Burn After Reading

Apparently my poor note taking skills aren't limited to handwritten notes.  Electronic ones can be vague and confusing as well.  What is list of people and what do I want with them?

Et tu, Greg-eh?

There are conversation fault lines that everyone knows to avoid for the sake of friendship.  For some, it's politics.  Others, religion.  For still some others it's finances or childrearing.  Among my B'more group of Jesus friends, it's ice cream cake.

It's an issue that has staunchly divided the group along mostly regional lines (East Coast vs. West Coast, Carvel vs. Baskin-Robbins), and an issue we have spent countless hours arguing bitterly over.  Yet like bugs drawn to the lantern, we can't help ourselves.  Every few weeks, someone inevitably picks off the scab and each side would dig deeper into their beliefs.  Or rather, we did until last night.

The conversation started innocently enough-- I had mentioned to Stephanie and George, a sweet and lovely couple unmarred by our infighting, that we had ice cream and cake.  But Lisa, agitator that she was, saw an opportunity to bring up ice cream cake and drive a wedge through the dinner party.  At first, it looked like her plans would fail.  Stephanie and George, as sensible people, agreed that ice cream cake was best a la Carvel, meaning they agreed that ice cream cake was best as ice cream in the shape of a cake and not-- [spit on the ground]-- a mixture of ice cream and cake.  For a moment, this meant that Lisa was the only one on the wrong side of history last night.  Until suddenly, she wasn't.

"I think...," Greg started sheepishly.  It almost looked as if the poor, misguided soul was compelled by lecherous Lisa to speak, "I think I'm a convert to ice cream and cake."  And just like that, justice lost another member and the alliance of Lisa and Greg grew ever stronger.

It's hard to pin down, Dear Readers, just what part of Greg's conversion made for the greatest betrayal-- whether it was that Lisa's wiles had contaminated yet another friendship*, or the revolting realization that someone I once trusted could find the mismatch of melted ice cream and stale cake preferable to the harmony that is chocolate and vanilla ice cream nestling a sweet layer of chocolate crunchies.  All I can tell you is that they are two sides of the same coin, and each side cuts equally deep.  Grey's Anatomy once said that without forgiveness, old scores are never settled, old wounds never heal.  I guess that's why it takes a group committed to living like Jesus, to coming together week after week, to take on the topic of ice cream cake.  

*friendship may be too strong a word... "small group proximity associate?"  

Things I Didn't Master in School

One of these days, I will stop leaving (unintentionally) cryptic notes for myself. What exactly is huge?  Why did that warrant a note?  I may never know.

Barbershop

Getting a haircut used to be a straight forward experience, especially in Boston.  I'd make an appointment the week or day of, pop by, get a cut in silence interspersed with reluctant chit chat, and since I'm already in Chinatown, grab some food on my way out of the neighborhood.  Nice and easy.  Since moving to B'more, I tried Nancy's hairdresser a couple of times, but never loved the cut and found her too chatty.  At least I thought she was too chatty.

Then I hit upon Neal's-- convenient, affordable (in the pre-doc days), and convivial Neal's.  Every time I get a hair cut now, I brace myself for the boundless social energy.  It's not just my hairdresser-- who I like, and actually remembers me-- but her coworkers, who also remember me (so many names, so many faces, so many stresses).  Today, I was offered a peanut butter cookie, asked about my dating life, got the staff's take on the new tea house next door, and heard a earful about the various neighbors of the street.  On my way out, I noticed that everyone suddenly had snow cones in their hand.  Apparently, the lady complimenting my haircut and chatting with my hairdresser about dinner (she was about to throw some chicken on the grill) owned the art gallery/wellness studio across the street (as you do), but today, they were also selling snow cones on the sidewalk (again, as you do).  So I made like I was in Rome and got one as well.

Why was the "ice cream flavor" syrup clear?  And the egg custard orange? How can ice be so crunchy? These are questions only people who don't purchase shaved ice from their hairdresser's neighbor's nephew would ask.  

Infinite Jest

On Tuesday night, Crystal, Helen, and I were in Jesse's kitchen, chopping, roasting, and preparing for a last minute dinner with far more guests than we were all expecting.  At first, I thought the four of us were all working well in sync until suddenly, we weren't on the same page anymore.

Crystal: Why did you tell everyone to come?  Now we have too many people.

Moi: I didn't.  It was an obvious joke.

Helen and Jesse: That did not even cross my mind.

Being misunderstood was bad enough, especially when my joke was so hilarious, but then on Friday, I realized that Crystal (and possibly many others) misinterpreted not one, but two of my emails this week-- taking me to be serious when I had no intentions of being so.  It took Lisa, of all people, to restore my faith in sarcasm again this morning.

(chatting with Helen and Lisa)

Moi: You saw the email I sent about the BBQ, right-- how I said if you could only come to one BBQ this month?

Lisa: Right.  That was an obvious dig at Ted's BBQ.

Moi: Thank you!  

All I ever want is for people to know when I'm mocking other people (i.e. 72% of all my correspondences).  Is that so much to ask?

Inexorable Decline

Yesterday, I received a Facebook friend request from someone who told me that we hadn't seen each other "in 25 years."  I'm used to getting random requests because I'm a very popular person (much more popular than Ted can ever hope to be) but it stopped me in my tracks to realize that such people can now exist in my life- people I hadn't seen for 25 years- because I have lived a very long life.  

All this was reinforced last night (as it often has been lately), when Victoria, Ted, and I hung out with Jamie and spent hours learning about Snapchat.  We didn't intend to learn Snapchat.  We intended to steal Jamie's phone for nefarious purposes (after a certain point of fatigue, we are all 12 years old).  But we quickly realized that we didn't really know how to use his phone for nefarious purposes because Snapchat was beyond our comprehension.  Even a Facebook hack proved difficult for Victoria- she slowly typed out a status post as Jamie patiently waited, then taught her how to tag herself in the post.  The education wasn't purely one way though. Earlier in the evening, a bunch of us nostalgia-watched Face/Off (doesn't hold up well- which makes it all the more fun to see) and tried to teach Jamie about floppy discs and other memories from our childhood.  Unfortunately, he was incredibly resistant to the lessons though and instead, Snapchatted his way through the movie.  Kids these days.  They're not as respectful as they were 25 years ago.

The Threepeat

I have no pictures of our dinner on Thursday night. I was too hungry by that point to want to capture the moment (or the glorious lambchetta) for prosperity. We'd waited first for any of the boys to arrive to know how much to order, then they all came within minutes of each other so that it seemed rude not to wait (ok, it didn't seem rude to me to start while Greg was still strolling down the road, but Jessica implied that it was). The trade off for all the delay the boys caused, however, was the special satisfaction of ordering not only one, two, but three of everything off the blacksauce menu that night. That's a special accomplishment I don't think we'll ever repeat. And almost made the company (which, for the record, I did not pay for) worthwhile. 

The Long Con

Being in school for over two decades, as I have, has very few perks.  The pay is terrible.  As are the hours.  And there's very rarely a sense of accomplishment.  Today, however, was a shining beacon.  Today was an accomplishment.

I spent the afternoon with Mother, wandering around a topiary garden.  And, as she is wont to do, picked on me for something I've already forgotten about- perhaps my inability to tell flowers apart.  But she used a phrase she used to say all the time- "[you] could have gotten into Harvard, if not for this."  Except this time, something clicked.  "Wait, a minute- I did get into Harvard!  And I graduated from Harvard."  And I did it without any knowledge of flowers.

It all seems like a blur now, and I can't seem to recall much of life before this PhD program, but I'm fairly certain that at some point, I attended a Harvard-affiliated university and obtained a graduate degree.  I have the debt to prove it.  

Better Than Your Heart's Desire

Is it "Happy Birthday!" or "Surprise!" or "Ah, it's your birthday!"?  You might think these are the spontaneous phrases one utters at a surprise birthday party but tonight, each word and phrase was hotly contested. Even as we were all crouched behind a couch, waiting for the honored guest to approach, we were all still whisper arguing, "Surprise. Jamie. Happy birthday."  "Wait, no scream?"  "Scream after happy birthday."  "Everybody shut up!" "When do we throw things?"  (That was Crystal, always egging us toward property destruction and violence. "Remember to aim for the face.").  The big surprise, when it finally did happen, went off swimmingly. Planning everything last minute really makes the surprise real. Jamie looked alternatively stunned, happy, and angry. And catching that expression almost made leaving my dinner tonight early and skipping dessert to catch the party worthwhile. It's still unclear, however, if it was worth the 'party animal' and hangover ribbing I got from Prof Tom et al for leaving dinner early. 

Actually, fine. I'll admit it was wholly worthwhile.  I hadn't laughed as hard as I did tonight in a long while, stifling giggles and whisper yelling in those 3 long minutes (candles burning, melting, blown out, relit, and flickering) behind the couch. Yes, these poor party planners may be idiots. But they're my Jesus idiots this spring. And I kinda love them. 

Signs of the Times

Living in this neighborhood for the last four years, even though I'm not always aware of the events going on ahead of time, I've learned to interpret my surroundings as I witness changed.

Trailers and lights, for example, mean that there's a TV or movie shoot nearby, most likely House of Cards.  Lots of tents means that it's time for Flower Mart.  And lately?  The sound of helicopters means that there's a protest passing by.  Or it's near curfew.  Or the police are acting out of "an abundance of caution."  

Actually, there are many reasons why helicopters now hover over my neighborhood lately (which they only do part time, there are other places where they spend a lot more time).  Divining what those reasons might be has become a new routine where I check Twitter and the local news to try to figure out why, exactly, helicopters are over head.  Such is what this week in this city has been like.

Gifted Hands

I've always known that I was special.  (How else could I justify all those hours spent indoors reading alone.)  I did not realize until very recently, however, that my small hands were as special as my soul.

Lately, my hands have been the subject of fascination among a very particular group of "friends."  It all started, like all things do in this internet age, unintentionally.  Crystal somehow grasped my hand one cold day in Philly.  From there, she exclaimed how exquisitely soft my hands were.  I thought she was a freak, but Helen touched them and confirmed.  I have the softest hands they had ever touched.  From there, the legend spread like a virus.  Every time I tried to explain how ridiculous Crystal and Helen were, someone else would touch these precious hands and make absurd claims about their delicate nature.  For a few days there, the legend seemed uncontainable, until, inevitably-- backlash.

Jealous haters (cough, Lisa, cough, Greg) started speculating why my hands were soft.  They said that I had hands that knew no housework and never toiled a day in my life (true, but still offensive) whereas they had coarse, honest hands.  Worst of all, they called these precious palms doughy.  

Last night, however, my internet hands came full circle: backlash against the backlash.  Crystal and Greg confronted each other when once again, we were hanging out and someone brought up my hands (I put "friends" in quotes because can I really consider people whose lives are so interesting that we're still talking about my hands four months later to be genuine friends, no matter how often we see each other?).

Greg: [something something] doughy hands.

Crystal:  You take that back!  How dare you call those silken hands doughy?  They're the best part about her.

Greg: But they're so puffy and-

Crystal: They're smooth like tofu.  And a cloud. 

The Ice Kool-aid

It didn't feel like it while I was at the Bo', but every time I compare college experiences lately, I become more convinced that I attended a very special bubble.  And possibly a cult.

Tonight, I got a phone call from the students working for alumni giving and had a perfectly nice chat with him about the weather, living in B'more (where he's from), and visiting Maine after I promised I'd contribute to the fund later this week.  As I was talking to him, I was reminded of all my non-Bo friends' stories of evading alumni giving, never donating money, and being hounded by calls.  But at the same time, I was also reminded of all my friends who had those evening shifts making calls, and their stories of the wonderful people they talked to, and of all of us now being the kind alumni who chat with the students, and I can't help but be friendly and protective toward these kids.

Moi: Sometimes, I feel suckered into something.  But all my other [Bo'] friends love school so much and are so into it, that I feel pressured to also be nice to the school and love it.  Wait, that sounds like a cult, no?

Lisa: That's exactly what a cult is.

Our Common Ground

Over an interview/catch up session with Doc Nice last week, I asked for his restaurant recommendations and things quickly devolved down traditional lines.  

Nice: There is a Chinese restaurant in town.

Moi: Is it any good though?  Would you bring your family there on Christmas?

Nice: No, not at all.

Moi: Say, the fact that I made a comment about you eating Chinese food on Christmas- that's not going to show up in any HR file, is it?

Nice: It would if it wasn't so true.  We left Denver- a beautiful city- because the movie theaters and Chinese restaurants were all closed on Christmas.

Moi: As someone who celebrates Christmas, even I'm offended by that.  We like Jesus but also eat Chinese food and watch movies on Christmas.

Proven Perspectives

This week, our small group has been embroiled in a debate over ice cream cake superiority that boils down to the brands we were exposed to as children (and, we would like to think, our refined palate and sense of right and wrong).  It was a reminder of the differences that divide us as a country between the West Coast and the East (Beast!) Coast.  The same sharp divide came up again during a phone interview on Monday with researchers in LA:

LA: You guys have had a rough winter with the cold-  

Moi: Oh, it's not half as Boston.  And it's beautiful today.  It'll hit 50 degrees!

LA: [silence of pity]

Sweet Sorrows

It's not a visit from Mother without some questionable logic:

(takes a bite of a brownie)

Mother: It's so sweet!

Moi: You are eating a brownie [at 7:00am].  What did you expect?

Mother: Sometimes they half the sugar the recipe calls for. 

Who are they?  Why do they make brownies if they want to half the sugar?  I may have a PhD*, but there are so many things I still don't have answers to.

*can't wait to make hundreds of obnoxious statements that start with "I may have a PhD!" 

Play On

I successfully defended my doctoral dissertation yesterday (whoa, those are fun words to type).  It was, all in all, a very characteristic day of friend hilarity and mishaps, complete with AV not showing up, the department coordinator being out of the office, and running through the support staff offices last minute, finding a coordinator who borrowed a laptop from someone else's office, a last minute phone call to get that person's log-in info, and just the right dose of drama I needed to not have time to hyperventilate prior to my presentation.  

In the Christian/self help circles, people like to speak of their "love language."  Usually, they're along the lines of gifts, physical touch, or words of encouragement, but I strongly believe in mockery as a love language.  It was all very confusing then, when everyone was so nice to me yesterday.

My ceaselessly encouraging cohort was there, of course, but beyond that, C Money from Bowdoin!, kids from other cohorts, and a slew of small group (Jesus) friends showed up, complete with posters.  Of course, Lisa  and Crystal made it very clear at dinner that the kindness would expire at midnight when we debriefed over dinner my mom made (mom also super nice yesterday.  should consider graduating more often).

Moi: [to Lisa] So we're even now?  You did so many things for me today (from making cookies to a giant poster and even a special pin).

Lisa: Mm hmm.  You can't make fun of me anymore.

Moi: [turn to Crystal]  Sorry, I guess I have to focus all my bullying on you.

Crystal: But I brought fruit tart!  And a card.  And I'm driving you guys!  

Moi: True, true.  Hm, back to Lisa, I guess.  

(Meanwhile, Nancy is sitting in between the two, completely unscathed.  And didn't even need to bring a gift.  Because she's perfect as is.  Seriously, you try making fun of Nancy.  It's not possible)

Fear Not

Pretzels, 

I'm fairly certain that if one was to word-cloud this blog, there's be large, stratus cloud in the shape of Whitecastle.  I spoke to him for our semi-annual check up today and he offered this gem regarding my upcoming (very soon!) defense:

Whitecastle: If you fail, you shouldn't feel bad.  It's a poor reflection on your advisor and not you.

The tone he was shooting for was "encouraging."  Then again, Advisor Who's encouragement of the day was an email titled "how's it going!?"  Between the two of them, Whitecastle almost looks paternal.  

When I grow up, I would like a mentor with human feelings.  

Spitting Indignities

En route to school today, I ran into Liz as she raced across the icy crosswalk toward me to beat the traffic light (as I stood absolutely still, not even bothering to try).

Liz: How are you?

Moi: I'm good.  We've got a call and then I'm headed home to get some rest.

Liz: With [Advisor Who]?

Moi: Yes.

Liz: I thought to myself, who's the "we" in your life?  And figured it was Who.

Moi: ... Not this again!  You're on this project, too.  You're part of the "we."

Birthday Terrors

(in a meeting this morning, Advisor Who showed off a foam-cutout R2D2 he made as a template for his son's birthday party activity while another collaborator discussed the puppet show rehearsals their family members held in preparation for her son's birthday party)

Moi: All this work you two are doing make me question whether my parents truly love me.  I never had this when I turned 7.

Prof Tom: They did send you to Nerd Camp.

Moi: I forgot that you know that.  

Prof Tom: I remember everything you say.  

Moi: This is terrifying.

Soul Mates

The arrangements for my very short work trip to New York were up in the air until the very last minute. This made arranging plans very difficult. Luckily, Allison and Dillon were super flexible and rolled with it when I told them last minute that I may or may not be in the City and wasn't sure where I was staying. 

(after a great dinner with 4 appetizers, HGTV talk, and a discussion of our mutual distaste for Italian desserts)

Moi: I'm so glad that you guys were available. 

Allison: I'm comfortable admitting that we didn't have plans. 

Dillon: I don't feel bad about not having plans on a Tuesday night at all. Now if it was Saturday-

Allison: We probably wouldn't have plans either. 

Dillon: And we probably wouldn't feel bad, either. 

These are my kind of people. 

The Shoe Fly

I had to be in New York today for a meeting. That sentence along is far more grown up than anything I am used to, nevermind the clothes I had to wear. And having to find a bag that could fit my laptop but was not a backpack and did not have cartoons on it was far harder than expected.

(chatting with Greg about work)

Greg: ... Sometimes I'll get to wear my Converse-

Moi: Shoot! I have to wear real shoes, too, to go along with my grown up clothes. 

Greg: Stilettos. Pumps. Stilettos-

Moi: Are you just naming all the women shoe words you know?

Greg: - pumps. Yes. Is this offensive?

(no, but what a weirdo)

Update: This was the reference that was lost on me.  Still a weirdo.

Lonely Hearts Club

After church today, a few of us from small group went out to lunch.  In walking around, Jesse showed off an uncanny familiarity with the shops around the Inner Harbor.  I thought I knew the area well from countless walks home alone after church in my first year at Gallery, but he had me beat.  We all assumed Jesse just knew his way around the city until he let drop an explanation that made my day:    

Jesse:  Before I had any friends, this was where I'd come by myself after church.

Naturally, I started stomping excitedly when I heard this.

Moi: This was where I used to come after church before I had friends!  I would get a burger from Five Guys and walk home.  

(Crystal then shares an irrelevant story of eating double portions of take out alone not because she had no friends but because she is a misanthrope.)

It was such a simple, and sad shared moment that I still laugh every time I think about it hours later.  In an incredibly corny way, it made me appreciate the community I've finally found and developed at church.  In a much more real way, it just goes to prove that I only get cooler with age.  I have tons of friends now.  And legions of fans.    

The Bread Maker

I brought freshly made banana bread to small group ("Jesus group") tonight.  At first it seemed like people were raving about the bread, then I actually listened to what they had to say.

Helen: Is this chocolate banana bread?  This is so good!

Moi: Thank you.  I'm glad you like it.

Greg: Yeah, and walnuts?  

Moi: Oh.  I didn't put any nuts in there.  I don't know what you're tasting.

Patience: How did you get it so nice and gooey in the middle?  That's so good.

Moi: Um... I think you're eating undercooked bread.  

Canadian Christmas

Greetings from the Great White North- a land where garbage disposal units apparently don't exist yet they have their own word for them ("garburator"). Despite this nonsense, this land is absolutely lovely. Nik invited me to join her and a couple of friends to her home to celebrate Christmas and I'm so glad that I did. They have dim sum, nasi goreng, and an HGTV channel with shows I'd never seen. That, plus moose-shaped drinking paraphernalia-- what more could I ask for?  (They also have a quiet room where I can catch up on my work- and peace and quiet- but while that is wildly appreciated and totally allowing me to sleep better at night, it is hardly top on the list of reasons why Canada is aces. That list is pretty much Zwieps, food, and HGTV.)

Merry Christmas, y'all's. 

Ebenezer Screw

Last night at Nik's, Carly taught us an easy and fun card game that I wasn't half bad at (always a plus, though Nik seems to be dominating every card game under her roof- -kept challenging her to Bananagrams but she was too smart to fall for the trap), which made me want to teach it to other people when I get home.  I wasn't sure about the scoring details so I wanted to be able to look up the game:

Moi: What's this game called?

Carly: Screw Your Neighbor.  Or F the Dealer.  

Moi: This is going to be difficult to Google... better turn off image search.

(Except it totally wasn't!  Good job, Internet.)

For the Rest of Us

For years, I'd gotten by on the simple flattery: You look great today.  It has become such a part of my requests for help that Whitecastle calls me out on it when I don't compliment him on his tie.  Even via the phone.  Though that might be saying more about Whitecastle than it does about me.  

In a meeting with Advisor Who today, however, I was told that I needed to up my buttering skills.  His other students are laying it on thick and I could learn a few things from them.  And read me the most obsequious English letter I have ever heard, starting with "Dear and Respectable Doctor Who," and included well wishes not only for him but his family, and even students.  The letter mentioned his charm, his smile, and his intellect.  I would have thrown up if my body was not frozen in stupor.  

Once I came to, my body went through a range of emotions.  There was denial-- this can't be a real letter.  Anger-- how dare this student ruin it for the rest of us?  And finally, acceptance as I started jotting everything down furiously.  Oh yes, I intend to incorporate these into my own future white lies.  Imitation, they say, is the sincerest form of flattery.  

Different Strokes

Because V and I both work with Advisor Who, we both mentioned our Friday night dinner to him, though with very different perspectives.

Who: I hear you had dinner with someone I work with. 

Moi: Yeah, it was so bizarre and funny. 

Who: [Blank expression]

Moi: She didn't tell you about the show? We are talking about the same person?

Who: What show?

Moi: [Retell story of the most amazing dinner show surprise]

Who: She said you discussed the personality research. 

Moi: Oh yeah, that, too. 

Ordinary Pholks

(usual apologies for not posting lately)

I don't think I can adequately describe the shock V and I received last night. It had all started innocuously enough. We were grabbing a late Halloween dinner at the local Vietnamese place. I was wearing my Urkel get up which, sadly, was so close to my usual wardrobe that no one realized was a get up. One of the reasons I chose the place was because I knew the bars would be loud and crowded and this place wouldn't, however much I may have been craving garlic fries. Oh. I was so wrong. 

It all started innocuously enough. We were seated quickly. Ordered. Our food arrived. Chatter chatter. All good. Then a waiter in costume interrupted everyone and announced that the show was about to start. The show that'd been advertised in the store windows for two weeks that we knew nothing about. 

What show?  The drag show.

Music was cued. And out came one drag queen act. After that, another, then another, then another. (We had to leave before they ended, but it was at least an hour long). Each in wonderfully over the top costumes. The drag queens shared the same narrow pathway as waiters delivering hot soup.  Our server stopped by to check on us and whispered, apologetically, "I should've warned you this was about to happen."  Confusion and delight reigned on the faces of each new group of customers. There was also much laughter. The arrival of two cops- or two men in cop costumes?- added more to the juxtaposition. As did the Vietnamese grandmother watching on with a blank expression.  And all of us, trying to juggle eating, clapping, watching, and talking to each other.  I can't quite formulate a coherent overview because it was all so bizarre, unexpected, and fun. In other words, it was Baltimorean. 

Modest Yahoo

Sometimes you look back on decades-old family photos and come to the realization that your older brother was very pretty as a child, perhaps even prettier than you were.

Moi: How come you were so pretty when you were little?

Brother: I was a very pretty child.

Sometimes you also look back and realize that your brother was also very self-confident, more so than you ever will be.

Hairspray

Mother and I have very different definitions of 'busy.'

(discussing picking me up from the airport)

Mother: Do you want to go to Chinatown for brunch? Or a haircut?

Moi: I don't know. I have a very busy day today, I don't know if I have time for a haircut. 

Mother: I figured you'd be busy, that's why I thought we'd go get a haircut.

Moi: ... ...

Freudian Slip

My Outlook autocorrect keeps changing "blogspot" to "bloodspot."  You know, that very common word in my vocabulary.  I should probably leave less of an email trail when I discuss moving bodies.  

The Hand That Gives

Pretzels, yesterday was Roommate Anna's birthday.  As a thoughtful roommate, I bought flowers for her at the farmer's market on Sunday.  Unfortunately, we bumped into Roommate Anna as I was getting the flowers, ruining the surprise.  Still, I was happy to give her flowers.  Yesterday morning, I added a card by the flowers and left it on the dining table for her to see, and found it strange that it was still there at the end of the day.

Finally, I brought it up over dinner.

Moi: Did you get a chance to see the Korean-soap post card I got you?

RA: No.

Moi: I left it by your flowers.

RA: Wait, those flowers really are for me?

Moi: Of course, they are.  I told you they were for your birthday!

RA: I thought you were joking.

This revelation led to some deep soul searching.  What are the choices I have made in my life, Pretzels, that would make my roommate doubt whether I'm nice enough to recognize her birthday?  To make someone think I would joke about giving them a birthday present?  That I would get flowers and a card on my roommate's birthday only to keep them for myself?  What sort of monster has graduate school made me out to be?  

Probably someone who also made a birthday cake from scratch for a different friend the day before and attended a different friend's birthday party instead of Anna's. Someone like that?  Though the way I see it, it just means I have a lot of friends, that I'm nice to all of them, and Anna has the worst sense of humor.

Drought Season

It has been almost a month since my last post.  This would be unacceptable if I wasn't simultaneously overwhelmed and procrastinating in my work.  And sharing the minutiae of my life on Facebook.

I will be back.  There will be anecdotes and indignations.  Like unexpectedly riding in a convertible with the top down on a highway (hint: I did not look glamorous.  It felt like being slapped in the face for an hour.)  I haven't forgotten.  This is just a very busy season.

Ending Suffrage

(discussing a new Advisor Who mentee who has moved into my neighborhood)

[Who describes the block]

Moi: Oh yeah?  She must be across the street from me then.

Who: You live in the Peabody library?

Moi: Yes.  Me and George.  We're roommates.  It's George, right?

Who: It's actually a woman.

Moi: No, I meant George Peabody, not the person who's coming.  

Who: Not many people know this but actually, George Peabody was also a woman.

Donut holes

I was in DC for a fantastic wedding last night and before leaving the city this morning, I decided to continue my new habit of picking up donuts and chicken biscuits from the deliciously delightful GBD in Dupont (no one is paying for this unnecessary endorsement- but I think GBD should).  

The last time I got donuts from there, I meant to share with Anna but ended up eating everything myself.  Today, I knew that if I did not bring the donuts to school, history would repeat itself.  And history mustn't repeat itself because I had already upped my biscuit order from 1 to 2.  I honestly would have made wedding favor candies and donuts my breakfast had Bryant not made a joke about candies not being public health and prompted internal balanced breakfast guilt.  So I had generic raisin bran for breakfast and brought two donuts to school.  

Moi: I brought donuts.

Advisor Who: You are a great student.

Because the donuts were large and frosted well, and both flavors were indulgent (chocolate cream with chocolate frosting and maple bacon), Who placed both donuts on a plate then, saying that he shouldn't have so much, he cut one into half.  Then quarters.  Then eighths. This decision made me secretly glad because thought I knew sharing was in my best interest, I wanted both donuts.  But as our meeting went on, one eighth disappeared, then another, then a quarter, and a half.  Until finally, the whole thing was gone.

Moi: I'm glad that portion control worked out for you.

Who: You should be glad that there's still one left.

Uphills Both Ways

On a car ride tonight, my father and I talked about fire flies and how we don't really see any in Massachusetts.  When I asked him whether he, as a child, caught any in glass jars, the way I'd heard of my friends doing as little kids, he looked at me as if that was a bizarre suggestion.  "Glass jars?  We didn't have glass jars.  I didn't even have a plastic bag to catch them with." 

Silly me and my hegemonic worldview, making wild assumptions like the availability of spare glass jars in a household (seriously, what?).  Every once in a while, talking to my father catches me completely off guard like that.  The man loves his Red Sox, has an iPad, and drives an SUV.  We've lived in the same house in the Massachusetts suburbs for years, yet that was my childhood, not his.  His was spent shooting rubber bands and running around barefoot on the edge of town in Chong Li.  

Snap, Crackle, Please Vacate Your Seats

On Friday night, I went to Camden Yard with Rachael, Jess, and Nancy. It was the most Oriole-y experience I've had yet, starting with crab mac'n cheese hot dogs and pit beef sandwich. There were fireworks galore that night, partly because the O's kept hitting home runs (first against poor Justin Masterson, who I was pleasantly surprised to see again, after hearing him speak at Park Street's 200th Anniversary, back when he was a young not-starter for the Red Sox and doing better than he did on Friday) and also because it was the team's 60th anniversary.  They brought out many Oriole greats, including, of course, Cal Ripken Jr., and the place, which was already a little nuts cheering for people I didn't know, predictably and collectively all lost its mind in euphoria when he came out.  The most Baltimore moment of the night, however, had to be the announcement that came in the 7th inning. Because the fireworks were going to be set by the scoreboard, a swath of the park, including our cheap seats, had to be evacuated. They asked us simply to move to a different section (where? anywhere that wasn't there). And that was how the 4 of us came to enjoy Orioles history is much better seats than we'd normally been able to afford, and welcomed in by our neighbors.  

Not Washing My Hair

One of my favorite forms of hanging out is eating carbs with friends who can clean up nice, but choose not to for the occasion.

Moi: I was dressed way nicer this morning but then I thought, "it's just Ilene."

Ilene: Don't worry.  I didn't shower today.  But I showered twice yesterday.

Well, that evens out.

Out on the Ledge

At Landlady Chang's reception last weekend (Jenny: Whose wedding are you going to? Moi: My previous landlord. Jenny: You mean, your good friend Sarah you lived with for 3 years? Moi: Ah yes, that's the one.), a series of mishaps led me to be seated next to one Mr. Lin. When we started talking about how we each knew Sarah, something suddenly clicked in my brain. 

Nowadays, I have such trouble remembering new people that I'm terrified of bumping into any of the 5 ladies Roommate Anna had over last week because I recall neither their faces nor names- even though they spent hours in my living room. But the second Mr. Lin said he was a neighbor, I immediately asked, "Sir, do you have 2 daughters, and is the eldest one Annie?  I  believe I was her Boston Project (a faith based service trip) counselor many years ago."

I didn't want to seem more creepy, or else I would have noted that I met his daughter precisely 10 years ago-- the same summer I met Dwighters, not-landlady Sarah (she came 3 years before), G-Pak, and everyone else. It astounds me that I could now have a friend for a decade- and that friendship would still be younger than most Bo' relationships and of course anything prior.  Decades are now passing the way weeks and months used to. 

I don't have anything particularly revelatory about spending the weekend with names that have been around since this blog (I also got to see Mac!). Or if I do, let me keep them close, and tell you instead about climbing out of Dwighter's window.

It was a split second decision. The window was open.  Dwighters was busy.   I noticed the very flat ledge and thought, "when else would I do this?" And climbed out for a view of the brahmin neighborhood.  Sure a lady down the street stared at me worriedly, but it was one of my best decisions of the weekend. I love a place with a good view. 

Moi: I was just out on your little roof. 

Dwighter: How'd you get out there?

Moi: The giant window that was open. 

Dwighter: You just climbed out? And it was stable?

Moi: That's insulting. It holds you, doesn't it?  Have you never been out there?

Dwighter: No. It's been a subject of much discussion. [The roommates] say I should put a chair out there but I thought that'd be too-

Moi: Creepy? 

Dwighters: I was going for hillbilly. I don't want to be the neighborhood hillbilly. 

Silly Dwighters, the Dot doesn't have hillbillies. Just shady folks and swanky folks. 

Is Heaven for Real?

On Sunday morning, the Riddles and I engaged in a church-skipping loop for a long-long-long-overdue catch up.  Though I was sad to miss a rare visit to my B'ton church (would this be the Sunday that they hand out the secret password?), I was so glad for homemade eggs Benedict and precious stories of their lives.  Like how Aaron, their youngest, had recently started asking if stories were real or not real.  It has led to some interesting discussions in the household, like, "are giants real?"

Keith would have liked to opt for the simple "no, no, they're not."  But Sarah considered Goliath, Andre the Giant, basketball players, and a nuanced discussion on physical anomalies and went with "yes."  Which led to a week of nightmares.  Lesson learned: Always lie to your children.

Aaron also brought his new line of questioning to the community story time, where they heard a story about slaves, the underground railroad, and freedom.  So Aaron raised his hand to ask, "is freedom real?"  This blew the minds of every single volunteer there, who regarded Aaron as a magical, philosopher king.  "Excellent question, what is freedom?" They all asked each other.  While Aaron's mother rolled her eyes a thousand times.  

Revisions

I was in Boston this weekend, and happened to find my way today to my old work grounds for an annual check up with Whitecastle (if by 'check up,' you mean, 'enumerate what's wrong with my life plans').  It also came with a surprise chat with Doc Winner, who was uncharacteristically unsarcastic.

Doc Winner: I saw someone skipping and thought that had to be either you or one of the research assistants.

Moi: I can't wait to have research assistants!  (to Whitecastle) That's what I want to do when I graduate.  

Whitecastle: I hope they don't put you through what my RAs put me through.

Moi: You had excellent RAs.

Winner: That trial wouldn't have happened without your RA.

Moi: Exactly!  I even got hit by a car and still worked for you.

Winner: Oh my gosh, were you OK?

Moi: The car was totaled.

Winner: What?

Whitecastle: To clarify, she was in the car.  She didn't just stand still as a strong Asian woman to destroy the car.

Best Friends for Life

Contrary to whatever objections Ilene might have had, Liz has a beautiful, lovable dog named Athena.  The dog is sweet, beautiful, and wonderfully tempered.  And brilliant for having a fondness for me.  I'm not the only one who likes Athena.  Plenty of Liz's friends do.  And allegiance to her leads them to do crazy things.

Alene: I want to steal her and take her home.  

Brian: I will come hunt you down if you do that.

Alene: I will fight for her.  

[Let's pause for a second here so I can properly set the scene.  Brian does not own Athena.  Neither does Alene.  Speaking of Alene- she is one of the sweetest person I have ever met, almost freakishly so.  She is considerate to a fault, anti-violence, anti-guns, anti-oppression, and will often feel bad at even the thought of someone else's feelings being hurt.  She is also a good foot smaller than Brian.]

Brian: If you fight me, you will die.

Alene (truly giddy as she figures out these consequences): Then you'll spend your life in jail.  And Peter (Alene's husband) will get to have the dog!  That's perfect.

Moi: Except that you're dead, he's in jail, and Peter, who doesn't want a dog, will have Athena.  This is far from ideal.

Alene: Oh, we will go into witness protection with Athena then you won't be able to find us.

Brian: I don't think you understand how crime works.  You can't go into witness protection for stealing the dog.  You're the bad guy.

 

Humble Pie

(talking about undergrad campuses)

Christine: Her college had really good food.

Moi: Well, I liked it.  Rather than academics, it's one of the things we rank highly in.

Sarah: Yeah?  Mine, too!  

Moi: I didn't know that.

Sarah: Yeah, BC had really good food.  I think in the Princeton Review we were in the top 10 one year.  Sometimes for breakfast we'd have omelets made to order. 

Moi: Oh that's cute.  I was just being polite when I said "rank highly."  We're usually number 1 or 2 (There was one shameful year when we slipped to #3.  But we don't talk about that again.)

I can be modest indeed, but if you want to gloat about your school's superior food, you best come ready to play, and have more to show for than omelets.  Colby had omelet stations.  We had made-to-order omelets every day*.  Waffle irons with our school seal.  And don't even get me started on the apple farmers who came to visit.  According to Wikipedia, which is never wrong, we were ranked #1 by the Princeton Review in 6 of the last 10 years, including 2013, 2014, and 3 of my 4 years there- I'm probably an inspiration.

*In retrospect, a rather extravagant and perhaps poor use of staffing and resources. 

Some Kind Of

I have no pictures from yesterday. It was that generic kind of wonderful whenever you mix summer with water, sunshine, and greenery. Although the day started much differently. It started when I loitered outside the local liquor store ( where the sidewalk smelled like piss) waiting for doors to open. The owners were 15 minutes late. I was not. Neither were the 7 strangers with me. It says something about a neighborhood's make up when people line up to the liquor (also convenience) store. And I was contributing to the problem. Though I'm sure we all had very legitimate reasons for insisting on buying booze so early in the morning. Mine was that I needed milk and amaretto right away for the cherry cake I was bringing to the water. To be enjoyed with crabs, sun, demonstrating my lack of hand-eye coordination to everyone I work with, kayaking, and lounging with 'friends.'

When Three Word Could Do

Some people don't know how to take a compliment.  And some people don't know how to give one.

(catching up with Doc Query at the conference and trying to talk about how he's going to be teaching a course in the fall)

Moi: Wow, you're going to be great because you're funny and you are a good talking um, word, er- 

Query: Person?  I'm a good talking word person.

Moi: Exactly.

(pause)

Moi: Wait, I think the word for that is speaker.

Clerks

Grocery Store,

Why do you have an infograph on peppers if there are no peppers to be had? Though I suppose you are a step above the local Target. I tried to buy shampoo today but the brand and type I chose was so exquisite that I had to choose a different one. For my first choice was not in the store's computer system.  It was taken away, and when I returned to the aisle to make a second selection, no traces of it or any other of its kind remained on the shelf.  Like a phantom shampoo. They said that I couldn't buy it because they wouldn't know how to charge me. It never existed. 

Christine: They should've given it to you for free then. 

So many things in the world should be given to me for free. Yet remain stubbornly out of reach. 

Strange Bedfellows

After 11 nights away, spent in 7 different beds and 1 airplane seat, I'm finally back to my own bed tonight. I am literally counting down the minutes until I can go to bed. I would blame it on jet lag, but if that were true, I should be wide awake now. Instead, I blame it on the red eye that produced very little sleep, though it did lead to a wonderful chance encounter with my Chem 109 professor from the Bo'. Some days, I have trouble recognizing people I just spent a meal with, and other days, I have no trouble recognizing long ago chem professors. Perhaps it helped that he gave me the lowest grade I've ever gotten on a report card. 

Being in the airport so often the last week also brought along this gem:

This is a little girl who kept tripping over her leash because her mother was standing still (to find their boarding passes) while she could not. She was friendly (which led her to keep accidentally knocking people's luggage over), adorable, and delighted me to no end by getting all wrapped around on the leash. And giving up walking and falling to crawl on all fours. We all have those days, kid. 

The Blind Leading the Tired

How many PhD students does it take to navigate to a bar a mile away without getting lost?  How many PhD students equipped with smartphones and GPS technology?  We wouldn't know because we got lost many times.  There were at least 8 of us, including two nerd camp alumni, wandering through the (very straightforward) streets of downtown San Diego last Sunday.  No one thought to try to figure out where we were going.  We just blindly followed Liz, who, we realized too late, didn't realize she was leading.  And certainly didn't know where she was going.

Our peripatetic stroll through downtown took at least double the time it should have, but I didn't wholly mind.  Weather in San Diego, we all discovered, is ridiculously beautiful all the time; it was great to savor the chance to roam around with friends without sweltering heat or fear of being mugged (ahh, B'more).  Plus, the trek eventually led right to my hotel.  It didn't quite work the same for Liz, Ilene, et al (I'm so afraid of leaving Ilene out now!).  They did make it to the bar.  But they arrived 4 minutes past closing.  Probably should've checked the operating hours before heading out.

Whoville

(can you tell that vacation is winding down and I'm trying to avoid work as best as I can?)

It did not surprise me at all to find out last week that Who is an older brother.  The ignoring of emails, jokes at my expense, sudden thoughtfulness when he remembers that I exist-- these are all traits I am familiar with because of my own big brother.  Who even made a t-shirt for his little sister branding her as Who's Sister, which is the type of thing my brother would totally have done if only he cared enough.  This discovery came at the end of a long and Who-intensive (and Liz intensive! which was wonderful) day at the student conference on health services research (the 'baby conference' that precedes the real thing), which culminated with me being cornered/persuaded/coerced to organize a dinner for my Hopkins friends which Who then invited himself to and paid for.  All the while thanking us for inviting him.  The organization process was unnecessarily long, made all the more difficult by hunger, fatigue, and relying on Twitter direct message as my only means of communication with Who (y'know, Twitter direct message, that super widespread and convenient conversation tool we all use to schedule things).  We lost Susan and Rachael, separately, because neither wanted to expose their friends to Who.  So they paid for their own dinner and drinks like schmucks.

Life is full of tradeoffs we all must make, and learning about my advisor's 80s cutoff shorts is one I'm willing to pay if it means beers and tacos with my friends (Ilene included).

Tyranny of Pants

This is from Brian. We really shouldn't encourage his entry submissions (or Ilene's editorial suggestions) but the cartoon has a point. 

And it allows me to talk about myself. Now, I actually love pants quite a bit (just love not wearing them more) but on Saturday, rushing off to meet with a researcher at UCSF at 7am then staying up late for warehouse shenanigans  meant a very long time in pants. Tight pants! I could not wait to shed them at the end of the day. At 2am, I became the first to cave and look for a bed and change into PJs.  Piano singalongs kept me up for another hour but at least I was in flannel. When the sun came up the next day, I learned many things about sleepovers in a warehouse, where people sprawled on couches and sleeping bags as they saw fit. Like how a bed and pillow might look comfortable in the wee hours but not in the early morning when you see wisps of blonde hair all over the pillow. And how I was the only one wearing pajama pants, because boys just stripped off their pants to go to bed (in boxers- though I wish everyone had brought pjs). It's bad enough that men get 30 cents on the dollar in earnings, but extra freedom from pants, too? So unfair. 

Eat. Rinse. Repeat.

I have been traveling in the west coast for a little over a week.  My schedule hasn't allowed much time for sightseeing or visiting friends, so my meals have been a way for me to take in the local flavor with friends while sating my cravings for anything we don't have in B'more.  That's why my meals in the last week (and anticipated meals today/tomorrow) have looked like this:

fish tacos. fish tacos. Thai salmon. sushi. fish tacos.

Indian fusion. meat tacos. Chinese. Chinese. sushi. Chinese. sushi.

ice cream. fries. oysters. ice cream. chilaquiles.

burgers & poutine. Vietnamese. Chinese. Chinese.

I could eat these 4 foods for forever.  Alas, I head back for B'more tomorrow night.  And pick up my steady diet of bbq & biscuits where I left off.  One could do worse.

SFO Redux

The past 24 hours has been both the best and the worst of days.  On the one hand, I am exhausted, I now have a headache (slowly subsiding, we hope) and I just threw up in an airport bathroom, complete with food-formerly-known-as-chilaquiles streaming down my nostrils.  I have chocolate stains on my jeans, my skin is dry, and I look not unlike a refugee.  On the other hand, the past 24 hours has brought about not just one but 2 rounds of ice cream, the best hot chocolate I've ever had stateside, oysters, sleeping over with my brother's friends in their warehouse studio, and meeting up with 3 different Bo' friends, as well as a little time with Lisa.  Did I also mention fresh Californian peaches, sushi, Mexican food, and the best truffle fries I've had in a very long time?  (This could all explain why I threw up)  Who could ask for more than that?  For now, I'm sitting at the airport, charging my phone, trying to stay awake until boarding, and basking in gratefulness for my very short SFO trip.

Date Line

I have a big exam tomorrow.  My parents vaguely know about it.  They heard all about the last one.  And yet, for reasons unclear, cannot seem to remember the date and time of this exam.  They are, however, very good at proposing their own dates and time.  Every conversation we have had, for the last two weeks, has gone something like this.  

Mother: I'm rooting for you.

Moi: Thank you.

Mother: It''ll all be over May 31st, at 1pm.

Moi: ... May 30th at 9am.

Mother: Right.

(It helps to know that May 31st is a Saturday)

It would not be so funny and frustrating if it had not happened 3 times this week.  With each parent.  

Deconstructed Memory

Daniel and Nancy went to Spain last week.  Daniel is a boy and Nancy is a girl.  When we asked Nancy how the trip was, she was articulate and told us about the pastry shop by their apartment in Barcelona, people watching in the plaza, and the wonderful train ride.  When we asked Daniel how the trip was, he kept taking out his phone to show pictures.  It was weird, but whatever.  We let him show us the pictures. And that was when we made an amazing discovery:

Years of saving tiny human lives has taken its toll on his mind and robbed Daniel of his memories.  The pictures were not just a way of sharing his vacation with us, it was the only way he could remember that he was even on a vacation.  This was especially evident when Daniel started showing us pictures from a fancy 10-course dinner they had-- the most memorable dinner from their trip.

Daniel: This was- a yellow shot.

Moi: I see that, but what is it?

Daniel: I don't know.  It was savory.  And here, this was a foam colored thing, and carrots.

Moi: Yes, I recognize carrots.  What was the foam thing?

Daniel: Um, and this was dessert.  You had a brown thing and a gelatin-

[according to Nancy, it was deconstructed apple pie.  "There was cava granita over the dessert and a nice contrast between hot and cold."]

On Second Thought

I made rhubarb-strawberry bars last night and brought them to school to share today.  I also did the same last week, but this was the new and improved batch, with 40% more bar and fresh strawberries.  I brought them with me to Liz's defense (Liz has a PhD now!), to my meeting with Who, and generally everywhere I went today.  And everywhere I went today, this exact same scene played out:

Moi: Would you like a rhubarb bar (say that 10 times fast)?

Professor Dubya: [skeptical look]  Well-

Moi: They're home made.

Professor Dubya: I guess I could try a little.  

[5 seconds later]

Professor Dubya: Oh my god, these are really good.

[everyone else grabs one]

I'm not feeding you poison, people, and I would imagine that history has shown that I make dang fine baked goods.  But alas, some people just like to be surprised.  

Kryptonite

(Yesterday just happened to be get-bad-feedback-day for Liz and me, but it's another morning so we're ready to get up and do this all over again.  At least we're trying to.)

Moi: I gave myself a "no self pity" talk.

Liz: You should give yourself a "superman" talk because in the middle of battle, he always looks like he may lose but then he triumphs, like you will.

Moi: So I'm basically telling myself I'm Superman?  That seems rather egoistical.

Liz: You have said bolder things.

Royal Adults

I did not put on pants yesterday.  It's that time of the year when I don't have to wear pants.  Instead, I put on my old-man-shorts and hobbled out to the farmer's market in an ankle wrap and plastic flip flops (turns out, it's hard to wear shoes with an ankle wrap).  Normally, I'd make a self-deprecating remark about my life and wardrobe choices but on Sunday, I stepped out with confidence that somewhere out there in my neighborhood, just a few blocks north, was someone else probably also not wearing pants, has a bum ankle, wears glasses, and is generally aging terribly.  They say misery loves company, misfits do as well.

(Special shout out to Ilene, who is aging gracefully, and Brian, who is not.)  

----

(at Ilene's birthday dinner, though it was not her birthday)

Ilene: We were getting ready to leave and these two would not put pants on.

Meghan: [looks aghast]

Moi: To clarify, we were not wearing pants in separate apartments.

Brian: And we were wearing shorts.  

Meghan: Gross.  I find shorts so uncomfortable.

Everyone: [looks aghast]

The War on Humor

It's no secret, Pretzels, that I like to goof around with my superiors.  I also like to joke around with my subordinates; it's just unfortunate that I don't have any.  I'd love for nothing better than to sit around all day cracking wise and doing public health research.  Oftentimes though, I refrain from punchlines I truly want to say because I don't want to offend my superiors by crossing some line.  Advisor Who, however, does not have this problem.

(on jobs I could look into)

Who: You could work for the Syrian rebels.

Moi: Aw.  Syria is so sad now.

Who: Yeah, it is.

[I immediately think, "it'd be even darker if I say I'd work for the Nigerians instead," but I hold my tongue because it seems inappropriate.]

Who: If not the Syrians, you could work for the Nigerian kidnappers.

Moi: I used the hash tag #bringbackourgirls and they're not free yet.  I don't get what more I need to do.  

Crossing the Line

Reading my blog lately, it's easy to come away with the assumption that my world revolves around biscuits and my advisor/school.  I assure you that that's not true.  It only seems that way.  

Except last night really was all about the biscuit.  We faced endless obstacles, but Alice and I were determined to have dinner at blacksauce.  We both successfully resisted late afternoon snacks and remained faithful to dinner, but dinner kept getting farther and farther away.  There was terrible traffic, endless GPS rerouting, all in concert with torrential downpours.  We kept looping around small country roads with growling stomachs.  The blacksauce food is cooked in tents outside, and with the weather kept changing every two seconds and the GPS constantly telling us we were 3 minutes away, we kept wavering between excitement for food and anxiety that the rain would ruin everything and the realization that our destination was still just a little bit farther away.  But at long last, we pulled in to see that despite the rain, Damian and his team were still outside.  We ran out with our umbrellas:

Moi: Please tell me dinner is still on.

Damian: We ran out of food.  I'm sorry.

Moi: Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo-

Damian: I'm just kidding.  We're only out of chicken.

Alice: That's a mean joke.

Damian: That was kinda mean.  I'm sorry.

Moi: It's a horrible joke.  Though I totally did the same thing to my friend on Sunday.  It's hilarious.

[On Sunday, whilst waiting in line, since I was 2 people ahead of Christine, I turned back to tell her that they were out of the fried chicken biscuit we waited so long for.  She told me that "there are some things you don't joke about.  This is one of them."  I didn't understand on Sunday.  But I understand now.]

Snowflake in the Crowd

The University has been in the process of unifying everyone's email addresses across multiple schools and institutions.  This means a new email alias for everyone.  And much consternation for those of us with common names.  I thought having an "86" follow my initials was bad at Partners.  The new system takes it to a whole other factor.

Moi: What's your number at JHU?  Or are you senior enough not to warrant a number?

[Advisor Who also has Common Asian Last Name, though not as common as mine]

Who: Well, it's one.  Isn't it the same for everyone?  Everyone gets a one after their name.

Moi: Not me.  The numbers can go much higher.

Who: Like 20?

Moi: That's nothing.  Try 3 digits.  Like 430. 

Who: [Laughs more uproariously than I have ever seen him laugh.]

 At least I'm bringing joy into the world.

The Merman

I'm home in Dub-ford for a quick visit, which means intense contact with Mother's particular brand of crazy.  Yesterday, discussing colleges ("I know you joke that we don't treat the Bo' with the same prestige as we do Harvard, but I never knew that you and your friends actually believed that the Bo' was a really elite school"), Mother mentioned that Brother had previously received admittance to Smith but ended up choosing UMass Amherst for financial reasons-- an account we vociferously denied on many counts.  Finally, Mother called Brother to set the record straight.  You don't even need to hear both sides of the call.  Just soak in the crazy. 

Mother: Help me settle a score with your sister and father.  Didn't you get into Smith College when you were applying?  They're saying you didn't.

[...]

Mother: I know it's a women's college.  I remember you'd gotten into one, which I thought was weird at the time.  What about Holyoke something?

[...]

Mother: Yes, I know Mt. Holyoke is a women's college.  I know you're not a woman.  So you didn't get into any women's colleges?  I really thought you did.  

One Down

I had my departmental preliminary exam today.  As everyone promised, it wasn't half as scary as I thought it would be, everyone there did want me to succeed, and I did pass. In fact, I probably had one of the shortest exams amongst all my peers (God is merciful). Though this did not mean that I found any of the jokes the faculty members made prior to my passing to be funny at all.  

Fifteen minutes before the exam, as I was about to make last minute preparations, Prof Dubya (? I forget his nickname), who is not on my committee, comes by for some friendly, last-minute advice.  It was very kind of him to do.  Unfortunately, it sent me into all sorts of last minute panic of problems I did not even consider.

Dubya (sees Doc Khaleesi in the hallway): I'm just giving her some last minute advice.  You shouldn't listen, you're on her committee.

Khaleesi: Oh, I'm ready.  I have a long list of questions.

---  

(regarding the homemade cookies that I brought to the exam)

Doc Who: There should be some sort of an arms race to see who can furnish the most elaborate meals at these exams.

Moi: Oh, I heart some professors didn't want it to seem like a bribe.  Otherwise, I would've catered lunch.

Doc Who: Some professors appreciate bribes.  I once had a student who brought sushi.

Khaleesi: You have 5 minutes.  There's still time [to impress us.]

---

Best question of the whole exam (courtesy of Doc Normandie):  Which 2 popular American companies were founded in Quincy, Massachusetts?

Most horrifying question (courtesy of Doc Who, natch): Should I just tweet these exam notes to you?  Or would you prefer Facebook?

Biscuithead

Le Pretzels, biscuit season is once again among us, which means the addition of 2-3 servings of simple carbohydrates into my weekly diet. 

In my roughly 2 years of biscuit eating in Bmore, my achievements are as follows: discover biscuits, buy so many biscuits as to have the biscuit crew learn my name (there was a brief winter hiatus after which name was forgotten then quickly relearned), and have Biscuit Boss express disappointment when I didn't choose the special of the day. Today, after a winter hiatus during which my name wasn't forgotten, I add a new achievement to the list: cashier knew that I hadn't yet tried the pork sandwich because I hadn't visited the 2 other times they'd had it. I hope that one day, as the ultimate reward of my faithfulness, they visit me in the hospital when I eventually have my heart attack. 

Cohort Study

I don't know if you knew that tonight was the series finale of How I Met Your Mother. I knew it. So did Liz. And Alene. And Julia. And Ilene. Yet instead of watching it live, these friends (and more!) chose to watch me give a practice talk on my dissertation proposal. Then spent over an hour coaching me and testing me. Then at the end of it all, they complimented me and thanked them for having them over. 

This is how kind and generous my cohort it is. It is humbling and scary and annoying. Whenever they succeed, I get incredibly proud of them. Then I think, "oh crap, they've set the bar that much higher again, now I have to be just as nice and just as smart or I'll look like a failure."  Good thing I'm used to all kinds of failure. 

Conformity

Peer pressure can make all of us do stupid things, like impulsively buying 2 pints of Ben & Jerry ice cream on a rainy afternoon because we had to try the new flavors with the fudgey cores (verdict: hazelnut fudge, let's promise never to part ways).  Yes, Nancy, Heeyoung, and I each had to buy our own.  And even though each pint was $3.50 (more expensive than Jon had gotten at Safeway), once we saw the sign for "2 for $7," we decided that we all had to get 2 pints.  We just had to.  

On Thursday night, though, I was in desperate need of peer pressure.  There was a guest speaker in town and Advisor Who took us to dinner.  You all know how I love free food, especially as this was free food at fancy restaurant with Liz next to me.  And Who telling outrageous stories.  (The speaker's stories of cryptography and his son of many tongues, weren't too shabby either.)  It was all pretty good, actually, except that part where the waitress came to take orders for dessert and so I ordered, then no one else did.  And so yes, I was that kid, that ate the most free food Who had to offer.  And who everyone had to wait for.  I'm never ordering first again.

Liz (to me): Maybe Who will get dessert and you won't be alone.

Who (to waitress): Could I get an espresso?  But could you make it look like a dessert so she won't feel left out?

Moi: [mortified.  mortified.  mortified.]

Gradual Student

"Graduate student" is such a deceptive job title because I am so far from graduating.  Yesterday, I went to the bookstore to pick up index cards to make for studying. Like I've done countless times. I had the realization then that it was probably something most of my friends can't relate to anymore. Can you still remember back to the last time you made flash cards to study?  Yet for me, it was yesterday. Using the exact same trick I'd learned in middle school.

(This is how I feel about studying. Though I know I shouldn't whine because a. I haven't studied that hard this far and b. it's my 3rd to last exam ever!)

Significant Others

Today was Liz's Fun Day, and what a fun day it was.  There was a rope course (which brought back bad memories of Project Adventure- I was a much better sport in my younger days), there was Taboo, and there were equally generous servings of snack taking and smack talking.  It's no wonder that I love Liz.  Those are all of my favorite things (just kidding, I hate ropes, but today's ropes were great).  I just wish Liz portrayed me better to her friends.  

(after hearing a description of the day ahead from our guide)

Moi: I don't know if I want to be mentally and physically challenged.

Liz: But think of all the fun things you can tell Al that you did today!

Moi (to Liz's non-school friends): I should clarify.  Al is not my boyfriend-- he is my academic advisor. He will not hear about what I did today.

Kali: I don't know.  You guys were talking about scheduling orals with Al and I got very confused.

For future reference, Pretzels, "Orals" = comprehensive (departmental or school-wide) exam.  I clearly need more men in my life.

Beef and Turf

In academia, so much of getting through the program depends on our mentors- formal and informal- that we (well, Liz and I) can get a little possessive and petty over them.  The mentor may or may not be our favorite, but we better be on the mentor's favorite list.  This could be a difficult feat, however, when your mentor is Advisor Who and has scores of mentees all over the medical institution.

(a little after Liz told me about a journalist-turned-medical-student-wunderkind who Who often praises and who I'd never heard of until today, and immediately after I suggested we "destroy" said student)

Liz: You are taking this way worse than I thought you would.

A Pack of Crows

Is mass murder a hobby?  The question came up during a particularly divisive round of Scattergories Categories this past weekend, one that revealed the worst in just about every team.  Lisa and I are firmly in the 'yes' camp.  Some teams found it only palatable to give us the point on murder, but not mass.  Others, like Tiff and Michael, were more lenient.  "A hobby is anything you do for fun that's not your job."  Exactly.  (They may have been just protecting their behinds, their "two-timing" double points were potentially under threat depending on the ruling).  

In the end, Tuna, the great conscience, swayed enough nays for us to lose the points.  It cost us both the round and the game in a particularly tight race.  Which is a sad one to close out a night that began so promising, with Lisa and I in early dominations.  If one had to pinpoint where it all went downhill, it was probably when we got the category "Things that are above us" and decided to shoot for the moon with a long list of dead people.  The jury would only give us one.  Not even Martin Luther King Jr. could sway their stone cold hearts. "He's not above us because he's dead, but because he's morally superior," I argued between fits of hysterics, but all Priscilla would do was stare, shake her head, and say "One dead person."  

While I'm Sleeping

On sharing bunk beds as adults...

Moi (top bunk): Just so you know, I have a tendency to shake and hop up and down in my sleep. 

Lisa (bottom bunk): Just so you know, I have a tendency to suffocate other people in my sleep. 

Touché. 

Dear John

One of my favorite comebacks after someone has said “I love you,” or even, “I like you,” in a non-romantic context is to reply with, “Yes, but I think we should still see other people.”  I almost never pull it off.  But it’s a stupid joke I love to say.

 

Sometimes, my emails with Doc Nice are cordial, respectful, and right on business, because I am a professional.  Other times, they are a little goofy because Doc Nice is not just the nicest, he’s also a little goofy. Yesterday, as we traded emails to set up a call, I tried goofy.  I mentioned that I’d appreciate talking to him on the phone because I needed his guidance, but also because I like him— though we should see other people.  He responded in one all-business sentence specifying the time for our call.  Nothing else.

 

So I was a little startled by our conversation today:

 

Moi: Hello?  Sorry, I missed your call by a second-

 

Doc Nice: Did you get my voicemail?

 

Moi: No, I just saw that I missed-

 

Doc Nice: I cannot believe you’d tell me over email that you think we should see other people.

 

Moi: Wha?  Well- uh- I know it wasn't the best medium-

 

Doc Nice: Over email!  Not even a phone call.  I did not see it coming.  I thought things were going so well.

 

Apologizing for a faux break-up with a mentor probably crosses a few boundaries, but it also made my day.  Especially thinking of how he was carrying on this whole conversation inside a cab.  Nicely played, Nice Doc.  Nicely played.

Sights from the Motherland

We had a lot of fun with graffiti. 

Old school: Making my sandals right on the spot. 

Father is incredibly fond of finger guns. 

A Difference of Opinions

Trying on new glasses with Father and Mother yesterday. I put on a pair with black plastic frames. 

Father: You look like a PhD student in this. Very mod. 

Mother: Don't look like a PhD student. 

Father: I didn't mean it in a bookish way. I meant the kind that looks very smart and sexy. Like what's trendy now. 

Mother: But she's not sexy. 

Workaholic

The only people who have ever told me to "take it easy" or "don't work too hard" are people who have never worked with me.  Such admonishments usually come from relatives I'm not close with who think I lead the life of an ascetic academic.  I see workaholics the same way as I see physicians: I work with a lot of them, but only people who don't know me would ever mistake me for one.  

I sure looked the part on Tuesday morning though, with my laptop out on by baggage claim having just gotten off a red-eye, sending back last minute materials for a grant application (grant application- that's what people who do things have!).  Alas, it was all an illusion, just like how I spent 20 minutes working on a paper during a layover.  If I was truly driven, I would have used 4 hours on working and only 20 minutes for eating instead of the other way around.  And if I had just turned in the grant in earlier, I probably wouldn't been trading time-sensitive tables with the admin support from a different continent-- or better yet-- not taken a vacation in the middle of January.  But such are the choices that I have made.  

Shoot the Moon

Last week, I went to the dentist and discovered that a lifetime of supporting the industry has finally paid off.  I am the reason why the children of dentists are so well educated.  As always, I was nervous about the visit and convinced that I had a cavity (teeth ached when I ate sweets, or tried to floss- so I avoided both).  Plus, my gums had an absolute field week being weird.  By weird, I probably mean unclean.  

Yet, miracle of miracles, my new dentist pronounced me cavity-free.  The best news was when he proclaimed that I was not only cavity-free, but would probably have a hard time getting them in the future.  Such is the fate for people who have fillings on pretty much every tooth.  My teeth are so covered in fillings that there isn't room for cavities.  This must be what parents feel like when their children graduate from college and get their first paycheck.  My years of investment and pain are finally paying off.  Here's to never flossing again.

Joke on You

I spend a large portion of my day on gchat with Liz (reminds me of jlee88).  Her little words on the screen have been invaluable as we slog through this PhD process together.  We bounce ideas off of each other and vent and never talk about our advisors.  Consequently, we have begun thinking alike.  Too much so.

Yesterday, Advisor Who's email included a non sequitur about being in the "emergency room with son's ankle."  Liz gave me the biggest laugh of the day by telling me to ask where the rest of Son was.  Not because it was terribly funny.  But because I'd already picked up on the same line and made the very same stupid joke to Who.  I'd never felt prouder or groaned louder. 

In case you're aghast, we're not horrible people.  We care about children and their ankles.  But Who consistently makes us sit through jokes with punchlines like "is-th-mus be my lucky day."  It's only fair that we give back in turn.  

Too Sweet

It's been so long since I've written and it will probably be another long while until I write again.  This has been a very busy season.  Was it as busy as TAing, working, applying to graduate school, and taking classes full time?  I don't know.  But it's busy.

The student offices on the 6th floor, one of which I now occupy, are offices that most faculty members have access to.  I don't know how it works, but their keys open our offices.  This comes in very handy (for Liz, and only Liz) when one is locked out and doesn't want to summon security, but it's also very disconcerting when one opens the office door to discover that your advisor had previously broken in and left items for you on the desk.  This happens not infrequently.

Lately, Susan's advisor has bequeathed her with chocolates.  Mine?  A print out of a report I edited for him.  And a page from a journal.  Life isn't fair.  Naturally, I took a picture of the discrepancy and showed it to Advisor Who.  Naturally, he was not impressed.

Who: Are you sure that your office mate didn't steal your chocolates?  Are there other food items you have not discovered?