Monkeying Around

Note to self:  When at work, please try harder to hold onto what little dignity you have left, or at least try to spend it more sparingly.  Despite whatever rapport you might think you have with the doctors you work with, some stories do not need to be told.  Like the leftover school lunch stoop sandwich for lunch story.  Doc Query gave me quite a skeptical, "I'm trying to hid the fact that I think she's crazy, but my face isn't cooperating" look yesterday when I overshared.  The crop of people in the division who think I'm normal and not stupid grow slimmer by the day.

Lisa, on the other hand, is one of the brightest people I know.  And probably works with people who think she's smart.  Yesterday, I was trying to figure out the identity of monkeyschwimmer (name x-ized to protect identity) on my aim buddy list and went to Lisa for help.  Being the logical person that she is, Lisa thought about this methodically and asked, "Well, who likes monkeys?"


Breaking news:  Just overheard from adjacent cubicle- "My pants are still wet from this morning."  Perhaps I'm not the worst oversharer in the division.  Or the most special, for that matter.

ET- Just Write

I went to high school with a girl named Bruno who hated talking on the phone.  It was always her friends calling to make plans and not her.  One day, she had a phone interview, which is one of the worst things ever, and the interviewer thought she went to a private school and lived in a dorm.  Bruno did not correct him, but let him ask questions about her roommate.  And we all laughed at Bruno for it.  But today, I think, you are not so crazy, Bruno.  I have come to resent the phone.  I abhor work phone calls.  I'm waiting to hear back from someone right now and cannot stand sitting still at my desk.  Can't we all be as passive and confrontational-averse as I am?  Wouldn't the world go much smoother if we talked things out... over email?  Or a series of one-sided voicemail messages?  I know.  I am a wimp.  And one day I will get over it.  In the meanwhile, I am waiting and shaking at my desk.

In completely unrelated news, last night, I hung around Cambridge instead of face the snow, ice, and music waiting for me in the suburbs.  Called Ellie the Delinquent up and miracle of miracles, she's available for dinner... for her roommate (also lyfer and Bo' alum, so I we go way back) Priscilla's birthday dinner.  Yeah.  I half-invited myself to a sort of intimate birthday dinner.  I'm sort of a bad friend.  And had to wait for the waitress to grab an extra chair (Ranwei: Oh, you can just stand and serve us).  But boy were the dinner and company great.  I make an excellent birthday present.

Everyone, root for Dusty! 

Three Ways in which I Could Be in Danger

-I found three chicken parm sandwiches on my front stoop last night.  I am assuming it was left by our awesome family friend who works at the high school a block away.  So I am also assuming it's safe to eat.  And that I won't die after I have it for lunch.  I know that there's maybe just one person reading these lonely words right now, but that makes your task all the greater, faithful reader.  Please do not click away!  I am entrusting my life into your hands.  If I should fall ill, you have to get my story out.  Tell my mom that I love her.  Tell them that it was the chicken parm.

-Every morning, I pass an SUV with large County Sheriff decals in the parking garage.  And every morning, it worries me a little that the Sheriff is not in town.  Or if he or she is, the sheriff is separated by his or her vehicle.  Aren't law enforcement officials supposed to stay put in the towns they serve?  And yet the sheriff leaves the car unattended each morning, presumably heading toward Boston.

-North Station is undergoing lots of construction as of late.  They're redoing walls and adding a couple of new vendors, including a new Dunkin Donuts.  This isn't "new Dunkin in town" ridiculous, where the new one is down the street from the old one, within a minute's drive.  This brings ridiculous to a whole new level as the new one is maybe fifty paces from the old one.  And I have little feet!   It's in the same building and on the same floor.  And yet, this isn't the most absurd thing about the new construction.  The prize goes to the lack of separation between construction and non-construction sites.  Sometimes, they put up a tarp.  But most often, they don't.  So that for weeks now, hordes of commuters file past construction workers in helmets and face masks who are diligently at work and protected from dust and blunt objects, even as debris flies all around us.  Dear Construction Manager of North Station- my eyes are very sensitive to dust and my head to anything heavy and/or sharp.  Please do more to keep me safe.  Thank you.

Game On

The past two days have been a whirlwind of goodness and hilarity. I found a small ziplock bag of spaghetti in sauce on a counter at work. And then a pair of shoes at the T stop. And this here toilet seat.

All three discoveries beg the questions huh, why, and how? The three questions that make my world go round. If life was a video game, these events would all amount to a ridiculous number of bonus points. And I'd probably grow an inch. I'd get points taken away, however, for saying stupid things at work (not funny, just stupid), the fact that I can't shake the habit of entering 04011 any time someone asks for a zip code, and for this here next story, which I'd like to entitle "In Which I Learn To Shut Up."

The names of everyone involved have been changed due to the sensitivity of the story. As brunch (+150 for me, being my idea, +100 everyone else) ended yesterday, we stood outside talking about our plans for the day. Lisa had tentative plans to hang out with Kalyn that night (+15 for her). While Brandon had tentative plans for dinner with Caroline (+15). So they both called up their respective friends to check plans, leaving Leash and I to stand there and chat about going to the Boston Public Library (-20 each)-- where we so did end up, because we're classy (+40 for me, +50 for Leash, who got a library card).

Kalyn did not pick up Lisa's call (-20). And Caroline did not pick up Brandon's (-20). Even though he called twice (-20). So I joked that Caroline was probably screening her calls. And that if Lisa called, Caroline would probably pick up. This is the part of the story where people usually laugh (+15 for me, +5 everyone else) and stop. I do not expect people to go along with my stupid ideas (-5). But something possessed Lisa yesterday, and she actually called Caroline as we all wait around nervously, hoping Caroline doesn't pick up (+20 for balls, -20 for stupidity).

But oh, she did! Caroline really was screening her calls (-30 for Brandon). Which put everyone involved is put in an awkward position, especially Lisa (-20), who could not say, "I called to see if you were screening Brandon's calls." So Lisa was forced to pretend she wanted to invite Caroline to hang out with her and Kalyn (+15 for thinking on her feet). Caroline does not say yes or no to the invite, but that she's not sure what she's doing tonight and she'll call back later, burning both Lisa and Brandon in the process (-20 each). And as all this was going on, Leash, Brandon, and I just stood there, shocked speechless, alternating between fits of laughter and feeling really, really sorry (-50 for bad idea, +5 each for laughing). Greatest surprise ending to brunch ever (+20,000).

If life was a video game...

Moi: brunch + 20,000 + shoes + toilet + spaghetti - being stupid - 04011 ... 19,822

Leash: 140 Lisa: 75 Brandon: 55

I rock at my video game of life.

Great White by any Other Name

This isn't much. Just a scene from my daily commute. Had one of the best naps in a long while today on the commuter rail. Also had one of my best meals in awhile. Not on the commuter rail, but at brunch with Bo' friends, the way Saturdays are meant to be enjoyed. It was the food, though, that made it excellent and not the company. Don't get me wrong, the company was peaches, but I see these kids often enough. I do not see spectacular home fries or plantain empanadas or well-executed scrambles enough. Brunch today and dinner last night taught me a valuable lesson: you can't judge a restaurant on how funny the name is. Laughter does not produce culinary delight. Good cooking does.

Last night, Lenny and I finally checked out the kebab joint Moby Dick Boston. The name was both confusing and hilarious (it was even funnier when we thought it was The Moby Dick of Boston, as the sign had suggested). As was the sketchy (lack of) decor and strict cash-only policy. The intimidating staff. And the half hidden menu. What was not hilarious was the food, especially the "salad." I kept trying to explain to Lenny that it was just pale lettuce leaves with ranch dressing that cheated me out of two dollars but she kept on insisting that I was just saying that as some sort of elaborate ruse to get her eat my vegetables for me. And maybe I was. But she shouldn't have been so accusatory.

Moi: I'm not pawning off my salad, I just want you to see that it's just ranch dressing! Plus, you should have some vegetables.

Lenny: Yeah? Try eating nothing but vegetables for seven years.

Moi: You were not a vegetarian for seven years. (I should know, I wrote a college essay on it) Have I even known you for seven years?

Lenny: I've known you since the eighth grade!

Since when did the eighth grade become a marker for a time long, long ago? And since when did something we did in high school become seven years ago? Somebody is not doing their math right. And it can't be me. I have a sudoku sheet to prove it.

Modern Major General

*

Check it, my well-rounded brilliance. I finished all three levels of sudoku and the crossword all within the same train ride. Impressive smarts and speed, I'll say. I can put up a good fight in spelling games but crosswords tripped me up for years. Until now. Thanks to the low expectations BostonNow has of their readers, I have overcome this handicap and there's nowhere that my superior intellect can't take me.


*Please don't stare at the page too carefully. I'm sure it's rife with mistakes. But at least all the boxes are filled with letters, eh? One day at a time. One day at a time.

Not on Bread Alone

It's well understood within the division that any food left on the kitchen counter signifies that it's unwanted and free for the taking.  Chocolates and patries are not uncommon appearances.  Today around lunch, however, there stood on the counter (ok, sandwiches can't stand, so it actually sat) was one lone sandwich on a plate. 

An hour later, it somehow became just a top piece of bread on the same plate.

Somebody went through the effort of separating the sandwich, putting most of it on a new plate, and leaving behind the top piece of bread.  That seems like a lot of effort.  Which begs the question... WHY?  How is that ever easier than taking the whole sandwich?  Who's going to take the bread now?  I work with supposedly brilliant people, not just the docs, but everyone here, but... why?  What- huh?  This reminds me of the story of the stolen lunch meat, which is to say, it makes me happy.

CongRats

For the most part, my work is menial and unglamorous. On a good day, I might get to do a lit search or build a database, or if I'm lucky, do some thinking and basic data analysis. On many days, however, I make copies, play with clipart, and make pretty graphs. But one thing I love about working in my division, other than the fact that there are only 1.5 people I would not want to get stuck in an elevator with in the whole division, is that they allow me to unleash my crazies once in awhile. In the form of a hand turkey contest. Or a Donatello figurine on my desk. Or random notes on the cookies I bring into work. And the best part is, the unleashing of crazies is reciprocal. Today, I mentioned to the division that it is customary for elders and superiors to give youngsters/their subordinates red envelopes stuffed with cash during Chinese New Year, the way one just casually mentions to one's superiors on Chinese New Year. And this afternoon, I found an envelope on my desk from Query. An interdepartmental envelope outlined in red and stuffed with pictures of Johnny Cash. Best/worst red envelope ever. Much better than the corrections in red that Whitecastle left (he said "it's no envelope, but it's red and it's the thought that counts;" I'm not sure that flies).

Gauzy Logic

I know, entries get boring when instead of traveling and drinking cow penis wine, I comment on current events. Just let me get this off my chest, ok, Judgie McJudge? This whole Clemens steroid thing, in part thanks to Bo' alum Mitchell (go U bears!) is sad and ridiculous for everyone involved. But now this trainer guy says he's got Clemens' bloody gauze pads and syringes from something like seven years ago- regardless of whatever, anybody else think that's sort of gross and unsanitary? No? Anyone? Bueller? I mean, when I was young and stupid, I once tried to start a band-aid collection, but my dad put an end to it and showed me just how disgusting that was. And I had to throw my collection away. Now here this guy is allowed to have both bloody gauze and syringes? How is that possibly fair?

Engaged and Overage

I exercised my greatest civic duty last night and voted for the very first time.  I was really surprised that there were no levers to pull or screens to tap, just paper and a black marker.  Is it supposed to be that low-tech and easy?  Can't help but feel that I voted wrong somehow.  I had to talk myself into going.  I am equally optimistic and cynical of two candidates, and did not much want to vote either way.  But I figured voting buys me the right to complain about what the government brings my way the next four years (though I believe people who don't vote also have that right).  The lady checking me in happened to be our old neighbor (because she's both elderly and no longer our neighbor), Barbara, who exclaimed, "Oh, you can't vote, dear, you're too young!"  I loved Barbara just a little bit for that. 

Overheard some folks on the train today, including a man whose middle name is Alan.  His brother's middle name is Allen.  Or vice versa.  But the names have no family significance.  His mom just liked the name, but not enough to give it to either boy as a first name.  Isn't that just an odd little anecdote?  It's not funny ha-ha, but I'm sure it'll have its use one day.

Blood sounds like a badass rogue journal.  I'd read it over Placenta any day.

Countess of Countway

I used to adore library duty, and I fully expect my fondness of the job to return in a few days.  But lately, I've been visiting too much for a literature search run that just will not end.  I've been here so often that people now regularly ask me for directions, I notice when someone is not a regular, and I know where the secret stash of trashy magazines are (trash as in Us Weekly, no Maxim, as Killer was disappointed to find out- for some reason they are not on the reading room shelves next to People en Espanol, but are scattered randomly throughout L1), and I have seen every medical journal title imaginable.  There are plenty of morbid and obscure ones, sure, and publications of every medical society from every nation, but the journal that takes the cake is the succinctly named Placenta.  I don't ever want to read anything from Placenta.

Even with my patience for library duty running thin, there is still one thing I love about coming here: I can blog in peace (until someone discovers this and fires me, that is).

Wrong and Right

Regarding what was wrong with the article a couple of entries down, I wasn't thinking grammar. But the fact that the college administrator was at a Bermuda resort every three weeks or so. And that the waiter's "attentiveness and amiable manner" caught her eye. I think there's also something weird about giving someone a four-year tuition for being a really good server. I get that this is a heart-warming human interest story and that this is a great opportunity the administrator is giving her waiter and yes, it's a gift and not entitlement, so they can give whatever they want however arbitrarily. But something about the way the story is angled, of the best server being granted an opportunity, seems off to me. Is he only worthy because he's most subservient? Are the other waiters less worthy, do they not have hardships? And was he actually the best, was that really what caught the administrator's eyes, the administrator who frequents resorts? It's not that I'm not happy for him, it's that the cynic in me doesn't like how the power dynamics work in the story and how the papers are structuring it.

But Fear Itself

Moi: Can you not tell her that I told you?

Whitecastle: You know, it's not good to be afraid of your boss.

Moi: But they always threaten to fire me (actually, only he has... and Keith. And Paul. And Seames.)

Whitecastle: Well, I'm her boss.

Moi: Can you threaten her not to fire me?

Whitecastle: No. I'm afraid of her, too.

The Difference Between Right and Wrong

Today's entry is an interactive one.  Which means that you should comment.  Though I know that you will probably disappoint me.  How many things wrong can you find with the two paragraphs below?  I can think of three right now, but I'm sure more will come to me.  What's catching your eye?

Two years ago, Marvin Burchall was working the lunch shift at a luxury beachside hotel in his native Bermuda when he waited on an administrator from Endicott College, just north of Boston. To him, Lynn Bak was just another customer, another tourist visiting the island getaway. But Burchall's service was impeccable, and his attentiveness and amiable manner caught Bak's eye.

Bak, who coordinates Endicott's School of International Education in Bermuda and stays at the Elbow Beach Bermuda resort every three weeks or so, gradually got to know Burchall, a 23-year-old who had dropped out of college during his sophomore year to work at the hotel.

(She then offered the waiter a 4-year, full scholarship to Endicott, you can read the whole article at Boston.com.  I'm not linking it 'cause I hate Boston.com.)

The Fish and the Cookies

Yesterday afternoon, the weather was dreadful on the outside and inside, it was pretty meh as well. It's Friday afternoon and everyone is busy. A perfect time, I thought, to reward ourselves with cookies. I picked up three from the JP Licks downstairs, thinking I'd have maybe half or a whole one to myself and share the rest with my fellow research assistants who were covering phone duty for me. But some people apparently have the self-control to refrain from cookies. I'm normally not a huge fan of cookies myself, but these smelled delectable. And since the folks on either side of my cubicle said no, I moved onto the next cubicle after Jen's and offered my cookie there. And to the next cube. And so on, even stopping in our chief's office. Everyone took a little piece here and there, and while everyone was genuinely pleased by the cookies, the cookies just would not go away. I walked all the way around the division, eventually sharing 2.5 cookies (I had half myself) with seven other people. Everyone was pleased to have them, that is, except for the last two to get them, who just happened to be my Supervisor and Whitecastle, respectively. Supervisor first commented that the fact she was one of the last to receive the cookie would go into my annual review but took the comment back when she realized that I had her favorite cookie flavor, oatmeal butterscotch (I know, what kind of flavor is that?). And Whitecastle? He was less vindictive but suspicious...

Moi: Would you like a quarter of a cookie?

Whitecastle: Depends where it has been.

Moi: Around the division. Nobody would take a whole one so there's still a quarter left- oh, I mean, um, you are totally my first choice...

Whitecastle: Yeah, give it to me after three quarters are gone. Very nice.

Moi: I'm giving you a free cookie!

Whitecastle: Should I swab this and test it first?

Moi: Sure, whatever. I'm not eating that thing.

If I'm comparing the cookies to the fish and the loaves, does that make me Jesus? Why, I think it might.

Say BOO

Dear People in the Medical Library:
  I am sorry I have the hiccups.  I can't help it, OK?  And if you could help it, you probably wouldn't be studying in the medical library, would you?  So stop your silent judging.

Sincerely,

My Way is the Airway

Throw Mama

I hopped onto a moving train yesterday. It was fun. Sure, it was just leaving the station and there were no hostages to be rescued on board, but hey, I don't see you jumping onto moving trains lately.

And today? I used a copier today that also served as a scanner from which I could email myself what I scan into the machine. Golly bee, what will they think of next? It has been so long since I've marveled at the simple wonder that is a xerox machine and so long since I've enjoyed myself making perfectly straight copies of just the right tone. And to do all that today plus email myself journal articles from the copier- well, I don't know what I want to be when I grow up, or what tests I should be preparing myself for, but all is well because I know that tomorrow morning, I'm going to wake up, go back to the medical library, and make copies. I cannot wait. And hope this task never ends.

In our Snippy Segment du Jour: Whitecastle thinks Quizno commercials slamming his Subway subs are "stupid."

Talk Fresh

Sometimes, my brain just can't hold enough in there to think of small talk, so when I see people in the hallway, I just don't say anything and smile. Sometimes that makes things awkward. Sometimes I come off as unfriendly. But sometimes the silence drives people to talk in awesome ways.

So I'm walking to get water for my tea and see Whitecastle going into his office, a Subway sub in hand. I just saw him five minutes ago and don't have anything new to say, so I just look at him and...

Whitecastle: OK. I know it's not healthy but it worked for that guy-

Moi: Jared?

Whitecastle: Yeah, Jared. It worked for him.

Moi: What? I'm not judging your lunch.

Whitecastle: I'm a doctor. I'm two times a doctor. I say it's OK to eat this!

Sea Billows a-Rolling

How does that song go again? When peace like a river, blah, blah, blah blah blah...

IT IS WELL (it is well)*

WITH MY SOUL (with my soul)

It is well- it is well-

with my soul.

Oh, it is definitely well with my soul. I just won a fabulous game of scrabulous against one Doc Query. By 99 points. That's right. My little BA outscored the JDMDMPH in the game of letters. If only he wasn't so damn nice about it, the win would feel more victorious. But no, he's all gracious and supportive and crap. Don't people have fight in them anymore?


*Traditional hymn lyrics may or may not have been taken out of context to fit my own twisted purposes...

Informed Consent

I'm skipping the State of the Union address tonight and watching the first season of Friday Night Lights instead. One night a year, they interrupt TV and for years now, I've watched the president speak because I felt that I ought to, as an informed citizen and someone who wanted to keep up appearances of being relatively smart. Well, I'm not letting them get in the way of my TV tonight. And I figure the Times and NPR will tell me how I should think tomorrow morning, so why bother sitting through all that clapping.

Don't make me feel guilty about this now.

How He Move

I do not cry watching chick flicks. I roll my eyes at Oprah. And ignore inspirational must-reads. But there's one thing I'm a sucker for, and that's your formulaic dance movie. Be they stepping, breaking, or krumping, so long as there's a loose storyline surrounding lots of young people moving to rhythm, I'm there cheering for them. Just saw How She Move with Jenny tonight and have already made plans to watch Step It Up II in a month or so. The sequel to You Got Served should also be coming this year and I cannot wait.

Speaking of people who can't contain themselves (one of these days, I will need to start writing papers again and also start using proper transitions again), Pastor Paul was one eager greeter this morning. Apparently, there's this man in our church, Eddie*, who has a very shiny bald head. Apparently, Pastor Paul liked to mock this fact by rubbing his head whenever he saw him. Some pastors wash other people's feet, and I guess some just rub their heads. This morning, Pastor Paul spotted the bald head and, per usual, gave it a vigorous rub. Then the man turned around. And Pastor Paul realized it wasn't Eddie.

It was a first-time visitor. "You guys are real friendly here, huh?" was the stranger's response.

It takes a special man of God to run his hand through someone else's bare head. And it takes someone even more special to do it to a stranger and then admit it to his whole church in the second service. Best sermon opener ever.

*Not his actual name. I'm not protecting his identity. I just don't remember.

No Rest for the Weary

On Friday, a few of us in the division went out to lunch to celebrate a co-worker's last day with us (not because we're glad she's leaving, but because she's doing something cool). Understandably, lunch went a little long, and when we were coming back from lunch, fellow research assistant Jen and I were a few steps behind, so we caught the elevator with Whitecastle, who was not coming back from a late lunch, but from winning an award, as it sometimes happens to him...

Whitecastle: Nice, leisurely lunch, huh?

Moi: Yeah... oh, it's 2:10 already? Wm... we didn't leave for lunch until 2pm...

(Everyone in the elevator gives me a "nice try" look)

Kind Stranger: Well, it is Friday afternoon.

Whitecastle: That is not OK. These kids shouldn't even be having lunch. You've got to work them hard. It's the only way they'll learn.

But while I'm mocked and starved at work, at least I know that I can go home again, and family will always greet me with love...

(On the phone with Father)

Father: You need to take my car, drive it into the driveway, and let it just run for awhile. But you can't do this in the garage, OK?

Moi: Because it'll kill me?

Father: Hey! You do know some things after all. Good for you.

Like Father

Overheard this adorable itty bitty girl today, no more than three years old, talking to her father:

Girl: Daddy, you're so funny.

Father: I ain't funny. You're funny looking.

Girl: No, I'm not!

Father: We all funny looking.


That's right, sir, we all funny looking.

Conundrum, Query, and Teaser

Three questions of the day.

Morning: Am I dying or is the office wicked cold? My toes are numb, fingers shaking, and goosebumps standing to attention*.

Afternoon: Is it wrong that I find it funny that the British term for 'slow-release,' as in slow-release pills, is retard? So that in the UK, people take retard pills?

Evening: Hot Cheeto's, where have you been my whole life?



*In case you're worried, turns out, I'm not dying. The air was gelid and everyone felt the chill. I am actually afraid to go into work tomorrow.

Go Tell It on a Mountain, Quickly Now

I wanted to celebrate DrMLKJr day by doing lots of clapping and frenetic singing of songs like This Little Light of Mine and Oh Freedom, but couldn't find the right venue at the right time. So instead, Amy and I went to listen to a forum commemorating the desegregation of the University of Alabama in 1963, the last university to do so. It was pretty cool to hear from the man who actually entered the school that day, as well as from Kennedy's old speech writers and advisers. But it all would've been a lot cooler had the event taken say, 10 years ago, while the players involved still remembered what they did. Old people apparently talk slowly, excessively, and aimlessly This is pretty much what happened for 90 minutes today:

Moderator: Sir, you [did a lot of extraordinary things- be it challenge the University, direct the removal of Governor Wallace, or craft Kennedy's speech that framed the civil rights movement as a moral issue], could you tell us what you were feeling during this momentous event in 1963?

Panelist: I... don't... really... remember. It... all... happened... so long ago. But I did... write... about it... in my memoir, so let me paraphrase a passage. Then... I will... talk for ten minutes... about something else.

But it was all OK at the end because Amy took me to the best falafel place in Quincy (are there many? I don't know) where I had the best beef-lamb sandwich (sic) I'd ever had. It was actually the first time I'd had beef-lamb. Even know, I'm not sure what beef-lamb is. But it was tasty and lamb-y.

Reality Bites

It appears that I have not written in a few days. It's not that I didn't want to, y'all. I just have no idea what to say and no time to say it. That's mainly because of a packed couple of weeks of social engagements, intense scrabulous games (losing to a doctor in close games is one thing, but getting whupped by a British girl in American scrabble? I've been in a funk about this for days now), and/or anti-social Netflix-ing on my lonely living room couch. It's at least two out of the three. Here are some other things that went down last week:

It snowed twice. I knew where Bloemfontein was when Regis mentioned it because I'd been playing that geography quiz all week long (I also know a lot of other things about Regis in South Africa now, so suck it people who don't have the same birthday as him!).

I was gracious when Killer got us lost and took my first cab ride in Boston. Both personal breakthroughs. While I became a better person this week, I am still as inept as ever when it comes to using my cellphone. Left it at home again on a day I was supposed to meet up with people. Was 30 minutes late to meet Jared and then had to borrow his phone to hunt Alex down. And hang out with him way longer than anyone would ever want to (ah, I kid, I kid) just so I'd have a phone.

In work news, I distributed contraband sparklers around the office and discovered that eggplant parmigiana that is "grilled not fried" means it's "nasty not tasty." I saw an ad for casting calls for a new reality show looking for "competitive, type A, 'wicked successful'" types and thought of signing up my entire office. I settled for Whitecastle, but he was not nearly as amused as he should've been. He informed me that he was Type A- and not A and claimed that lots more people qualify than him. That's simply not true. Jess and I brainstormed other plans to televise him as he spent half of Friday talking to and yelling at the division printer. For reals, y'all, the man deserves his own show.

When I was a child...

...I spoke like A Trebek.  Discussing Power of 10 this morning-

Moi: (in a condescending voice)  Oh, I don't watch reality TV.

Whitecastle: But it's a game show, not reality TV.

Moi: The only game show I watch is Jeopardy.  I'm classy like that.  I don't do Drew Carey.

Whitecastle: (either completely ignoring or missing my sarcasm)  I used to watch Jeopardy when I was a kid like you.

Scent of a Hero

Every super hero needs a childhood trauma and special power.  Growing up in the streets of Sri Lanka, I smelt quite a bit of trauma.  Now in my later years, I have developed a nose of extraordinary abilities.  I first noticed the gift in eighth grade algebra, when I one day looked up and said, "I smell Tootsie Rolls, why do I smell Tootsie Rolls?"  And Tane Kobin, who sat in the next row, sighed, and removed a Tootsie Roll from his pocket.  "Fine, you can have this."  He'd won it as a prize, wanted to keep it a secret lest anyone ask for it, and thought I wanted his Tootsie Roll.  But I didn't.  I was just beginning to realize my power.  Now past forward past years of intensive scent training in the Shaolin Temples, to yesterday.  I'm in my cubicle and Jen is in hers, a thick barrier between us.  My nose starts tingling and I ask, "Do you smell cucumber?"  "How did you know I put cucumbers in my turkey sandwich?  They don't even smell."  Oh, they do to me.  If only I can use this to fight crime...

Unrelated note: Not to be a snob about this (who am I kidding?  I love being a snob.  I wish I could be one), but shouldn't every librarian know how to pronounce Capote?  It's pretty basic stuff.

Punch Drunk Stump

I promise this is the last photo with the candidates in New Hampshire. Here is how a drunken man recalls the commotion moments before Barack Obama's fist sailed toward my face (need to click to enlarge):
(Don't worry, as you can sort of see, I swatted away one arm with a flick of my left wrist, then I grabbed his fist with my right hand just seconds before it hit, twisted it, and brought him to his knees crying.)

Awash in Alums

Thank the Lord for addictive games.  Am now hooked on Travel IQ Challenge, which is both educational and intense.  And also reveals just how ignorant I am.

Thank the Lord for the bounty of Bo' alumni in the area.  They make life much easier.  On Sunday night, with a nor'easter brewing, I crashed at Lisa's place so I wouldn't have a treacherous commute the next morning.  Then last night, went with Killer to the Bo' Connections networking event, where we did not network (no one wanted to offer anything or even talk to us anyway.  "Networking events" are mostly opportunities for business/law folks to find interns for cheap and the rest of us to hang out.  Though we did dispense advice to seniors and even more eager underclassmen, who naively believed that we could help them.  There were even a few 2011's in the crowd- they didn't  make 11's when I went to school) but saw alums aplenty.  But since the food there was not aplenty, we all went out afterwards for food and drinks that did not cost $11 per glass.  The biggest tease was that it all felt so natural.  A group of us classmates, friends, and fellow Boston research assistants piling into a pub.  Except that it was a work night, so no one stayed past eleven.  And instead of heading to Supersnacks afterward, we all went home.  Well, people with reasonable commutes went home.  I crashed at Leash and Priscilla's.  They have an awesome futon, sketchy stain not withstanding.

Live Free or Sizzle

Did you know that, according to the Massachusetts Department of Fire Services, fireworks (sparklers included!) are "neither sane nor safe?" I do. Did you know that supermarkets in Massachusetts don't sell alcohol? I do (there are a few exceptional Trader Joe's). Which is why I got up early on Saturday morning to cross the border into New Hampshire, where I purchased both sparklers and wine. (There's a liquor store right in town where I picked up my beer, but their wine selection is actually smaller than that of the Nashua supermarket). And since my dad's church is based in Nashua, as I strolled the supermarket aisles with a bottle in each hand (one was non-alcoholic sparkling cider!) I had only one prayer: Lord, don't let me bump into anyone I know. And I avoided the gaze of every Asian I saw.

All in all, the trip was a tense and emotional roller coaster. At checkout, I had my ID and credit card out, ready to transact and run. But even though I offered my ID, the cashier only asked to see my credit card while checking out. Which pleased me at first. Then amused me. Then troubled me. Do I look so old that I don't need to be ID'ed? Then that thought angered me. Then, finally, as she was about to hand me my receipt, she asked to see my ID. And I was relieved. Then annoyed, because I had already put it away. And I thought she was stupid.

What do you do with your Saturday mornings?

The Bomb That Hit Twice

Had half of a steak sub for lunch today. Afterwards, my stomach got upset. And I tried very hard to figure out whether the culprit was the peach yogurt or the steak sub I had. It took awhile. But then I remembered that when I had the other half of the sub earlier in the week, the first half also upset my stomach. Now that's information that could've been useful. But my brain seems to have a lack of urgency regarding this issue. And I nearly ate some more of the sub for dinner (it was so big that it had two halves and then some) until I remembered, as I was pulling the sub out of the microwave, that it might kill me. Thank God my ancestors passed the hunter-gathering stage of the natural selection test. Because I would not have done very well.

Portraits of Greats

Detailed analysis of our pictures of our not-quite encounters with key media and political players. Watch carefully, kiddos- these pictures are going to be in every history textbook when Bobby makes something of himself. These are his Clinton-meets-Kennedy moments. We weren't quite rubbing elbows, but wisps of his hair certainly made it very far. (Sorry, you'll have to click on all the pictures for a better view)

The Chosen Menu

Yesterday, I learned that random and even are not the same things.  You can have a list of randomly generated numbers, but that doesn't necessarily guarantee the numbers to be fair.  And I spent the afternoon picking out lists of randomly generated numbers that would even out other previously randomized but more uneven numbers.  Sounds weird and tedious but it was actually a neat idea to consider.

(Discussing our randomization plans...)

Whitecastle: The second option isn't completely kosher-

Moi: That's OK.  I like pork.

Whitecastle: Me too.  More importantly, he likes pork.  (Points to Nice Doc, the Hebrew among us)  He even eats it with shellfish.

Nice Doc: Sometimes with a little milk on top.  That's how I like it.

Not a Drop to Flush

O-bama, your campaign is so good to me.  A handshake, fluffernutter sandwich and a toilet story.  That almost makes us even.  At the Salem high school on Sunday, the restroom, much like the rest of the school and state, was crowded with supporters.  For the most part, ladies filed in and out of the stalls in a quick, efficient pace.  But then there were those that didn't play by the rules.  Like one woman who left her stall unflushed.  The lady behind her kindly asked her to please flush it.  But was told coldly that no, she will not flush her toilet, as if toilet flushing was akin to puppy-punching (much more personal than puppy-kicking and thus requiring a more calloused heart).  The woman said she did not want to waste water and then walked away with disdain for the rest of us earth killers.

Bystander: Did she wash her hands?  Or does she not do that, either?

Seames (scoffing in a tone that hilariously makes her sound like the old-time Mainer that she is and not the civic-minded do-good-administrator at a small liberal arts college in Maine that she also is): Hippies.  That's the kind of crowd he draws.

Obama Talks

This is the short, little, talk that Obama gave us after his main speech; we were his pitiful, lesser supporters who could not make it into the auditorium. I'm not endorsing him but thought, hey, I was there, I captured this, someone may want to see it. So here goes- Senator Barack Obama, talking to you (dramatic music in the background a pure coincidence; his people did not plan it that way and I did not put it there. Gravitas just follows the man, I guess):



I just took a quiz at ontheissues.org. It told me that I was a hard-core liberal. (heh) I don't think I've ever been labeled any kind of hard core before. I'm the kind of hard-core liberal that wakes up early to go to the 8:30 church service so I could make it out in time to see McCain and Obama. You know, that kind.

ps. Remember what I said about Huckabee being a pretty decent guy, so if you had to vote that way, vote for him? Well, he's still a nice guy, but I take that line back. I have my own (somewhat progressive) views and a mind not quite made up, but I don't want to involve myself and you too much in all of this.

Hope Does Not Disappoint

It's primaries season and the candidates are in the state Pastor Paul affectionately calls Cow Hampshire in full force. Seames and Gak came down today to check out the campaigns and I tagged along with them, as is, of course, my civic duty as American citizen.We had quite the dream schedule planned: McCain, Obama, and Edwards. We would've liked to see Hillary, too. And Chuck Norris. And any Law & Order co-stars that might be campaigning with Fred Thomson. But alas, a day is only so long, there are so many other people in the state (who knew), and we could only manage McCain and Obama, both classy fellows we were happy to get glimpses of.

The McCain pictures actually turned out pretty awful because of the lighting in the middle school gym, but we were lucky to get such good seats. We were right by McCain's entrance and got to see lots of campaign staff and press people go back and forth throughout the event and had, of course, a perfect view of McCain himself. We also made it into lots of discarded footage. One reporter actually interrupted a conversation between Gak and Me, pointed her camera directly in our faces, then asked us to move our heads- she wanted a shot of the much cuter children behind us and did not care for our story.

If you look carefully, you will see that the man in gray to the far left is Harry Smith of the CBS Early Show. Other media notables in our vicinity were Bob Novak, NYTimes neoconservative columnist David Brooks, and lots of other people that Gak recognized and I didn't. Oh, and Wilford Brimley- though that recognition was a bit awkward as no one around could recall what he was in, and he had to supply a movie title himself. Then he got tired of those around us asking him questions and found a different place to sit. Nice 'stache though.

Oh, Obama, Obama, Obama. We stood in line for an hour just to wait for the doors to open. And when it finally did, there was no more room in the auditorium and we had to wait in the cafeteria and watch him on tiny little TVs. We stood for about three hours before we saw him on the monitor. And it was going to be a pretty disappointing stop until the very end, when he dropped by the cafe for a few minutes. It just so happened that miracle of miracles, Gak had brilliantly picked the right spot for us to stand. We were at the very front of the line when he came in and each got to talk to him and shake his hand. (He has a very firm grip) We were so close (as the pictures can attest) that Secret Service actually got panicky and asked Seames to put both her hands where they could see them.

Obama is now the third major candidate I've seen in person and shaking his hand, I finally get what the hoopla is all about. His speech was inspirational and all, but so is everyone else's. His personal presence, however, felt much more powerful than the others. And so we stood for three and a half hours just to touch him, but oh, it was well worth it. Plus, we got free fluffernutter sandwiches out of the deal. Hillary doesn't give you fluffernutter, that's for sure.

Filial Pity

Talking to my dad on the phone the other night (the poor man is in Taiwan and despite at least three sports channels to choose from, has no access to his beloved Patriots. Taiwan is baseball-crazed and he caught all of the MLB action just fine, but now it's winter and he's missed an entire season of football. He's praying that ESPN Taiwan will at least air the playoffs), he tells me how my mom was ambushed by my uncle, who decided to celebrate my grandfather's birthday a few days early and not tell me mom about it until just hours before the big dinner, thus making my mom look like a fool who'd forgotten her dad's birthday...

Father: That's ridiculous. I mean, if you threw me a birthday party, you'd tell your brother about it, right? And he'd tell you if he did something for my birthday.

Moi: Very hypothetical questions, Father. I don't think we'll throw anything for your birthday.

Father: But you would tell him if you did, right?

Moi: I suppose I would. It just probably won't happen...

Father: I'm just reminding you two that I still have a birthday.

Heavy Metal

Tie dan, or roughly translated to be metal eggs is a snack whose appeal makes no sense, but also one whose appeal I cannot deny. Outside of Taiwan, it's not a very well known or popular snack (I'm not even sure if ABCs or mainlanders know about them) but it's just so darn delicious. I am telling you this now because as a way of coping with real-life responsibilities (so there's this loan I have to pay off because I went on a four-year vacation? what?) this morning, I snacked on a package of metal eggs that I had just found in the fridge, like a little post-Christmas miracle. I am alarmed at how I have eaten through at least a dozen of these little eggs in the past hour as I have surfed through the information superhighway, edited a college essay, and checked up on the sorry condition of my personal finances.

Perhaps I should explain what tie dan is. I first started eating it, the way I do so many things, because my brother liked it. (It's also how I started eating roast chicken butts. I don't think I have to tell you how disgusting that sounds, but do you know how delicious they taste?) Metal eggs are eggs braised in soy sauce and sugar for a very, very long time- until the egg is shrunken to a much smaller size, the whites sort of chewy and rubbery, and the egg yolk deliciously moist, sugary, and soy-saucey. Except I don't think that's how they really make it anymore, just as quail eggs you buy don't really come from quails, but are made from a mold. I also don't think the description sounded very appetizing (I couldn't find you a picture online and my camera needs charging... it just looks like a little black egg) but I swear it's a most delicious snack and once you get started, you will surprise yourself by how many eggs you consume in one sitting. Every time I bite into one, I have a debate with myself and try to figure out if I like the yolk or white better. It's a draw every time. And makes me so grateful to be Taiwanese of all things, and that I come from a land of metal eggs instead of cupcakes and apple pies.

Spirit of the Law

Moi: So I found some information.  But I haven't had time to read [all the OIG opinions], 'cause I didn't know how fast you wanted these.  Plus, I don't really understand it anyway.  But I don't think they (big PhRMA) are breaking the law on this one.  It seems legit.

Whitecastle: Oh, I'm going to read this and I'm going to make sure they're breaking the law.

Yes, that's the spirit, Whitecastle.

Blister in the Snow

Think the snow-related titles are tiring? Yeah, you know what else is tiring? Shoveling my freaking driveway. I have a blister now. And the fact I'm going to whine about it just goes to show you how unsuited for manual labor I am and how rare it is that I get blisters. And we don't even have anything to show for the constant snowfall. Missed the record by two tenth of an inch. Stupid slacker sky.

... sometimes, I hate how I'm so unaggressive and un-angry that I can't even maintain my rant on snow. How can I stay mad at snow? It was my tenth birthday present. Shoveling tonight in the stillness of the suburban evening was refreshing at times. And gave me a much needed workout (the neighbors baked the same Christmas pastries they make every year for our family and I've been eating the whole thing the last week, on behalf of my family). The snow was easy to work with- not too wet but just good enough that it all stayed together without being heavy. And if my blister was to break and somehow scar, well, that'd be the greatest news ever because it'd probably give me some much needed street cred. My credit line has not been doing so well since I was assigned a cubicle in June.

I Have to Wash My Hair that Night...

A late addition to this week's favorite quotes.

Zvi: What're you doing for Jesus's bris?

The Friday lunch crew, we are trying out new nicknames for each other.  Zvi has two awesome ones to choose from.  It's actually a bit unfair how good his are.  Killer (short for Christ Killer) or Stealth Eater (probably just Stealth for short).  Preferences?

Favorite Quotes of the Short Work Week

Best "dear God, is this really the cubicle you've assigned me to?" Phone Overheard:
  No, you cannot have a pet tarantula.  -Co-worker, on the phone.

Best Reason to End that Love Affair with Turkey:
  Rather than making you never want to eat chicken again, it simply makes you angry.  It makes you hold a grudge.   You'll eat chicken again, by God, and you'll chew really, really hard.  -David Rakoff, from his book Fraud.

Best Threat, Ever:
  I'm going to club you like a baby seal.  -Some guy being interviewed on This American Life.

Best Evaluative Praise (methinks?):
  Your cynicism will serve you well.  -Nice Doc.

Spare Time/Change

Dear Man that Sometimes Stands by the Corner 7-11,
  Are you panhandling or just hanging out?  I can never tell if that's a cup of coffee in your hands or a cup of change, whether that man gave you a few dollar bills to pay you back for something, or so you'd have something to eat.  And when you look at me, are you saying, "Hi, how's it going?" or "hi, how's it going would you like to spare some change?"  I don't know.  I have change to give.  I don't care what you spend the money on.  And I'd like to serve you if I could.  But you're so ambiguous that I just don't know.  Either way, happy Friday.

peace, and

Jingling, Jangling, Wishing, and Wondering.

Rant on Rave

Today's Globe had a feature called "Twenty Raves" in which a quartet of Globe staff members raved about the best in food in 2007- this included the eating local trend, Ratatouille, fancy food items like cheeses, sushi, and liquor, and to top it all off- Market Basket.

I don't know whether to be amused, insulted, or pleased by their inclusion of the New England based grocery chain known among moms in the area as the chain for cheap produce. And cheap lots of other things, too. (Often with deals better than Costco!) Reminds me of that NYTimes article raving about Costco as the new go-to catering source among Washington dignitary circles. It's all more than slightly patronizing the way they write of how these new discoveries- cheap things aren't terrible, but actually sort of affordable and not half bad- who knew!?

Jen: What's next? An article on coupons?

I wouldn't be surprised, Jen. Those guilt-ridden dumpster diving kids browsing through thrift stores don't fall far from the tree. Their parents are slumming it at Market Basket, buying 99-cent loaves of bread and marveling at the culture experience of shopping alongside the middle class.

Going, Going...

Dear Self:
  In the future, please remember to refer to the person that delivers your mail as the "mail carrier."  I think that's the term they prefer, and have written on the Christmas cards for years, over "postal worker"- a term that sounds just as nice, but doesn't seem to be embraced by the mail carrier population as much.  I just realized that today.  That for years I wrote cards to postal workers and for years they wrote back signing as mail carriers.  I'm sure it's not a big deal, but whatever, self.  Let's aim for being perfect next time.  You already are in every other way.

Yours sincerely,

A Making Carriers Merrier Me

I Have Nothing to Say to You

Dear Blog:
This week could not be more different than the last. The snow is melting, the sun is shining, and work? There is no work. No intense doctors have replied to any emails at 3:15 in the morning. They all seem to have finally chillaxed and I have, too. I have food in the fridge, errands completed, friends to be with, movies to watch, and time to enjoy everything. I'm usually not a fan of Christmas, but I must say, it's growing on me just a little bit this year. I can't wait to go to the Christmas Eve service tonight.
Merry Christmas.


PS. What's a Sunday-after entry without a quote from Pastor Paul, the eminently quotable preacher? The Sunday service was full of songs and performances, including the hilarious vocal styling of 50 off-tune children, and thus a bit delayed as usual. But Pastor Paul took to the pulpit and announced, "We have a special treat for you today. Since so many of you missed last week's sermon [due to a huge snow storm], I'm preaching two messages today." Then he laughed heartily. And we all chuckled uncomfortably and squirmed. Because we knew he was capable of preaching two sermons. Turns out though, it really was just a joke. People shouldn't be allowed to joke around like that.

Listener's Delight

Is it wrong that of all the lyrics that could get stuck in my head, the refrain that's been playing all day is "hotel, motel, holiday inn?"  There isn't even any melody, but those are the lyrics running through my mind right now.

Three Impressions

Have you ever walked out on a guy as he was taking a shower?  Because I live far away and Mac doesn't, I've crashed at his apartment on a couple of occasions when the weather was bad or I was just too tired to make the trek home.  Usually, both of us leave together in the morning while his roommate TimmyCakes is in the shower, because we care about going into work early more than Tim cares about personal hygiene.  Mac wasn't around last night, so it was just me Wednesday morning, thanking TimmyCakes for the bed, eating his breakfast, and then sneaking out once he stepped into the shower.  

Moi: I feel bad I'm just going to be leaving and I won't be calling.

TimmyCakes: It's OK.  It happens a lot.

---

Earlier this week was our division holiday party (or choliday party, thanks to our pre-dominantly Jewish and heathen demographics).  We all had a lovely time chatting and cooing over babies.  No one spilled.  No one behaved inappropriately.  And no one made out with me by the coat racks.  Needless to say- all very disappointing.  What's worse, I'm afraid some spouses have incorrect impressions of me.

Whitecastle (introduces us all to wife by name, we all shake hands with her):  They are the research assistants.  They are all great, except for one (points at me).

Moi: Hey, what?

Whitecastle: That's Peace and Joy.

Wife: Ah.  (nods knowingly while I look confused by her understanding look)

Whitecastle: (to me) You don't know what that means, but we do.

---

So one of the other doctors I sometimes work with, other than Whitecastle and Query, is World's Nicest Doctor.  He's not the funniest and he's not nice enough to actually knit you sweaters, but he does gives you the impression that he's very genial and he can make you smile.  Not too bad traits to have.  He also has a fondness for salami and crackers, something I discovered (and he discovered of me) when the both of us kept bumping into each other in the kitchenette area.  It was a coincidence the first time.  Funny the second time.  Weird the third time.  And just uncomfortable after that.  But whoever brought in that tray of cheese, crackers, and salami- may you and your offsprings be blessed for generations to come.  Anyway, World's Nicest Doctor is trying to outdo my email sign off.  As you imagine, it's very difficult to outdo such a good thing, but he's trying.  Which makes me want to help me/beat him to it before he thinks of something on his own.  The name is Will- suggestions, anyone? 

Best Overheard Comment du Jour

So you peeled your skin off and named it?

Sweet and Snow Down

I wrote this on the train this morning.

I overslept this morning when I really couldn't afford to, and when I opened the garage door, I found snow- falling fast from the sky and plush on my driveway. I was not expecting snow either above or below. But there it was. Apparently, the plow trucks were also surprised by the snow as they were nowhere to be found. My car saved my life on at least two occasions this morning with its brainy tires, brakes, and technology. I ended up missing my usual train but didn't mind. Laid-back, out-of-school me is like that. Yes, I still relish in being early and arrive at work almost the same time daily, but it wrecks nothing when my routine changes. I just grabbed a coffee and donut and watched the snow. And the snow was beautiful. Without classes, assignments, and exams, I can afford not to care, to be blase, and say things like que serra, serra. As I was eating my French cruller (out-of-school me is surprisingly European and pretentious), I saw by the big tooth mark indent that I had taken a bite of the wax paper bag, but after a few seconds of chewing and deciding that I couldn't taste the bag, I took a gulp of coffee and just swallowed. C'est la vie. It's true that in a few weeks, I should start studying and once again become an intense kid so I may be prepared to take some big tests, go through applications, and go back to school again. But for now, life is good. The snow is falling, the train is rolling slowly, and I'm nodding off for my morning nap (caffeine doesn't really do it for me); let me weekly raise my small coffee to you and say L'chaim!

Stay Away from the Beans

Like I've said before, for one of our studies, we're giving drugs to people who have had heart attacks.  It is my job to look at databases and randomly assign numbers to numbers.

Moi: I'm all set.  There were less people with heart attacks this time.

Whitecastle: Oh, there will be more.

Moi: Are we rooting for heart attacks?

Whitecastle: Well, it's kind of screwing with our study if they don't have them.  We don't want people to die, just to have that initial heart attack.

Moi: Of course.  So no more exercising?

Whitecastle: And eat lots of MacDonalds.

And that's your health tip of the day, brought to you by socially conscious researchers who are changing the face of medicine.  Seriously, he's among the good folks in this.

Damn the Toros in the Atmosphere

Whoever said that you don't miss a great thing until it's gone is an idiot. Because you can't miss things if they're still around. I cannot, for example, lament how I long to be with my left arm because I'm too busy using it. One thing I did have time to miss today, however, was my heat. Woke up this morning and found the house to be a brisk 53 degrees. Looked around all the windows and didn't notice any anomalies, but decided to ignore it anyway. I had errands to run and a pastor to meet-- that's an interesting thing about having a pastor for a dad and going to a church where the pastor knows your dad-- he just might go up to you and say, "Let's get coffee sometimes." And over coffee and a long chat, he just might ask you to do a personality test. And you do it and have him analyze you right then and there because Pastor Paul isn't someone you say no to. And because he has an awesome dog that he brings to work with him.

I digress. After a morning of errands, I realized that it wasn't just a morning thing but that the house was still unseasonably cold when I returned. It remained so for many, many, hours. I guess it was shivering under two blankets, a sweater, and two long sleeves while sipping soup that first tipped me off that I should call for help. And I did. The Dahls came immediately. It was unfortunate that they could not fix the problem, but only keep me company. The heating company, on the other hand, took their slow time getting here. Which explains why I still cannot feel my toes, even with the heat now fixed, the hiking socks, slippers, and blanket draped over me. But whining and possible frostbite and amputation aside, in the end, the heat people delivered. My heater now works. And I delivered a $215 check for their ten-minute repair. With one hour to go, I really can't wait for the next week to come. From here on out, there's no place to go but up.

Snowed Out

Talking with my Bo' buddies at lunch today (now a favorite part of my week, I see Lisa and Zvi the Jew for lunch every Friday), we compared notes on how we spent our early release snow day.

Zvi: Walked home, went to the movies, went home to watch DVDs, then went out to a bar with friends.

Lisa: Drove home in an hour, went to the movies, picked up groceries, watched TV, baked holiday treats.

Moi: Got home in three and a half hours, crashed on the couch, ate leftover dregs, watched a DVD, tried to doze in front of the TV and nurse a cold, shoveled for a really long time.

Apparently, life goes on after the snow when you live in the city. Crazy.

Snow Blown

As many of you know, I have one of the world's longest commutes. The subway trolley ride is usually twenty five minutes long. Today it was forty five minutes. The commuter rail ride is usually fifteen minutes long. On the way home today, it was an hour and twenty minutes long. And the car ride from the station to my house is usually twenty minutes at the most, usually fifteen on a smooth ride. It took an hour this afternoon. When you add that up, it took about three hours to get home tonight. And how long did it take to shovel the seven inches off of my side of the driveway? With a snow blower, it should have taken about a half hour to blow and shovel and scrape. Luckily for me, the blower decided to give out about two thirds of the way through. Do you know how heavy snow blowers are when they're not moving by themselves? Especially when you're going up hill? Anyway, the whole ordeal took an hour and a half. And that's how I spent most of my day today. Yet I am so grateful that I got to spend ninety minutes fighting my driveway, because all over the local news are horror stories of people who got on the road just an hour or so after me and spent four hours driving, people who had to abandon their cars 'cause they ran out of gas or because they got stuck, and plow trucks who couldn't plow because highways were littered were cars. And now I don't want to go to bed. Because once I do, I'll fall asleep and only to wake up too soon (got to get up early to re-inspect the snow damage, though it should mostly be good) and there's no doubt that I'll be dog tired and sore when I do get up. C'est la vie, je suppose. How'd you spend your day?

Possibilities

Some days, I wake up and want to do nothing else but grab some salty snacks, dips, and bread, and watch trash TV for hours on end.  Some days, I wish I could spend the day sipping chai and reading.  And some days I just want a bunch of friends over so we can carbo load on pasta together.  This morning felt like a soup morning.  And I would give so many things (though probably neither my arm nor leg) to be able to do nothing but sit on the couch, sip endless soup, listen to carols, and just doze off.  

Snow, you better not come until I start heading home in an hour and a half.

Wonderful World

Last night, the T was packed per usual.  An older lady had gotten on and was smushed in the middle of the train, surrounded by people on all sides but without anything to hold on to.  All was well for awhile until the train jerked for a turn.  She lost her balance slightly and fell onto another older guy.  She apologized to everyone around her and everyone told her that it was OK and she did not need to apologize.  The next time the train jerked, this big arm held out to her and said, "Here, this is the only thing you'll need to hold on to."  And she did.  She gripped the arm tightly and the arm held steady for her.  And that was it.  We all got to our stops OK and I really enjoyed the ride.  No one was upset that the train was crowded and everyone got along swimmingly.  Then I got American fare at a German restaurant and celebrated my (belated) birthday with Bo' friends.  American food at German restaurant with Bo' folks-- that's pretty much the only way there is to celebrate momentous occasions. 

The Girl Who Cried Smart

Moi: Do you have a minute?  I have two questions for you.

Whitecastle: Just questions, no comment this time?

Moi: Huh?  No, just two questions.

Whitecastle: No smart remarks?  No wise cracks?

Moi: Oh.  No.  I don't know what you're talking about.  I work very hard and never make smart comments... Why are you laughing?  Could you please stop laughing?  I have real questions!


Walking back from Stop & Shop today, lunch in hand, I see one of our fellows in the hallway.  We don't really know each other and exchange curt greetings.  But a few seconds after we pass each other, I hear him stop, turn around, and exclaim, "Wait, were those Jamaican meat pies?"  By then, we had walked too far apart for me to respond.  But it was my favorite moment of the day.  And they sure were Jamaican meat pies.  Patties are my lunch of choice when I'm too lazy to bring anything and too cheap to buy real food.  It's unfortunate that the Stop & Shop kind falls quite short of others I've tasted, but hey, at least they try.  (I think the problem is that they make their own instead of ship them sketchily up from Jamaica the way Ada's does.)

Unfortunate Name of the Day

Dr. T. Graboys. 

Seriously? 

Acting Our Age

Moi: I think I've found where to find the answers to our Medicare questions. (hand Doc a packet of federal regulations) and how companies are dealing with it.(and doc slightly smaller packet of similarly small font and hard-to-read releases).

Whitecastle: Good. What does it say?

Moi: Well-

Whitecastle: (sighs) Do I look like I have time to read this? Do I look like a lawyer?

Moi: Isn't your brother a lawyer?

(Jess: He does look like a lawyer.)

Whitecastle: Just tell me what the answer is.

Moi: Do I look like a lawyer? I just know the general gist-

Whitecastle: See, you are a research assistant. You are to assist me in research. This is research. Now tell me the answers.

(Uncomfortable silence)

(Aaaaand, scene! Whitecastle finally laughs, takes the packets, and says he'll read it. I am relieved that it is all over and that I am not fired for yet another day. Acts are fun when I'm not being fired.)

PS- The second battle of Scrabble War is nearing an end and things aren't looking so sunny for our boys. Keep them in your prayers, everyone. Query/Evil isn't as easy to conquer as we had hoped. Or maybe my brilliance is just not shining as bright in this dark hour.

Running on Empty

What kind of drug store runs out of cold medication?  A drug store next to a world-class teaching hospital during flu season, apparently.  A drug store without drugs is as ridiculous as a grocery store without groceries.  Oh, wait, we've seen that happen, too.  Honestly, people, does capitalism mean nothing to you?  Are you trying to lose money?  We're not in Soviet Russia anymore, you know.  Or China.  Or Cuba.  Especially not Cuba.  They don't even have to stand in line for stuff.  They have a great state-run healthcare system.  

I like to buy the sort of cold medication that's behind the counter, because illicit drugs are fun and pseudoephrine works wonders.  When I didn't see any generic version of the multi-symptom cold medication I wanted (generics are just as good, always go with generics, down with big pharma!), I opted for Tylenol, picked up the card, and went to the counter.

Counter Lady: I'm sorry, we're out of this.

Moi: Do you have the generic Drug Store Not to Be Named kind?

Counter Lady: (searches around) What are your symptoms?

Moi: I just have a cold.  

Counter Lady: (impatient) What are your symptoms?

Moi: Nasal congestion, and-

Counter Lady: (runs away before I could finish, picks up a generic allergy med, consults with co-worker if it's right for me, decides against it, and comes back to me with Sudafed)  You don't need the other one.  Here's Sudafed.

Moi: But-

Counter Lady: (look of death)

And thus I reluctantly bought the Sudafed that only covered one third of my symptoms.  Then took some of my own painkillers to cover the rest, forgetting there was also caffeine in them.  Now my chest feels funny. 

Tumble-Down, Work-a-Day

For months, working life was a breeze. I went to the office. Did some menial tasks. Got home at a reasonable hour. Worked out. Cooked dinner and lunch. Watched TV or hung out with friends. Rinse and repeat.

In recent weeks, however, things have been turned upside down. Work is kicking my butt. The weather is, too. Family things keep coming up. And I've pretty much packed on all the holiday weight that I would ever need for the next decade or so. I know that things come in waves and this, too, shall pass. But it's been a hectic few weeks and things don't look like they'll let up. I've even started working late and bringing stuff home. (Turns out, I have a work ethic- who knew?)

But I don't mind being beat up because I sort of like work. Last week, Doc Whitecastle shared that for one of the studies I'm minimally helping him on (we're giving some people free medication after they have heart attacks, how awesome is that!?), two patients have called in tears to thank the study. That's pretty cool. I don't mind giving up celebrity gossip and facebook stalking for that. Of course, when the work dies down again, I wouldn't mind going back to stalking and gossip, either. And I'll be right back here to tell you all about it. G'night.

Knee Jerk

Church ran a little long this morning. An old lady miraculously recovering from cancer had went on a little too long sharing about her experiences so the pastor's sermon started about twenty minutes late. But Pastor Paul is not one to skimp on messages. He just told us to sit tight for he had important things to share. And when he caught one couple sneaking out, he made sure that they'd never make the same mistake again. He called them out in the middle of the sermon.

Pastor: Hey Kenny, where're you going?! The Patriots don't play until four.

Kenny, upon hearing his name, immediately drops to his knees and crawls the rest of the way out of the sanctuary.

Awesome (though also scary) moment. Awesome reaction. Though I just might have nightmares about church tonight.

Best Week Ever

OK, this week was not the best week ever. But it was a pretty solid one. I made a good point in an important meeting at work. I served food to the homeless. And I got to see/hear from some great friends. And I lived another year. Of the fifty two out of the year, it definitely makes the top twenty. Here are some of the week’s highlights.

Best Pot Meet Kettle Comment

Doc Whitecastle: [Even though you have it on the computer], I’ll just print it out for you.

Moi: Yeah, just kill trees, whatever.

Doc Whitecastle: Killing trees, but saving lives.

Moi: Yes. Once you’ve seen one tree, you’ve pretty much seen them all anyway, right? (I know I just referenced that early this week. Get used to it. I say this stupid line a lot.)

Doc: Right. Like Chinese people.

This from an Indian man?

Best ‘Dear God, Is He Still Speaking?’ Look

Given by Doc Query during the division meeting. Not one for subtlety, Query sighed and widened his eyes with such a look of disdain I couldn’t help but break out laughing, which once again, did not make a great impression.

Best Multiple Level Discomfort Joke

Moi: (telling my family lush myth story) So at my grandfather’s banquet, I had one beer-

Mrs. Cho: Then got up on the table and started dancing?

Jim: Happy birthday, Mr. President--

Moi: Haha! (Pause to reflect) Wait, what? Ew! That’s so wrong. That’s my grandfather!

Jim: He was not Catholic!

Best Dating of Oneself While Trying to Act Cool

Supervisor, explaining my 'Go Shorty' reference to the Chief, a reference she had to ask to clear up herself just moments earlier...

Supervisor (sounding all confident and knowledgeable): You see, it's the first line of a pop song.


Best New Friend I've Always Known

Often when I meet new Boston Project staff, folks like Dwighters forget to introduce them to me because they just assume that we have known each other for years. And most of the time, an hour into hanging out and working together, it feels like it too. It was that way again today when I met Liz, worked with her, grew to like her very quickly, and after the workday was over, hung out with her with a few of our mutual BP friends. Moments like that make me marvel again at how awesome BP is and how it's impacted my life. And oh, Dusty, we all eagerly await your arrival in March.

Generation Over

I have not used AIM in years.  Like all good kids of my generation, I spent much of my adolescent in front of a screen checking away messages and talking with friends online even as I gossip about them with someone else.  And in college, IM'ing made comparing chem answers with Mac much easier than actually picking up the phone or walking down two flights of stairs.  But somewhere around the end of sophomore year, I started using AIM less and less.  GChat, I found, was much easier.  There were less people to deal with (I don't know if you know this, but I have an ardent crowd of fans on AIM) and I didn't have to sign on and off.  Thus was life for the past few years, blissfully Gchatting.  Until yesterday.  The Corporation that Never Ceases Hungering unveiled that AIM was now available in google chat.  And so, I loaded up my buddy list again after many, many moons away.  Here was my first conversation:

Kid from Long Ago: amy?

Moi: No.  Andy?  Jeff?

Kid from Long Ago: No.  Geoff.

Moi: Oh.  

And suddenly, it dawned on me.  Dear God, I really am growing old.  My mind is just not as agile as it used to be.  My brain can't retain all those screen names of years past.  And very soon, I'll turn twenty three.

Yet the Sides are Two

Last night, on the T ride home, the train took a longer stop than usual and after several minutes of shutting the train on and off, the conductor asked everyone to move to the left side of the train.  We've all heard conductors stop to wait for passengers to move to the back, but to the left? 

Here, is what he said next, "Ladies and gentlemen, we need all the passengers to please move to the left side of the train.  The door on the right is stuck and we're trying to close it.  Thank you for your patience, we will be moving once the door closes." 

It took awhile longer for the door to close.  I guess it was stuck on the curb.  But next time you're asked to tilt to one side of the train, you'll know why.

When You're Sitting on the Lawn

Do you know the diarrhea song(s)?  Did you sing them growing up?  I know that you don't like to comment, but please tell me one way or another.  I simply need to know.

Up until a month ago, I thought they were the type of songs that everyone grew up singing, like Twinkle Twinkle (hee), but I have recently discovered that that is simply not true.  Most people I have asked about the diarrhea songs give me a blank look at best and a repulsed shake at worst.  I learned the songs from my brother.  Who says that he learned them in middle school.  The songs are a real and legit part of American culture because there's a wikipedia entry out there on it and they were even mentioned in a Steve Martin movie. Yet most of my contemporaries not knowing them.  So I wonder- is it geographic?  Is it generational?  Is it intellect (those who know, of course, being those who possess higher intellect)?  What makes it so that my brother, his middle school, and I learned this popular cultural phenomenon and none of my high school/college friends did? 

Example of diarrhea song:

When you're sitting on the lawn
and you see something brown
diarrhea~  diarrhea~

Can you add more?

What the World Needs Now

New things are exciting.  Take my life, for instance, new work place, new responsibilities, new face, and non-stop thrills.  Sometimes though, it's good to feel comfortable and know everyone's name.  Yesterday, I was walking down the hallway (outside of our division but inside of our building) with my supervisor.  My supervisor has worked in the division much longer than I have and is much higher up than I am so natch, she knows more people than I do.  I can name everyone in our division but step outside the confines of our office and I'm generally clueless about the ways of the greater Brigham world, but I'm learning.  And after six months, when you see a face enough times, it makes an impression.  We walked past a petite little lady who looked very excited to see me and exchanged greetings.

(Once the lady is out of earshot)

Supervisor: Do you know her?

Moi: No.

Supervisor: Does she work in the dental office?

Moi: I don't know.  Maybe. 

Supervisor: I've never seen her before in my life.

Moi: That's impossible.  I see her all the time-  I call her Unusually Friendly Lady.  Jen and I, we love Unusually Friendly Lady.  She's so- friendly.

We could really use more unusually friendly ladies in the world (not to be confused with easy ladies-- we don't need those).  Sometimes though, we also need more people to understand sarcasm.  I made the same stupid crack I always make this morning about how "once you've seen one tree, you've seen them all."  And instead of saying, "that's not funny, moron" the lady I was working with just looked really, really sad.  Then quietly said, with a resigned voice, that she tries to recycle.  Which made me feel sad, too.  And I wanted to cry with her.

Miss You like a Missing Child

I'll be impressed if you know the title song, though I have a feeling I've used it before.

In many ways, snow is like children.  Much more enjoyable from a distance, but very messy up close (except for Nora, of course!  Hello, Nora's Mother).  This morning, I got up a little before the ungodly hour of 5am to rid my long and hilly driveway of snow.  It was freezing outside, so I donned a black fleece face mask that I found, much akin to the ninja masks I used to wear in old country (I moonlighted as a ninja because the assassin industry, unlike textiles was unregulated and rife with fortunes).  I'm not sure what the neighbors thought of me when they peered out of their windows to check out the loud rumbling and saw a little ninja with a bright red jacket, fighting the snow so, so, so early in the morning.  I know what I thought of them: Lazy bastards.  None of them had even stepped outside to check out the snow by the time I drove off at 6:20am.  It was my first time clearing the snow by myself via snowblower and doing it so early in the morning to then drive in the snow and then head off to work, so I may have overestimated the amount of time I needed by just a little.  But still, my neighbors are lazy bastards.  

(Let's all pause to reflect and cheer on the fact that snow blower did not mangle my limbs and I did not die in a fiery car crash en route to work.)

Speaking of sleep deprivation, I've been dozing off on the T lately.  I normally nap on the commuter, but doing so on the subway is much more tricky and risky.  There are stops and people to pay attention to and you miss much more when you fall asleep.  On Friday, the subway car came to a stop for a minute and I nodded off right way.  During that period of sleep, something important apparently happened because when I woke up, it was almost my stop and the conductor was apologizing (again) for the delay and reassuring passengers that connecting trains will be held for them.  They've never assured us that connecting trains will be held for us before.  But I guess what the delay was all about will just have to be one of those mysteries of life I'll ever find out.  Unless you know what it was about.  Then you could tell me and I wouldn't have to be in the dark.

Chuck Norris Hearts Huckabee

I saw presidential hopeful (but maybe not too hopeful) Mike Huckabee this morning. He spoke at the new church I go to and was very good at playing the down-to-earth game. Going to church in New Hampshire means that politicians occasionally stop by and hope to make a good impression, though Huckabee is the highest level candidate I've seen so far. The church does not side with a specific political party (refreshing difference from the crushing right-wind politics of the churches I went to up at the Bo') and has always been careful to support those placed in authority no matter their affiliations. This morning, for example, the pastor thanked God that all was safe and well with the Clinton campaign even as Huckabee was in the audience. With that said, I think most of the church will be supporting Huckabee now.

He was told not to talk politics but to just preach (he used to be a Baptist minister). And I'm impressed by how shrewd he was. I guess it makes sense that preaching helps you to become a convincing political speaker and a political speaker an engaging preacher. Technically, yes, Huckabee stuck to the Bible, generally steered clear of politics, and made no promises of what he was going to do if he ever became elected. But he subtly made references to his trip(s?) to Iraq, his respect and gratitude to American soldiers, and his commitment to the poor, tooting his own horn in offhand ways, mixing the medicine of his campaign in with his message. He was self-deprecating, full of jokes, and incredibly charming. He even joined in with the praise band for an impromptu jam, playing a little bit of bass. The worship leader made a crack about how Huckabee was the only person to ever wear a tie in the praise band, which prompted Huckabee, in a suit and far sharply dressed than the rest of the casual-clad congregation, to rip off his tie on the spot. This then led the pastor, who had only put on a tie for the occasion, to gladly rip his off as well.

Reading up on him, I realize now that he's not as awful as I had expected him to be and that his politics exhibits some real nice differences from the other Republicans in contention (which explains why the party conservatives are still complaining about the Mormon Romney and divorced Giuliani instead of jumping on-board behind the Baptist minister). It's too bad that I still think he's wrong on health care, foreign policy, national security, etc, etc (you know, the details), because I liked what I read, appreciated his charismatic and restrained performance this morning, and thinks that if he ought to run for something, maybe he should try being governor again. And while I would never vote or endorse him, if you have to vote for his party, go Huckabee. We could do (have seen/are seeing) a lot worse.