Scout's Honor

I carry emergency socks in my backpack Yasu, along with quarters, fun
pens, and aspirin. I do so because I like to be prepared and all these
things come in handy more often than you might guess. In preparation
for a conference call today (I hate them almost as much as frozen
carrots and peas), I had a clear table outside the lab, a notebook,
pen, relevant print outs, my iPod, and of course, a phone. Since I
already sound less than intelligent to my collaborators, I figured
that I should at least sound unintelligent but well prepared. Per
custom, I dial in a minute early, so I'd be one of the first ones on
the call. That was when everything went terribly wrong. At first, the
phone didn't budge at all. It also wouldn't turn off. I took the
battery out and dialed again. It worked for a second. Then the keypad
stopped working and I couldn't sign in. Then the whole thing froze
again. Apparently, I should've practiced dialing in to anticipate
this. Battery in, battery out, but this time, it still wasn't working.
So, frantic, I rush into the computer lab and stop Casey, the first
person I see.

Moi: Will you be here in an hour?

Casey: No, why?

Moi: Uh- can I borrow your phone anyway? I'm late for a conference call.

Fortunately, Casey was kind enough to hand her phone over. I dialed in
late. I still sounded stupid. There was awkwardity. But at least I was
prepared for that.

Director's Cut, Pt 2

I would gladly show you the amateur production I made for the department, but it's currently embargoed. Which is just as well. I had so much fun with the script, shoot, and getting all these people together- students, staff, and faculty included (like I'd do this without trying to recruit Papa)- that I would've been happy doing all that without a finished product.  I wonder if filmmakers always get to have this much fun.  I wrote some funny lines, got my favorite people together, they happily did what I told them, then I got to futz around, make up prizes, and get a free lunch out of the whole ordeal.  And everyone laughed. 

At the screening, Papa was characteristically and comically cranky.  He and Captain, the two faux department rivals whose classes most people are required to take, bickered like the old couple that they are and we all took sides in our hearts depending on who we TA'ed for in the fall.

Marie: I don't know how you guys do it. I find Prof Papa so awkward to talk to.

Moi: Really?  I feel the exact same way about Captain. We never have anything to talk about.

---

Moi: By the way, I figured out who was behind the video spoof of your lectures.

Max: The one on Oliver's facebook page?

Papa: That's your great sleuthing technique?  You saw the post from his page?

Moi: What?  No, the link said it was anonymous.  I figured it out by ... asking Oliver.  

Director's Cut

About a month ago, I made a short video for the department to use during orientation.

Last Saturday, on a gorgeous sunny day, I spray painted some toys.

Mounted them onto cups (that I also spray painted).

And on Thursday, presented them at our video screening.

There are a few people missing, but these are some of my favorite H'Bombers.

The More Things Change

I know I'm about to graduate when professors start giving me a hard time for hanging out in the department office too much.

 

(standing in the hall, totally discussing my suicide prevention project with Prof Israel)

 

Prof Papa:  Don't you have classes to go to?  You just hang out here all day?

 

Prof Israel: Papa, you think I'd just idle in the hallways talking to a student?

 

Moi: I don't know what either of you are talking about.  We were discussing my final paper here and I'm a legit student.

 

At my subsequent meeting, I couldn't stop smiling over the deja vu.  I'm pretty sure I got yelled at by at least 2 different professors at the Bo' for loitering around the department office too much in senior year.  Although I guess I have come a long way since then.  At the Bo', I knew that if the front door was locked (because the office was closed and no one was there), I could always break in through the back door.  Here, I know that I better not leave anything in the office after 5:30pm because the doors lock automatically and my swipe card doesn't give me access.  That's an improvement. 

Google Reader

Google Reader doesn't delete posts that I had meant to delete.  Posts like my audio post attempt late last night that ended with nothing to show.

 

Gentle Reader, I really did mean to post something.  But now I'm late for a meeting on suicide (a surefire picker upper for a moody Monday) prevention.  We keep calling the class suicide when it's suicide prevention.  When I return, I'll tell you a story of about chronic illness.  But in a light hearted sort of way.

I Could Laugh or I Could Cry

(on Hopkins)

Moi: It's not a bad choice as a safety school.

Doc Binks: Unless you want safety. Then it's a bad choice.

Stand By Me

The Japanese students on campus have been hard at work raising money for the relief efforts ever since last week. I don't pretend to understand what they are going through or have a special claim to the country, but having grown up in a formerly Japanese occupied state, having experienced immigration first hand, and being human, my heart goes out to these studets. They have been doing a great job mobilizing together to do everything that they can to help the people back home. Though I have already contributed to the efforts online (as I suspect many at the school have), I have also tried to show my support in person, giving money and providing unintentional comic relief, thanks mostly to language barriers, a loud cafeteria, and our ever present friend awkwardity.

On Monday, I stopped by the table to chat with a first year in my program who was helping with the efforts. Rather than aggressively pounce on people for donations, the students running the table have been fairly successful by just standing there and having conversations. This is great in one sense. But it makes the actual transaction difficult. My encounter went something like this:

Moi: How much money have you guys raised?

Ry: My family are all OK, but I have not heard from my friends in the north so I do not know.

Moi: ... ... Wow. That is hard. Um. I am so sorry. (some more weak interstitials) Can I give you guys money?

Each donation is rewarded with a small Japanese snack and each $20 donation comes with a t-shirt (should the donor desire). Today, craving a little snack, I stopped by the table again with a $2 donation. The lady running the table was skeptical.

Lady (concerned): You already gave on Monday. I remember.

Moi: I know, I just wanted to see if I could get a little snack. Can I give you $2 for this?

Lady (incredulous): You want to give more money?

Moi: I just want a snack. Is that OK?

(confers with friend, both laugh in my face, hands me the snack, we all walk away happy)

Dress Thyself

Doctor Bill was in one of our classes last semester. He wasn't just a mid-career practicing physician going back to school, he was a dad with teenage daughters. And he wasn't just a surgeon, he was a neurosurgeon. We all liked him for what he contributed to the class and for not being an arrogant jerk like so many of his colleagues. Yet because it was very hard to compliment him without sounding like I was putting down his profession, I ended last semester with a vague comment to him that conveyed none of our appreciation but all of my awkwardness.

Last semester, Doctor Bill always showed up to class late and in scrubs, sometimes with a white coat. The uniform elicited eye rolls at first but gradually became part of his intrigue. He was fit. He was tanned. And he was in scrubs. Today, we saw him in civilian clothing for the first time. We also saw him without his charm and intrigue for the first time. Though I'm grateful that the sight of him was the sole force keeping me awake and amused for the 120 minute lecture this afternoon. It wasn't just the dad jeans, but that he wore them with an over sized orange shirt. And a sweater vest. An orange-green-red sweater vest. It prompted Amy to comment that she "only gets surgery from well-dressed people" and led to this awesome graph (I supplied the points), a graph that every patient should know:

Mad Matters

There they were, Father and Mother, a combined 5 master's degrees between them.

"It's 77 by 77."

"No, it's 3 sticks on one side, 3 and a half sticks the other."

"You cannot measure things with sticks! I have a tape measure right here, see 77 inches."

"Why won't you believe me?"

"Look at the hypotenuse, this is a square!"

These are the facts that we know: My parents' new mattress is 77 by 77 inches. Their bed is not. My mother fractured her sacrum in January and is on bed rest for 16 weeks.

As often seen in our political debates, there are facts, and there are people who refuse to believe them. Like Mother.

I came home home last night to discover a giant box in the drive way, one that I had the privilege of lugging upstairs with my dad. It was their new mattress. Mother helped the proceedings by not remaining in bed but commenting how the last time they did this, Father wasn't home (in Taiwan tending then comatose mother) and she did it "all by herself" ... after people lugged it upstairs for her.

Moi: Um... I was here. I helped you move it onto the bed.

Mother: Oh that's right, I did it by myself with you.

Because the bed is not 77 inches by 77 inches but the mattress is, it all looked a little funny at first. So Father and I rotated the mattress by 90 degrees. It looked slightly better. Then Mother insisted that it was "wrong" and asked us to move it another 90 degrees. To appease her, we did. We all agreed that it'd be the last time we'd move it. Then Mother realized that that looked "wrong." Do you sense a pattern here? I moved the mattress another 90 degrees.

That was Part I. The yell-y part came this morning, when, invigorated by a full night's rest, Mother focused on the mattress again (the mattress that we'd rotated to her specifications twice the night before). Father, being the engineer, took out the measuring tape and measured both bed and mattress to figure out where the discrepancies were. The mattress was square. The bed was not. No matter how you tilt it, there'd be a 4 inch gap lengthwise. Mother, being the pianist, took the stick she found on the floor. And you know the rest.

(Oh, you don't? It's a story as old as time itself. The patient on bed rest attempted to move the king size mattress herself. We reluctantly intervened. Thereby rotating the square mattress for the fourth time.)

For those of you keeping score at home, that's Crazy 1, Logic 0, Metric System 0, Father 0, Father's Engineering Degree 0, Mother 1.

Oops

Did anyone catch it when I accidentally posted a personal email here about weekend plans? Absolutely mortifying. I am still having tremors.

Eep

Emily and I didn't invent a secret language called Eep in middle school. We just pretended that we did. I don't remember if we ever had a discussion about the logistics of inventing a secret language and gave up on it, or if we were pragmatic about the whole thing right from the beginning. We just needed Melanie Kim to think that we had made up a language and that she was excluded from it. So Emily would say a few 'eeps' at recess and I'd pretend to laugh at what she said. I do remember that the satisfaction of leaving her out, or watching Melanie Kim 'eep' as she pretended she was in on a language that really wasn't, was never as satisfying as I had expected. And it was the kind of achievement we couldn't tell other people. Our classmates didn't care. And it seemed too mean of an act to brag to my friends.

That was always the problem. We hated Melanie Kim. But she thought we were her friends, if not from actual like than a social necessity. We were her only friends in sixth grade. I was practically a gift: an Asian girl who was new in town and who'd missed the first few days of school. Naturally, we were placed together and told to be friends. And Emily? Well, she became my friend, so Melanie scored a 2-for-1 deal with us. We were too nice to be outright mean. Or perhaps too cowardly. Too selfish. Too by-the-books good. Though it's entirely possible that we didn't talk too much of our disdain for Melanie. We were, when it comes downright to it, too nerdy to be full out mean. We were preoccupied with books and trying to impress each other and our hatred for Ms. Brady.

Whenever I look back at my middle school years, I am astounded by the misguided self confidence I had with me in those early days. I believed myself to be special and smarter than everyone and who cares about anything else? I think Emily and I worked well together because she believed the same thing. Seventh grade followed sixth grade, then eighth, then high school, and college. And every year, we didn't become smarter, but more knowledgeable. We quit math team. We listened to pop music. We became self aware. And we got friends who grew more interesting and more like us every year. Until finally we began to wear our confidence not as a shield, but a way to enjoy the world and became so cool that we didn't need to invent a fake language to feel superior. We already are.

Then again, that's what I had thought in the sixth grade.

Chips Ahoy

Yesterday, I wandered up and down Mass Ave. looking for old action figures.  Do you have old action figures?  They don't have to be in good condition.  They just need to be able to stand.  I need a dozen of them.  This journey led me to many different stores, where the clerks suggested still many other stores.  One of which was Pandemonium Toys & Games.  That sounds promising, no?  No.  This was the type of store that dealt in magic cards.  And had a room for game play.  Which I accidentally walked into.  But not the Yahtzee kind.  It was all very serious and uncomfortable.  And everyone there was very lanky.  Much like the people at the art store.  Except they were friendlier.  And I ended up buying 5 pirate figurines.

Yesterday, I also got to meet Riles for coffee, which caused former roommate Amy to go into a jealous fit and text Riles.  It was when we met up that I remembered that on my way to meet her, I had had a cookie.  But suddenly, I didn't see this cookie anymore.  Where was this cookie?  Not in my pocket.  Not in my other pocket.  I checked many pockets.  Then found it, shoved into my backpack.  Not even one of those small pockets.  Nope, I had just dumped it into the bag.  And retrieved the crumb-y cookie in front of my former advisor.  Because my life will never cease being a stream of smooth.

The One That Is For Rachel.

This is at least 7 kinds of nerdy, and not so much epi jokes as health services research jokes. A compilation of my proudest creations/collaborations in the past few weeks:

What do pirates die of?

hARGHt disease.

What are they prescribed for it?

ARBs.

Where do (research) pirates get their funding?

AHRQ. (Alternatively, RWJ)

Where do they publish?

Archives (of Internal Medicine).

Work a Day

I love/hate coming into work the day after exams.  I hate that I always sign up for it when I could be doing other things, such as sleeping, mending the holes in my shoes, or laundry.  But Pre-Exam Me isn't very bright and always overestimates my enthusiasm for work (heck, Exam Me isn't very smart either).  But I come and I work and in the silence of the office, I start to remember that I enjoy this stuff.  Then I stop by the board and see that people have added their own health services pirate jokes and it all helps the medicine go down.

Whitecastle: How's our paper coming?

Moi: Uh, well, it's- um, I had exams, so I had-

Whitecastle: This is going to be a good paper.

Moi: Is that the correct answer?

Whitecastle: "This will make you proud" would also have been acceptable.

El Guaco

Do you feel neglected, Dear Diary? It's finals season (the penultimate one before graduation) so my sleep schedule, fruit and vegetable intake, general well being, and school work quality, all feel neglected. Especially exercise regimen, but I've been neglecting that for two years, so what else is new? Last night, after our last class with Prof Papa, we went out for drinks, Papa included. Well, those of is with work ethic went home to work on finals, but I was not in that group.

Despite 35 years of working at the school, Papa had never been to the
bar we had chosen, one of only 2 restaurant/bars within a three minute walk from the school. Giving him directions for the place just down the street seemed impossible, so After much debate over whether it's perpendicular to T.G.I. Friday (nothing is), I sent Jesse to escort him over.

The rest of his time with us (he had a tennis date later) was just as delightfully cranky as the beginning. He ordered "2 big sides of guacamole, just two big things, as fast as you can," to a confused waitress. "Do you want chips with that?". As Jesse later explained later, 30 minutes with Papa was just the perfect amount of time, before all his conversation topics have been exhausted and his true awkwardness comes out. isn't that true for all of is?

Things I Dreamt Last Night

Things I Dreamt Last Night

That I found Jason's chopsticks and I got a new MacBook with
Moviemaker as a present.

Then woke up to a cruel reality this morning that neither was true.
(but the weather was nice and it's still Sunday, so there's that)

Sent from my iPod

Chopsticks Duet

About a month ago, I celebrated the lunar new year by having a dumpling party. Because I invited more people over than my apartment and accessories could afford, people drank wine out of solo cups and I had Jason bring over his stash of chopsticks.

Since then, I've tried very hard to return Jason's chopsticks, but it's been a very difficult process. For starters, I couldn't find them. I could only reasonably pick out 2 pairs that I thought were his. The rest were jumbled in the cutlery drawer. But he said he was missing more and hadn't brought any home that night (which was what I had suspected), so I checked the drawer again.

But Landlady Chang insisted all the chopsticks in the drawers were hers. (And then I picked out the ones that obviously weren't and she relented.) But I was in a pickle. Where were those darn chopsticks? I checked and checked and no avail.

Until this morning. When Landlady Chang noted that the drawer seemed unusually full of chopsticks. "But you said they were all yours." "Oh. Maybe we have the same ones." Nearing an answer, I checked with Jason to see how many he was missing. Only to find out he wasn't missing that many. Maybe only the 2 that I first spotted.

So one month later. I've identified 2 pairs of chopsticks and 2 crazies. Happy new year.

Three's Company

On Monday, we gave a presentation on bed bugs to our cohort chock full
of cookies, information, and fun. The highlight of the whole thing
was a craft project in which we had everyone in class make a bed bug.
I'm proud of our presentation. And was excited to show my bed bug to
Edith and Doc Poppy. They were skeptical of the whole ordeal.

Doc Poppy: So this is what you're doing in school?

Edith: Don't you pay a lot of money to go to this school?

We sure do. Even though we have so few donors that only 2 of our 4
buildings are named. So we refer to 2 by name and 2 by number
(Kresge, FXB, Building 1 and Building 2). Even though all 4 are
technically numbered. This practice is not confusing at all. And
that was how we bumped into Prof Papa yesterday, wandering the halls
and asking "Which one is Building 3?" "I have no idea. Wait a
minute, didn't they just give you an award for being here for 30
years?" (It was apparently the building his office is housed in. Not
the building he was walking toward.)

How the Mighty

Made this as a weeknight dinner last week, two nights in a row. Polenta and corn. Onions and mushroom. And maple glazed apples and pork chop with candied pecans. All from scratch.

This week? I made comically hideous yet relatively tasty cupcakes. From a box. Though the ganache was homemade. These were my "Collapsible Steering Column Cakes" for Prof Papa's class. But the pastry tips were harder to use than I imagined so they turned out like Hostess squigglies. As I was distributing them in class, Prof Papa walked toward me. I asked him if he wanted one and without a smile, he nodded, took one, and just asked me for a napkin. As if it was the most natural thing to him that someone would make injury prevention cupcakes for his class and offer it to him so that he didn't need to consider or acknowledge any of this.

For dinner this week, I had take out leftovers 3 nights in a row. Finally cooked a tiny bit tonight but nothing like last week. I ate well last week. Whipped up a shrimp/chorizo/arugula sandwich tonight. I bought white sliced bread for the first time in years after I went grocery shopping rather than go to CVS like my to-do list said to-do. This also means that I haven't had loratadine in days. My skin really needs loratadine. But I really love white bread. It's soft and reminds me of Taiwan. I know it has no nutritional value. So I normally get guilted into buying either more expensive fancy bread or wheat toast. But not today. I'm going to enjoy my sandwiches for the next week.

The More Things Change

Yesterday, Louise and I had a spat about whose face smelled more like fruit or something along those lines. There was a lot of "you smell," "no, your face does," and other well articulated arguments. But it made Cashier Dorothy smile, which is OK by me. Following our public display of eloquence and intellect, we joined a greater discussion amongst our work group regarding whether people around us are getting dumber (our hypothesis) or if we are just getting smarter (unlikely). The debate reached a climax when I shouted "I think my shirt is on backwards" and ran into the rest rom to turn it around. Some days, it feels like I'm only seconds away from getting my BA revoked.

Papa Don't

Sometimes, I forget that not everyone in the world needs to constantly best the people around them. That is, sometimes I forget that not everyone is Doc Whitecastle.

Moi: I forgot to ask you a question.

Prof Papa: Oh look, my schedule is all booked. I can't do the video anymore.

Moi: You wouldn't want Howard to show you up.

Prof Papa: Howard is a better man than I am. He should have the glory.

If only that sounded more convincing, my faith in academics would be restored.

A Nerd in Three Acts

In high school, I remember vehemently making the distinction between geeks and nerds. For reasons I cannot now recall, I was confident that I was the former and not the latter. At this point in my life, I'm pretty comfortable with both. Though I still insist that labels aside, I am the coolest person ever.

Today, I spent four hours making a table for our informal lit review project for Prof Papa's class. Yes, the course where most people get A's. Because it was more fun to read the literature on the risk of injuries among lefties than work on my Health IT midterm. So I read through a dozen papers, abstracted the necessary info, and made a really pretty table. Just because.

Today, I sent Prof FAO my apologies for forgetting to send the grade distribution for her class (in another pretty Excel table) earlier. This was her reply: "I wasn't worried. I know you both are as compulsive as I am."

Today, per usual, I doodled all over my notebook during lecture. Feeling uninspired, I mostly stuck with squares and rectangles. One of these doodles happened to be 4 rectangular boxes lined up in increasing length.

Maxwell*: Did you just draw a graph in your notes? What a nerd. (this from a man about to publish a paper on baseball statistics)

Moi: No, I was just doodling. These are just rectangles.

Maxwell: Doodle graphs? That's even nerdier.


*Maxwell also picked on Sophie for getting a "very good" rather than "excellent" on our papers today, despite printing her graph with color, so he was on a bullying roll.

Fan the Flame

I can't stop thinking about my lunch/dinner/lunch-again-tomorrow-if-I-can-resist-eating-it-for-breakfast. I am very seriously contemplating going back again tomorrow. I know exactly what I'll order:

Medium curried goat with rice and beans. And a side of jerk wings. As someone who once loved lamb but now eats it cautiously thanks to 30 straight days of lamb in Chinar (maybe not every day, but at least 3 times a week), it's got to be a fine dish to warrant a 48-hour craving from me.

I'd gone to Flames II a few times before, but was usually too busy shoving a patty with cocoa bread in my mouth to consider much else. Something clicked today. Maybe it was the hunger. Maybe it was the company. Maybe I was finally smart enough to show up at lunch and not dinner (pretty sure lunch and dinner are cooked at the same time). But my goat was melty and rich, the rice and beans redolent with coconut milk, and the jerk wings both tender and just too-spicy enough to hook you in, numb your mouth, and make you go back to the rice and goat until the process repeats again. Jo, Faith, and I could not stop talking about our lunch. Then Jesse heard that we'd went there and we talked about the goat again for ten minutes. Then I went home and ate it again.

Ballers Pt. 2

All fancied up at the Ball.

Some of us are fancier than others. Then again, some of us are better at biostat than others. This is my policy-biostat support group:

I know. We'd gone through so long without a toilet picture. Just when you thought I was going proper on you, I throw one in here.

My point is that this toilet is completely plain. The Harvard Club on Comm Ave: All fancy and exclusive on the outside, completely ordinary on the inside. Much like the school itself*.

*I kid, I kid, School. You are worthy of the world's adulation.

Ballers Pt. 1

It was our grad school prom ("Winter Ball") this weekend. Whoever came up with the concept of Winter Ball has obviously never walked through the Boston snow banks with bare legs in open toed (but pretty) shoes. Before the festivities began, we gathered at Laura's for dinner.

I love pictures of people just hanging out, enjoying themselves without noticing the camera.

But this completely posed one makes me smile three ways:

Consumed

The South End is full of great restaurants and a few cool bars. In short, an independent eater's paradise (if paradise required a lot of money and self-congratulatory elitism). There are row after row of eateries serving Thai, Indian, Ethiopian, French, American, Italian, Spanish, Peruvian, Venezuelan food (unfortunately, no Chinese, but Chinatown is next door). So naturally, D-Bomb and I hung out at the local Starbucks on Friday night.

We did try. We tried very hard. We supported local business with dinner at Don Ricardo, where service was lovely and attentive until we tried to get the check. After dinner, we naively tried to go to Picco's for ice cream and beer. Like it was possible on a Friday night. It was packed. Along with every other restaurant on the stretch. And bar. (Well, Don's wasn't. But we weren't going to stoop that low. Though I'd really like to try his flan. Right now.) And everyone everywhere looked chic and impressive and in love. Except for us. Hence the near empty Starbucks.

Instead, we sipped sugary caffeine and talked about middle school and what Starbucks meant to us then. At a South End coffee shop on a Friday night, we were living what our high school selves aspired to (discussing books amidst brownstones- if only 16 year old me could see it now!), yet still feeling like we were on the outside, looking in.

Little White Lies

The board is back. People who know me know that the little white board at work is my prized possession. It's a little place on which I get to be goofy and rally the office together. It was how I got to know Doc Firewall and I miss him. The board had been on hiatus since the end of the summer. Too many things got in the way and in the meantime, seven babies have been born in the office. I had three myself. But Jen inspired me this week and I brought it all back with an entry on pronouncing Doc Winner's name (Winner? Whiner? Winnay?)

Per usual, it garnered the type of banter and distraction that make me love my white board creations. And as per usual, this gladness was followed by immense pressure and anxiety about living up to the entry again next week. Since I was also in the midst of trying to wrap up a paper for Doc Whitecastle, I tagged on a note for him not to yell at me, because colorful board aside, I really am working hard. Not that he appreciated it.

(on my way out of the office for the weekend)

Moi: In case you missed it, there's a note for you on the white board..

Whitecastle: Which board?

Moi: The little one that has just been resurrected. Have a nice weekend. (start heading home)

Whitecastle (shouting behind me): Are you running away before I get a chance to read it? That's cowardly!

Moi: I can't hear you.

The Streak Ends Now

I felt very much like a graduate student today. Days like today make me think that I can do this whole doctoral thing. Though I know that days like today are absolute flukes. But I had all the buzz words. Morning check in with adviser. Work on manuscript. Meeting with Whitecastle. Networked with a Hopkins alum (or a "call with Hopkins"). Did some more work. Went to class. Dinner reunion with econ TAs. Came home. Graded papers. Very uncharacteristically productive. Now if I can only resist the urge to slack off or watch TV for five more years...

(updating Prof Papa on my school admittance status)

Moi: ... I got into two so far, rejected from Harvard, still waiting on a couple... so you must have said something right in your letter. Thanks.

Prof Papa: That's exactly what I told them- please admit her, except for Harvard.

Poppy Daycare

Doc Poppy's 9-month old is in daycare. Doc Poppy gets weekly progress reports on her daughter's progress, including reports of some early bullying tendencies. The progress reports tell of the wonderful crafts she's done all week, the songs she sang, the projects she's completed. Oddly enough, Baby Poppy never does any of these activities at home. Either because she regresses whenever she's home. She's shy and hiding her true talents. She's leading a baby spy double life. Or because she's only 9 months old and these are heavily embellished reports. If only we could figure out which reason it is...

An Accountant and Pirate Walk into a Bar

I'm chatting with Jen in the lab when Laura walks by...

Laura: Howard is in.  And he has a pirate eye patch we can use.

Moi: (turn to Jen, start to explain)

Laura: It's OK.  I'm not going to ask. 

Supersize This

After a few days of celebrating my heritage and eating all the right lunar new year foodstuffs, got a sudden hankering for a burger last night. Sausage + pork patty (homemade, natch), barbeque mushrooms and onions, fried egg, bacon, arugula, cheddar + gouda.

I found out this week that I won't be staying in Boston next year (sorry, Sister Claire- and no, I can't wait for the fun awkwardness that'll hang around whenever I head over DPM now). Not sure where I'll be yet, but Baltimore, Seattle, and Providence are the main contenders. I'll be relieved when all the decisions have been made and the elbow patch cardigans purchased. And of course, tell you all about it. In the meantime, there are burgers to be enjoyed.

Sons of Menarche

Today in my biostat course, Prof/Doc Bob* (it's always weird when worlds converge and a Doc becomes a Prof- thank God that Whitecastle is not public health faculty) said 'menarche' at least 13 times.

Moi: I like that [boy] scientists came up with a word so they can avoid saying period or menstruation.

Laura: It even rhymes with patriarchy.


*I know, he needs a better name.  It's harder than it looks, OK?

My Favorite Things (February 2011 Edition)

We are long overdue for a three'fer list:

1. PubGet. I know I'm late to the party (it's always humbling when
Whitecastle is ahead of me in trends) but this service is amazing for
anyone whose job is nerdy enough (lucky enough?) to heavily rely on
PubMed. Can't rave about it enough because it saves me 1-2 steps when I find PDFs.

2. Since I'm just shamelessly shilling services now, how about the
"Caramel Delight" Light & Fit yogurt I had for breakfast? I love fake
healthy yogurts that are really desserts in disguise. I know it's
unnatural and too sweet, but if something is marked as Light & Fit, it
must be good for me, no?

3. Good news from schools. Wish I had more of them, but have 2 good choices so far, and there may be another 1 or 2 on the way. Actually, this is tied with new year dumpling making with friends. That hasn't even happened yet, but the anticipation alone is making me tingly.

Blue Crush

Now in my grad school application process for the second time, I'd like to thank everyone who keeps reminding me how great Harvard (and any other competitive program) is, as if letting me in on a special secret and my fate isn't up to an admission committee.

I just got off the phone with Grandfather, who is one of these voices of wisdom and once again extolled the virtues of Harvard. "It's not just the school, but the city, culture, and academic environment. Boston really is the best city in America." "I don't know, I quite like Seattle." "Seattle is a pretty city, no doubt, but culturally inferior." "... " Spoken like a true New Englander. Maybe I should have applied to the DAR after all.

Musty Thursday

Thursday was a mess of a day that started at 6:40AM. But it really started the night before, when Mother roused me from sleep (via phone) to ask if I had put myself on the do-not-call registry. For mothers? No. But there ought to be one.

There was breakfast spent looking out at hostile, honking cars, a treacherous commute through which ice splattered down as I walked and our bus backed up through 4 blocks and onto traffic, the classes, the strange, voluntary visit to the PhD core course, an additional 2-hour lecture on research methods to end the day. Luckily, the lecture, led by the head of the admissions committee, a bona fide Walty doppelganger, wasn't uncomfortable at all. Especially when he made a joke about admitting grad students on chance as Laura and me looked aghast. The day culminated with me bolting from the lecture early and a dramatic running through the icy cobblestones of Harvard Square at rush hour to make sure I could get to Esther's apartment in time for my phone interview.

But something strange happened once I got to Esther's. The place was toasty. I got there with just 2 minutes to spare but they had already set everything up, a glass of water, a nice notepad, a quiet panic room and land line. The talk went well and afterward, I invited myself for dinner. The mess of the day drained away and all that was left was good food, school talk, and easy laughs about man dates. A much better way to spend the day than watching depressing relationship drama in an arty theater. Especially the part where I get a free dinner by asking.

---

(on choosing grad students)

Doctoral student: At a certain point, there's only so much awesome you can be.

Walty-ganger: You'd be surprised.

Laura et moi: ... ... ...

Come Again

Came home home (to my folks' house) this weekend to find a bare bed in my bedroom. Where did my blankets and comforter go? And how might I get them back?

Jen: You and Your Office Street Interactions

I went to an art auction today. It was so classy that it makes up for the flannel I'm wearing now. I took a break from school and work and practicum today, slept late, and met up with Carol, who works at an auction house. On our way back from the cafe, we bumped into Whitecastle, halfway across town and office. It was wholly unexpected. Naturally, we exchanged stunned/awkward greetings and I made sure to tell him that I was working hard and not skipping work.

Light Lunch

Today was the second day of classes and already, it feels like March. On the bright side, I've gotten three consecutive free meals. I'm going to miss free food when I leave this place.

(At the research conference today, Doc Lemon, who was presenting had her thesis adviser sit in as a guest)

Doc Lemon: We're not going to spend too much time on the statistical approach-

Adviser: WHAT? (place goes silent and stares at her) What have these people done to you? It was so beautiful.

Doc Binks: But we do have cookies.

Yes, two kinds of cookies with the lunch. They were both delicious.

[Insert Title]

A bus went by the office today and Edith threw me under it. OK. She may have not meant to but I took her comments one way and before you know it, I was making fun of Herr Doctor Whitecastle (as I do). But he was not amused. His lack of amusement was also not amusing. So I offered up a story of how my aunt thought I was intellectually disabled as a conciliatory gift. He smiled.

(Speaking of disabled, I've had to read this one paper for work several times in the last and whenever I came upon the word 'disability,' I'd freeze and have to re-read it several times before my brain kicks in that it's not disease-ability.)

(counting the number of people in the office after Friday's delayed-start morning)

Whitecastle: Did you count her? She's short, but that should at least count as a half.

Moi: I'm at least 3 quarters of a person.

Accent Grave

All the Chinese speakers in the office compliment me on my Mandarin, tell me that my accent isn't as bad as I say it is... then speak to me in English.  I'll have you know that I'm a published poetry in Chinese (albeit published in a daily newspaper for children and I was 8 at the time)

Wayback Shuffle

Ate a piece of paper thinking it was a rice paper wrapper today and felt like I was four again.  

Then somebody called me Joyce and I felt like I was ten.

I thought I had an important call today but it's really tomorrow.  I really should use this time wisely and either go grocery shopping or get a hair cut.  But all I want is to go home, sip some cocoa (or better yet, tie guan ying), watch a movie, and sleep.  It's what I've been doing on and off for the past month.  And yet I'd still like more.

When I'm Alone with You

Earlier this weekend, I was settling into my seat at the movie theater and about to text Lisa to let her know what I may be late to dinner when I realized that I had nothing to text her with. It was Saturday afternoon, and I was feeling culturally superior and relevant that Dwight and I had seen both "indie" movies that a loud girl on the T had wanted to see and were at the very theater she had talked about wanting to check out. But I had left my phone at Dwight's. He offered to drop it off after the movie, but I'd have no way of knowing when he was arriving or when I'd get home after dinner. ("People used to do this without cellphones, right?" "I don't know what you're talking about.) Finally, after an extra hour on the MBTA, a borrowed phone, and a ride from Dwight anyway, everything fell back into its natural order.

Until this morning. I paced around the apartment for a good 15 minutes looking for the remnants of my groceries run from last night. I'd refrigerated what needed to be frozen and thought I'd left my dried goods in the kitchen, or maybe foyer. But they were nowhere to be found. I thought I was going mad and was about to start accepting that misplaced items were going to be a fact of my life from now on when Landlady Chang put the pieces together. "Was there condensed milk in the bag?" "Yeah." "I think [Pam's boyfriend] took it home." "Why?" "He thought it was his." "He thought the bag of crackers, Asian mixed nuts, and condensed milk were his?" "I guess so?" While I feel for Pam that her boyfriend is absolutely insane, it's good to know that I'm not the crazy one.

Insane Clown Posse

None of these glasses actually belong to me.

Through out the past month, I've been seeing friends, taking my camera along, and forgetting to take pictures. This past Friday, I finally remembered to snap some while hanging out with the Humility Council.

We found Jacob Wirth (I have a weakness for German American establishments) to be packed and the site of some piano singalong. It began as the greatest charm about the place, but by the end of the night, we all agreed, "This was the perfect place for this... minus the piano and singing."

Soup's Up

Did I do any work today, particularly on the two papers I need to finish by the end of the week? No. But look at the soup I made. Beans, cabbage, chourico, and a soft poached egg on top. Because that's what you're supposed to do on snow days.

Great Latkes

(leftovers 'latkes')

Playing Anomia (new favorite game) on Sunday night, I had to name a lake, any lake, before Jenny could answer my category. "Uh- Home!" was my first response. Followed by "No, wait, E. Eurie? Erie? Great Lake!" Amazingly, I managed to get all that out before Jenny could give her response and got two points out of the whole affair.

Do you recall the three C's I shall not eat? Carrots, celery, and cilantro. I hate them. But I know that they are good for me. So about once a year, I buy a bag of carrots and spend the next 3 months hiding carrots in my food, as if I was a simple child. They're going to be in my soup tomorrow and on Sunday, I shredded them into my potato pancakes. Too bad I was working from matchstick carrots and nearly lost my fingers.

You know what food I don't hate? Potato pancakes. I'm quite fond of them. After dinner with Dwight on Saturday (at Russell House, where he got a cheese pizza and I got a burger, except the words on the menu were much fancier), I was left with a pile of cold fries. Fries are hard to reheat. But, a little onion, carrots, egg, blending and ingenuity, and I had crisp pancakes ready to go within 5 minutes. Brilliant, no? I should be getting my MacArthur any day now.

Greener Pastures

(Sometimes I forget that I have been walking for about 25 years.  I trip and fall into boxes.)

Moi: I'll just follow you... (trip) ... and not walk into any boxes.

Whitecastle (walking ahead of me): What?

Moi: Nothing.

Whitecastle: Are you really talking to yourself?

Moi: No.  I think your hearing is going.

---
Have you ever been to the Cantab?  If you have, it was probably on a Tuesday night, which is Bluegrass Night.  The place has live music 7 nights a week, but for whatever reason, everyone talks about Bluegrass Night yet nobody seems to go because of the bluegrass (not that there's anything wrong with bluegrass.  I like bluegrass and that one song they play).  It happened again last night with D-Bomb and Liz.

Moi: So when I was at the Cantab-

D-Bomb: That place with bluegrass?

Moi: Yeah, but it was all people you didn't expect to like bluegrass, right?  I certainly wasn't there for the bluegrass.

D-Bomb: I wasn't either.  (he was there to discuss the impact of Gordon S. Wood on American historical discourse)

Liz: The Cantab?  I've been to their bluegrass night.

Moi: Exactly!  And you weren't there for the bluegrass?

Liz: No, I was there for the music.

Case Logic

frm Amy (not to be confused with me) was in town for a few glorious weeks and both of us got to have dinner with Prof Riles. She gave both of us presents and paid for dinner when really, the three of us eating dinner together was a present enough. If I ever have a daytime show in which I gave out my favorite things, this pencil case present will certainly be among the goods.

Last night, I dreamt that I was debating whether to go to a party at home of one of the Band Man's friends. We were all invited but the only people I'd know there would have been the Bands. I remember debating the fun vs. awkwardity of the situations (seems like a no-brainer in retrospect). And suddenly, we were at my gmom's funeral (and Eve found a squatter toilet but used it incorrectly). The imagination (and penchant for weird) of my unconscious scares me.

Practicum Magic

This has been a very male-academic-centric week of posts (better than nothing) so I figured I'd close the week with one more anecdote. It's either that or reveal something personal about myself and nobody wants that.

As a part of my program, we have a year-long course associated with a 16-week practicum that's supposed to include mentoring, regular progress reviews, and all sorts of professional development goodies to help us apply our learning. All but one other person in my cohort started their projects at least a month ago. Marie regular meets with the CEO of the local hospital monopoly. Max and Catherine are developing Vermont's healthcare plan. As for me? I went to Whitecastle yesterday afternoon.

Moi: Can you be my preceptor?

Whitecastle: Am I qualified?

Moi: Mm hmm. Just sign here. I'll fill out the rest.

Whitecastle: (glances over form, amazingly asks if I want to backtrack the date to make the form seem 'more real') So you're going to write about how I'm going to mentor you? And I'm paying you for this?

Moi: I guess so. I mean, I've already learned so much from you.

Whitecastle: It's all part of the plan. Teaching you how to fend for yourself.

I really hope I'm employable in a few months.

You Know My Methods

Every time I think I am vaguely getting smarter, I thank Doc Whitecastle for keeping me daft and grounded.

Thanks to BIO 211 (which I aceminused* despite a surprisingly difficult final), my ability to understand the methods sections of peer-reviewed health literature (but not economics**) has skyrocketed in recent months, along with my ability to understand the work that I have been contributing to for the last 3.5 years.  Makes me wonder what I have been doing for the past 3.5 years.  But no matter, just ask me what the Watson-Durbin statistic is. 

OK.  I can't tell you, but I can eagerly nod my head in recognition.  But then Whitecastle goes and pulls a Cox model (let's all pause for a minute now to snicker) on me:

Whitecastle: You do know what it is, right?

Moi: I've heard it... a lot...

Whitecastle (sigh): Have you taken BIO 230?  232?  Will you take it?

I'm only at 211, with 210 on the horizon.  Then graduation.  And so many more models to misunderstand.
_____

*Aceminus: n) a person who is good, but not excellent in a particular field; v) to earn a high grade but not quite the definitive A or A+ that usually earns bragging rights.  See also: Me- at life and Lenny's e-coli medium.

**I come across a particularly confusing paper for our review and hand it over to Whitecastle for assistance.  For once, I concur wholeheartedly with his assessment:

Whitecastle: This is going to be a difficult paper to understand.  Let's exclude it.

3 Kind Encounters

Doc Query tried to give me a random wicker basket today. He is also trying to bring the beard back. Right now, it just looks like he's bringing faint stubble back.

Doc Gollum, who I am convinced is one of the best mentors any budding researcher could have (and it's just unfortunate that he's not mine), asked if I'd see the article in the Times "about our paper." "Today's paper?" "No," he said with a laugh that let me know I was silly for asking, "not today. A couple of weeks ago." Since I: a) don't actually know what our paper is about b) never read the Business section of the Times ("that's where they always publish those kinds of stories," he said as if it was the most natural thing on earth-- I thought it'd be in the Health section) and c) I was working my way through my Watch Instantly queue on Netflix 2 weeks ago, it is safe to say that no, I had not seen the article.

(Article update: I just checked. Apparently, Doc Gollum was all over the news during finals week. A very big deal. Also, it was totally in the Health section.)

I tried to show Prof Papa a video today but the sound did not work on his computer. Undeterred, he tried his luck at youtube. "This is what I've been watching lately," he said as he typed out "christmas doggy video" with his finger tips. And I swore off trans fats right there and then because I thought I'd have a heart attack. He also recommended looking up videos of Australian car crashes (naturally, for injury prevention purposes and nothing else).

Access Denied

Discovered this a few days ago when I tried to cut through the park.

Here's to Our Prosperity

This is not the greatest video in the world. But it does combine two of my favorite things in the world: Fiddler on the Roof and dance flicks. Outside of food and friends (and coverage for the underinsured), it's difficult to find two other things that make me as happy as these. Happy New Year:

Scallionwag

I attended Father's church today. The entire service started an hour earlier than usual. Apparently, you can just do things like that when a third of the church is gone for a conference. Because of holiday shuffling and the snowstorm and conference, I was pulled in for emergency interpretation duty. I sat next to a guy and narrated the entire service to him in English. I'm not sure he saw all the parallels between the Old and New Testament symbols in the message. But I tried the best I could.

Christmas wasn't super great, but I got to see my folks and got new pens and Airwave gum, which was everything I had wanted. Now I'm back in the city to enjoy a nice snow day. Whenever I return from home home, I get a hankering for scallion pancakes. We eat a lot of it at home, though hardly ever from scratch. The fridge at home has an impressive arsenal of frozen dumplings and pancakes. In Taiwan, scallion pancakes are one of those things that are so cheaply and widely available, at such good quality, that it's hardly ever worth it to make it at home. But that's not how we roll in the South End. So I got my doughy hands dirty and made some. Along with the sweet spicy dipping sauce (also never homemade in Taiwan). Now I'm going to enjoy a Lifetime Originals movie. The way snow days are meant to be enjoyed.

Tender and Mild

Every time I come home, I seem to write some entry about Mother forsaking her matronly duties for television, and the damage we pay in hunger. This year, I tried really hard to stray from the same topics and jokes and respect Mother and how she operates the household. Especially since she mentioned making lamb two ways at lunch yesterday, or maybe it was for us to choose one of two ways. I can't remember very well right now. I am extremely hungry.

After enduring hours of quiet stomach rumblings, I finally approached Mother. I had left her on the couch about three hours ago, when she said that she wanted to "relax a little" after we'd just watched some good ol' PBS. ("Relax from... watching TV?" I wanted to ask. But I held my tongue and let her have the remote.)

Moi: Is it OK if I ask what we're going to have for dinner? Because I can fix something myself.

Mother (genuine shock): You want to eat dinner tonight?

Moi: That would be lovely, yes.

Mother: I'm not hungry at all. Didn't we have a big lunch?

Moi: Yes, we did, ma'am.

Mother: And you're hungry again?

Moi: It would appear so.

And to All a Good Meal

Mother: It's 5PM. Don't you still have to shower? You better hop in now.

Moi: What's the hurry? We're not leaving for [the Christmas eve service] for another 2 hours.

Mother: But you need to shower... and make dinner.

Moi: So that's what we're doing for dinner.

Honest Tea

Another perk of working from home, one that is infinitely better than the shortened commute, is afternoon tea. There were no petits-fours or clotted cream, but at around 3:30PM today, Father knocked on my door and asked if I wanted tea. "What kind?" "Just name it. I have everything." Then he came by again at 5PM to refill my cup of tieguanyin.

He's right about having every kind of tea. Father isn't particularly obsessive (the honor goes to the uncles), but we have a number of varieties of greens, blacks, and reds in bag and loose leaf form. Earl Grey and Pu-erh, fruits and barley and everything in between. It isn't just that we're from a culture where tea is quotidian. Plenty of people drink ghastly 'tea' in the UK and China. But I have a Father whose idea of a practical joke was teaching his four-year-old daughter the wrong name for a tea and who makes perfect Thai iced teas, down to the frothy top he makes with a martini shaker (but we just call it iced tea). There is no reverence about tea or ceremony in our family. It is about salty snacks, grown up chatter, and family.

This is why I flinch a little when I ask for tea and people offer me chamomile from a bag. I grew up on that delicate, brown butter hue, that sweet taste I know as oolong. Drinking it on a December afternoon, why, it tastes just like home.

Time Crunch

I have discovered a new route to work, a route that leads to much happiness. When I first moved into the Ho' after commuting from home home for a year, I was ecstatic to cut my commute down to an hour at the most (round trip) from 3 hours. Three hours is very long for a commute. But do you know what's better than a 25 minute commute? Working from home. I wake up at 9am, roll out of bed, and walk 3 feet to my desk. Do you know when the last time I woke up at 9am was? Well, er, other than the accidental oversleep last Sunday, it'd been at least 5 months. And since I'm home home, there's no deep forage for appropriate breakfast foods or eating tuna mixed with rice. The kitchen is teeming with fruits and pastries. The whole set up is glorious. If only I was motivated to do more work.

--
Mother just walked over from her computer in her study to inform me that a childhood friend of mine wanted to reconnect (mother's exact words were "write letters to me," though I'm not sure that's what chum meant). I last saw this girl when I was 5 or 6 years old, so I don't understand why she has a better recollection of me than I do of her (or why she's corresponding with Mother), but this seems to happen to me a lot. But clearing my mind of information like names of childhood chums is a price to pay for retaining things like the differences between the Wilcoxon Mann and Kruskal-Wallis test, the status of the ScarJo-Reynolds marriage, and of course, the hierarchy of Whitecastle's favorite fonts. "Is it OK if I give her your email?" "Yeah, sure." "OK. I will forward you the email when I have the time." I don't know how Mother forwards emails. But it sounds like an arduous process.

Odds and Ends

Father: Forget the PhD, why not start a bakery?

I'll take that as a compliment on my cheesecake.


(on the Humility Council t-shirts*)

Doc Poppy's Husband: That must be funny to you Harvard people, huh?"

I'll take that as a compliment on our great senses of humor.


(Louise, on slogans for our department)

"We rock... except at making small talk."

(and our faculty)

"One is like your second mother. The rest are socially awkward."

I'll take that as all I've known of academia. It was true at Riley House. And it's still true in Kresge.

Oliver's Twist

Turns out, it's hard to get a good picture of a chocolate-filled cream puff. One wrong angle and the whole thing looks like a colostomy bag*.

I'm on a baking streak this weekend. As thank you presents, I made the Smitten Kitchen's dulce de leche cheesecake. It was surprisingly straight forward. And tastes as good as it sounds. Imagine everything you like about cheesecake, then add the creamy sweetness of dulce de leche, and top it off with a chocolate glaze. I would post pictures, but they really just look like they do on the site. You should stop reading this now and go make one for yourself. I called mine "Haddon's Matrix Cheesecake**" because they're for Prof Papa.

I also made "(Injury) Prevention Profiteroles**." I followed the Minimalist's recent profiterole recipe but swapped raspberries and vanilla ice cream for chocolate Bailey's pudding. That is to say, I swapped raspberries and ice cream for excellence. Tastes surprisingly like "the real thing," except better.

*That probably crossed a taste line of some sort. My apologies.

**Shameless renaming that has nothing to do with the desserts and everything to do with pandering to Prof Papa? Perhaps. What're you going to do about it?

But What Are You?

frm Amy (not to be confused with me) and I split an order of grilled cheese and mushroom ravioli tonight. When the plate of delicate raviolis arrived, I double checked with the waiter to make sure that hadn't made a mistake. "Is this the large portion?" Yes, these nine delicate raviolis comprise of the large. The grilled cheese was the best I've ever had. And the dark fudge brownie sundae that followed was exceptionally delicious. The whole experience made me feel like a South End regular, hanging out in my neighborhood spot, down to the part where I overpaid for a simple yet delicious meal.

(watching Au Revoir Les Enfants* last night)

Amy: I can't tell these children apart.

Moi: You went to the Bo', shouldn't you know your white people?

Amy: There are so many white people in Seattle. It's been so hard.

*Not as depressing as Into the Arms of Strangers or Boy in the Striped Pajamas, but as a movie about Jewish children during WWII, still very depressing over all. Not recommended after sundaes on a Saturday night.

Almost Fabulous

Finals season is over, nearly for the last time. Every time I get to this stretch, I can't tell if I can go through another. If you'd asked me on Thursday, it would have been a resigned 'no.' But on days like today, it wasn't so bad after all. Last night, for the second night in a row, we celebrated the end of the semester at Laura's. Nearly identical people and everything. (a few pictures posted because we realized that none of us had photographic proof of our friendship)

Lu thinks Prof Papa's nickname should be 'Sexy Beast.' I advocate we settle for DHem. The Weed Whacker is always ready to pose.

Laura is tall, beautiful, slightly racist, and my steadiest partner in the past semester. We spent 4 hours grading econ exams yesterday. Jesse came up with a game of pitting random students against each other. It made the whole thing a lot of fun. But also very time consuming. Jesse and I had to stay after an extra 45 minutes to grade without games.

Two more applications, and lots of hours of work work await. Whitecastle is under the impression that I will draft a manuscript this month (which will require finishing data collection and doing the analysis...). Practicum folks are under the impression that I am capable of banging out another one in a few months. But hey, I get to sleep as late as I want.

Permalink

Are you on LinkedIn?  It is facebook for grown ups.  Or, according to Prof Papa, it is facebook without knowing what your friend bought at the supermarket.  You just know when said friend gets a new job.  Because facebook in any form = procrastination, I decided to finally join LinkedIn last night to stave off studying for biostatistics (or as Brother calls it, "fake science").  I was not vigilant about researching how LinkedIn operates ahead of time.  In fact, I am still not fully aware of how it functions.  People with whom I have corresponded on a regular basis know that I have 2 personal email addresses.  One for friends and repeat offenders.  The other generally reserved for professors and business contacts.  Naturally, I chose the semi-professional account for LinkedIn.  When it asked whether I wanted to "connect" with people in my address book who were already on LinkedIn, I clicked 'yes,' not really knowing what the whole process entails.  I am now connected with many of my professors, professors who I do not mean to be connected with.  This includes: Doc Whitecastle, Prof Papa, Prof Adviser, the Band Man, and Prof SBell.  I would not be surprised if Walty was on that list.  Though he probably wouldn't accept me.  I do not know who I have requested a connection from until I've received a confirmation congratulating me for making a 'connection'.  I can't undo the requests.  I have no idea who they went to.  And perhaps most cruelly, only some of my close friends that I want to network with are actually on the list. 

I know what you're thinking, this sounds like a regular indignity story.  What makes this one special?  How about being singled out by Prof Yeast on the last day of class?  As he wrapped the class up, he mentioned that he'd be happy to stay in touch with us.  "Some of you," he added, "well actually one person, has actually contacted me on LinkedIn.  I'm happy to stay connected that way."  Oh yes.  He was my third "connection" last night.  Thank you, Prof Yeast.  I'm really not eager to network and would be OK if we never speak to each other again (though you are very nice and I look forward to going to your house in February).

Apples and Oranges

The parentals returned from the motherland today. They almost didn't make it. Mother forgot that she had oranges on her body (well, bag). That the oranges came from Taiwan makes them contraband. Mother went through a couple of checks in customs because she realized this error. When she realized her error, rather than a) not doing anything and just continue walking through customs or b) disposing of the oranges immediately, Mother chose c): eat the oranges on the spot (because she was "hungry"). Predictably, the customs dogs immediately surrounded her and she was reprimanded by the officials. When it was all over, Father was relieved that the officials "showed mercy" and let everyone go with a harsh word. Mother, on the other hand, doesn't understand why everyone was so rude and why they threw the rest of her oranges away.

You and You and You

Many people suspect discipline or drive, but sleep is the true driving force behind my study habits and deadlines. It has been this way for as long as I've known. I only start projects early so I can get a fair amount of sleep and the closest I've ever gotten to an all nighter was 3 hours of sleep for the biochem take home in junior year (at which point I started referring to enzymes as "buggers" on my exam, leading to lots of "???" in red ink).

So it was with regret that I dragged myself out of bed early this morning to get to school by 7:30am to finish my pass/fail paper, all because our school network drive was down over the weekend. If there's one thing I'm good at as a student, it's packing my bag the night before (folders, hat, emergency socks, breakfast, lunch, and snack- all check). Though I'm good at working against deadline, too. I just hate the process-- the faux adrenaline that masks my fatigue, the eerily quiet streets, the goofy grin I wear all morning (Ray: That's a very big smile for Monday morning), and the crash that slogs through all afternoon that no amount of free cheese and dip could cure (sidebar: dean's reception today with only 3 kinds of cheeses, all semi-hard-- what is this, a state school? I want my gouda and chevre). Wherever I end up next year, I hope it's a place full of sleep. Sweet dreams.

The Name Blame

The econ TAs have been particularly punchy the past couple of days.

"I had a problem earlier in the semester where I kept calling Lisa 'Laura' by accident, and then thought I should try to cover it up by referring to you as 'Jesse'." -- Jesse (who, as we discussed in the review session, is a Caucasian male. I am not.)

"No one has a question? Come on, guys!" -- Laura, speaking up during review session after she had a particularly difficult section and the rest of us got away question-free.

Orchard for a Dome

(on going to school in beautiful, secluded places)

Moi: The mountains are great and all, but will that actually affect your school experience? It's not like you'll be hiking every weekend.

Vita-K: It's not like I'll be inside for three years either.

Moi: But seriously, in our four years at the Bo', how many times did you climb Katahdin?

Vita-K: Twice. Once after our sophomore year and once senior year.

Moi: Oh. You actually climbed that thing? (I never did) Maybe you should go to school in West Virginia. I should never go to school in West Virginia.

No No Noel

Was walking home from the annual Starlight banquet today and wished for the 725th time that I had my camera with me (or a better camera phone): Spotted a handwritten wooden sign on the sidewalk that said "Picture with Santa. 10am-4pm. 5th floor." Shadiest Santa ever.

Geek Test

(I was supposed to post this a few days ago)

The president is not selling out. I understand that compromises are necessary and he had to make concessions to preserve unemployment and other benefits. I just wish he was a better negotiator. Because not raising taxes on the wealthiest, not increasing social security contributions, and adding the burden for those making under $20k all seem like really bad ideas.

In high school, it was Lenny. We watched underrated shows like Newsradio and listened to underrated music like Moxy Fruvous. Not because we were cool. Or these things were hidden greats. They were just hidden. My brother is constantly watching and listening to cool things the mainstream doesn't know about because he's cool. We were just bad judges of culture. (Although 13-year-old-me did recognize the goodness of Freaks and Geeks right when it came out, and not years later on DVDs) I remember then, going to my first (and only) alternative kids upperclassman party as a freshman at the Bo' and what a relief it felt to know that other people had not only heard of this disbanded 90's Canadian band (that no one is mourning) but liked them, too. "These are my people," I remember thinking, "They like the same obscure things that I do." Later, I would find out that they were way too hip to be my people. On Monday night, I had that feeling again. But it was even more special. At our cohort holiday party, Lisa brought up SportsNight. And not only did everyone know of it, but everyone claimed it as one of their favorite shows, just like I did. Then Gennie brought up Friday Night Lights and I nearly cried from all the like mindedness in the room. With every rung on the education ladder, my peers get a little nerdier and these geek nirvana moments become more frequent. And now in my 18th year of school, these people are my people.

Honest Tea

My school friends have been on a truth-telling crusade this week. I am not in favor of this.

(Last night, Lu listed a litany of shows that she watches and made me feel a lot better about being excited to see the Grammers split on cable TV)

Moi: Wait a minute, aren't these shows on on Friday nights?  What are you doing-
Louise: Whoa, whoa. I know for a fact that you cannot judge.
Allison: You didn't come out for drinks last week so you could brine a chicken.
Moi: These are all true statements.

Moi: I don't understand how we're going to talk about this for 10 minutes. Our papers aren't even 10 pages.
Laura: But at this point in our schooling, aren't we all really good at BS'ing?
Moi:  This is a true statement.

Moi: I'm heading off to a meeting. I'm very important.
Greg: You know, I've always said that about you. Very important.
That's the truest statement of them all.

Go Shorty

It is my birthday today. It is my birthday as I type. I celebrated, as I usually do when I'm in school, by having an 8:30 class, getting a shot (the vaccine kind), having a meeting about my practicum, holding office hours, eating leftovers and doing homework.

And yet, it's been a great day.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a break from it all to have ice cream with pear jelly and a side of Community (the show, not the sense of camaraderie).

Greener Acres

To offset the somber tone of the last entry, a couple of happy (albeit poorly taken) pictures of my weekend. I got to see Emily perform at Symphony Hall last night, which was a very big deal. And made me feel like a very big deal. I mean, when's the last time your lab partner in high school anatomy (with whom you co-dissected a cat) performed at Symphony Hall? Last night, that's when.

Today was our 4th annual post-Bo' pre-Thanksgiving gathering. We had it post-Thanksgiving because I may have forgotten about the whole tradition altogether. Then ran into scheduling difficulties. But at least we had a gathering today. The W'ville crew so completely forgot about our high school tradition that we didn't even have Veggie Giving this year. I made the best roast chicken I've ever made (the key is in brining). I'm really enjoying this point in my life when potlucks work because everyone pulls their weight and brings really tasty food. Remember when I had a potluck junior year and Squeaky G brought Tostitos? We're not in W'ville anymore. The picture doesn't do all the deliciousness justice (blame Lisa) but I like the group shot because of how shady Joe looks crouching in the background. It's all very "one of these things is not like the other."

Green Acres

The life of a pastor is full of its special perks and privileges, like christening your great nieces and maybe one day, officiating your children's weddings. It means giving your loved ones the greatest gift that you can, that of God's blessing, in the most momentous occasions of their lives. Oftentimes, however, heartache precedes that first dance. For my dad, being a pastor this week means preaching at his brother-in-law's memorial service (his sister's husband). He was a pastor, too, an incredibly kind and sincere man who was good not only to his wife and children, but his wife's whole family, my father included, and our whole family, too. He befriended my mother's father when they lived in the same city. Because that's what it means to be a pastor. In between the baptisms, weddings, and funerals is life, carrying burdens and tending relationships. The kind of pastoral acts that earn you the privilege and responsibility of making sense of a life you cultivated, when it comes to an end.

Call Me Ishmael

Haaahvard is very particular about its applicants. It helps, for example, to have the surname Thayer, to have graduated from a parochial school in Cambridge, and to related by lineage to a member of the class of 1902 (documentation required). There are certain qualities that appeal to the committees. And I, apparently, do not fit specifications. Not my middle name, at least.

Repeatedly encountered errors tonight because:

Applicant middle or other name cannot contain any special characters.

My hyphenated middle name displeases the institution. Spaces didn't work either. I had to delete the space in between. And it all felt very Ellis Island.

Where the Side Walk Ends

Earlier this afternoon, I was sitting in Kresge, deep in discussion with a team member in how we ought to pull the structure of our paper together-- as a mature student of public health and team leader does (I was doing some great "I" statements and everything)-- when out of nowhere, Laura and Louise came prancing down the hallway and right before my eyes in a weird dance shuffle. "We did this for you," they yelled as they crab-walk skipped through the hall and down the stairs. Stunned, all I could say muster, "I hate you."

It's very hard to keep a professional composure when people dance for you like that. Happiest moment of the week. Sorry, Ma Query's pumpkin cheesecake- better luck next year (not sorry, long T ride with Josh).