Fifty Percent

"I don't pick out his ties or expect his tomorrows, but I feel when he's in my arms he's where he wants to be. We have no memories bittersweet with time, and I doubt if he'll spend New Year's Eve with me." -- Helen Reddy

Happy 2009 all. In direct opposition to this blog's theme -- my quest to find and capture extraordinary moments in ordinary life -- I'm spending my New Year's Eve in the most ordinary way possible. I didn't spend my entire day planning and preening and anticipating the evening; I spent the entire day in clinic trying to meet a data deadline. I'm not dressed to kill with my lips painted red and my curls cascading down my back; I'm wearing a tank top, pajama pants, and fuzzy socks, with my face free of makeup and my hair pulled into a ponytail. I'm not socializing with adored friends or attractive strangers; I'm channel-surfing between all three parts of That's Entertainment! and The Twilight Zone. I'm not standing or dancing or bursting with excited energy; I'm on the couch under a blanket and I just woke up from a little nap. I'm not enjoying a top-shelf open bar or even a keg in someone's living room; I'm swigging Moet & Chandon White Star right out of the bottle. I didn't even cook today, not even once; I'm snacking on Costco's hors d'oeuvres and ordered a pizza for dinner.

It's a painfully ordinary and slightly pathetic evening, but honestly, the thought of spending New Year's Eve alone on my couch felt more appealing than accepting any invitation I received in or around New York City. I've been in a bit of a funk lately; I've had a loud and stressful few weeks and desperately longed for a little time to think and decompress. And so far, it's been lovely. The one thing that could have made my evening more fulfilling would have been a handsome and quirky fellow to share my couch and kiss me at midnight, but that would have put a serious dent in the blessed ordinariness of my situation.

On a related note, what should my New Year's resolution be?

Christmas Wrapping

"When what, to my wondering eyes did appear? In the line was that guy I've been chasing all year! Suddenly we laughed and laughed, caught on to what was happening. That Christmas magic brought this tale to a very happy ending." -- The Waitresses

Happy Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, and Festivus to all of you! I'm in the middle of another lovely, hectic holiday, so this will be a short post. (Luckily, I love hectic Christmases most of all.)

Perhaps as karmic punishment for the fact that I haven't actually done most of my Christmas shopping yet, I didn't get the one thing I really wanted for Christmas. I'm probably closer than I've ever been to that gift, though... but of course, I'm the worst judge in the world when it comes to these things. In any case, I hope all your wishes came true this holiday season!

And now I'm off to cook Christmas dinner... my second of three Christmas dinners. Peace!

Fifteen Milliseconds of Fame

"I'm a shimmering glowing star in the cinema firmament!" -- from Singin' in the Rain

My ass -- and the side of my face -- were on the five o'clock news today.

From Literatura Mundane

Click to enlarge... if you must.

Pizzelles

I put a curse on that plane. My sister is on that plane. I put a curse on that plane that it's gonna explode, burn on fire and fall into the sea. Fifty years ago, she stole a man from me. S'aprice l'uomo! Today she tells me that she never loved him, that she took him to be strong on me. Now she's going back to Sicily. Di returne Sicilia! I cursed her that the green Atlantic water should swallow her up! -- from Moonstruck



I love gifting baked goods because food makes me happy and I can't think of a better present for someone I love than using my time, my talents, and a few good ingredients to share that happiness. My culinary gift of choice during the holiday season is a package of pizzelles, a type of holiday cookie that, like me, originated in the Italian region of Abruzzi. The English translation of the word pizzelle is literally "flat, round, and small," which is a perfect physical description of the cookie. They're light, they're buttery, they're beautiful to look at, and because they're made two at a time using a special iron press, they represent a pretty significant time commitment. It takes a full afternoon or evening to make enough pizzelles to feed a decent number of people -- my normal recipe makes about eighty, I usually double it or triple it for Christmas, and each pizzelle needs to be spooned onto the iron individually and cooked for about a minute.




Thus, good company is mandatory on pizzelle day. I would sit with my grandmother as she made pizzelles every year until I was twelve, then she passed along her recipe to me and, until her death a year and a half ago, she sat with me whenever I decided to make them. She'd tell stories about the good ol' days, pass along tips for perfect pizzelle technique, describe evenings spent sitting with her own mother making pizzelles and having the same sorts of conversations. Last year was my first holiday season without her, but dwong and my cousin TD came over a few days before Christmas to keep me company as I worked the pizzelle iron. This year, I made them on a whim late on a Thursday night, so with no one around to share the experience, I created my own companions by watching Moonstruck on DVD as I baked.



Like my technique, I inherited my pizzelle iron from my grandmother. It's an electric iron, close to forty years old, and it makes pizzelles with a snowflake pattern on one side and a woven pattern on the other. We have a few earlier models around (which require the baker to stand over an open flame flipping cast-iron plates for Lord knows how long) and a few more modern models around (which are slimmer and lighter and don't run the risk of burns or electrocution), but I still end up using the same ancient electric iron every year. The pizzelle iron itself actually strengthens the cookie's ties to love and family -- irons are meticulously cared for and passed down for generations, and those open-fire irons I mentioned earlier were often custom-wrought to imprint the family crest onto every cookie.


Since those elaborate irons have fallen out of use, people must often rely on taste to identify a pizzelle's family of origin. And you wouldn't believe it, but every baker makes pizzelles so differently that this is more than enough of a cue. My recipe -- which also belonged to my grandmother before me -- makes crisp and lemony pizzelles. My aunt's pizzelles are paper-thin with a touch of orange zest, one paisano makes them softer with anisette, another uses almond extract, another aunt works cocoa powder into her batter. I think my recipe blows all of them out of the water -- and most people who try it seem to agree with me -- but, unfortunately, I won't be sharing it with you today. Typing out a recipe and posting it on the internet seems to defy the spirit of la famiglia needed to successfully make pizzelles -- and believe me, that's half the wonder of it all. If you come to visit me, though, I'll make you a cappuccino, pull up a chair, tell you a few stories about the good ol' days, and happily show you how it's done.

City of Strangers

"I'm just a someone in an old museum. I'm far away from home as someone can go, but the beauty is I still meet people I know. Hello!" -- from The Light in the Piazza

Not long after I started work at my new job and began commuting to clinic every day, I noticed that some of the faceless straphangers in the subway system started to look familiar after a while. After a couple of months (and because I don't caffeinate myself until after I get to work, yes, it DID take that long), I realized that I must share a commuting route with them. We're "the regulars" -- if I catch all the right trains at all the right times, I can guarantee that I'll share a friendly nod with at least one of them along the way. There's the lady with the pig-nose and the awesome shoe collection, the gent who prefers to ride the first car of the train and might be cute if he wasn't only about 5'1", the woman who crochets a lot more slowly than I do, the impossibly tall goddess who was definitely a model in a past life, the two men with spackle-splattered boots and tool belts who would definitely be cute if they weren't such dirtbags. They're my familiar faces in a city of strangers, and I have no idea who they are.

Lately, the last leg of my morning journey has been graced with a new familiar face. He's loud and he wears his arm in a sling, and every time I see him, he loudly announces to half of Manhattan that he's wearing his arm in a sling. He announces it when he plants himself between me and the platform edge even though I got there first, he announces it when he shoves me out of the way to get on the train before I do, he announces it when he wedges his way onto said train while people are still trying to exit it, he announces it when he jostles old ladies and small children and tired commuters to find a generously proportioned place to stand, he announces it when he's not given enough room around the handrail to wrap his entire free arm around it.

Today, after he and I exchanged our usual greeting -- he yelled at me and shoved me out of the way and I cursed him out in Italian under my breath -- I entered the train behind him. A few moments before we pulled into my stop, he oh-so-quietly slipped his arm out of the sling, held his briefcase with it as he used his healthy arm to rummage around for a tissue, blew his nose, and oh-so-quietly slipped his arm back into the sling. Sad; I thought I knew him.

Secret Identity

"I'm not your princess. This ain't a fairy tale." -- Taylor Swift

For those of us who conduct cancer research, all roads lead to ASCO -- the annual meeting of the American Society of Clinical Oncology. For one weekend a year, the best cancer scholars in the world come together to listen, learn, and, if they're lucky, present their most cutting-edge research to their peers. And because I work with a few pretty influential oncologists, I'm lucky enough to have a hand in some of it.

Trouble is, abstracts are due six months before ASCO actually occurs. June minus six months, carry the one, equals three Tuesdays from now. And since our protocols need to be perfect and the abstract first authors need their data well in advance of that deadline, I've been really, really busy lately.

I have six things due at noon on Monday, so Friday was a long, hectic day. I was so busy that I didn't have time to go home between work and the Archimedes Society launch event, a super-swanky cocktail party being thrown by my alma mater that evening. Thus, I slipped into my black cocktail dress while queries were executing, brushed on eyeliner while brainstorming ways of describing genetics at an eighth-grade reading level, toed around under my desk for my suede heels while overwriting files, and pinned up my hair while receiving emails from my PIs about last-minute changes.

I was ready to go by 6:00, but pre-party plans never materialized. Thus, I worked until 8, dressed to the nines and feeling sexier than I have in a very long time, surrounded by data and printouts and protocol disks and biohazard bags filled with tubes. Forget my usual work personas of The Mad Scientist and The Researcher -- that night, I was Diana Prince and Wonder Woman, Professor Jones and Indy, Bruce Wayne and Batman. I was Cinderella in the fairy gown scrubbing down one last fireplace brick before running off to the ball, and it made me feel incredibly powerful. For a few hours I was a geeky clinician with a glamorous secret identity and, for a few hours after that, I was a glamorous engineer with a geeky secret identity. Then, for a night and a day after that, I was able to unwind as a mere woman and find comfort in the eyes, arms, and presence of some of the people who know me better than anyone else. That may have been the best part of all.

Crabby

(Image courtesy of http://kottke.org/)

"I'd freak out if I saw one of these on my trash can." -- Q

"If I saw one of these on my trash can, it can have it!" -- dwong

"If I saw one of these on my trash can, I'd knock it out with a shovel, cook it in butter and white wine, and invite both of you over for dinner.” -- me

"If I saw one of these on my trash can, I'd load it onto a giant slingshot and catapult it into the ocean." -- Meet

"Just kidding. I'd do what Ash did (and way to NOT invite me to your crab dinner, miss).” -- Meet

This all occurred on Google Reader in the middle of our workday. After a bout of laughter so intense that I began to cry (and had to excuse myself from clinic to wash the rivulets of runny eyeliner off my face), I did some research on our garbage-diving friend. It's called a coconut crab, it's the largest known land-dwelling arthropod, and because it dines on coconut flesh, it allegedly tastes like coconut. Sounds delicious, but since it's on the verge of being considered an endangered species, we'll have to hold off on that crab dinner for now.

Connected at the Heart

"Become Your Dream." -- De La Vega

On my walk to clinic this morning, I passed a small mountain of trash on the curb in front of an apartment building. I usually pretend like garbage on the streets of Manhattan doesn't exist and powerwalk right past it, but today, I actually stopped to examine a dented white bin alongside the heap. There was a fishbowl drawn on it in thick blue marker, along with a fish, a few splashes, and the quote preceding this entry. I honestly can't remember if the piece was signed, but it didn't matter; I'd recognize that artist's work anywhere. (And if you're familiar with the sort of stuff I like to hang on my walls or my beloved "Sometimes the king is a woman" t-shirt, you'd recognize it too.) I've loved his art for years, and stumbling across a piece of it mere blocks from my building made my week.

Those fish are the calling card of James De La Vega, a New York artist who gained fame by covering blank walls, streets, sidewalks, benches, plywood, trash, construction partitions, and any other flat surface he could find with unmistakable quotes and images. Though De La Vega is a prolific artist with an insane amount of technical skill, he is most famous for his line drawings -- simple, quick little monochromatic doodles, usually accompanied by a few words of wisdom. He puts these all over the city for one reason: he wants people to think. He wants people to spot his work as they go about their lives, consider it for a few moments, and see the city, their peers, and themselves a little differently as a result. As someone who has devoted an entire blog to finding glimpses of beauty in everyday events, this is a cause especially dear to my heart.

Home for the Holidays

"New York is lovely in the wintertime, when the sidewalks are white as snow. The buildings, all the people that pass me by, how the smile on his face says he's in love." -- Rosie Thomas

It's a gorgeous weekend in New York City; the streets have always felt different to me during the holiday season, and though it's not even December yet, the anticipation and joy have already spread throughout my beautiful metropolis.

Of course, since I have a sniffle that I'd rather not see bloom into a full-fledged cold (which may be a lost cause since I couldn't breathe in my sleep and have consequently been awake since 5:30AM), I spent this entire lovely weekend indoors in flannel pajamas. Three marginally exciting things happened, though:

"Transformer man, transformer man. Sooner or later you'll have to learn the cause and effect." -- Neil Young

1. I cleaned my grandfather's apartment and, while moving a little side-table, realized that it was far heavier than it should have been. A little investigation led me to find a hidden latch, and a little more investigation caused the entire table to fold open, revealing a 1960s-era Sears Roebuck sewing machine in beautiful condition. It looks like I have a little restoration work in my future.

I also found some Sculpey polymer clay that I forgot I had, which solved the button conundrum from my second-to-last post. I made some buttons last night, then I made a scarf to match them.

"Even that's polite -- the worst pies in London! If you doubt it, take a bite... is that just disgusting? You have to concede it! It's nothing but crusting. Here, drink this; you'll need it." -- Stephen Sondheim

2. I baked a ton of Thanksgiving leftovers -- potatoes, cauliflower, asparagus, two cups of shredded turkey, and some leftover dough -- into a pot pie today, and believe it or not, it didn't turn out half-bad. Maybe I'll work on the recipe and post it one of these days.

"But I've got to stop crying! I'm not going to waste the rest of my life dreaming of a man I can never have!" -- from The Thorn Birds

3. I don't have to look at my hands when I crochet, which is fortunate since I'm a multi-tasker who can't stand to only do one thing at once. This weekend, my crocheting accomplice was The Thorn Birds, a miniseries from 1983 that spans fifty years and details a doomed love affair between a woman and the priest left in charge of her family's estate. He fights an internal war over whether he can ever love God as much as he loves her, she rails against life because she knows he is too ambitious to ever give up the Church for her, and all of it makes for ten hours of insanely good television. (It also made for controversial television in its day, mainly for the scene when he flies halfway around the world, finds her on a deserted beach, throws her down in the sand, and breaks his vow of chastity... repeatedly.) I watch the whole miniseries at least once a year, and as I'm usually a year older and wiser with each successive viewing, it always seems to inspire me in new ways. This year's viewing made me want to sit down and write an epic and meaningful story. Let's hope the impetus is still there when I finally find direction for my tale.

Gratitude

"If I told you that I loved like an ace, then I'd be lying 'cause I've made some mistakes. But I'm trying with perfect faith! When I let you in, I began to win, and now I'm just all gold. After all I've done and the road I've run, I want to thank you. I want to thank you." -- Gavin DeGraw


I'm thankful for early-morning Thanksgiving mass at my high school and late-afternoon debates about genetics, Family Guy, and everything in between that almost always follow them. I'm thankful for family traditions, and even for the gaping slice wound on my thumb (because no holiday in my world is complete unless someone slips with a knife, burns oneself, or falls into the oven). I'm thankful for food, and for having enough of it to be able to use it creatively. I'm thankful for having a roof over my head, even if I complain about it incessantly. I'm thankful for two-dollar subway fares and the men who powerwash the Bryant Park station at one in the morning on a Thursday. I'm thankful for New York City, which is equally beautiful when it's packed and noisy and crazy and when it's eerily desolate (like it was during yesterday's commute). I'm thankful for an office window with a view of the Chrysler Building and a windowless clinic seat with an, um, equally gorgeous view. I'm thankful for cancer research, I'm thankful for my job, and I'm thankful for the contract I signed yesterday that officially changed my status from new hire to full employee. I'm thankful for my quick mind, my calloused hands, my strong back, my flat stomach, my freckled cheeks. I'm thankful for the love I've offered, the love I've received, the love I've made, the love that still awaits me. I'm thankful for the opportunity to find more things to be thankful for today and tomorrow and the day after that. I'm thankful for my ability to use words to express what I'm feeling and thinking, and I'm thankful for the writers and songwriters who inspire me when my own words fail. And I thank you for reading.

Warmth

"Maybe it's the warmer climate. Maybe I'm a smarter primate. Maybe it's the beer I'm drinking. Maybe I've stopped over-thinking." -- Snow Patrol

I crochet and I'm constantly freezing, so I'm always on the lookout for warm things I can make for myself and for my loved ones. (I'm also on the lookout for quick projects, since I'm still not finished with the ugliest sweater ever made and am horrifically bored with it.) Thus, when this adorable handknit "scarflette" showed up on my Google Reader, I knew I'd have to try and make one.

I sat down with a hook, a button, and fifty grams of cornflower blue silk this evening, and a couple of hours later, I had a little scarf that turned out far more adorable than I thought it would. It perfectly protects the parts of my throat that my wool coat leaves bare, and best of all, it fits in my pocket!


Now if only I had a more elegant button for it...

Closing Doors

"When I look at you, he is touching me. I would reach for him, but who can hold a memory?" -- from The Scarlet Pimpernel

My working group scheduled a 7AM meeting for this morning; the sun hadn't yet risen when I walked into clinic at 6:45. I didn't have time to make or purchase coffee before work, so, by 8:30, I was listless, unmotivated, and staring blankly at my computer screen.

In desperate need of a little caffeine therapy, I took a walk to Gotham, one avenue away. I purchased my caffeine fix and began my powerwalk back to clinic, but my pace slowed to a near-crawl after a mere few steps. As is often the case when I'm trying to get somewhere, the majority of the sidewalk was monopolized by a slow-moving couple. Now, very few things on this planet piss me off more than people who break my stride on the streets of New York City, but I couldn't get angry at these two.

Why? This lady and gent were ancient -- so old that they were shrunken and shriveled and barely reached the five-foot mark, with wisps of pure-white hair peeking out from under their hats. They were chatting animatedly with each other as they walked, whispering, glancing at each other with unbelievable fondness. And, most notably, they were holding hands -- even swinging their clasped fingers in time with their careful steps. It took me five minutes to walk one block because I was stuck behind them, but the waves of pure, unabashed love radiating off of the couple warmed my under-caffeinated heart. In light of the beauty of their union, I decided that, just maybe, my general hatred of public displays of affection was due for a little re-evaluation.

I moved to pass the couple as I approached my building, but they veered off towards the front doors along with me. The little old man held the door open for his lady, leading her through the entrance by the small of her back.

He then turned his head, looked me square in the eye, and let the door slam in my face.

PDAs should be outlawed. Outlawed.

Destroyer of Worlds

"I explained that the visual effect of an atomic bombing would be tremendous." -- J. Robert Oppenheimer, via Peter Sellars

I spent yesterday evening in the highest balcony of the Metropolitan Opera House to see the closing-night performance of Doctor Atomic, a new John Adams/Peter Sellars opera about J. Robert Oppenheimer, the Manhattan Project, the days leading up to the first test shot of the atomic bomb, and the conflicting emotions of the scientists involved in its creation. As a woman with a little opera training and a lot of scientific training, I was ecstatic to see two of my passions merge on stage. Of course, since I was headed to the world's most renowned opera house to see a production composed by an ultra-modern, minimalistic visionary, I didn't expect much nuclear physics to be involved in the production.

Thus, I was genuinely surprised to enter the house and face a white-on-black projection of the Periodic Table of the Elements rather than the usual heavy damask curtain. I examined the familiar grid as I settled into my seat, but something didn't feel right about it. It eventually dawned on me that a few elements -- and the entire actinoid series -- were missing:My companion, a chemist, deduced that the scrim showed the Periodic Table as it looked during the summer of 1945. We picked over the projection, noted what was there and what has been discovered since, became increasingly aware of the knowledge base of the scientists and engineers we were about to meet. When the house lights dimmed, we were already immersed in a singular moment in time, in an era of science before the discovery of francium and promethium, before the threat of nukes hovered over every war, before E=mc^2 was proven beyond a reasonable doubt.

Then the curtain rose and the neat grid of boxes was replaced by... a neat grid of boxes. Forty-two boxes to be specific, stacked three high and fourteen across, each covered by a screen bearing the ID card photograph of a Trinity Project scientist. The photos were creased and faded and covered in cellophane tape. Some names were typed, others handwritten, some misspelled and crossed out and re-inked. The names were difficult to read from my vantage point, but Richard Feynman, Enrico Fermi, Hans Bethe, I. I. Rabi, Niels Bohr, Robert R. Wilson, Edwin McMillan... they were all there. The men who dedicated their lives to stretching the boundaries of human thought were each identically posed and encased in an identical little box.

The photographs then rose to reveal forty-two cast members dressed as scientists, one in each cubicle, each armed with a piece of chalk, each madly scribbling unknown equations on the back wall. Over the next three and a half hours, some of them break free from their confines to express human emotion -- Oppenheimer, our Doctor Atomic, takes center stage and becomes almost Faustian in his efforts to balance his dedication to the bomb and his fear of its potential -- but, for the most part, the scientists remain spaces on a grid, insignificant parts of a significant whole.

Ultimately, the opera about nuclear physics becomes an opera about dozens of brilliant innovators who surrender their individual identities to accomplish something for their country. And that opera ultimately becomes an opera about scientists being forced to choose between doing what they know is right for their own edification and doing what they know is right for humanity.

During intermission, I said to my companion, "I've never been so proud to be a scientist, but I've also never been so ashamed to be a scientist." That's because, shortly before the curtain fell on the First Act, when the glowing wire-covered bomb rose away from Oppenheimer to cast a vaguely spherical shadow over half the stage, I realized that, if fate had somehow landed me and my engineering skills at Los Alamos in 1945, I would have made the same choice that Oppenheimer did. Despite being surrounded by discussion of Japanese target cities, possible ignition of Earth's atmosphere, and a new age of destructive power, I would have used every skill I possessed to get "the gadget" working properly. Just because I could.

The opera ends at t-minus-one second, but that one second is stretched into ten minutes of orchestral cacophony that nearly shakes the house with its intensity. The entire cast is bunkered down on stage, unmoving, staring wordlessly into at the audience as the scenery warps behind them. The audience never sees the explosion, but for a brief moment just before the curtain fell, I felt like the bomb.

Milk In A Can

"I am thankful for laughter, except when milk comes out of my nose." -- Woody Allen

The title of this post is pretty self-explanatory, I think. After going years without using canned milk in anything besides macaroons, I had the epiphany of substituting it into recipes in place of heavy cream and now I'm finding more uses for it every day. Here's a pair of them -- the lower-fat vodka sauce I promised last week and a slightly more fatty yet gloriously simple recipe for pistachio fudge minimally adapted from Nigella Lawson.

Vodka Sauce

I love vodka sauce, but for some reason, cream sauces seem to make me violently ill. (Case in point: I've fainted every time I've had risotto in the last eight years.) This recipe is easier on the arteries and easier on the digestive system than any I've ever seen, and it still tastes like good homemade vodka sauce.

½ white onion, minced
5 cloves garlic, minced
2 tbsp butter or buttery spread
3 tbsp minced pancetta or prosciutto
½ cup tomato sauce
½ tsp each of tarragon, basil, and parsley
Pinch of salt and black pepper
Pinch of powdered cayenne pepper
½ cup vodka
1 cup (or 1 small can) evaporated skim or 2% milk
¼ cup grated parmesan cheese
Pinch of nutmeg (because, as I learned from the staff at my favorite restaurant, every cream sauce should contain nutmeg)

Sautee the onion and garlic in the butter until the onion is nearly transparent. Add the pancetta or prosciutto (and I like to add a little olive or sun-dried tomato paste here as well, if I have it on hand) and sautee until the meat stats to brown. Add the tomato sauce and all the spices except the nutmeg, lower heat, and bring to a low boil. Once the sauce starts to thicken, add the vodka and simmer, stirring occasionally, for about ten minutes to boil off most of the alcohol. Lower the heat a little more and add the milk in a thin stream, stirring constantly, Heat until the sauce begins to bubble, then stir in the cheese and nutmeg and remove from heat. Serve over one pound of your favorite pasta, preferably something with ridges to catch the sauce. Serves six as an appetizer or four as a main course.


Chocolate Pistachio Fudge
(Adapted from Nigella Lawson's recipe)

Chocolate and salt is one of my favorite flavor combinations, thanks in large part to the pistachio and sea salt-encrusted molten chocolate cake served by the Dessert Truck. Thus, even though I wasn't a big Nigella Lawson fan, I couldn't pass up trying this recipe. Needless to say, I'm now a Nigella convert! It's one of things you make, taste, and really can't believe you made yourself. I'm definitely planning on working on this recipe a little bit and passing out boxes of it at Christmas.

Half a bar of Lindt 85% cocoa chocolate
1 1/4 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 14-oz can of sweetened condensed milk
1 tbsp butter
1 cup salted pistachios, shelled and crushed

Place all ingredients in a saucepan over low heat and stir constantly until melted. Pour into a wax paper-lined 9" x 13" pan and spread into a thin layer. Allow to cool for about two hours, then cover and refrigerate until firm. Remove from pan, and with a sharp knife, make seven horizontal slices and seven vertical slices to yield sixty-four pieces of fudge.

Early to Bed, Early to Rise

"It's too late for me and Sally. I know her too well. That's why it didn't work out -- by the time I saw her naked, she was already a person." -- Steven Moffat, from Coupling

Usually, my Quotes of the Day are inspired by my blog entries, but today, I'm posting an entire entry inspired by the quote you've just read. Spurred by my Jack Davenport love, I re-watched Series Three of Coupling this weekend. For the uninitiated, Coupling is sort of the British combination of Friends and Seinfeld: a comedic, extraordinarily well-written foray into love, lust, friendship, the battle of the sexes, and how all four intertwine to make life interesting. I highly recommend it if you ever have the chance to watch a few episodes.

The third season of the show focuses on the relationship (or lack thereof) of Sally and Patrick. They start the series interested in each other, but by a combination of confusing circumstances, they remain trapped in friendship mode. They become such excellent friends, however, that they eventually end up in bed together. And the experience is so terrible that it ruins the amazing friendship they've built and screws over their social lives for the next thirteen episodes.

Of course, since this is happy sitcom land, both of them are able to get over themselves and they eventually get married and live a long wonderful life together. But does that sort of fairy-tale ending actually occur in the real world? I can only think of two friends-first couples who have enjoyed a similar fate.

I can't speak from personal experience, either; I've never had a friendship ruined by sex, so I've never had such a friendship miraculously repair itself. I've recently acquired a friendship that has the potential to turn into something worth ruining, though, so I'm giving myself license to wonder as a precaution.

Is Patrick on to something? Is intimacy early in a relationship -- revealing the biggest secret right away and saving all the little ones for later -- really more advantageous than withholding the biggest secret until you have no secrets left to tell? Is it better to constantly long for a walk-off home run, or is it better to hit one out of the park in the first inning and hope your pitching staff can keep the lead?

Sometimes you have no choice; you meet someone you desperately want to "Patrick" but you realize that doing so would be an incredibly bad idea right now. So you elect to become friends. You keep finding more crap in common with each other, you coexist with full knowledge that you'll probably end up in a closet together one day, you long for it to happen but you put it off in fear of wrecking the incredible connection you already possess. And maybe -- and I felt extraordinarily profound when I thought of this on my walk home today -- that's how you separate the wheat from the chaff. If you can share your mind, your body, and, of course, your heart with someone and still find more stuff to talk about at the end of the day, maybe you've got a relationship worth keeping.

The Blues

"Letting go, facing up to the truth that it is time to part. Giving way to the day that well may break my heart. It's not a thing I choose; to win, I have to lose." -- from Jekyll & Hyde

This weekend, I wore my favorite pair of jeans to run some errands. They're Gap boot-cut stretch denim, blue with a greenish wash, size 6 long, faded on the thighs and the back pockets. Those jeans have served me well for close to a decade, through high school and college, through the city and the chemistry lab, through shopping and the machine shop, through living and lounging and learning, through football games and the mating game, through the Freshman Fifteen and the Senior Negative Five that, somehow, also negated two dress sizes.

I've worn them so roughly and so often that the denim is brushed baby-soft and the cut conforms to every curve of my body. I wore them on my bloated days and my skinny days, I wore them to kick around the lab and to mingle at formal events. When the contents of my right front pocket sliced a hole clear through the fabric covering my groin last autumn, I continued to wear them. When that hole ripped and widened to the point where I very nearly flashed passers-by with every step, I sewed it up and continued to wear them.

Then I graduated college. The contents of my closet have shifted in the time since commencement, with dress trousers and blouses and sky-high heels taking places of honor away from my Chucks and tees and, of course, my favorite jeans. Opportunities to slip into my beloved blues and spend quality time with them are few and far between these days, so I relished the feeling of the yielding fabric against my body on Saturday. Then I spun to check out my booty in the mirror -- come on, all women do this -- and noticed that I could see my panties clear through the fabric.

In utter denial, I threw on a shirt long enough to cover my rear and went about my business, vowing to not survey the damage until later that evening. I held out for as long as I could, then, close to midnight, I shrugged out of my jeans and took a look.

The fabric hadn't ripped; it was worn transparent. Too many years of sitting on the stoop and sitting on the sidewalk and sitting on the Steps, I guess. About nine square inches are threadbare; the damage is too diffuse to stitch up. I could try to patch them, but the results would most likely be hideous. Alternatively, I could cut my losses, savor the good years, and toss them out with the garbage.

I washed them, pressed them, and tucked them back into my closet. I'll decide another day.

People Are Alike All Over

"I look like him, I think like him. Same memories, same thoughts, same everything. Except I've only got one heart." -- The Tenth Doctor, after a fashion

Even though I didn't celebrate Hallowe'en, I'll commemorate the holiday with three anecdotes about lookalikes.

I.

My evening walk from clinic to the subway covers 3/4 of a mile, and yesterday, I passed eight Sarah Palins on the way. Eight -- I counted. That's roughly one Palin per 475 feet.

II.

This afternoon, I went to the Herald Square Macy's to pick up a few pairs of Hue microfiber fishnets, my winter hosiery of choice. At the register, my cashier -- a very old, very tiny Asian woman -- examined my credit card and gave a gleeful squeak. "Your surname and my surname are almost the same!" she squealed in a softly accented voice. "You have a G where I have a D!" She then wrote her last name on my receipt, right next to mine, and pointed out the similarity again. I laughed and decided to crack a joke.

"Wow! Maybe we have a common relative a few generations back."
"Yes! I am from the Philippines, but who knows, the Italian mafia may have traveled there at some point!"

I spent the whole subway ride home wondering how the cashier could have possibly equated the geek standing in front of her with Goodfellas.

III.

After several tries, I finally perfected a low-fat, easy-on-the-stomach recipe for vodka sauce that tastes exactly like the real deal. I'll type it up and share it as soon as humanly possible!

IV. (I lied.)

Last week, David Tennant, the sexy hunk of man playing the Tenth Doctor on the awesome long-running BBC series Doctor Who, revealed that he will be leaving the show after this season. The speculation about his replacement has already started, and Jack Davenport, AKA Commodore Norrington from the Pirates of the Carribbean films, Steve from Coupling, the pansy fiancee from The Wedding Date, and/or the dude with the bad American accent from Swingtown, has my vote. Just for the record. Here's hoping.

As I Wait...

"It's something so surreal, the stupid way you make me feel. When everything is said and done, somehow you are still the one. Don't make me wait so long!" -- Locksley

Tuesdays are quite busy here.
My orders for some tests were clear,
But the lab techs were nowhere near

As I wait for my bloods to get drawn.

My coworker was frantic, too.
"Agh! I have so much to do!"
"I'll take care of it for you,"
As I wait for my bloods to get drawn.

I learn, after some consent checks,

Her protocols are quite complex.
The clinic staffers are all wrecks

As I wait for my bloods to get drawn.

Plus, I was interrupted twice.

"Ash, you package things so nice.
Ship these samples in dry ice?"
As I wait for my bloods to get drawn.

My last guy's seeing the MD.
In half an hour I can go free.
But my nurse has more work for me
As I wait for my bloods to get drawn.

After a scant ten hours of trials,

The lab tech hands me cryovials.
Tomorrow's tubes are in three piles...

Painful on Many Levels

"It's always a woman -- the hand in the till, the five-dollar diamond, the three-dollar bill, a genius for trickery who's second to none. There's nothing as low as a woman... isn't this fun?!" -- Stephen Sondheim

After a heinously awful five days at work, I had the good fortune of spending my entire weekend in bed, violently ill. What, you may wonder, does a girl do for two and a half days that doesn't involve moving or interrupting her Tylenol schedule? She watches four seasons of Coupling and all four Indiana Jones films in a row. She knocks out the entire desserts chapter of the cookbook she may or may not be writing. She works on a Halloween costume she probably won't end up wearing.

She also clears out space in her yarn stash by knitting half of the most horrifically ugly sweater anyone has ever seen:


It's itchy pea soup-colored wool with a subtle shine, and yes, it's cabled. And I'd really appreciate it if you have the courtesy to smack me if you ever see me wearing it in public.

Snickers and Doubt

"For all these years you've been with me, I tilt my chin and all I see is only you. Not feet or knees. You grumble and I stumble towards the muenster cheese." -- from The Full Monty

Last week, I met a pair of old friends at Ovelia, a new Astoria eatery that serves top-notch modern Greek cuisine (and offers an absolutely killer brunch special). After eating our way through lamb and fig kebabs, filet of black sole, lemon potatoes, and stewed calimari with orzo, it was surprising that we found room for dessert. After several glasses of sangria, it wasn't surprising that we decided to be adventurous with our dessert order.

First, we ordered loukomades -- lighter-than-air fluffs of dough drenched in honey and cinnamon. Fair enough. Then (and I still can't quite believe we did it), we ordered the dessert special. Said dessert special turned out to be a deep-fried Snickers bar. Yes, you read that correctly. Our chef took a Snickers bar, unwrapped it, dipped it in zeppoli batter, threw it in a vat of boiling oil, sprinkled powdered sugar on it, and served it to us.

And naturally (or perhaps "unnaturally" would be a better word choice here), I expected this confection to be downright disgusting. I could almost feel my arteries constrict as one of my compatriots sawed it into three pieces and plopped one end in front of me. After a moment's hesitation, I speared it on my fork, took a cautious bite... and was pleasantly surprised.

You see, when you deep-fry a Snickers bar, it melts. I thought I was in for a chewy, doughy, oil-and-sugar-drenched mouthful, but I was wrong. The dessert better resembled a churro that happened to be filled with chocolate-y, nougat-y, nutty cream, and I actually enjoyed it.

I can't say I'll ever build up the courage to subject my body to any more deep-fried candy in the near future, but the experience was a lot less scarring than I thought it would be.

The Way The Cookie Crumbles

"O, I am fortune's fool!" -- Romeo Montague

I had Chinese take-out for the first time in forever tonight and ended up with the strangest, most brilliant fortune cookie message I've ever seen:


Reading the fine print revealed that the cookie was produced at the largest fortune cookie factory in the nation -- in Queens, New York -- and the tongue-in-cheek message was probably written by a moonlighting grad student. In any case, it made my weekend!

I Enjoy Being A Girl?

"You're offensive and that just won't fly. She doesn't want a jerk or a jock; wooing her will take a sensitive guy." -- The 114th Varsity Show

Bitchy Bluestocking, the Catcall Queen of Greenpoint, recently wrote an excellent blog entry about her strange ability to attract the hoots, hollers, and neanderthal grunts of the men of New York City. Thus, I dedicate this post to her.

Before I describe my day, I'll preface it with a disclaimer. Yes, I enjoy receiving compliments from friends and more-than-friends -- who doesn't? I like feeling beautiful, I like knowing that someone I care about finds me attractive. However, I have no tolerance for men who see a single woman on the street and feel the need to draw attention to it. That guy in a van, those construction workers, and the dude on the corner don't know anything about me and aren't making any effort to learn, so they have no right to judge me in a way that crosses any boundaries.

There was a chill in the air when I woke this morning, so I paired my black pencil skirt and sage v-necked sweater with my favorite pair of knee-high, pointy-toed boots. I had completely forgotten that creepy men have the ability to sense a woman in boots half a mile away; a random stranger wished my breasts a slimy hello after my first three blocks. I turned up the volume on my iPod and continued my powerwalk, but I couldn't help but remember BB's blog entry. Inspired by her take-no-prisoners approach to catcallers, I vowed to make a stand if it happened again.

For the rest of my commute, the only seductive voice that reached my eardrums belonged to Eric Clapton. I got to work, navigated morning clinic without incident, then took a coffee break. I walked to Second Avenue alongside a middle-aged woman and a small child, then the three of us waited for the light to change.

The light turned yellow and a truck accelerated to whiz through it, but the driver still managed to leer and aim a long whistle in my direction. I gave him the finger, and damn it felt good.

"That's vulgar!" said the woman next to me, shielding the eyes of her child with her hand.
"And what he did to me wasn't vulgar?!"
"You shouldn't have risen to the occasion."

I looked away, casting a quick glance at my waistband to make sure the name on my ID badge and number on my pager were turned away from the woman's eyes. I then fumed about the incident all day. Why shouldn't I be allowed to look good for work? Why don't real, honest-to-god gentlemen exist anymore? And how the heck did I turn into the bad guy by refusing to be disrespected?

Four hours later, I started my evening commute prepared for battle, wearing my fiercest look and working my most imposing powerwalk. Then, about a block from clinic, I almost collided with a man in a suit, who apologized for getting in my way and wished me a good evening. I was so surprised that I returned the sentiment. Ten minutes later, another fellow held the doors of the W train as I rushed down the escalator towards it. I guess I'll save losing all faith in humanity for another day.

This $#!% is bananas

"I'm your genie, I'm your friend, I'm your willing slave. Take a chance, just feed me... and you know the kind of eats, the kind of red-hot treats, the kind of sticky-licky sweets I crave." -- Audrey II, from Little Shop of Horrors

Back in my college days, every student with a meal plan and no qualms about reappropriating food from the Dining Hall inevitably had plenty of bananas around. Since these bananas tended to get old faster than they got eaten, my suitemates and I would pool our resources once a week or so, turn out a few loaves of banana bread, and feed ourselves until the bananas piled up again.

I thought my surplus banana days were over until I started work and encountered The Fruit Man whose cart lives across the street from my clinic. In an insanely crafty business move, he charges 33 cents per banana but will gladly give you four for $1. Of course, since most people on the upper east side -- myself included -- are more willing to dig out a buck than a handful of change, we always end up buying four bananas when we really only want one. I usually share the extras with my coworkers, but sometimes, those bananas end up coming home with me, where they pile up once more.

I bought my bananas this morning, and as luck would have it, I had a major cake craving by noon. I left work that evening fully intending to walk over to Crumbs for a red velvet cupcake, but, on the walk to Third Avenue, remembered the two bananas in my bag and the two more on top of my microwave at home. Thus, I headed south instead of north, went home, and started baking right after dinner. I made some adjustments to my usual recipe and baked it in Corningware souffle dishes rather than digging out my loaf pans. The result was delicious, super-simple, and because I used whole-wheat flour and substituted equal parts Smart Balance and applesauce for the butter, healthier than it looks. I've already frozen a few slices for when the crave strikes again.

Ashley's Banana Bread

½ cup butter, softened (or 1/4 cup buttery spread and 1/4 cup sugar-free applesauce)
2/3 cup sugar
2 tbsp cocoa powder
2 eggs
4 old bananas
1 tbsp vanilla extract
½ tsp cinnamon
2 cups flour (or 1 1/2 cups whole wheat flour and 1/2 cup all-purpose flour)
2 tsp baking powder
½ cup chocolate chunks (usually semi-sweet, but I used white this time)
½ cup dried cranberries

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cream butter (and, perhaps, applesauce) and sugar together, then beat in eggs. Add cocoa powder, mashed-up bananas, vanilla, cinnamon, flour, and baking powder, in that order, and mix well after adding each ingredient. Stir in chocolate and cranberries. Coat one large loaf pan, four small loaf pans, or four souffle dishes with nonstick cooking spray, divide batter equally between the pans, then bake for 1 hour or until a toothpick inserted into the center of each loaf comes out clean. Cool in pan for ten minutes before serving. Makes one large loaf or four small loaves.

Philanthropy and facial hair

"Not a bit of me's scraggly or scrawny, and every last inch of me's covered with hair!" -- Gaston

Every single day, all of my fellow employees come to work impeccably coiffed and groomed. Since Friday, however, all of my male coworkers under the age of thirty have sported a rather scruffy stubble. No, they haven't collectively turned into dirtbags, and no, they aren't boycotting Schick and Gillette. For the next two months, they have surrendered their upper lips (and, until things grow in, the rest of their faces) to an incredible cause: a contest designed to raise money for pediatric cancer research. These men aren't wealthy or influential or even established in their fields, but by soliciting donations from their friends and family and agreeing to keep their 'staches growing as long as the money keeps rolling in, they are partaking in a super-admirable, ultra-modern form of philanthropy.

Starwipe to Tuesday Night, when I spent my evening at the New York Yacht Club. Most of the men there had luxurious facial hair as well, but because I was at a Women in Engineering event, most of the men there were only present in oil on canvas. The 'staches were sculptural and elaborate, and they belonged to J.P. Morgan, the Stevens brothers, Vanderbilt, a Carnegie or two.

As I stood there with a highball glass in my hand, in a room that cost more to furnish than I'll ever make in my lifetime, in a club that some of the wealthiest New Yorkers aren't wealthy enough to join, it dawned on me that the mustachioed men on the walls around me were considered the great philanthropists of yesteryear. We all learned about them in high school -- they're the robber barons, the first generation of deep-pocketed donors, the big money that helped to turn New York City into a world power of its own. These men lived extravagantly, gave extravagantly, and were still able to afford to splurge on yachts in their spare time. These 'staches gave millions of dollars to beautify my city and improve the lives of its residents, but when I thought of them in comparison to the 'staches enthusiastically giving the little they can afford to help kids with cancer, the truer definition of philanthropy seemed obvious.


"I can't even lift my head." -- Sufjan Stevens

I've had a headache for the better part of a week and I'm blaming endless data entry -- I've been working twelve-hour days trying to beat a quartely data dump deadline -- and the garishly colored GIF of our database for it. And in curious scheduling move, tomorrow's Grand Rounds will feature a lecture by the programmers of said database. Since data entry-induced stress is a department-wide phenomenon this week, it should be pretty exciting.


"Please go on; you enthrall me. I can understand you perfectly, and I like what I hear, what I see, and knowing me... I would be good for you, too." -- Tim Rice, from Evita

It's an unbelievable feeling when you realize that you're a great match for someone. It's an even more unbelievable feeling when you realize that they've realized the same thing.

The Scout Method

"She can build a boat and she can make it float. She can play my guitar note by note. She likes to stick her tongue right down my throat. She's my baby." -- Bob Dylan, via the Traveling Wilburys

After only a few months at my current position, I've fallen into my coworkers' habit of judging clinic days as "good" or "bad" based on the availability of free food in our building. And with the Jewish holidays in full swing, start-up meetings up the wazoo, and three birthday parties, yesterday was definitely a good day. I had coffee, juice, fruit, sandwiches, half a muffin, a lovely arugula salad, three different types of cookies, honey-infused candy, birthday cake, and part of an Edible Arrangements bouquet, and I didn't have to pay for any of it.

I didn't have to pay monetarily, that is. Around mid-morning, I bit into a luscious strawberry and the juice ran down my chin -- and onto my white shirt -- before I could lap it up. My coworkers gasped at the horrifying red streak that trailed down my chest as if painted there in Sharpie. Did I panic along with them? Nope. Instead, I opened my bag and pulled out my trusty Tide To Go pen. I then stripped off my shirt -- I was wearing a camisole underneath, don't worry -- and worked out the stain. Once my shirt was virginal white once more, I tacked it to our bulletin board to dry, slipped into a white coat borrowed from one of the MDs, and returned to my patients.

One of my coworkers stared at me, transfixed, the entire time. When I asked him what was on his mind, he looked at me, looked at my trusty Longchamp handbag, looked at me again. "You're like a boyscout!" he spluttered after a while, and though the comment made me laugh, I'm seriously flattered by it. He and my other coworkers are endlessly fascinated with my bag and the amount of seemingly useless crap I haul everywhere with me, but I feel naked if I leave my house for more than a few hours without it.

I've always thought of myself as a packrat -- college friends referred to my Longchamp as The Mary Poppins Bag because I could fit almost anything in it and pull almost anything out of it on any given day -- but thinking of myself as a boyscout is sort of growing on me. I love the idea of being an urban scout, navigating the forests of New York City with only my wits, a pair of comfortable heels, and the pack on my back to sustain me.

What is this urban scout carting around with her at the moment? In addition to the essentials (phone, music, tampons, keys, lip gloss), I have Krazy Glue, a Leatherman, a Mag-Lite, a tape measure with built-in level and Post-It pad, rubber gloves, Band-Aids, rubbing alcohol, three different chargers, an umbrella, a small calculator, a fold-up shopping bag, a spare pair of socks, a half-rusted cigar cutter, a Moleskine, my knitting, Purell, a stapler, a flash drive, a copy of the NCI CTCAE criteria, and about two feet of insulated copper wire.

And my trusty Tide Pen, of course.

Less Wordless in Washington

"We've gotta get out while we're young, cause tramps like us, baby, we were born to run." -- Bruce Springsteen

So I made ten Moleskine doodles to commemorate my trip to DC last weekend and was too lazy to ink more than six of them last night. I was going to ink and post the remaining four tonight but, once again, I was too lazy to pull out the brush pen. Though it pains my rusty old wannabe artist heart to do so, I'm posting the unfinished versions anyway for the sake of finishing the story. Again, click here to enlarge.

And by the way, I'm seriously impressed with the select few of you who noticed the alt text on the image in the last post! Major nerd points to you -- and coming from me, that's the highest of compliments!

Wordless in Washington

"You dropped me off at the train station and put a kiss on top of my head. You watched me wave, you watched me wait. Then I went on home to my skyscrapers, neon lights and waiting papers that I call home. I call it home?" -- Brandi Carlile




Click here to enlarge.

Black Armbands

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Yankee Stadium." -- Bob Sheppard

Whenever a Yankees legend dies, the team -- and its diehard fans -- wear black armbands to commemorate the loss. This would certainly be a black armband occasion if I still practiced the tradition, since the greatest legend of them all passed into eternal rest just a few minutes ago.

Baseball history was my religion for years, and rightly so, Yankee Stadium was my cathedral. However, unlike my attitude towards normal cathedrals, I'm more interested in the spirituality than the structure in this case. Sure, I'm attached to the architecture of the Stadium and the dimensions of the playing field and the quirks of the design, but the atmosphere, the uncanny sense of years past... they mean more to me than I can possibly describe. Every time I entered the Stadium and moved through one of the tunnels into daylight, into the open expanse of the field, I was always keenly aware that I'd happened upon something majestic.

You could say that I grew up on 161st Street and River Avenue in the South Bronx, in a blue plastic seat in Section 9 with so little leg room that I had to stand every time someone tried to walk past me. I first sat there on a warm day thirteen years ago; I was fitted for braces a few days beforehand and requested blue and white rubber bands to mark the occasion. I first realized that I needed glasses in that seat, when all of a sudden I had to squint to see the scoreboard. I experienced my very first PMS cramps while sitting there -- during the World Series, no less. A man hit on me for the first time in my life as I sat in that seat, and I tasted my first beer in that seat. I spent no fewer than ten birthdays there. I celebrated getting into my chosen high school there, wrote half of my college essay there, celebrated getting into my chosen college there, celebrated getting my first full-time job there.

And because I'd always arrive at the Stadium a good two hours before the first pitch to beat the traffic, I always had time to sit quietly, think about the great game, and enjoy the ambiance. Section 9 was my home for about fifteen games a season for thirteen years, and I've been lucky enough to witness a few pretty great moments from the last row -- Tino Martinez's grand slam in Game 1 of the '98 World Series, the clincher in the '99 Series when my favorite player, Mariano Rivera, was named MVP, ten consecutive Old Timer's Day ceremonies, the ceremonies to retire Don Mattingly's and Ron Guidry's numbers, Roger Clemens' 300th win, others I'm ashamed to have forgotten.

Thus, I am -- and always have been -- fiercely protective of Yankee Stadium. Sure, it's one thing to watch Paul O'Neill, Bernie Williams, and Johnny Damon prowl around the outfield, but to watch them with the knowledge that they're standing exactly where Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, and Mickey Mantle once stood is something else entirely. (I've always maintained that the only way I'd ever agree with plans for a new Yankee Stadium is if the builders carted every square inch of dirt from the old field to the new one, just so the ghosts of yesteryear wouldn't feel misplaced.)

When rumors flew about moving the team to the West Side railyards back in '97, I took Mayor Giuliani's efforts as a personal affront and wrote a protest song to convey my feelings. (Yes, I was a peculiar eleven year-old.) My song borrowed the sentiments, the tune, and more than a few lyrics from Billy Joel's "Miami 2017," and because I wasn't an especially talented lyricist in the fifth grade, I'll spare you the first two-thirds of the song. I'll share the ending though, because, more than a decade later, I still feel the same sadness that sparked me to originally put these words to paper.

They made a tribute to the Legends and named the park for players past.
I knew it would not pay. Their home was blown away.
The magic ran out pretty fast.

You know those lights were bright in the Bronx, but that was so many years ago.
Before the game was ruled by money, before the death of Joe DiMaggio.

There are not many who remember; only a few of us survive
Who have the nerve to tell 'bout the way the rafters fell
And keep the history alive...

Best Foot Forward

"Ah, I do not wear ze shoes because... zey make-a me fall down." -- Agador Spartacus, from The Birdcage

I fell asleep on the living room (read: uncomfortable) couch at about 9PM last night, and, as a result, I didn't get to accomplish any of the necessary tasks to ensure a smooth morning routine. Thus, I woke up with a chill and a sore back on said couch at 7AM, swore, then scrambled to get ready for work. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, pulled my curls up into a bun. A little eyeliner, a lot of red lipstick, eyeglasses, undergarments, deodorant, a spritz of Lanvin Rumeur. Breakfast, coffee, and earrings could wait until I got to work, but clothing couldn't.

I never got around to ironing before I dozed off, so I pulled my one un-creased pair of dress pants off the drying rack and ran back to my bedroom to put them on. I was halfway there when I felt it: a scrape at first, then a jolt of pain radiating up my leg. I sat on the edge of my bed and lifted my foot, revealing a massive splinter buried deep in the dancer's callus on my big toe. Since I wasn't about to perform foot surgery on myself in my frantic, underwear-clad state, I slapped a bunion pad over the splinter, pulled on a pair of dress socks, and decided to hope for the best.

I slipped into my pants and my favorite pair of flats, but I didn't even have to move to realize that my cuffs would clean the sidewalks with every step. Wearing a skirt was out of the question owing to my socks, so I instead opted to stick to the pants and wear most comfortable pair of high heels with them.

However, because of the socks, my most comfortable pair of high heels didn't fit. I tried on pair after pair -- and trust me, I have a LOT -- and they all felt uncomfortably snug. Finally, I tried on my super-soft, super-comfortable pointy-toed black pumps, which I only wear on my water-retention days because the leather has stretched so much that they tend to fall off when I walk, and they fit beautifully.

My choice of footwear functioned perfectly in the house, but when I tried to ease into my usual speedwalk en route to the subway, I knew I was in for a disatrous day. I had to walk slowly and hold my feet very stiffly to avoid falling head-first out of my shoes, and if I let my guard down for even a second, one or both shoes would fly off my feet. Despite the added bulk of the bunion pad, I lost my right shoe approximately once every hundred feet and my left shoe half as frequently. The walk to work from the subway was even worse; little old men and massively pregnant women moved faster than I could. I thought I'd be okay, though -- I had a day of desk work ahead of me, and as anyone who has ever taken Fluid Biomechanics with Dr. Kevin Costa knows, a desk-bound woman's feet swell massively over the course of eight hours.

Wishful thinking, yeah. The morning passed into afternoon and I still couldn't move correctly. Aside from the fact that my shoes felt strange, I felt like crap without the ability to bounce and sway my way around the city. I was still moving slowly and stiffly when I arrived home at 6:15 -- far later than usual because I was walking so damned slowly. Dad was outside smoking a cigar when I approached.

"Why are you walking like Frankenstein?" he asked. I told him. Ten minutes later, I had my foot up on the kitchen table as Dad squinted at it through his magnifying glasses. I glanced away for a moment, and when I focused on my father again, he was raising a very pointy pair of scissors to my toe with a manic glint in his eye. I don't remember much about the following half-hour, but I no longer have a splinter in my toe.

F. Murray Abraham?!

"You want an answer? The answer is, it doesn't make any difference. Because the old saying happens to be true: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, in this year or a hundred years hence, on this planet or wherever there is human life, perhaps out amongst the stars." -- Rod Serling

Courtesy of MyHeritage's celebrity face recognition applet:


Not entirely accurate, but it was better than my first try a few nights ago -- my top two matches were Daddy Yankee and Anna Kournikova!

College Confidential

"Progress and changing, growing then giving up. Somehow, we're never quite prepared, but I understand it. When you need a friend, you could count on anyone. But you know I'll defend the tragedy that we knew as the end." -- Brandi Carlile

Classes are back in full-swing at the metropolitan arm of the Ivy League, and for the first time ever, my days of attending them (or dreaming about attending them) are behind me. It's a surreal enough feeling that all of my friends seem to be blogging about it, so I thought I'd throw my hat into the ring as well.

In terms of academics, I was damn proud to call myself a biomedical engineer when I started college and I'm damn proud to call myself a biomedical engineer today. I loved nearly every aspect of what I studied, my courses spoiled The Mad Scientist part of my personality rotten for years, and I can't wait to return to my roots to truly work as a BME someday. Yeah, it would have been nice to have some time to take some art classes or finish my English minor or actually breathe during college, but I can't even entertain the thought of studying something else now that I know what I'm capable of surviving. I'm a BME now and forever... I'm just doing something else for a living until the world catches up with me.

My college extracurriculars followed the same pattern as they did in high school: I started off with a few carefully chosen organizations, then all of a sudden and with no recollection of how it happened, I found myself involved in everything. I loved being involved in as much as humanly possible, though -- I'd rather not sleep than see something pass without my input -- so no hard feelings there.

I dreaded living on my own before college -- after all, no one in my family ever has -- but now I can't wait to get back out there and reclaim my life again. I learned how to cook, how to iron, how to balance a checkbook, how to hold down a job and classes and still find time for play, how to eat for a week on twenty bucks, how to manage my time and a household. I started college a scared kid and left college a completely independent woman with a perfect sense of who I am and how I like to live. I never thought in a million years that I would ever make a good wife or a good roommate, but now I'm sure I would.

I'd like to say that I graduated with no regrets, but there are certainly a few things I would change if I could do it all over again. I wish I had made friends during my first two years of college; maybe I would have spent more nights out having fun and fewer nights alone and miserable in my dorm room. I wish I had formed study groups early on instead of trying to do every problem of every homework assignment by myself for three semesters; maybe my GPA would have been high enough to actually get into a Ph.D program right away. I wish I had the courage to act on my feelings when I found someone attractive; a few lives would certainly be different today. I try to tell myself that everything happens for a reason -- if life didn't play out the way it did, maybe I would have turned out less self-reliant, less respectable, less well-rounded, possibly pregnant. However, considering that the friends, coursework teams, and personal relationships I eventually made were all directly responsible for the awesomeness of the second half of my college experience, it's pretty easy to silence that voice of reason.

However, the fact remains: the second half of college, especially senior year, was AMAZING. The time since has been amazing as well (albeit in entirely different ways), mainly because the people I met and things I learned in school have carried over into my post-college existence. If college did nothing for me aside from decorating the set and populating the cast of characters of the sitcom of my life, that's more than enough to make it all worthwhile.

Overtime!!!

"To think that a man as famous as you are could love a poor little nothing like me!" -- from Evita

So the National Cancer Institute screwed up and asked my institution to fix it. The screw-up can only be fixed by someone who knows a lot about chart review, genetics, data management, the informed consent process, and a certain rare type of cancer, and apparently, only one person at my institution fits that description.

Made For Walkin'

"New York City is the place where they said, 'Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side...'" -- Lou Reed

I love walking, which is a good thing because it's a major part of my daily commute. And thanks to a coworker who introduced me to Gmaps Pedometer, a nifty Google Maps hack that calculates the length of any plotted route to the thousandth of a mile, I can now report EXACTLY how much walking I do.

On an average day, I walk...

0.7572 miles from home to the subway
0.4203 miles from the subway to work
0.8152 miles from work to the subway (because the 6 is too crowded)
+ 0.7572 miles from the subway to home
---------
2.7499 miles, total


This really amuses me, since it means that my most ridiculous method of walking distance estimation is far more accurate than I ever thought possible. I've always described my black pumps with the built-in Nike sneaker technology as having "a two-mile limit" before they start to make my feet hurt. Sure enough, those shoes inevitably start to kill me when I start my final walk home at the end of the day, and if I can't catch a ride on any leg of the journey, I have to pack a pair of flats.

I'm having a lot of fun playing with the Gmaps application -- calculating the distances across random cornfields in Kansas, along my old Riverside Park jogging route, around the entire island of Manhattan -- but, like the true geek I am, I'm thinking scientifically about the possibilities it offers. It may take a few weeks to test-drive my entire collection, but I now possess the technology to put a mileage limit on every pair of high heels I own!

Graffiti

"And it's just another story caught up in another photograph I found. And it seems like another person lived that life a great many years ago from now." -- Jamie Cullum

I'm in the process of cleaning out my closet as I type this and I feel like an archaeologist who, with every layer of soil removed, finds himself deeper into the past. My work shirts covered my 40s on 40 shirt, which covered a Viva La Zvi t-shirt, which covered the first BME Department t-shirt, which covered several Glass House Rocks Staff shirts, which covered my little brown RUSH ESC tee, which covered my Freshman Engineer shirt with the big hideous target on the back, which covered the blue-and-grey school logo tee I purchased the day after I got my Early Decision acceptance letter, which covered four years of high school Walkathon shirts.

Somewhere between Freshman Engineer and RUSH ESC, I found a plain white Hanes t-shirt completely desecrated in marker. This is a relic from Graffiti Night, an event hosted by my Student Council for the sole purpose of allowing students to draw on each other. As I turned the fabric over in my hands, I recognized handwritings, recalled awkward laughs and faulty markers, realized that some of the scribblings belonged to people I would eventually come to call my closest college friends.

Here's a roadmap:

FRONT

Over my stomach: "HOTTIE I want ur babies" with a downward pointed arrow, lovingly drawn by Q
Over my chest: A large black box with the word "Boobs" in the center, drawn by AW "to keep it off-limits to all the creeps in here."
Below my left shoulder: "SEXY!" courtesy of EC.
Below my right shoulder: A large black university crown with "CU Rules" written underneath it in dwong's handwriting.


BACK

Lower back: "I Heart Jesus" Artist unknown.
Below my left shoulder: "Hello!" in what might be PMB's handwriting.
Below my right shoulder: "I want YOU!" and "butt" with two lines under it. Artists unknown.
Left upper back: "You and Eash are so effin hott!" courtesy of Meet.
Right upper back: "Hello friend." Artist unknown.

Needless to say, this isn't one of the items being sent to Goodwill next week.

Paging Doc Brown...

"Why is my reflection someone I don't know?" -- from Mulan

One of Mom's coworkers got this in the mail, took one look at it, and got horrifically freaked out by what he saw. He sent it home with Mom and now my entire family is freaked out by it as well.



That's the Notre Dame High School newsletter. This is the Notre Dame Class of 1947:


That's the Class of 1947. This is the person on the end of the line:

Those who know me -- especially those who knew what I looked like when I was a high school senior -- will understand.