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.]