'Twas the night before Xmas

It was the night before Christmas, when I started this post.
But I could not decide what my readers wanted most:

A story of drinking with my single girlfriend T,
And how the boys bought us French 75s at Chez Henri

Or maybe a tale of stressful Christmas shopping,
Walking with my bag in the rain, my shoes sopping.

Szechuan pork, Tangy green beans, and dumplings from good ol' Lucky Wah
And instead of a meal for one, I received fortune cookies a trois.

Yes, what was I going to write about this quiet Christmas Eve,
Quite the dilemma giving me a headache that I needed to relieve.

I sat in front of the television, eating and starin'.
When Woosh through the door my roommate came a barrelin'.

Arm loads and arm loads of unwrapped gifts in her bags
All still shiny and new. All still with stickers and price tags.

She set up shop in the living room. With all her paper and gifts on display,
I guiltily watched her work as I watched TV in my evil way.

"Let's watch some DVD's" she said in a moment of glory.
"Oohhh. Let's watch this one. Hilary Duff in 'a Cinderella Story'"

When we explored the special features to find our prince, our perfect mate,
Our answer came out Chad Michael Murray was our man of fate.

Ah as we giggled, and watched extra scenes, we heard the steps of reindeer.
Was it possible? Could it be that Santa was already here?

We ran to our rooms turned off the lights, so we would not be caught awake.
The noise could have been our neighbors dogs, it was a chance we could not take.

So to all our loyal readers and those accidental readers looking for a real site,
"Have a Merry Christmas and to all a good night!"

The German owns the fish

I have been intensely worried about my future. I am supposed to be graduating soon, although who knows with my committee meeting looming over my head. Every other week I freak out that I will never graduate. But even worse is when I freak out about what I will do if I do graduate.

The normal road for a research scientist in academia is a Ph.D., followed by postdoctoral training, followed by an appointment as an assistant professor, followed by a tenured track position, followed by death. And now is my first step out into the world. I know kind of what I want to study, but not where and with whom. Hence, the freaking out.

The freak out:
I have a position in France, which seems to intrigue me a great deal. To learn more about it, I decided to talk to the man in France's former boss who happens to be a professor here. He is kind of a famous guy, so I thought it was a good sign when he decided to meet with me. He tells me the guy in France is smart and fantastic and will publish good papers maybe even another Cell paper. (Cell is a highly regarded journal in our field.) But then he asks me the question, "What are your plans for the future?" When I tell him that I want to stay in academics, he replies "Oh then you can never go to France." He proceeded to tell me how the world works, how choosing the right lab for postdoctoral training is the most important decision I am ever going to make and most importantly why I have been rejected from a number of jobs.

"Evil Twin #1, you must write that you are a U.S. citizen on you cover letter or maybe even you subject line. After speaking to you, it is clear to me that you are an American, but if I got an email from you, I would most likely dismiss you. I get over a hundred cover letters from people from China, Japan, Korea, and India and I simply do not have the time to read them all. I'll tell you what. I want you to come back with a list of the most competitive labs you want to work for and we will work on a letter together."

Although the professor was really kind, he sparked off a wave of freaking out. Here I was almost certain I knew what I was going to do, and I would have to start over again.

Self evaluation:
In an effort to regain some semblance of normalcy in my life, I went to a yoga class on the next day. Since college, I have heard my friends and frenemies extol the virtues of this ancient art. "It is so relaxing." "I feel so at peace afterwards." "It centers you." "I have increased my flexibility."

In class, I took purple mat choosing to be in the front of the class next to a 50 plus year-old soccer mom. I was okay during the sun salutations, push-ups, and downward facing-dog. I think I was even able to manage warrior poses and some weird balancing thing one leg while staring at the sky. However, the backward push-up did me in as well as the frog pose. I could feel my arms quivering and it took all my strength to hold in the fart that would have surely broken the peaceful tones of new age zampana music playing in the background.

Yoga for me was not relaxing. I sit in front of the computer today with sore shoulders and twinge in my right calf. I am not good at yoga, step aerobics or many other activities that require coordination. My body does better at things that require hard labor, blood and competitiveness. That has been my modus operandi over the years, to simply plow my way through things. It was time to stop freaking out and plow through this job thing.

Back in the lab that night, I opened up an excel spreadsheet and wrote down a list of potential labs. Then I wrote down things I am good at, things I am not. My job crisis became a little more clear.

Revelations (sans biblical implications):
"The German owns the fish," declared Steph slightly inebriated at 1am Saturday night. She pointed to computer that flashed an Excel spreadsheet that she used to solve a puzzle. "You see, the German owns the fish," she said again.

"That would be a great title to a blog post, " I replied as I stared out her living room window looking for the taxi that was supposed to come.

Just as Excel had aided Steph with her puzzle, it had been doing wonders for me. On Sunday morning the blustery wintery mix convinced me to stay in bedroom. I tried to procrastinate by watching 4 hours of television online. Eventually, I was forced to stare at my options. I "sorted" by location, by lab size, by subject matter.

As I stared at the columns thinking about what my life might be like in its next incarnation, I realized that it would be alright. I had choices and if I just would take a deep breath ... I learned that one from yoga.

Junior

The Ls moved into the ARAMCO trailer park a year after we did. One night desperate for a baby sitter Mr. and Mrs. L asked my then 13 year old sister to please watch their three kids. Their oldest girl N was in the grade below me, Junior was 4 years younger, and there was the baby S. I remember this night well because my sister told N, Junior, and me to go play in my room. She was reading a copy of Seventeen watching S as she cried then slept on our living room floor. At the end of the night my sister gave me 10 Riyals, she said it was my share of the babysitting gig.

Over the years, our families became friends. We often had dinner parties at each others houses. The kids and I would play games as the parents talked. Sometimes N and I would ride our bikes together. She was on the swim team with me. Even though she was a year younger she was either in the advanced lane or the same lane as me. Actually all the Ls swam. When I think about Junior, my first image is of him in the pool at meet against the Raytheon Rays. He was swimming the 200 free, a long race for any person. With every stroke, it appeared he was swallowing water. As much as everyone on the team wanted to jump in and save him, he proved to us all he needed no saving as he finally touched the wall.

But soon I went to boarding school and lost all contact with the Ls. My parents kept in touch with them for a while. S, the baby, went to University of Houston and often spent a weekend at my parent's house to get away from dorm life. The Ls had moved to Vancouver, and after a few unanswered Christmas cards, our ties unravelled.

About a year and half ago, I got an email from Junior. I wish I had saved it, but it went something to this effect. "Is this the same Evil Twin #1 that used to live in Yanbu? If it is, this is F, I guess you might remember me as Junior. I hope you do not think this email is strange. The other day I was eating shrimp chips, and I thought of you. So I googled you, and found you at school. My dad passed away two months ago. It has got me thinking a lot about the past and all the important people in my life. Here is the update on our family: N is .... Yours truly, F Jr."

Then in October of this year, I received this email from him,"ET#1, My ship just had another port visit added to our sched...BOSTON! Tentatively, it's sched for 7-10 Dec. Are you going to be around?F Jr." (He is a Lieutenant in the Royal Canadian Navy.)

We met for brunch at Harvard Square on Saturday. I circled the Out of Town News store to find him. A young man in a tan suede jacket and stylish scarf yelled "ET#1!" We hugged. His once spiky hair was now completely shaved off, but the scar above his eye that he got when N pushed him into the wall of the pool was still there.

We walked around Harvard Yard doing the standard Harvard tour: John Harvard Statue, Weidner, Annenberg Hall, Fogg Art museum, and the Law School better known as the exterior shots for "Legally Blonde."

His life as an officer was so adult. I had a hard time listening because in my mind I kept flashing back to that little kid followed N and me everywhere. His family had grown up, my family had grown up. It was a lot of catching up to do. I kept calling him Junior and then apologizing. I realized over the years that he was called F. But then he said "ET#1, you might be one of the only people in the world that can call me Junior, legitimately. And I don't mind anymore. I kind of like it. It reminds me of Dad."

When we sat for lunch, Junior took out his computer and shared all his picture. Pictures of his girlfriend, pictures of his home, pictures of his dog, pictures of his travels to Tibet, Australia, and Europe. Lunch was spent reminiscing. Junior confessed that he and his baby sister S wished I was their sister. Mainly, because I was the only one they knew who would boss N. Funny how the 8 year old mind works. I had no confessions, but I gave him some dirt on his older sister in case he ever needed it. Like, I gave N her first cigarette. Well, maybe that really was not dirt on her but it was the best I could do.

Because he had limited time on shore, after two and a half hours of talking he needed to do some Christmas shopping. I walked to him to the bus stop. We hugged. I hope it is not another 20 years before I see him again.

My wife and me

I am on the beige overstuff chair. My legs are stretched on a brown leather ottoman with a red plaid wool blanket on my lap. I like pressing the "last" button on the remote. The Giants versus the Bears on Fox and the footbal highlight reel on NBC. D reminds me to use a coaster for my beer bottle. I oblige. It is a little thing and his table is new. I think about how to get rid of all the crumbs from the crostini I have been eating. I carry them in my sweater and brush them off in the batroom sink. I come back and settle back down in the chair.

"Something smells good," I say.

"Oh. I am toasting the rice. A little trick I learned from Rachel Ray. Something new to try. I really like that 30 minute meals show. Last week ...," he says. Eli Manning just completed a successful drive downfield. I couldn't believe it. I watched as the men in short sleeved huff and puff in the subzero Chicago air.

"... do think would be better?" D asks.

"Huh?" I reply.

"Salad or broccolli," he says.

"Oh, they both sound good. Whatever is easiest. Do you want any help," I ask as I take another swig of beer.

"No, I got it under control." He starts humming something as continues to shuffle pans around in the kitchen. I think he is humming "My Humps," but that thought is too terrifying. The smell of food is in the air and I am warm underneath the blanket. I cannot help but laugh at loud at a commercial with Peyton Manning in it. Peyton Manning is talking to camera giving advice on what to do about a gut.

Dinner is ready. We sit on the marble counter. I take out silverware and napkins. D lights two candles and dishes out the Whole Foods chicken cutlets, Rachel Ray toasted rice and a cucumber salad. We talk a little about work, about my interview with Novartis, about his experiments. Then D unravels his elaborate plan to order a Russian mail order bride. I cannot stop laughing. I choke on a piece of toasted rice. Choking only makes me laugh harder.

After clearing the dishes, we settle with our beers in the living room. The Sunday night game has already started. D whips out his checkbook and methodically goes through all his bills. I watch until the half. I call a taxi. It is snowing outside and I have no desire to take the T in this weather.

"I'll come out with you," D says.

The two of us wait only seconds outside when a yellow cab comes skidding down the street. We hug and I go home. I can't put my finger on it, but something seems funny about this night.

bah humbug

It is the holiday season in New York. The shop windows showcase elaborate displays. The smell of pine from the trees being sold on the sidewalks lingers in the air. The peal of the Salvation Army Santas' bells cut through the sound of sirens and honking. And the city is over saturated with tourists. Unfortunately, my office is located in tourist central -- I am caught between Times Square (no explanation needed), Fifth Avenue (which is unnavigable this time of year), Bryant Park (free ice skating and temporary kiosks selling all kinds of nonsense), Radio City Music Hall (home of the Rockettes and crowds of people wearing matching sweatshirts) and Rockefeller Center.

It is bad enough when the tourists block the sidewalks while alternately pointing at something or leafing through their guide books. Or when they don't step all the way into subway cars during the rush hour commute. But get a super-sized crowd on tourists together and there is no avoiding them. Rock Center is a tourist Mecca -- they come to ogle the ice skaters who were swindled into paying $27 for their entry and skate rental. They take pictures by the statue of Prometheus. And then there is that damned tree. Tonight is the night of the Rockefeller Tree lighting. It is 4:46 pm and the streets are already mobbed with tourists. The only thing that is worse is Times Square on New Year's Eve. I find that my patience with tourists grows shorter every year. This morning while walking through Times Square to get to work, I had to remind myself that it is not ok to elbow strangers when they walk 4 people across at a snail's pace. It is better to walk on the street in order to pass them.

I came upon this today. I think that Mayor Bloomberg should seriously consider establishing a new city agency. We need it.

My Thankful list

As it is now tradition, I will spend part of my post exulting the joys of turkey and stuffing. I ate the last of my Thanksgiving delights Sunday night. As I was savoring the turkey meat, pumpkin soup, and half of a cherry pie, I thought about those Thanksgiving lists I had to make when I was 10. I think I am overdue to write another one. It does feel weird that this list is not in crayon.

- Turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing. Oh and D's mother's cranberry and quince chutney.

- A bowl of sugary cereal at 2 am in the morning after glutting oneself in leftovers.

- Friends who will g-chat with you, when you are procrastinating work.

- The internet. I love that I can buy anything and fact check anything at a moments notice. Last week, I ordered dinner, a pair of wool socks and multiple lab supplies all within a matter of minutes.

- Journal Club Friday.

- Puns.

- Movies that make me cry. Movies that make me laugh. Made-for-TV movies made in the eighties and nineties.

- Alcohol. Even better is alcohol shared with borderline heterosexual friends that make super bitchy comments about Bostonites in supposedly hip outfits that are very ill fitting.

- Less hair in "the soccer mom" cut way not in the "I'm balding" way.

- Orthopedic shoes.

- The freaky plant that V gave me 3 years ago. It is the first plant I have ever grown that has not died.

- Postcards.

- All pranks and passive aggresive behavior that makes your victims feel uneasy for days.

Cradle robber

"Ummm .... I know this is creepy, but I am not stalking you. You and I are just running at the same pace. "

It was true. This man in a ski cap, a blue sweat shirt, and wind pants kept passing me. For those of you who have run with me, I really only run at one pace. I concluded that it was his fault that he kept speeding up and slowing down. In my weird lack of music but desparately needing to talk running style I said something.

He replied, "Oh. I guess we are going the same way. We can run together if you like. I promise I am not a stalker either."

"Heehhehee," lame girlish giggle was my reply.

The two of us ran along Beacon Street. This time keeping in pace. We chatted a bit. He was training for the Boston Marathon. He was strict about his schedule, and asked me tons of questions. I replied that I was probably the worst source of information, as either I train too much or not at all. As I was about to peel off back to Saint Paul Street, he asked, "May I have your number? Maybe we can run again together."

I gave him my email address and waved by. Two days later I got an email asking if I would like to get a drink on Friday instead. And even though I am going through and anti-boy period of my life I said yes.

Email might have been a mistake because I recognized his email address as a Harvard Alumni address. I did a "Google" search on him. As I read the title under his name I almost did a spit take. "Random Boy Class of '06....."

Age should not matter ... greatly. I dated a man that was 12 years older. But then my sister reminded me that I teased him relentlessly on his age. Oops. I feel a little guilty about that now. Well, actually I don't.

The prospects of going on a "pre-date," as defined by Evil Twin #2 (a real date is more than drinks), with my younger running man was kind of intriguing. Would I lie about my age? Should I dress like those slutty BU students?

Sadly, plans did not work out. We might still go running together when he gets back from the Thanksgiving break, but who knows. Plans normally fizzle pretty quickly. But it is nice to know that craddle robbing is an equal opportunity art form.

Yesterday, a friend and I were g-chatting. Amongst many random thoughts, he wrote "... my favorite work word: unrequited." I don't know what context that word would be used in work, but it is a good word.

I had been thinking about unrequited love all this weekend so when I read his words it made me jump a bit. I had started a post about it, but scrapped it like so many lately. His words were as sign to salvage the posting. I have been going through a major writer's block. Nothing that comes on the screen seems to be satisfactory. But maybe it does not have to be satisfactory. Maybe satisfactory is a question that needs to be unrequited.

"The Princess Bride" was my favorite movie from the 7th grade to through the 9th grade when it got uncermoniously usurped by "Say Anything." I even bought the book, and read it so many times that the cover tore. When Mr. Jesdale, my 9th grade English teacher, gave us our reading list, I remember saying out loud to his chagrin, "'Lord of the Flies' by William Golding. I wonder if that is the same dude that wrote 'The Princess Bride'?" (For those who care, it is.)

Instead of doing something outdoors this weekend, I decided to watch a headache inducing amount of television and movies. This event began with "The Princess Bride." The cynic in me was shocked on why I had a picture of Cary Elwes framed. Apparently, the 13 year old version of me, was attracted to very fey men. But instead of focusing on the male protagonist, I kind of zoned out into Princess Buttersup's mind. How awful it must have been to have your feelings of true love unanswered for 5 years. Why didn't Wesley send her at least a letter of his existance. After all that to still sacrifice her happiness, for his life.

Had I changed so much? My favorite book in the 6th grade was "The Girl of the Limberlost." A story about a poor girl who lives in the backwoods. She has an emotional abusive mother, whom attention she desparately craves. Why did I think these stories of unrequited love were so sweet?

I can't answer that. I do know that it is everywhere. We as people must somehow gravitate to the notion that what is unanswered has the potential to be perfect. Or maybe we all think that eventually we will be rewarded for our patience. Or maybe yet it is a way to alleviate some of the hurt we feel through a collective empathy.

I think about all of my great loves and they have all been one sided. The egoist in me wonders if there is anyone out there pining away for me. Maybe I should keep writing. Because as in all movie plots, it is only when question of love gets answered that is when screen goes to black.

Destroy to observe

This article made me a little sad.

Red Sox Nation's illegal immigrant

While Evil Twin #2 and her boyfriend travel around Southeas Asia, I visited my own foreign land: Red Sox Nation. It is true that I do have a card claiming that I am a member; a vestige of a friendship long past. But quite frankly a lot of times the other Red Sox citizens' antics annoy me, like my next door neighbor who kept shouting out his window last night. Perhaps that is why I never felt like I fit in, plus the fact that I am a Giants fan and you can see all the problems with this so-called citizenship.

On Thursday night, I went to the game. Yes, sometimes luck is very strange. I ask the Universe that I graduate, instead I get tickets to the World Series. Priority one: wear an appropriate outfit. I choose a long sleeve red shirt, white undershirt. white fleece vest, blue jeans, Red Sox hat, and one extra fleece jacket just in case. Priority two: try to sneak out of lab. Sadly, was caught by my boss who made weird comments about how I was lucky in life but not in science. huh? Priority three: make sure I am not carrying any illegal fire arms, knives, numchucks, etc..

Fenway was chaotic. Uniformed police officers were everywhere. People were trying to get to the gates, as vendors shouted in their ears. I would avert my eyes away from the italian sausage cart, I was all about the Fenway Frank that night. Beer sales were being tightly monitored that night so I decided for a Coke instead. Our seats were in the bleachers on the upper part between center and right field. I liked the view from that angle. Let's be honest ladies: Ellsbury has a cute butt.

I was happy as a clam up with my food and drink watching the game. I high-fived the people around me. I cheered when the Fenway cops hauled away three drunks guys who yelled obcenities at Rockies. The whole experience was exhilarating.

But somewhere around the 7th inning, I started getting sleepy and cold. Those of you have been in the bleacher section of Fenway know that there seems to be a special wind that swirls around back there. Normally, in the summer it just blows peanut shells in your eyes, but in late October it sucks away any ounce of body heat you have. It is this chill that seperates true citizens of Red Sox Nation from its poser citizens. I contemplated going home. Instead I was instructed to sit my ass down. The game was 2 to 1 and there was no way I was to leave. No way.

Don't get me wrong, I am glad I stayed and I was grateful to get the opportunity to witness this event, but it did make me realize my status as a transplant. To rectify that this Monday morning, I will say "Wahoo. Red Sox are World Series winners. Oh yeah and Yankees Suck."

My new 'do

I crimped my hair. For the love of God, why would I do such a thing? The worst part is that I did not even use a crimping iron. After showering last night, I painstakingly put my wet hair in braids. Yes, this frizzy nightmare with which I am currently wrestling, was completely intentional.

Was I delusional last night? Or so incredibly bored that this seemed like a good idea?

And I had so many opportunities to stop this madness. For instance, as I was submitting an online job application, looking like a derranged Asian Buckwheat, I even said to myself, "I wonder if they knew how crazy I am, if I still would get the job?"

Right now this semi-from in a ponytail. Maybe I should go out tonight and play it up with black jelly bracelets, fuschia lipstick and lace leggings. Are the eighties still in? Or has fashion moved to a new decade already?

My only hope is that my black hair will start to reject this look as the day wears on.

This is my thought process exactly

$26.94

Picture this scene: I am in Whole Foods struggling to carry the new black basket/roll away cart. It keeps hitting me on my shins, but I refuse to drag it behind me like some crazed stewardess. Saturday afternoons at Whole Foods is fairly calm. I came in to buy my lunch and will leave random crap to eat for the next week. There is no method to this madness.

I look at the locally grown broccoli and wonder if it is better than the California organic broccoli. Should I buy a bag potatoes even though I will throw away half of it because it is cheaper than buying three potatoes? I see stalks of lemongrass and get a tear in my eye. On 20/20 the night before, there was a story about these 8 year old girls that were kickboxers to provide for their families. I guess lemongrass = Thailand in my mind. And in some kind of schizophrenic delusion, I assume everyone is looking at me staring blankly into the sprawling set of misted greens. So I pretend that I was just examining produce and not drifting off to some television show, I dump some organic Swiss chard in my basket.

Even though I was only supposed to be in Whole Foods for a short time, I find myself meandering around the aisles. I go through vitamins, double back to produce for some butternut squash, stare down the salty snack aisle, pick up honey, smell all the teas on sale, order a roast beef sandwich on a brioche, debate over stonyfield farms and brown cow yogurt, go back to get my sandwich.

It is about 40 minutes later and I still have not eaten lunch. But I look through the organic make up. Homeopathic remedies for canker sores are on sale. I feel a canker sore coming where I bit the inside of my upper lip. Probably have been gnawing on my own flesh out of hunger.

I get in line with my extremely unwieldy basket which has now given my carpal tunnel syndrome. I unload its contents. A blond woman in Red Sox hat, Patagonia vest, and Coach mini hobo gives me a harumph. She has three luna bars and a lemonade in her hand. She looks at the clock on her cell phone, then at my menagerie of food stuffs, and then at me. I consider letting her go ahead of me, but I find her annoyance amusing. I tell the bagger that I can handle it, and I slowly load my items in my canvas bags. Hmmm. How long should I wait before signing my receipt? The sales clerk starts chatting about how the Kombucha I am buying changed her life. She is a million times healthier. Really? I was debating between the acidophillus and the Kombucha. I smile, the clerk had made my day in many ways.

I walk out canvas bags filled to the brim, drink my freshly squeezed orange juice, and start the trek back to school.

It's like they read my mind

I stumbled upon this today.

Who's sitting at the cool table?

"High school never ends." - Bowling for Soup

No post last week. I was at the International MDM2 Workshop. The workshop was held at the Woodshole Marine Laboratories, conference center/dormitory/cheap meeting place facility. V and I drove down to the picturesque Cape Cod locale early Sunday afternoon. We walked up the three flights of stairs with our luggage. Although in spartan conditions, we were pleasantly surprised that we had a bathroom in our room and no need for our shower slippers and travel shower caddies.

The keynote talks began in the nearby auditorium. We dutifully pinned on our name badges and trudged over to the lecture hall. The hard wooden chairs were aesthetically pleasing, but would eventually wear away at our tailbones after many torturous hours. The organizers welcomed all, and the keynote speeches were thoughtful and fairly long. At 7:45pm, it was clear everyone was hungry as all 80 scientists trundled over to the dining hall.

In traditional dining hall fashion, we waited in line with our plastic trays for our two hot entrees and salad bar selections. But it was not the selection of food that was an issue, it was the selection of the table. With whom were we going to sit? In a room of 80 scientists, what table was the cool table? I stood outside with my tray in awe of my indecision. I waited for V to come out, this selection was going to require consultation. Many of these people already new each other. I kept scanning the room, lively talk at some, quiet loners at others. Yikes! Wait breathe. I am 31 right? But what if we get stuck at a weird table and we are forever marked?

Finally, V came out and we chose a table with two lonely looking Chinese people. They were pleasant enough and being there alone too.

After dinner, we had drinks. With my plastic Solo cup of Harpoon IPA in hand, I scanned the room again. In the corner by the window, was GL's lab. They chose to spend the whole apart from everyone else, I marked them as the "Artiste" group, too cool school. In the center, was the 4 Chinese professors and 1 old Jewish professor laughing and slapping each other on their back, from now to known as the "Chinese Mafia." At another table were the "Hens," 4 female students in CP's lab. more to come on them later. There were older well established professors milling around catching up with each other, flitting from group to group, they were the "Jocks" the cool ones whose attention was parsed out like gifts. And then was everyone else, like us, who wanted to get through this event unnoticed, unwedgied, and unscathed.

The next day was brutal. Breakfast started at 7:30am. Another dining hall panic attack. Luckily, V had attended this meeting two years ago and still had few friends left over, we sat with them. Then it was off to 5 hours of lectures. My head swam from all the talks. Another dining hall incident and another 4 hours of talks. It was brutal. By the time dinner came along, it was such a relief. We sat with one postdoc and one student from Canada. They were warm and funny. Probably, the least nerdy and pretentious people at the meeting. It was nice to talk to people our age for a change.

More drinks that night, and a poster session. V and I split apart for awhile looking at different work. We schmoozed a little. I tried to ask an "Artiste" about her project only to get shut out for a professor. The nice dutch professor (one of the Jocks) , who knows my boss, gave me a small apologetic smile for the woman's behavior and said "I don't this poster is worth you time."

But for the most part people were more accommodating. We chatted and got a few insincere job offers. But a few hours in, we were extremely exhausted. V and I met up at a couch. We drank our free booze out of our plastic Solo cups. On the couch, we watched the different groups interact. I began to hate the "Hens." Led by an evil Russian girl, they embodied every bad stereotype of a woman. They only talked to the Jocks, completely ignored all others, and gossipped amongst themselves.

More lectures the next morning, and then a scheduled trip to Martha's Vineyard. This time for lunch at the dining hall, we ate with GW, big wig professor, who admittedly wanted to collaborate on a project with our lab, but it was nice to get invited to a table.

Once again we had another poster session, this time V had to present, leaving me to fend for myself. In the sea of Hens, Artistes, and Jocks, would I survive? Without even knowing it, in our brief time there, we had made friends. There were V's old friends from Scotland. There was Dieter 2, a German scientist that resembled his Sprockets counterpart. There were older Chinese professors. There were students, to whom we gave advice the night before.

Just like in high school, I had been overly dramatic. Why was I ever worried? Why did I care the first night? But this revelation did not stop me from scanning the room. I could help but be fascinated by the group dynamics in the room. Maybe it is true: high school never ends.

The Other Sweater Song

I really like the song that plays during the latest Old Navy Commercial. I knew that I had heard it somewhere else!

Good News

I was glad to read this. This is one of my favorite tv shows this year. If you're not watching it already, you should be.

The Last Day of Summer

Summer. A season when the heat addles the mind, convinces you to take an extra step to soak up UV rays and skimpy dressing is acceptable. It is difficult writing in this entry, because this summer has been particularly sweet and I am sad to see it end. But like it says in Ecclesiastes....

For the official last day of summer I went to the beach with G and A. The day had the right feel. The morning was cool, perhaps a hint of Autumn, as I walked down to school adorned in a white hoodie, bikini, capri pants, flip flops, and a stuffed brightly colored beach bag. I felt like whistling down the empty street. I set up an experiment in a quiet peaceful lab, when my phone rang. It was A and G on their way.

They greeted me outside in a silver Ford Focus. In a moment of nostalgia, they reminded me of that movie, "the Flamingo Kid." G wore a small hat, like Matt Dillon's signature chapeau, and A just cut her blond hair in a fresh short bob, kind of like Janet Jones.

Road trip!

In the tradition of all great road trips, we got lost. We circled around a few times, made a few U-turns, and then decided to alter our plan and go to Crane's Beach. Having gotten there when it was overcast and 10am meant the parking lot was fairly empty. All the concession stands were closed. Summer was over according to the State of Massachusetts.

We found a spot on the squishy white sand. All three of us laid down to read our respective books. Actually come to think of it, the books we read reflected who we were quite well. I read a biography titled "Rosalind Franklin: the dark lady of DNA," A had her New Yorker open, and G was reading "Reading Comics."

I got tired of my book. The sun finally burnt through the clouds. I stripped to my swim suit, and tuned into a podcast of "Bill Moyer's Journal." It was a little depressing and so I switched to David Sedaris reading a chapter from "Naked." Somehow, when I emerged from my book slash podcast haze time and leap frogged foward to 12:30pm. Maybe I would venture into the water. Hmmmm... water at 65 degrees Fahrenheit perhaps it was better I stay on the sunny sand.

On occasion, G and A would share a playful couple's moment. Just like the Flamingo Kid.

We decided to wrap things up after my stomach's rumblings made themselves apparent. Next to the beach was a apple farm. Although we had no desire to pick apples, that did not mean we could not buy apples. I bought half a dozen apple cider doughnuts. I told the lady next to me that we planned to get fried clams and french fries right after the doughnuts. The woman winked and said "the Ipswich trifecta."

So after doughnuts, we stopped by the Clam Box and ate whole bellied clams, onion rings, and french fries. The mound of fried goodness overflowed the paper plate. On any other day I would say it was a fry-o-later overload, but for the last day of summer it was a perfect golden ending.

Define: hottie

News a la CNN.com:
"Men want hot women, study confirms"

I am a great ...ahem...dare I say... student of the bar scene. From time to time, I like to share the wisdom I have gleaned from my forays to dating jungle.

My friend, AS is, for lack of a better term, a gigolo. He is also my friend and my wingman for the bar scene. We are comfortable scouting out a room for babes and studs and if things are not good, we are just as happy to chat with each other. We went to a Boston hotspot called 28 degrees. While waiting for the dinner crowd to leave, I mentioned the study about men choosing hot women, but leaving out what I thought was the most important fact. What does a man find physically attractive?

I have distilled the attractiveness factor to a point system. While many men of 28 degrees was interviewed for this survey remember the samples was mostly white New Englander's ranging from 25-42 in age.

Anything above zero is worth pursuing.

Long hair (+2pts) - Long hair is defined as anything past shoulder length and shorter than mid back. If the hair can reach a woman's ass, she then is put into the hippie category.

Overweight (-5pts) - The good news is that most men think of weight as a dichotomous variable. Women are either skinny or fat. The nuance between a size 2 and a 6 is lost on them.

Make-up (+4pts) - In a darkly lit bar, AS tried to convince me that a woman who was clearly in her 40s was in her 30s and one who was clearly in her late 30s as 50. The difference was the color palette the women used. Pinks are considered young. (A lot of foundation seemed to fool him too.) Also, anyone wearing mascara, eyeliner, or eyeshadow is considered to have make-up on. Lipgloss, rouge, and foundation is not noticed.

Asian (+2pts) - Unfortunately, it is also accompanied with the notion that Asian women are quiet, docile, sweet and incredibly kinky in the sack.

Blonde (+2pts) - Maybe that is why they have more fun.

Grumpy expression (-2pts) - While a smile is not a guarantee, a frown is definite turn-off unless the woman is being hit on by another dude.

Breasts (+5pts) - Self explanatory.

Height (-4pts) - Unless the guy is super short, the general rule is that he will only hit on girls that are shorter than he is.

Perfume (+1pt) - Pheromones be damned. Men like sweet scents like vanilla and other stuff that I would never go near.

Tactile fabrics (+1pt) - Don't know if this is just an excuse to touch a woman, but if she is wearing some thing particularly soft, crinkly, or rough she will be petted often.

Youth (+2pts) - There is a reason porn sites labeled "barely legal" are popular. However, most men's eyesight are not very keen. Please refer back to make-up.

As much as I would like to make a list of what women find attractive, I cannot. There was no consensus on anything so this was the only list I could make.

Good luck all you women and men out there. Remember all this information is not meant for long lasting relations. To be used for evil purposes only.

a different perspective

This is an exchange that Xtian and I had on gmail chat earlier today:

Xtian: you guys [referring to ET#2 and BF of ET#2] have a pretty awesome relationship
Xtian: its very mellow

ET#2: we do?

Xtian: well to a guy yeah

ET#2: we're mellow?
ET#2: you meant to say that I am pretty awesome, ha

Xtian: you are very low maintenence yes

ET#2: hahahahaha
ET#2: i wonder if BF would agree with you

It's always interesting to hear other people's view of things.

Homies on the stoop

Despite what my parents think, I live a pretty quiet life. I go to the lab, do some work, surf the internet, go home, read, and watch a little tv. On occassion, I get a beer or dinner with a friend, but that is pretty much the summary of my life. Maybe this quiet life stems from becoming older, but I do like it.

My friend, D, called me on Saturday as I was watching yet another hour of US Open Tennis and pretending to work on the computer.

"Hey, you doing anything tonight?"

"Ummm.... of course not."

"Let's go to Tsunami and maybe you can pick up some beer to bring to the restaurant."

Sounded like a good plan. I went to Trader's Joe and picked up large bottles of Chimay and La Fin du Monde. D came by promptly at 7:30pm. We walked to the restaurant hand in hand. Jewish boy, shiksa asian girl: a typical Brookline couple. Oh except, that we both like boys.

Tsunami was packed. The waiting list was going to be a half hour. Really in the mood for some sushi, we decided to put our names down on the list. What were we going to do for 30 min? Light bulb moment. I walked into Dunkin' donuts bought two paper cups. D and I went to the Coolidge Corner public library branch. On the stoop, we sat there with our paper cups drinking Belgium beer. Classy.

"You know ET#1, why do I only do ghetto things like this when I am with you?"

"Because I am fabulous and have never gotten over college."

"Okay, but soon we really will be too old for this."

"No matter how old we get, I will still make you do stupid crap."

"Okay. As long as we can be fat, old, and stupid together, it is a deal."

Community service schommunity schervice

When I was in high school, I was on our Community Service Leader board. That meant that I had racked up so many community service hours, they let me run a few events. I remember giving a speech in the beginning of senior year to the whole school, telling them why they should participate. Well, actually, I split the talk another leader. His speech was solemn, reminding all the students they live in a life of priveledge and it is their responsibility to give back. He echoed our school motto, "Cui servire est regnare" (To serve is to rule). My talk, to Mrs. Beck's dismay, was on how I was incompetent. (Leave it to me, to be self absorbed in a community service talk.) My sppech laid out my awkward conversations at the old folks' home, being mistaken as a child instead of being the Big Sister, dropping the potatoes on the floor at the soup kitchen, and my inability to stuff envelopes.

I don't do any community service anymore. When I first moved to Boston, I used tape periodicals for the blind in a little recording studio in East Cambridge. But when the weather gets bad the trek out there is a pain in the ass and soon I realized I was a highly unreliable participant. I tried to join Boston Cares, but after wanting to smack the holier-than-thous and the hey-are-you-single people I gave up on that too. Sometimes, I try to read a book in the Jimmy Fund reading room, but let's be honest that is really more for me, because some of those books are pretty entertaining. (I got a chance to read Holes before the movie.) But lately, it has been all about me and my work.

Yesterday, I got a sad email from a friend in the Peace Corps. She is pretty amazing, having worked as a social coordinator here in Boston. She is tough as nails and truly caring. It seems the rainy season and human nature has gotten her questioning her role in her community. Was she truly effecting a positive change? I have no idea if that change is taking place there, but it did spark that guilt thing in me.

As I went to the 7-11 for my daily fix of salty snacks, I ran into R, a local transient. T, my friend and a homeless advocate, always tells me that I should stop giving money to the homeless and that it is better to direct them to a local shelter 1) because they are scamming you 2) because if they are in trouble the shelter can provide them in assortment of services that your spare change cannot. Okay so I was going to try this new tactic. I came back to the lab and called some local shelters to see if they had room for tonight. I couldn't find anything. I went back to the 7-11 and gave him the address of the Roxbury Multi-Services center. I told him to go there tomorrow morning. Then he asked me for money again. I told him I had no more. He turned away and then he threw away the yellow post-it note I handed to him.

Strangely, I do not feel sad. It is one of those things. The odds were against me. I felt like I was in high school failing miserably, but at least trying. Although I know I am freaking lazy and evil and will most likely never do anything like that again, I have a story about how my friend in Senegal inspired me to do something here. And of course now I will rule you all (muahahahahaha)....

(Sorry about the weird posting schedule. I promise I will return to normal next week.)

PS
I wrote this on Wednesday, but thought I should make an update. I have been growing out my hair (which includes using conditioning, trimming, etc) for a year and a half to donate it to charity. However, an article in the New York Times the other day makes me question if this worth it. Foiled again!

Suggestions?

I have somehow been put in charge of finding a suitable bar for a bachelorette party this Saturday -- I think it is because I am the only "local" and everyone else is coming in from Philly. This must be karma for always letting others pick the place to have our semi-regular joint birthday parties -- leaving that to KenTak3, Mamacita or Xtian.

We (8 ladies and me) are having dinner in the East Village at Lucky Cheng's (not my suggestion). My thoughts were for something in the East Village or Lower East Side. Any suggestions??

The musical spectrum

Today's activities:

Woke up to and sang along to the Best of Frankie Goes to Hollywood.

Bought tickets to the Regina Spektor concert. (October 14th at the Orpheum if anyone wants to come with me.)

Listened to Hanson's newest release "The Walk" on repeat as I worked.

Introduced to hard core(?) Christian rap by religious student in next lab.

Going to watch Massholes dance to 70's classic rock tonight.

I love my clothes

From time to time I go on a clothing spending spree. I know it is a stereotype, but shopping can give this girl a little high. A super soft sweater, pretty shiny earrings and the perfect open toed sandals to show off my not-so-manicured toes can get give me a little high. I try my best to moderate my spending habits, but sometimes a girl has to be a girl. Most of the times it is also the thrill of the hunt. I like getting last year's top seller for 75% off. Knowing me, I will still have it 12 years from now when it comes back in style. So on occasion, I like digging through the bins at Filene's Basement or Marshalls.

This weekend, I went bargain shopping via the Internet. That's what happens when work falls into the category of combing through huge data sets. I just received some interesting results and I have so much data I don't know what to do with it. Literally. I am currently trying to learn how to program in some crappy statistical software caller R, and I admit I hate it. In order to distract myself I perused one of my favorite websites: Bluefly. Yes, the clothes are outdated, but if you know what you are looking for, have a sense of classic pieces, and have an idea what looks good on you it is a place to find deals. Bonus: they were having a extra sale this weekend. I bought myself a T-shirt, a cashmere pullover, and a henna linen sweater for well under $100 (including shipping). And truth be told I am still a little giddy about it.

One weird thing about me is that tags really irritate me. The scratch me in the back of my neck, side, or lower back. Most of it may be psychosomatic. I went to high school in which the majority of the girls had eating disorders. I removed all size labels from my clothing, so the bitchy ones could not make fun of me and my larger friends would never feel bad. But even though I always remove the tags off my clothes I still can tell you from where every piece came. That sweater was a Christmas present, I bought that one from Old Navy, these jeans were from Amazon.

Then I guess it was no surprise, that at lunch we were talking about clothes from the late 80's, I could not help but remember all those outfits too. That would have been my junior high years, when I was considered to be a really snappy dresser. All my tops were over sized, I pegged my pants and I wore suspenders often. I also was really into hats, and I loved how my permed curls would sneak under my felt hat brim and how ironic I was because the whole ensemble was bottomed by my black Converse high tops. Or maybe it was LA Gear, I will have to ask my mother.

But perhaps one of my favorite piece of clothing was the dress I wore to the 6th grade Spring formal. My mother sewed it from a pattern from Butterick's she borrowed from our neighbor. We bought the shiny satin material from the local souk. It was white with green polk-a-dots, with a drop waist, full skirt, puffy sleeves, and a big green bow where the skirt met the waist. Under those UV lights at the dance my dress glowed, as I moshed to Pantera.

I don't know when it happened, when clothes started to matter. I do remember a time when I wore the same purple gauchos 4 days in a row before my mother yelled at me. Perhaps that was more of a hygiene issue....

Well, there was no point to this story except to say, clothes and other sundries put a smile on my face. Yay to American consumerism.

Parlez-vous québecois?

Romance was in the air this weekend. Three weddings, I was invited to, were all held on My high school roommate, T, and I planned a trip to Quebec City about 6 weeks ago. We were tired and decided it was high time for a girl adventure. A trip to let go of school, work, and family.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

I arrived at Jean Lesage International Airport early Friday afternoon. Hmm... Can an airport truly be international with only 3 USA destinations and essentially one warehouse building that serves as the terminal. My 1 hour 30 minute deafening plane ride was fairly uneventful considering the thunderstorms all around.

When I walked outside of the terminal I was confused by the multiple concrete barriers and the lack of signage. How was I supposed to get to Quebec City? I walked back into the terminal and asked a man in uniform if there was a taxi stand. He answered of course and proceeded to walk me outside. I now saw my fellow plane mates also milling around outside. The man squawked something into his radio and a fleet of minivans soon came rushing around the corner. The one that stopped in front of me stayed in the middle of the street. I climbed in. I told him the name of my hotel which was no good, and then gave him the slip of paper with all the info written out. "Okay, no problem I have GPS."

I introduced myself as my favorite alias, Michelle. "Michelle," he said. "What a strange name? Is is it Chinese?" Ummmm... no. "My name is Hannani. Can you say that? Well, I guess you can pronounce it Hannani in English. Where are you from?" Boston. "Oh Boston. I have been there. It smells like the subway. No fresh air. You know Quebec is like Boston. We are an old city and we have a city like Cambridge, we call Levi, across the river. Have you ever been to Cambridge?" Ummm...yes. "Quebec on the weekend is very much fun. We like to party until 4 in the morning. You will like it here."

My twenty minute cab ride was highly entertaining. Hannani told me what to do, his opinion of New York, important French phrases I needed to learn etc..

Ye Olde Towne

T arrived late on Friday night. She was tuckered out and so we did not party that night. Instead we retired early and decided to wake up early to orient ourselves in the city. We ate our breakfast of strong coffee and fresh baked croissants and hurried to the tourist information center.

Our tourist information officer had a very cute and peppy, wanting T and I to visit everything. Everything was fun, and "I like it very much." Okay, so we decided to first go on a tour of the most photographed hotel in the world, Le Chateau Frontenec, of which I do not have a photo. In the lobby of this hotel, our tour guide, Laura, was dressed in a chamber maid. She told us the history of the hotel and then pretended we were all apprentice chamber maids. The hotel was kind of creepy, hallways straight out of "the Shining."

After our tour, we had reservations for lunch at Aux Anciens Canadiens. Once again we were witnesses to a staff dressed in costumes circa 1800. The food was supposed to be traditional faire from that period. I ate the trapper's special: Lac St Jean meat pie (made of various game meats, potatoes, and maple syrup) and a beer. Now T, is a vegetarian, and I guess in the ye olde days of Canada everyone ate meat. She ended up with a salad and artesianal cheeses.

Parlez-vous québecois?
On Sunday, we took a walking tour of the city. Our guide was a retired teacher, Paul Moreau. He was fantastic. Although our tour was only supposed to be 1.5 to 2 hours, it was not until 4 hours later when ours ended. But it was worth the grumbling stomach and tired feet as we went through alley ways, small markets, private hotels and museums, all with their own story.

I had suggested that we go to Montmorency Falls, because my friend K, could not stop talking about it. However, after our long walking tour, I could tell that T was a little hesitant. Like a trooper she climbed into the bus with me. We had planned to take public transportation out there as suggested by the peppy tourist information officer.

The bus winded through the suburbs of Quebec city. Teenagers and the elderly got on and off the bus. When we finally got there, we were happy to see other people in the park. The falls were unusual and there was a small bridge that crossed it. We walked around the park, but decided to head back a little early because we did not know where the bus stop was. And that would be when trouble ensued.

"Pardon. Parlez-vous Anglais?"

"Un petit pas"

"Oh great, how do we get to the bus stop? We need to go to Quebec city."

"[Something in French.] ...bridge... [Something in French.]...corner... [Something in French with a lot of hand gestures.]"

This pattern repeated about 8 times. We went into gas stations, pizza stands, and accosted an old lady on her porch. All had different instructions. At one point we found our bus station, but apparently due to construction that stop was moved somewhere. T and I could not stop laughing. Our joke was a "petit pas" my ass. Eventually, an elderly man on an evening walk, saw us lost walking around the residential suburbs. He walked us to a bus stop, since he felt it was the only way we could get there safely. He was right. He was our hero. Later, when we mapped our journey, we realized we had walked 2.5 miles away from the falls.

Romance...well close enough

Thinking we deserved a break, we went into the Old Port district and sat down for a meal at L'Echaude. Hurrah! Everyone spoke English. Vegetarian options. Oh we could not be happier. We started on our first bottle of wine and delicious apps. Our waiter made funny jokes by telling us that the only thing he could say in English was vroom vroom. And My steak frites was perfect. We sat outside under the heating lamps, candle light, sipping our second bottle of wine talking about life. Maybe not romantic but the perfect end to our weekend away.

0.03762 milliseconds of drama

I have done many things in my life I regret. None, more than two months ago, when I let my drunk ex crash in my apartment. And let us say that "crash" is my euphamism for heavy petting/make out session in my bed. I knew he was dating someone, and for some reason it was only after a while did I ever ask about her. He replied that they were of course still together. They were in love. My heart skipped five beats and I felt blood rush to my face. Oh crap.

To make the story even seedier, I had to go to my friend's wedding the next morning. (In my embarrasement, I stayed the rest of the night in our guest bedroom.) I showered, tiptoed back into my room to grab my dress and makeup bag, while the ex was snoring away on my bed. I got ready. Then back in my bedroom, I left a diet coke, a bottle of advil, and a bottle of water by my bedside and ran off to find a taxi. Yes, kids I slinked away from my own apartment.

But that was two months ago. Last week, I recieved a phone message from that ex. I ignored it because I had better things to obsess with, such as Lobsterfest and work. And the truth is I am kind of busy. My professor tells me often what a disappoinment I am and that I really need to start working harder. He said he hardly sees me on the weekends anymore. Screw him. Why should I be inside on a beautiful summer day.

So while I should have been in the lab, I took yesterday off to go to the beach with A. The morning was perfect. We got on the 10:15 train to Manchester-by-the-Sea, and even the fiasco of buying the wrong kind of fare did not muddy our spirits. It was sunny not even a wisp of cloud in the sky. The sea breeze kept every thing in the 80's. The beach smelled salty. The sand was hot.

We brought snacks and lunch. We ate quickly to avoid the seagulls. I read my Entertaiment Weekly cover to cover.

About 3 hours later, we packed up our stuff. We headed back to the train station, buying ice cream cones on the way. I felt destressed. I felt rejuvinated from the sun. I felt happy.

Because it was such a nice day out. A and I decided to walk to Filene's Basement to get a last peek of their stuff before they closed for renovations. We were walking from North Station, with our beach bags, my hair still in braided pigtails. I was wearing a sheer hoodie and boardshorts. A bikini was underneath. A and I were talking about one of her favorite books "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter." And then:

I saw him, my ex. He was right in front of us, his left hand tightly holding onto a leggy blonde 24 year-old woman. The leggy blonde was his girlfriend. Sadly, I would be the worse witness ever because I have no idea what happened. I remember he was wearing a blue shirt and those glasses we had picked out together at Lenscrafters. And I remember waving, and his girlfriend not even looking at my direction.

Seriously, it happened so fast. I might said something. He might of said something. I could not tell you. All I know is that my feet never stopped moving. And A was the only cogent witness to this encounter. The momentary shock was strange. A and I kept walking and she said "so who was that?"

"Ummm," I replied, "that was the leprechaun."

"Oh, it was so quick and I did not even realize....."

We walked into the Filene's Basement and I had a panic attack. I turned to A and said "A, I cannot be in here right now. I need a beer. I need a beer ASAP."

She looked at me and said, "O my God. Of course."

We wander around Downtown Crossing looking for an open establishment. Finally, when we walked into the not so open Ivy restaurant. "Hi, are you open for a drink? I am kind of desperate."

The man in the black t-shirt and blue jeans looked at the two of us with our beach gear, and said "What, a hard day at Yoga class."

"No, I just ran into my ex-boyfriend and his 24 year-old blonde girlfriend."

He looked at me and "Of course, we are open. What do you want to drink. I have "the Knot" it was nice carmel overtones....."

I looked at him and said, "I really do not care, just give me something and fast."

He poured the whiskey in a shot glass. I downed it. I felt like I was in one of those teenage coming of age movies, because it burned so bad I started coughing.

"Good girl," he said. " I have to go downstairs and change but the bartender will take care of you. okay?"

A looked at me in shock. "I can't believed you just finished that."

My hands were shaking. Yes, it sucks to see your ex happy with some one else, but that was not my biggest problem. Why hadn't the blonde looked at me? Did she know? Wasn't I the bad person in this equation? Wasn't she the woman cheated on? I put my head down on the cool marble bar. The bartender poured me another whiskey and A got a beer. I drifted off into silence thinking about my guilt.

Luckily, for me I did have A with me. She talked me back into reality. We talked about her family and her trip to Costa Rica. I forced myself to laugh. Amazing how in how many ways you can delude yourself. I convinced myself that I was okay, and soon enough I was. When we left the bar, the bartender even commented that he was happy to see me smile.

By the time I got home. I was still fairly tipsy. I managed to shower. With my hair a complete wet mess, I lay down and fell asleep with my television blaring channel 38's movie of the week, "Roadhouse."

And that my friends, is the week's millisecond of drama.

Quiz

From MSN.com

"Think you might have an addiction to work? Ask yourself the following questions from workaholics-anonymous.org. If you answer "yes" to three or more, you may be a workaholic."

20 Questions: How Do I Know If I'm A Workaholic?

1. Do you get more excited about your work than about family or anything else?
2. Are there times when you can charge through your work and other times when you can't?
3. Do you take work with you to bed? On weekends? On vacation?
4. Is work the activity you like to do best and talk about most?
5. Do you work more than 40 hours a week?
6. Do you turn your hobbies into money-making ventures?
7. Do you take complete responsibility for the outcome of your work efforts?
8. Have your family members or friends given up expecting you on time?
9. Do you take on extra work because you are concerned that it won't otherwise get done?
10. Do you underestimate how long a project will take and then rush to complete it?
11. Do you believe that it is OK to work long hours if you love what you are doing?
12. Do you get impatient with people who have other priorities besides work?
13. Are you afraid that if you don't work hard you will lose your job or be a failure?
14. Is the future a constant worry for you even when things are going very well?
15. Do you do things energetically and competitively including play?
16. Do you get irritated when people ask you to stop doing your work in order to do something else?
17. Have your long hours hurt your family or other relationships?
18. Do you think about your work while driving, falling asleep or when others are talking?
19. Do you work or read during meals?
20. Do you believe that more money will solve the other problems in your life?

I answered yes to 9 of these. However, I think that most lawyers in NY would answer yes to at least 9 of the above as well. Are we all workaholics? Maybe...

Lobsterfest!

My sweet little Korean mother sends me the following e-mail Monday morning.

How was robster festival? was crowded? did you eat one for mom?
Anyway, I want you had fun and safe trip. M started her new job yesterday otherwise nothing new. Somehow this year Summer is cold and foggy we dress up with sweaters in the morning then short sleeve in the afternoon.
Hope, everything is well with you. I love you. mom

Well Mom, if you want to know more about the "robster" festival please click on the link. It is a story told by an e-mail coversation with Xtian and myself with photos supplied by Evil Twin #2. (Think of it as cross-over like when Murder She Wrote is on Magnum PI)

After the storm

It is raining today. Hard. Violent summer thunderstorms electrify the air. Instead of cleaning the air, all the rain has made it the whole city steamy and sticky. Maybe the dark pavement is cooking the water, maybe it is just a humid August day. But because the clean air smell is not there, it feels like a waste for a rain storm.

Last week was miserable. It was was hot and humid, the first official heat wave of the summer. Stupidly, I had sold my air conditioner on Craigslist. I had not used it in 4 years and I thought I would have no use for it now. And any other time that would have been a sound plan. I get most of my air conditioning needs during the day at work and at night I never get hot. Unfortunately, last week I came down with a case of strep throat, which lead into an ear infection. For much of the week during our first heat wave, I lay on my bed to hot and sticky to move. It was hard to distinguish what part was fever related and what was heat related.

Signs of my impending illness should have been obvious. I had spent the week before completely irritated with the world. My posting from last week was going to be a long rant about lazy people, incompetent people, people in general, and non people things. What I had felt was actually more than irritation, it was anger. When I talked to the administrative assistant in the Office of Financial Services, I could feel my carotid arteries tighten and pulsate. My fists clenched when I realized that the assistant had paperwork from 4 months ago that she had not processed, but had constantly assured us had been completed. There were more incidents like that and I was amazed how I did not punch someone. Beer tempered my mood, but only slightly.

Today, I look at the people on the T platform with there umbrellas. Weather.com says tomorrow is going to be warm and humid again. I guess after any kind of thunderstorm happens you kind of want a dramatic difference in the climate, but more often than not things just slowly return to normal.

(Went to Maine for the weekend. Special joint posting with the Hose to come....)

No boys, no time

Boys are scum. Well, that is probably too harsh an assessment, but if I want to become the bitter middle age woman I envision in my future I have to start somewhere. I guess the truth is that I have had some bad luck (and made some worse decisions) in my romantic entanglements, so it really is not the fault of all the males out there. Knowing where the fault lies, I will delude myself into believing the original assertion: boys are scum.

Making a conscience decision to cut out romance out of my summer has been suprisingly pleasant. Instead of being mopey, I accomplished a number of nagging tasks. I cleaned out my closet and getting the last vestiges of junior high. Considering the 80's are now chic, hopefully there is a 18 year old wearing my old banana republic baby doll thinking she is hot.

The collection of cards on my wall was getting overwhelming. Found special acid free plactic covers on the internet. I catalogued all of my postcards that are older than 2 years in a special album.

Most of my Saturday nights have been free. Those have been filled with reading and laundry. This Saturday, I reserved to read the last Harry Potter book, once again, confirming my status as Queen of the Nerds. After reading it I did have a headache, and my roomate convinced me that the cure for a headache caused by Wizards and Muggles was beer. We did a little bonding at the Corrib Pub althought the stain of nerdom was still on me.

I have planned a number of getaways. I will be going to Maine on the first weekend of August, Quebec City the third weekend, and Rhode Island the fourth. And while the might seem to have the hint of romance in them, all of them entail chaste girl bonding.

I think what suprised me the most of my monastic months, is how quickly the time has gone by. I have just turned my head, and already its mid-July. I have never been someone who has been incredibly boy crazy, so how is it that I see such a difference? How is it I have gotten so much more accomplished? Why do I feel just as busy as ever? Why am I so jolly?

Well, in the words of my future bitter self my summer is further evidence, "Boys are scum."

my peeps

Because I am not technologically savvy enough to know how to put You Tube on this page, you have to click here to see what I'm talking about.

when stars align

I had the perfect sandwich for lunch yesterday -- the most perfectly assembled Wendy's Spicy Chicken Sandwich that I have ever had. It was so perfect that I feel the need to blog about it. It's as though the stars aligned and everything about that sandwich was as it should be:

1. The bread was not stale

2. The chicken patty was super crispy on the outside yet moist on the inside

3. It had the perfect amount of mayo (no spillage over the edge of the sandwich)

4. The lettuce and tomato were fresh and evenly disbursed

5. The sandwich itself was a thing of beauty -- it actually looked like this

My theory as to how this happened? I ordered said sandwich at 3:45 pm when there was no one else in line. It was probably the only sandwich being made while I was there so the person making it could focus all of their energy in on creating the most perfect fast food meal I have ever had (other than In n' Out). I guess this means I will have to order it again mid-afternoon to test my theory.

The mall and other earthly delights

Girl's club. That is what G, A's boyfriend, has deemed the alternative name for our book club. Maybe he imagines us braiding each other's hair, as we giggle about boys and our monthly cycles. Who knows? (I'm not any better because I always poker night as guys in a circle smoking cigars talking about getting laid.) For the most part, we do manage to discuss the book, nosh on food and chat about work, significant others etc.. Although that is not to say, an escape from the adult world is welcomed now and then.

On Sunday, after the book club meeting concluded, SS, agreed to drive me and my bike home. It was a hot and sticky day and the prospect of riding home was kind of gross. Luckily, SS had brought her family's minivan so it worked out pretty well. SS also wanted to go to Lord and Taylor to purchase some eye shadow from Clinique, who was having a bonus gift. A trip to the mall sounded delightful and I asked if I could tag along. A and NN were already going too and a group trip was almost an adventure. The four of us piled into silver people mover with my bike in the back. We drove to the Natick mall.


Now, I have not been to a mall since Christmas. Considering Independence Day had just passed, this statement sounds even more unamerican. But I live in a city, and I do about 99% of all of my shopping online.

When I walked in and the cool air conditioned breeze hit my face, I smelt the mixture of plastic, new clothes, and mall food. I was a little disoriented at first. I insisted to A that I had been to this mall before, but I could not remember the circumstances. But wasn't the Delaria hair salon on the 2nd floor? Then I realized that all malls were pretty similar, and what I was recognizing was a mall not any mall in particular.

We first went into PacSun, to say "hello" to NN's husband. Racks of brightly colored tanks tops were 50% off, attracting our attention immediately. We browsed, chatted a bit, and left.


Next stop was Lord and Taylor. The three of us milled around the Clinique counter and SS chose teal and grey eyeshadows. Which one did we like better? SS showed us all the color possibilities on the back of her right hand. After choosing two eyeshadows and one eyeliner, she took her special bonus gift and we were off again.

Staying with the theme of makeup, we made it up to Sephora. I was intrigued by the all the tools, scary medieval torture devices to remove and lance black heads, heated eyelash curlers, electronic pimple zappers, and brushes for every type of make-up application. I bought a tube of clear mascara, A light blue eyeshadow, and NN some mascara.

Now, we all had make up in our bags and felt a little giddy from the purchase. What was that delicious smell? SS said it was Auntie Anne's pretzels. If only it was Cinnabon, I would have been all over that.

After the mall, SS said we could stop by the bike store, if I wanted. Very exciting. We all piled back into the minivan. I can't remember what we were talking about, but for some reason it I remember laughing and thinking I was 16 again.

Wait, the golden arches ahead! I said. SS pulled into the McDonald's "drive thru". I love drive through windows. Back in the days when I had a car, my car was always littered with In & Out napkins, and El Pollo Loco straws. A says she loves nothing better than a fountain Coke. SS got soft serve. I got french fries and NN had a McDonald's gift card for all our mid afternoon snacks.

We got to the bike store soon after. I had forgotten how in the suburbs space was less on an issue and marveled at the rows of bicycles. Unfortunately, they did not have the single speed bike I wanted. But our saleman, J, was overjoyed to talk to us. He made wild hand gestures and asked us to follow him so could write down all the websites that I could look at to assemble my own bike. And then he said this "Oh a day with the girls. That sounds like so much fun. I used to have all of these friends that were girls but not so much anymore. Strange since I am a theater major and all...." SS and I laughed a little bit because how great would have been to have a college boy to crush on...well if we were still in high school.

SS dropped off us all home and as the sliding door of the minivan closed, I thought a girl's club may not be such a bad idea.

A good example

My sister and I are the oldest cousins on my mother's side of the family. When we used to visit Korea as children we were by default the cool ones, the leaders, the pseudo-authority figures. My sister was a teenager then. She would read her books and listen to her walkman, as we would play outside in the muggy heat. My cousins would paint her pictures and beg her to please watch them preform somersaults and handstands. I would get irritated because their attention to her would disrupt our games. But it would be hard to fault them. She was cool even by normal American standards, which just meant that in Korea she was a goddess.

In 1996, we had a family reunion. Everyone came to visit us in California. One of my aunts had left Korea 1970, had never returned. So the reunion was full of touching moments of family members who had not seen each other in 26 years. That meant the 6 cousins were left in my care. My cousin J, still remembers when he did not go to bed, I simply slung him over my shoulder, climbed up the stairs, and threw him into his room. He was already taller and heavier than me by this time, but it is amazing what righteous ire can do to you physical limitations.

Over the years, I have gotten many e-mails from them. "Oh ET#1, I am in love with a boy and my mom really hates him. Can you please talk to her?" (My reply: You mom is correct. He is a loser. Dump him.) "Thank you for the care package. My roommate ate all the Oreos you sent." (My reply: Tell him that I smack him if he steals your food again) "Hi! Is it okay I practice my English with you. It is my best subject in school." (My reply: Of course it is, but do you think you could practice some Korean and buy me a mp3 player.)


Yes, they are pretty adorable. But lately, since most of them have graduated college, I have had less contact with them. They were adults and did not need us anymore. We get the occassional update from my gossipy aunt or grandma, but for the most part they are normal adults with jobs and signifiicant others.

One of my cousins, SU, is about the most talented person I know. When she was young she was concert pianist and an award winning painter. Everything comes easily to her. She is smart, fun and cute. Getting into college which is normally a huge stressor for Korean youth was a breeze for her. She is a little bit on the heavy side (still a good 10 pounds lighter than me though), so sometimes the teasing from her mother had left her with not the greatest self esteem. She recently graduated college with a degree in journalism, but decided to become an airline stewardess for Emirates (The official airline of the United Arab Emirates). No one in the family understood why she did it. It was her first defiant act ever.


Yesterday, I got an email from her. [translated poorly by me into English]:
Hi older sister[that's me], I cannot believe I have not seen you since 2003. Time goes by so fast. I will be in New York next week and wanted to know if you were near New York. I know you live in Eastern United States and I don't know how far you are. I would really like to see you. I would like to see how my older sister lives. The truth is I am living in Dubai now. I am a stewardess for Emirates. Life is difficult. Sometimes I get sad, lonely and homesick. My memory of you is how you always walk with confidence and nothing scares you. So I try everyday to be more like you. The flight from Dubai to New York is 14 hours long and will run frequently. There is a rumor that they might start flying to San Francisco one day. Hope to hear from you soon!


When I read the letter, I was so happy to get it. I sent a reply and then went to the lab. I ran some errands and came home to read my book club book. As I was taking a sip of my lemonade laced with a little gin, I thought, "oh crap." When did I become someone that someone tries to emulate? Wasn't I supposed to be the cautionary tale? When you don't listen to your parents and eat your greens you could become a 31 year old woman, who is still single with no prospects of ever having a boyfriend, who still does not have a job, and whose most expensive possession is a bicycle she obtained by shady means. Doesn't my cousin know that I am riddled with insecurities? Should I tell her?

I guess not. I want her to walk tall and have her adventures. And I'll admit my ego was greatly enhanced knowing someone thinks I am doing thing alright.

No matter how old we get, there will always those people who captured our admiration. It is hard to get perspective on these people we've put up on a pedestal. I wonder if my high school history teacher is riddled with doubts about the choices he made. Nah. He is infallible.

Idiocracy

Go rent this movie.

Why had I never really heard of it before? It is hysterical, extremely offensive, and a sad commentary about our Jerry Springer loving society. Plus any movie that has a funny voice over gets my vote. Plus plus Luke Wilson is dreamy no matter what role he is playing.

Good Karma. Oh crap, now what?

It started out with a simple thing. A couple of my experiments in the lab went pretty well. One would hope successes would be more frequent, but they are not for me. So when even just one things goes well, you feel like you are on a roll.

On Thursday, a friend of mine realized that he would not be using his allotment of exercise money. That is to say at his work place, he is allotted $300 to go towards gym memberships or exercise equipment. Out of the blue, he came up to our lab and said, "Hey, I heard your bike got stolen. I'll buy you a new one." He explained how he had never used his money and he felt like it was a waste that it never got used. He made it sound like I would be doing him a favor. But really, I'd be getting the discounted bike.

Over watermelon beers and Popeye's fried chicken, I asked A what she thought about my good fortune. "Oh, I think it's good Karma. You should take your friend up on his offer. That way, the Universe will make sure something good with happen to him. Maybe someone will give him a car."

Although not intentional, I think the idea of Karma was planted in the back of my mind. For months now, I have meant to buy gifts for the people at the research center in Hiroshima Japan. I had a wonderful summer there, and according to Japanese tradition I should have sent them some American trinkets. I had been incredibly slow and lazy about it, but I this weekend I felt motivated to buy things. The problem was that I still had my original stumbling block. What would be uniquely, Bostonian that would appeal to a Japanese person? The only thing I could imagine was Boston Red Sox t-shirts that had Daisuke Matsuzaka's number on them.

Before trekking out to Fenway Park and its vendors, I stopped by Filene's Basement. Because the store will be closing forever, everything was an additional 10% off. I found tons of cute tops, and fell in love with this little crocheted number. When I went into the bin of Red Sox t-shirts amongst a sea of Ortizes, Ramirezes, Schillings, Wakefields, and Papelbons, I found 4 Matsuzakas. Score! Then there were bins of the Lindt Truffles H loves so much. Score, again!

When I was waiting in line to pay my plastic tote bag of stuff, I greedily examined my treasures. I just paid taxes on June 15th, so prudence told me I needed to put something away. I weighed my options. How many T-shirts did I need? How adorable did I look in that top? Won't the chocolate melt before making it to Japan? Didn't that top match my green skirt so well?

I patted my little crocheted top, sighed, and put on the side next the cash register to be reshelved. I waited in line and was almost up to the register when the woman in front of me turned and said "Honey, if you are buying more than 50 dollars worth of stuff, here is a 10% off coupon." In the words of John Lennon, "Instant Karma."

With such good Karma on my side I cannot help but be worried. I can be unapologetically cruel, unforgiving, petty and had just proclaimed to be more bitchy for the summer. And while I normally think events happen as a matter of coincidence and statistics last week made me think. So how does Karma operate? Does the Universe reward good deeds and punish evil ones? Or is it an null sum game where if good things happen then bad things have to happen? I admit it, I am losing sleep over this one. Whoever thought such good things could stress me out?

[Correction: While I first wrote that Filene's Basement would be closing forever, that is incorrect. It is scheduled to reopen in 2009. Thank you, A.]

Overheard today

Concerning a memo that I had drafted between the hours of 9:30 pm and 11:30 pm, continued between 5:30 am and 8:30 am:

"Well, it's not the best work [ET#2's] ever done..."

That means it's not the worst either!

The bitch is back

Since the inception of this blog, the beginning of summer has translated into resolution time. It's not that I don't believe in New Year's resolutions, but with the cold weather and dark hours it I find it difficult to stick with them. Summer is a happy time. A good time to start new things.

Most resolutions are based in positives. Things or actions that will make you healthier or wealthier. They are designed to move you foward in your life. I've decided to take a different approach this year. My graduation is starting to become imminent. I have worn out my usefulness in the lab. It is time I get a job. But before that happens, I plan on taking this summer to do things that are perhaps not good for me and to temporarily regain some bad habits.

1) Eat more processed foods, especially those with refined flour.
This Sunday, I had a taste for a grilled cheese sandwhich. Because part of Brookline was closed down for a Flag Day parade, I was forced to go to the grocery store and make my own grilled cheese. Now, I almost never go to the regular grocery store anymore restricting myself to the far more convenient Trader Joe's and Whole Foods. At the grocery store, I purchased Pepperidge Farm White Sandwich Bread, Kraft American Singles, Frosted Flakes, Prince Spaghetti, and 2 tomatoes. All of it is and was delicious. So I am going to take a break from Organic Multigrain bread, Flax seed cereals, and real cheese.

2) Bring the bitchy attitude back at work.
For a while, I was helpful and fairly nice. But with limited time to finish things, I have brought the bitch back. This past week, I have tangoed with operations to fix our temperature in the lab ( so much so that now they have some one coming by every midnight to make sure the temp does not fluctuate more than 5 degrees). Also, yesterday when showing the postdoc (for the third time) how to make gels, I gave him a lecture on focusing on the task at hand and then had him repeat it back to me. The bitch in me though I think is an expression that I care. Letting things go was just an easy way out.

3) Stop killing my plants.
Okay so this one is fairly positive. I do not have a green thumb, but I have vowed that this summer I will not kill the basil plant I just bought. I will also try to grow flowers seeds I got at N's wedding on Saturday.

4) Start buying less books and more clothes/beauty products.
I looked at my amazon shopping list and noticed that I buy a lot of books online. Maybe I should try the library more, but really I think I should be a little more materistic and stop spending my money on something that could make me a better person, and start spending it on something that will make me look like a better person.

5) Petty revenge plots.
That's right. This summer, I will perform a number of petty get-back-at-them schemes to whomever piss me off. I had forgotten how satisfying they are. And I say to heck with Karma. So be aware.....