The Greatest Generation

Why is it that reading about my peers always makes me sad?  Are college students my peers anymore?  We're still of the same generation, right?  A snippet from today's Times :

"I'm not really shopping every day online," Ms. Johnson said. "Most of my time online I spend on Facebook."

But time spent "Facebooking" is also prime shopping time for multitasking students. Another U.S.C. student, Margaret Heck, 18, said she usually checked a few online retailers' sites whenever she checked in on Facebook.

Some people spend their college years shopping alone, but some others spend those years studying, work-studying, participating in activities, and eating extended meals at Thorne, all with a really great group of kids.
 

But We'll Win the War

Comrades, the epic DOPE scrabble battle has long last ended and I am sad to announce defeat.  (While my opponent was more than happy to announce victory... at our division wide meeting.  I'm making a great impression at work.)  For awhile there, it appeared that I might pull a comeback with GOUTIER but alas, sometimes good does not overcome evil and the underdog, well, goes under.  In the brawl of letters, my measly BA could not compare to Brilliant but Devious Doc's JD, MD, and MPH.  And thus it was a close defeat (just 8 points even though he had a bingo and command of most of the triple word posts), more like the grueling Gettysburgh than an outright slaughter that the Other Side had hoped (in this case I'd be the Conferedrate... hm, need to rework analogy), but a defeat nevertheless.  Lose not hope, my fearless leaders, for this is merely the first battle of what should be a long and glorious war. 

Plus, BbDDoc brought in his son today.  And boy is one cute infant.

My.  It's the first snowfall of the year!

Saving It

Are you on your knees, readers, because the Scrabble game is not looking good. Every time I try to pull away, Brilliant but Devious Doc catches up. And I'm about out of moves. If only I had an umbrella today, my life would have been so different...

(It's nearing the close of the work day and raining outside, BbdDoc is looking for ways to stay dry...)

BbdDoc: Did you bring an umbrella today?

Moi: I've got a raincoat.

BbdDoc: How much do you want for it?

Moi: Hm... Max.

BbdDoc: Max what?

Moi: Max, your [first and only] offspring (who's just six weeks old).

BbdDoc: Oh. Max. Don't tempt me. He's been keeping me from sleep.

Moi: Or a turn on Scrabulous.

But alas, I had to keep the raincoat for myself. (Would've been too tight on him anyway.) Now I'm losing in Scrabble and time is running out. This ought to be a lesson for kids out there: always keep a spare umbrella. You never know when you'd need the leverage.

Keep the prayers going, folks.

Power of the Word

I am engaged in a scrabble duel (scrabulous duel, to be precise) with Brilliant but Devious Doc. It is not going well. I had a great lead but it all crumbled when BbDDoc played a bingo. A 75-point word. He is not, however, content with a lead. He wants to bury me.

BbDDoc: What I don't understand is, how is it that I played a bingo but I'm only winning by 15 points?

Moi: Because I'm that good? Actually, you haven't gone yet. So you're winning by at least fifteen points.

BbDDoc: I feel like I should be winning a lot more than that. I mean, come on, I should be slaughtering you.

Thanks for the vote of confidence?

Them's fighting words, people. Now, I normally suck at scrabble, but by God, I'm going to put in a fight. So dear faithful readers, get on your knees- praying types or not, this match is so on and I need all the hope that I can get.

Subtle as a Seizure

In normal day to day conversations, I don't actually talk about Taiwan much. I feel like it's one of those things people know about me without too much advertising, like the fact that I like Jesus, sarcasm, food, and books. I don't get offended when people confuse it with China or ask me the difference between the two. I've lived in New England for more than half of my life. I know how small Taiwan seems to the rest of the world. And when asked, I'm more than happy to explain the history of the two lands.

But once in awhile, I bear one grievance too many and indignities come bubbling up. Today, it was when a girl at work mentioned the "SARS masks" I had brought back "from China." Coming back from Taiwan, I brought back cute face masks, like the one the lady is wearing below, for a few colleagues because the masks are adorable, unique to Asia, and because I work with germaphobes. They were worn in Taiwan long before and after SARS and is as natural and prevalent part of the culture as mittens are in the States.

I have, of course, been explaining this since I've been back. Yet this one girl only sees them as SARS mask. I have also explained forty gazillion times pre- and post- trip that no, I did not eat scorpions on this trip because I did not go to China and no, scorpions are not part of a normal Chinese or Taiwanese diet. Today, when I spoke up once again to say that I did not go to Taiwan, she just shrugged and looked at me as if I was trying to pick a fight that wasn't there.

"Whatever," she said with a smile, "you're all from the same part of the world." She tried to say it like a joke, but I was brewing an anger so strong that the flames were far past red and blazing an ashen white. I am not nitpicking when I point out the difference between China and Taiwan. It is a difference beyond night and day, but one between Communism and Democracy. Industrializing and post-industrial. World's most populous country and one slightly smaller in area than Delaware and Maryland combined. Oppression and freedom. I can understand ignorance. But I'm pissed off by her unwillingness to be corrected and learn time after time. I guess it's another form of ignorance. I hate writing long, boring posts about things like this, but I feel like sharing, even if I'll regret it tomorrow. If I don't record this, I feel like I'm letting her off the hook. And forgiveness isn't coming easy tonight.

Unhealthy Choices

This morning, Doc Whitecastle asked me to edit a figure.  I wasn't sure how he wanted it exactly and hate going back and forth being wrong all the time, so I took three guesses and gave him different options to choose from.  

Moi: I wasn't sure if you wanted [boring details about heading]... so I made three graphs.

(Whitecastle gives me incredulous look)

Moi: What?  I felt like making graphs this morning.

Whitecastle: I've got to find you more work to do.

Can't a girl just enjoy making graphs without being punished?

Hope I Get a Harmonica

I like this picture. The bricks, the mopeds, old, tall doors, and big basin... this isn't the Taiwan I grew up in. This captures an older, small-town, 'rural' Taiwan.

Once again, today's story has nothing to do with the picture above but everything to do with awkwardity. This morning, Brilliant but Devious Doc brought in leftover cake to share. Brilliant but Devious Doc is always bringing in good food, especially those related to family visits and Jewish holidays. He once brought in a chocolate cake his mom made that ranks among the three best slices of chocolate cake I've had in my long life. Because I do not have two doctorates, when I heard the words "leftover party favors" I hurried to the kitchen area. Doc #2, however, was thinking on a higher plane.

#2: So you celebrate diwali?

BbDDoc: The what?

#2: Diwali. The Hindu Festival of Lights. I think it was this weekend.

BbDDoc: Oh, I had no idea.

#2: You said you brought in party favors-

BbDDoc: I did. It was my sister-in-law's birthday.

#2: Oh.

[silence]

I don't know what prompted Doc #2, who is just as white and far from Indian as BbDDoc to see cake and think diwali. It made my day trying to figure that out.

Shady Origins

As the Unity Steppers used to chant, "Everywhere I go, people want to know, who we are and where we come from."

A few questions about my past:

Do we like Robert E.?  I thought the consensus was that yes, he fought for the South, but he was so honorable about it and opposed to slavery that we counted him as a good guy (as good and honorable as Thomas Jefferson at least).  But the other day when I claimed him as a part of my heritage, Zvi disagreed.

Why does my mother always have to clarify that she's my birth mother calling?  And why did my brother say, just yesterday, that I "might actually be" his sister?  What are they hinting at?

Is an eggplant supposed to cost $2.69?  I bought eggplants yesterday and didn't look at the receipt until this morning (because I can afford to just throw money around now with my glorious non-profit job.  Note to self: should really call the loans people again.)  I don't really know how much vegetables should cost, I just know that Market Basket is supposed to have the cheapest produce.  If eggplant costs $2.69 and pie only costs $3.99, how is that supposed to motivate me to eat my fruit and veg?  For just a dollar more, I could eat nothing but pie for days and be happy.

Pepper in My Paprikash

I baked a pie for my new small group today. I often use small groups as an excuse to have all the bad food that I normally would not eat by myself- cakes, cookies, nachos, and in today's case, pecan pie. (Not that I eat healthy alone- that creamed spinach I've been eating by myself has been downright disgusting... and delicious. I just eat less sweets.)

As we sat there, in leather armchairs softer than cream, someone remarked that enjoying the pie was testament to how we were truly adults, for she had always thought of pecan as a grown up pie. No little kid ever loved pecan. I liked her comment. It made me think of just how far a few years can take us (forced tie in to picture above). I just started eating pecan pies last year. And with all the bill paying, car maintenance, going to work, and finding a gutter guy on adulthood's cons list, it's comforting to know that there's a boon so nice as a slice of pecan pie on its pro list. Waiter, I'd be proud to partake of your pecan pie.

I've Got a Friend in You

My favorite breakfast food, mantou, being pulled out of a steamer. This vendor only makes two batches of dumplings and steamed breads a day and each batch usually sells in two hours.

Now on an unrelated note...

Took a much needed afternoon break at work on Thursday with fellow new-ish research assistance Jen. I've been working for five months and have not witnessed the slightest whiff of conflict or scandal. Everyone is civil and professional to the point that when Jen and I chat, we talk how much we like everyone in the division (except for Xenophobe and Humorless) and which faculty has the most interesting research. But it was such sweet relief toward the end of our conversation, griping about the work day away from the office, when we both, after some hemming and hawing, finally blurted out the one flaw to our division:

Awkwardity.

"Well... and again, she's really nice and we talk a lot, but sometimes when I talk to her, I don't know how to end the conversation..."

"Because there are always a lot of pauses? But then she'll think of something and start talking again?"

"Yes! I thought I was the only one!"

Oh. Sweet validation. It's really isn't me. It's them. This gig is so not going to help me with social graces.

The Short List

Proudest Moments of My Life*:

1. Winning the Edinburgh poetry slam.

2. Winning the award for my honors.

3. Just now- ending my scrabble game with a bingo- Riotous! I had never even had a bingo on my own before, not to mention a dramatic, come-from-behind game-ending bingo. Tears are lining up in formation in my eyes now, preparing for a celebratory dash down my face. I can spell seven letter words!


*Yes, it concerns me a little that all three proudest moments involved beating others, and all happened within the last two years, but whatever, have you done any of the other three things, Judgie McJudge?

Chicken Fried Brain

One more picture from the Taichung nightmarket. It's an unusally calm scene of a crazy crowded market. The stand in the middle here serves my favorite Taiwanese snack- salty crispy chicken, where vendors freshly fry up ingredients of your choosing, including of course, salty crispy chicken. Taiwanese fried chicken tastes nothing like American fried chicken. But I've found room in my clogged arteries to love both. To the right of the stand is a stall that sells cute socks and stationary and stickers and to the left is a place that does engravings.

Since I've been back, and especially this week with daylight savings, I've noticed that the sky is much darker when I leave work and the air smells much more like fried chicken (the Southern kind). Why, Lord, is the sky so dark? And why, Lord, must it smell like fried chicken? It was just my luck that the lady who sat next to me on the train ride home tonight was eating McDonald's chicken selects. Moments like that make me wonder why it is that I have not had McDonald's in years, and whatever happened to traditional values and sharing our bounties with our neighbors. It's never fair for one to smell chicken and not taste it.

Dream Deflated

Apparently, I have very low standards for myself when it comes to my dreams.  You know how the rules to a dream shift to accommodate the situation?  Sometimes, you can suddenly scale fences when running a villain, other times you speak French fluently, and sometimes you end up in Sri Lanka even though the dream started in your backyard.  This morning the rules to my dream shifted a few times within seconds.  At first, I was telling my mother about a literary award I had won, then, perhaps sensing the far fetched nature of the dream, the circumstance changed.  I hadn't won the award, I was telling my mother about a contest I was invited to submit to.  And just as I had gotten used to the idea, it all changed again.  I didn't win an award, nor was I going to enter one, I was just reading a piece of commentary on an essay that had won.  What a crappy dream.  How am I supposed to reach for lofty goals if my subconscious won't even let me dream?  I just read commentary about other people's accomplishments in my dream. 

In my dream, I also got lost in the streets of Taiwan, started chatting with a roadside dumpling vendor, accidentally called the vendor 'wife' instead of 'store owner' (they're homonyms in Chinese, though one's a mainland slang and I was not in the mainland), tried to play it off like I didn't make the mistake and blame it on the vendor's hearing, and had to buy shrimp dumplings from the stall to change the topic of conversation, even though they weren't that great and I was on my way to dinner.  I really hate my dreams.

Wake Up Call

This is my brother in daylight (as opposed to the picture below). He often awakes before the sun to meditate atop mountains and practice tai-chi. Actually, he's standing on the summit of that really tall mountain I climbed in Taiwan. See how he's above the clouds? We worked hard for this view. We also learned a valuable lesson from this hike. My brother did, at least. He gives himself more opportunities for learning than I do: always, always go to the bathroom before you head for the top.

High Achiever

This is my brother. He can can fly. He is fly. He once caught a fly between his teeth. He is one third of the reason why I'm the good, quiet one in the family. My parents are the other two third.

i.e.

The Sh*tty Things that I Do:

I never flush when I use public bathrooms. 

When friends ask if they look fat, I always hesitate before saying, "no... ?" 

As a child, I kicked a puppy to see if it still feels that warm and soft meeting my foot at a high velocity.  It felt warm, but not soft.  I also shoplift to get caught so I can blame it on the maid.

I don't like deaf people.  Or international students.

Out of laziness, I 'accidentally' hang up on patients that call into the office.

I play Sesame and Gak's confidence against each other.

I make up lies about stuff that I do so I don't have to reveal anything about myself.

Creature of the Night

This was from a Japanese fast food stall at the night market in Taichung, perhaps the biggest night market in Taiwan. That night, we grabbed a booth upstairs and made it our base while my mom and a couple of our friends picked up a little bit of this and that from several vendors. I ate some glorious junk that night. The place was huge and chaotic. We were tired. My dad's feet hurt. There was the usual stress of taking a family trip. But by God, my stomach was so happy. And there was a giant octopus. A really adorable octopus!

Notes on Church

On a scale of one to bad, how bad is cutting a child in line for communion? Not that I did or anything. I'm just wondering.

During the communion service today, this old, white minister got up to the mic and said, in total seriousness, "Regardless of what you heard from the first service, I will not be doing the communion in rap." Now, I don't know what went down during the first service, but I think that it would have been awesome if nothing went down at all. And that that was just his deadpan style. If that's the case, it's really the greatest line in the world. And no, I will not be conducting communion in rap today.

This church I'm going to has a rabid Red Sox and Patriots loyalty, from the pulpit to the pews. This morning the senior pastor once again pretended to be all serious and told the congregation that there was waywardness in the church that needed to be addressed- that waywardness being the youth pastor who cheered on for the Rockies. He called the man on stage for the whole church to see and presented him with a Red Sox World Series champion hat.

Those of you who aren't churchy should know that during communion services, they give you a lot of time to just think as the music flows. I use it to write down all the funny things I see at church but also to actually think about what I'm doing holding a little piece of cracker and white grape juice in my hand. Today, it hit me that if Jesus died for my sins, it means that he died for all the crappy things that I've done and said and thought of. That's no noble cause. Those are some sh*tty things (is that how the asterisk works? I never know where to put it) to die for. Which makes it all the more amazing that he did. It's hard enough dying for good people. I know this is pretty basic. Even if you don't believe this stuff, you've probably heard it before: Jesus died for you. But the enormity of what that means hit me anew today. And that's pretty cool.

Am I?

I don't think anyone who reads this will remember, but I can dream, can't I?  So this morning, I was looking through my mom's computer because she called me from Taiwan to find a few vague files for her ("he may have emailed it to me, or maybe it's on disks, or CDs, or in my computer?  2004?  2003?  2005?  I don't know.  And if you can't find it on the computer, I have the hard copies in a folder downstairs... somewhere... so you could scan them for me...?"), and I came upon a reference to the greatest LYF game ever invented:

 

Whose Brother Am I?

 

It's a deceptively simple game we made up circa summer '03.  For example, someone would say "I killed my brother to found Rome, whose brother am I?"  And the answer would be "Remus" because Remus is Romulus's brother.  That was perhaps the most confusing example I could have used, but the first one that popped into my head.  I think in a level of complexity far above everyone's.  For those of you who think in simpler terms, the answer to "I played a gay cowboy" would be Maggie Gyllenhal.  Or any of Heath Ledger's siblings.  The game is most fun played without famous names, though, among a group of friends, as we imitate each other, pick on each other's little quirks, and complain about how stupid the game is.  It's amazing how many people get tripped up by the rules and answer incorrectly.  And the only children of the world always feel left out of the game, but whatever, they should just shove it and go play with all those toys that the rest of us never got to have.

Season of Advent

After my turkey-with-all-the-fixing slider last night at the North Street Grille (product placement!  please give me free food!), I've realized cannot wait for Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday of the year.  (Is it wrong that turkey trumps both the birth and resurrection of my Lord and personal savior?  I hope not.)  That tiny little sandwich was the most delicious turkey sandwich I had ever tasted that was not made by myself.  And really, when I look back on it now, the gravy, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and sweet, moist turkey...  oh, the fourth Thursday of November has never seemed so far away.
 

I Shall Return

Dear Diary-

Remember how I used to write to you? There used to be times when things happened to me and I didn't sit in a cubicle for eight hours a day. I'd tell you stories and once in a blue moon the stories were interesting and made you smile just a tiny bit? Yeah, I vaguely recall those times. Well, Diary, I promise that I'll pay attention to you again real soon. Things do happen to me. I went to Vermont, had a wonderful time at a real, small town celebration, with a big fire and everything, and realized that I may be real adaptable anywhere, but I'm certainly not cut out for farm life. It's mostly because I've grown up spoiled. I'm not used to physical labor or cows who try to eat me (it was afraid of Becca's touch but somehow felt it was OK to try to swallow my hand). Mostly though, it's because I really don't get country music. Except that one Megan showed me with the 14 year old girl all bitter about her man's truck. That little girl had spunk.

And even at work, something interesting happens once in awhile. This week, I held a hand turkey contest called The Epic Epi Turkey Challenge 2007 (you can't call it first annual, because Gak said so). But I have to go to bed now, so I'll bottle all these stories inside and not share them with you the way emotionally stunted people do. Good night.

(more on making boring phone calls to big pharmas)

Whitecastle: Did you give anyone my name? Should I be expecting any bombs in the mail?

Moi: Only once. This place would only give me an application if I said it was for a doctor, so I said that you were the doctor.

Doctor Whitecastle: Well, I am a doctor.

Moi: That's right, a real doctor. Two times a doctor, even. (he's got an MD and PhD. sickening)

Doctor Whitecastle: I'm two times the doctor they'll ever be! Ha!

Sometimes he gets carried away and forgets that I'm talking to customer representatives, representatives who are of no threat to him...

Walrus Among Us

Is this not the goofiest animal you have ever seen (ok, maybe tied with the sea lion)? It boggles me how the God who created brilliant foliages and birds who could make their own hooks and avocadoes would also create an animal like the walrus. What do they do again?

Good Work

There was a costume themed lunch at work today, so I went in ninja outfit. Ninja outfit just means wearing all black plus a mask and shades, a mask I only put on for the first few minutes of lunch and a brief meeting with my supervisor (who called me a "nut" yesterday, affectionately, I hope), whose idea it was to have the costumes. Of course, as God would have it, I put my mask on right when our division chief entered the office and made his greeting rounds. There are very few contexts in which chief actually knows me in. Dropping my pen loudly as he made a speech would be one. And wearing inappropriate work clothes on not-Halloween would be another. The man has been in Japan for two weeks, came into work late today, and it just so happens that the moment he enters would be the moment I put my mask on?

As I may have mentioned, the past week and a half has been spent calling pharmaceutical companies and talking to their customer service reps. It's tedious, soul-draining work and today, I talked to the doc in charge about it...

Moi: ... has to be one of the worst tasks ever.

Doc Whitecastle: Really? The paper is going to be interesting.

Moi: Yeah, it'll be interesting for you, but the calling is terrible.

Doc Whitecastle: Don't you know that what's good for me is good for you?

When I grow up, I want kids to boss around, too.

Conditional Love

These are the good people that raised me, standing in front of some gorgeous sunset clouds in Taiwan.

Mother called today and left a message in my voicemail, it began, as always, with "This is your birth mother calling," drifted into how she missed me (Sesame: "It's not because you're a good kid, they're obligated to say such things") and ended with my mother telling me to take care of myself, to dress warmly and eat well... which all sounded nice and loving until she mentioned that I shouldn't forget to eat vegetables, "but if you do have vegetables, you should try to steam/boil it [as opposed to stir fry], because you don't want to grow chubbier than you already are."

Miss you, too, Mother.

Three Random Thoughts

1. Crisp fall days are colder than I remembered.

2. Things I Am Allergic To:
  Llama, not ginkgo biloba, dust, unknown seafood substance, my grandfather's house, and most recently: farm life.  Or EB's cat.  Or EB's house.  Or EB's blankets/sheets/pillows.  Or just Vermont itself.  There was something on that farm that made me sneeze so much that I'm not sure if I still have a soul.

3. Dear 5-7 Pounds:
  Yes, we had a great time meeting each other in Taiwan.  But it's been a little over a week now and I'm not eating as much crap as I did then.  So please, leave me.  Leave me now.

Bitterly,
Fleshy and Confused

Ice Caps Melting

This has been the most Bo'-intense hour I've had outside of the Bo' itself.  I just bumped into two Bo' alums en route to my lunch with Lisa (another alum).  Zvi apparently works in my building.  Now, this kind of stuff might fly in Cambridge, or around MGH, where Bo' alums abound, but it never happens in this neck of the woods.  I can go whole months without running into Bo' folks and then suddenly, two separate encounters within ten minutes and a lunch with Lisa to boot.  And whilst I was just riding up in the elevator, pondering these things, a gentleman noticed my fleece and asked if I went to the Bo'.  He was interested because, you see, he had grown up in Brunswick.  I don't think what remains of this hour can get any more Bo'-intense, though I'm half expecting a polar bear to come charging into my cubicle, just to join in the fun.

In His Court

Every time Pastor Paul speaks, I like going to this new church a little more. The past Sunday, he talked about how people ask him if it's fair to pray over sports outcomes. And how he prays for the players more so than the team, mentioning supporting JD Drew when he was having a hard time earlier in the season. Pastor Paul wants to win spiritual battles and he's concerned that players grow closer to God than anything else. "But just in case," he said at the end, "just in case it matters- keep the Red Sox in your prayers."

Otherwise I'm Fine, What About You?

Why did everyone choose to go crazy today?

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.