Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
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."
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."
Monday, October 22, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
$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.
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.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Monday, October 08, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
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!
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