one's allowed to hug him unless it's in a group.

Upward Bound

Went back to the Bo' this weekend and had a most excellent time. Stopping by Riley House, helping out with Common Good Day, breakfasts at Grand City, giving people directions, post-General Hospital Taco Bell run, meeting people at parties, sacreligious Sunday brunch, chatting with Mac and BSketch, mildly drinking with Gak... it all felt as if I never left. In a very good way.

 

One new experience this weekend, however, was the awesome feeling of being the oldest person at a party by only a year. Had I been amongst kids older than I am, I would have enjoyed many jokes at my expense as I tried to act cool, had it been a party of true friends and peers, we would have had a great time enjoying each other's presence, and had I been with people much younger, I would not have enjoyed myself at all. But being at a party with kids all a year younger than I am, everyone enjoyed my presence. They looked excited to see me. Impressed by the fact that I've graduated and found a job. And very eager to hear my grown-up wisdom. There were no belittling comments about being back too soon or being a nerd for the Common Good, just admiration for being ever so slightly older than my now senior friends. So people look for booze to make their parties memorable, I look for misguided respect.

Jam on the Highway

Dear World:
  So much to tell you about my action packed life, but my internet is down.  How is this post possible if my internet is down?  Do not question my ways, world, I am powerful and mysterious.

Super Suave

Following a Bo' reunion of great proportions, I crashed at Mac and TimmyCake's place last night.  Thus when I started my day this morning, I started at their place.  Where I discovered a testosterone packed bathroom (with the cutest sink ever- it's in the corner and tiny and you have to lean over the toilet to get there).  They had no hair dryers.  But instead, there were Suave Shampoo and Conditioner FOR MEN (their emphasis, not mine).  Suave body wash FOR MEN.  Razors for MEN.  and surprisingly, Denture Cleaners FOR MEN.  I didn't need the last two, but with no fragrant flowery shampoos of my own on hand, had to help myself to some shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.  And now I smell both Suave and manly.  But what else is new?

So Suave am I, in fact, that I made a memorable impression at an important meeting today with faculty from our division and outside vendors.  And really, God planned the whole thing pretty perfectly so that my pen, which I often spin, spun out- and though I normally catch my pens, this one slipped away and dropped- and by some great feats of physics it dropped onto my cup below- a ceramic cup I never bring into the conference room and had actually just moments before switched in place of a paper cup.  And not only did the pen drop onto the cup but it landed in such a way as to create a crisp and loud PING right as our division chief was delivering his summary remarks, causing all to pause and stare at me as I tried to act as I smell.  What were the odds, Lord Jesus!?

This End Up

There was one point in our ASB DC trip in March when we all rode down the escalator at the Metro.  Then standing there waiting, Gak pointed out that the escalator we were standing by was going up.  Even though we had just come down on the escalator.  Weird.  No one could quite wrap their mind around it.  Gak came up with an elaborate explanation in which the escalators were somehow smart enough to switch directions every few minutes, depending on foot traffic.  Then someone discovered that there were two escalators.  And pointed out that we had come down a different one.  We all felt very foolish.  But that didn't dampen our spirits because we were also feeling very good about ourselves.  We were ending hunger and homelessness.

The escalators at North Station are side by side, so you can clearly see which one is going up and which one is going down.  This morning, however, they were switched.  The one that usually went upward was going down and vice versa.  I have no idea why the directions reversed, but it sure was fun watching people try to go down the wrong escalator.  It's funny when people are dumber than I am.  It makes me feel good about myself, almost as good as when I end hunger and homelessness.

Freeze Frame

At Trader Joe's the other day, I was standing at the check out counter while the man behind me judged all that I had chosen to buy (it's ok, I was mighty fine with my simple selection: TJ's spinach tomato sauce and frozen latkes). "Are those any good?" He asked, pointing to the latkes. "Yeah, I like them." After a pause I added nonchalantly, "I mean, they're frozen, but they're pretty good." The cashier nodded. He liked them, too. Then Man and Cashier Man started chatting while I remained silent. It was all I could do to act cool and keep myself from telling both of them that the latkes actually make me shed silent tears of longing for the eastern European grandmother I never had each time I eat them.

Questionable Character

The New England sun was uncharacteristically warm and bright for a September day so I thought I'd follow in its footsteps and do some things that were out of character.

I packed myself a picnic and went swimming. And hiking!

I went to Walden. And thought it only appropriate to bring a worn copy of Walden for the trip. As I sat there on my beach towel, I wondered how many other pretentious souls had done the same thing before, how many thousands through the years, how many just today? Reading Thoreau's words, I kept thinking: you self-righteous bastard. The man is so full of himself. And paved the way for generations of self-important conservationists to come. Yet, his words can be so beautiful and there were moments when I couldn't help but to be swept away.

Let us spend one day as deliberately as Nature, and not be thrown off the track by every nutshell and mosquito's wing that falls on the rails. Let us rise early and fast, or break fast, gently and without perturbation; let company come and let company go, let the bells ring and the children cry-determined to make a day of it. Why should we knock under and go with the stream?... Weather this danger and you are safe, for the rest of the way is down hill.

Thoreau's digs. Building was not one of his strong suits. Writing was.

After my quiet afternoon of sun, exercise, and enlightenment, I thought it only appropriate to stop by the ice cream truck in the parking lot (whose vendor surely has a second house on the Cape now, judging from how much he made today), and celebrate Americana, capitalism, and all their excesses.

The Spidey stick tasted extra good in my air-conditioned SUV with a clear view of Thoreau's cabin replica.

Beginning of the End

My knees will not stop peeling. This could mean that I'm getting new skin. Or that I'm losing that nice sheath that's supposed to protect my knees from danger. Here's hoping I don't lose my legs to gangrene. I've grown quite fond of the legs over the years.


Greydon (aka Stupid): Did you get shorter?

Moi: No... it's the lighting.

Unfit for Display

You may want to be seated for this (for those of you who like to stand as you browse, that is). I've decided that some things matter more than food. Checked out an Ethiopian restaurant in Central Square with 'Alex' (the girl seriously changes names depending on how brown you are... which means that I get 'Alex' while others get 'Mayra') last night, and though the food was great and the server very nice, we're saying sayonara to Asmara.

We got to the restaurant pretty early. So early that there were only two other people eating. We asked if we could sit by the windows then, the better to people watch, and was told very kindly by the waitress that no, the tables by the windows are for bigger parties since they join together to seat six... six invisible people versus the two of us actually there in the restaurant. Minutes later, a white, elderly couple walk to be seated. They are immediately brought over to the windows where the server splits the tables into two groups: one that seats four and one that seats two. WTF, lady?! We just asked you to seat us there! And at the end of the night, we come to realize that the special she kept on pushing cost four times more than anything else on the menu. Everything else in the restaurant was very cheaply priced. But that special- it was probably that side order of racism that cost extra.

What Lies Beneath

Brought in suck-up brownies for the division today. Why? I checked with my supervisor yesterday and even though I have received no official confirmation, I have indeed been gainfully employed for more than 90 days now. This means that it just got a lot harder for me to get fired.

Moi: So even though I won't get the official email until next week, it has been 90 days? I want to know when I can start acting like myself.

Supervisor: If this has been the facade, then oh God.

Yet sadly, it has all been a facade. Do you know how incredibly business casual my wardrobe has turned? I'm so cleaned up that my supervisor thinks I have a great sense of fashion, what with my belts and shoes and all. I'm not belts and shoes! I'm sneakers and Thomas-the-Engine sweaters. Fashionable should never be the first thing people say about me. Or even the first two hundred sixty-three. Even worse, do you know how often I pass up an appropriate moment for an inappropriate joke? Most of my jokes have turned saccharine and cute. In a way that makes me want to slap myself, if only my face wasn't so pretty. And worst of all, do you know how often I have to restrain myself from mocking people merciless? Do you know how easy it is to make fun of people in this sort of academic setting? I can't even begin to count the missed opportunities because if I could, it'd probably just make me cry and crying isn't very vogue.

Three People I Should Really Be Emailing

RE: Maria.  It was wonderful bumping into you for two seconds.  You looked nice.  And very smart with those glasses.

RE: Lucy.  Ironically, I'll be up in Maine next weekend.  The weekend after is cool.  Or whenever else.

RE: Gak.  You are sketchy.  I miss being with people I have given nicknames to.  Not to sound self-important, but you can find out about the penis wine story by search the term in this blog.  Or I could tell you the full story when I see you next weekend.  I don't actually remember what I wrote about the event, but I do remember chronicling it.  I cannot believe I that story did not come up once in any of our conversations last year.  We could have used that story many times. 

Mystery Meat

If you open the division fridge on any given day, chances are, amidst the yogurt and juices, you'll see a brown bag that declares itself to be my lunch.  Sometimes the bag has an extra note on it that says to back off, other times there are doodles, and there were a couple of days in June when ribbons adorned the bag.

Decision Scientist:  Has someone been taking your lunch?

Moi: No, why?

Decision Scientist: So you have your name on the bag...

Moi: ... so no one will take my lunch.  I like to cover my bases.

At this point in our conversation, a fellow RA came by and shared a marvelously gross story of her last place of employment, where someone did not have her lunch stolen, nor her sandwich- just her lunch meat.  How awesomely awful is that?  I want to meet the person who'd steal for lunch meat.

Breakfast of Milk and Honey

One of these days, I will stop talking about food. But unless this flow-chart I'm editing at work suddenly becomes really fascinating, tales of food it is. At the office, kind souls occasionally bring in candies, cake, or tomatoes fresh from the garden to share with the division. This morning Aaron- who's been bringing in so much food lately it's almost as if he's compensating for something and I really wouldn't be surprised if I saw him on the evening news tonight- brought in honey cake.

When I went to grab a slice in the kitchen area, I saw that 'Whitecastle' (first name too googleable), who's doing this wicked cool study that gives folks who have heart attacks free drugs, was getting his morning coffee.

Whitecastle: How're you doing?

Moi: A lot better now with this honey cake. How are you?

Whitecastle: A lot better without that honey cake.

Moi: Oh please, honey cake is legitimate breakfast food.

Whitecastle: That thing is filling up your coronary arteries. You went to school in Maine, didn't you?

(Totally uncalled for and irrelevant shot at the alma mater! Alma mater is sacred and hath done nothing to deserve this!)

Moi: Whatever. I hear they're giving out free heart drugs.

Whitecastle: (silenced by my brilliance)

For the record, that's:
Responsible Eating: 0.
Breakfast of Bubble Tea, Digestives, Quarter Cup of Yogurt (had to get in my calcium and fruit), and Honey Cake: 1.

PS: Lucy. It's on.

Pies of Lies

For the past few weeks, I've been trying to be a good kid at work, pushing myself to get to know folks in the division (that's the fun part) by asking them questions about their work (that's the tedious part, I suck at thinking of questions to ask). In case anyone of them ever read this, they are amazing people who have all been incredibly generous with their time. Today when I met with comedy-lawyer-doc Aaron for a lunch time chat, he told me that there may be free pizzas in the building and asked if I was interested. As someone who's had free mule, free scorpions, and free penis wine, of course I was interested in free pizza.

As I followed him through the halls of the school of public health though, I learned that no, free pizzas don't just abound at Harvard. The pizza party was for the post-doc program. We were going to test how tight security was at the event. Aaron's justification was that he got a doctor degree and it's been after the fact, so really, he's a post-doc. It was a lot better than my justification: I've been to a doctor before and it's also after the fact. But in the end, we didn't have a chance to say our lines. Security was minimal but the pizzas were gone by the time we showed up. Aaron introduced himself to the lady who organized the event and then we left, with our conscience in tact, but pizza-less and starved.

Balls of Bliss

I ate a cow today. And four pork balls. And red bean soup. And the best bubble tea in Chinatown (which means the best in Boston, which sadly also means the best in Massachusetts, and in fact, all of New England). I don't suppose you care to know what I ate today. But I am giddy over how good my hot pot tasted tonight and must share it with the world. When we saw how much beef and sides came with the order, (Former) Roommate Amy (not to be confused with me) and I were convinced I wouldn't be able to finish it all. Yet somehow I did. And had room for dessert. I've got to tell you: I. Love. Chinese. Balls. I don't know how we do it. They don't t taste like meat the way Italian and Swedish meatballs do (we have that kind, too), but they're processed and impossibly bouncy and tasty. Squid balls. Shrimp balls. Beef balls. Fish balls. Fish balls with ground beef in it. Balls. Balls. Balls. So wonderfully delicious. Especially the pork ones. There's this modern sculpture in one of Taipei's parks. It always reminded me of a Taiwanese pork ball, the way they cut an X at the top. When I was 4 and told my dad that, he thought I was wonderfully creative. When I was seventeen and told him the same thing, my father was a bit disappointed by how unrefined my taste for art was. But whatever. Balls!

If A Squash Can Make You Smile

I have no vegetables in the house. Except onions. But they're not really nutritious. I would know because I like them. I had a peach with my spare ribs and rice tonight. Because I couldn't find anything else of nutritious value. Rice and meat would have been OK before, but something strange is happening to me nowadays. I think it's guilt. Or conscience. Or age.

It all seemed so easy before. I would occasionally do the dishes and put a few things in the shopping cart (Cracked pepper Triscuits. You've got to have those) but for the most part, counters were miraculously wiped of grease, toilet bowls magically scrubbed, and bills automatically paid. Now I have to do them- I who never worried about vegetables except picking them out of the chicken soup. I don't think I make a very good adult. Which wouldn't be so bad except that I can't seem to shrug off chores like I used to. I can't even sleep past 9am. I think I care. Enough so that I've been contemplating where to find someone to clean out the gutters. Enough so that I think I need to eat ice cream for breakfast to balance out all this responsible behavior.

Safe'd

Remember how I wrote a poem about how I don't like baseball, but it really wasn't about baseball though it had lots of baseball references? Then I performed it during Parents Weekend and all these parents came up and told me how great I was and how they don't like baseball either but they were talking about baseball and not something else? Yeah, pretty sure only Creeps remembers that. Those were some good times.

At church on Sunday, the pastor got on the pulpit, looked all serious, and announced that though the church rarely has to address this, he's sorry that he felt it was time to discuss dress codes as a congregation. Everyone squirmed a little. Then he called out a woman in the crowd, Lorraine, and asked her to stand up. She was sheepish and shocked, but he assured her that she was an example of what was good and acceptable in the house of worship: she was wearing a Red Sox jersey.

I like a church that has its priorities right.

Communion of Convenience

OK. I know. I've got to stop blogging about communion, but it's just so darn fascinating (what with the greatest sacrifice and salvation and all). Spoke to some folks at Grace yesterday (that's the name of the church, not G-Chapel, and not G-Fellowship of Chelmsford) and apparently, communion juice is white every week (resisting urge to make white joke right now... it's... so... hard) because of an issue of practicality. White grape juice stains less.

Pragmatic and open-minded, yes, a church of imaginative people who don't need artificial colouring to remind them of the blood of Christ. The idea is refreshing but a bit of a cop-out, too, don't you think? For the past two thousand years, every other church in the world has accepted grape stains as a risk they must take to celebrate the new covenant. Why can't Grace? Interested to hear you weigh in on this pointless debate. And by hearing you weigh in (because there are so many yous out there and you are all so vocal), I really mean me rehashing both arguments in my mind. It keeps me awake at work. Tomorrow, I get to file for my supervisor.

I'm Bringing Justice Back

The most surprising part of working life is finding out how different I am compared to other youngsters roughly my age. We look at homelessness, we look at money, and we especially look at Colonial Williamsburg, Tony Danza, and cats calendars through very different lenses.

This is from a few weeks back, when I was talking with another research assistant about our college days and favorite classes...

Moi: ... and you know, all the classes on the 'sexy topics' (a phrase I am borrowing from the Band Man, who once used those words to describe the types of his classes that were popular) in sociology.

Lil: Like what?

Moi: Oh, you know, poverty, globalization, environmental racism, stuff like that... idealistic stuff about social justice.

Lil: OK, we have very different ideas of what is sexy.

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.