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.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
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 Yes, the clothes are outdated, but if you know what you are looking for, have a sense of classic pieces, and have an idea what looks good on you it is a place to find deals.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.
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.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Romance...well close enough
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.
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.
Monday, August 13, 2007
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.
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.
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