An Open Letter to the Upper East Side After A Snowstorm

"Hardly dashing through the snow because I bundled up too tight." -- The Waitresses

Uggs are not snow boots. They are not waterproof and they have no traction. If you move unnaturally slowly and keep falling over yourself because you insist on wearing them, don't look insulted when I scoot past you on the sidewalk.

Rubber rain wellies are not snow boots, either. I thought this would be obvious, especially considering how loudly you were screeching "OMG my toes are COLD!" in the middle of the street. I know some companies make cold-weather inserts for them; perhaps you should invest.

I've ranted about this in the past, but I'll say it again: you do not need an umbrella in the snow. Snow is the solid form of water, so if it lands on you, brush it off. All an umbrella does is impede the visibility of the person standing behind you, i.e. me, and make already treacherous conditions more dangerous for everyone around you.

I understand you're young and in love. But walking side by side and hand in hand during rush hour after a blizzard isn't a good idea, especially when the shoveled path through the snowdrifts on most sidewalks is only a foot and a half wide.

Dogs do not need sweaters. They manufacture their own sweaters. However, if you insist on putting a sweater on your dog and said dog sits in the middle of the sidewalk trying to chew the sweater off instead of doing its business, "I wonder why he's doing that...?" isn't a bright observation.

Yes, I'm aware that you own a darling mom-and-pop establishment that, by some miracle, has stayed open for sixty years in a tough retail neighborhood. Good for you, and kudos on beating the odds! However, you have no excuse not to shovel your damn sidewalk. If the tiniest old woman I've ever seen has enough strength to sling snow around outside that deli on 74th St., you can certainly do the same.

If your awning collapses onto the sidewalk under the weight of all that snow, drag it to the curb so people can pass. Scaling the thing and vaulting myself over the top, mountaineer-style, isn't on my list of things I like doing at 7:30 in the morning. And circumnavigating your garbage involves walking in the street -- and puts me directly in the path of the oncoming M15.

And speaking of the M15, don't feel bad about taking photos of the three buses stuck in the snow in the middle of the 68th St. intersection. It's hilarious. One of the bus drivers chilled in his seat eating pizza and doughnuts for ten whole hours; I was watching from the window.

Lastly, stop blaming the Dept. of Sanitation for this mess. It's not their fault that a good chunk of their workforce was laid off and remaining staff members have to contend with restricted overtime.

Drawing a Crowd

"I'm just a someone in an old museum, far away from home as someone can go, and the beauty is I still meet people I know. Hello! This is wanting something, this is praying for it. This is holding breath and keeping fingers crossed. This is counting blessings, this is wondering when I'll see that boy again..." -- Adam Guettel

I spent my Saturday at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. (I think it's safe to call it the first of many Saturdays spent there, since it's a ten-minute walk from my new apartment.) I patronized the new stuff first: I loved John Baldessari's work for its clearly sarcastic overtones, wondered if Charles Rohlfs' wife and kids secretly hated him for filling their home with gorgeously designed yet horrifically uncomfortable-looking furniture, and spent hours -- literally hours -- wandering around the New American Wing and its dozens of new Period Rooms.

I then visited my old favorites -- the sculpture courts, the roof garden where I became a real New Yorker (which is getting a blog post of its own next week), and the upstairs gallery full of portraits of creepy-looking children. I also got in some quality time with my sketchbook:

For the first time ever, my work wasn't photographed by any tourists. (Not to my knowledge, anyway.) Instead, random visitors kept asking me questions about the artwork I was sketching. By closing time, I had explained why Roman sculptures don't have carved pupils and irises to a young couple, retold the Perseus myth to a little girl, gave some high schoolers a lecture on the classical ideal of female beauty, and explained to a young man why the boobs looked weird on the statue of the muse. I have no idea why people thought I knew the answers to their questions; I just had one of those faces today, I guess.

Scraps

"I was too big for this town. Can't believe that I was only seventeen, a Catholic punk who couldn't wait to scream... but come tomorrow, I'll be leaving this worn-out, worn-down place." -- Peter Cincotti

I'm moving, thus I'm packing, thus I'm paring my possessions down to the bare minimum. Tonight, I sorted through a Rubbermaid bin full of my college papers and notes. I recycled a lot, but of course, I found some interesting stuff -- some great memories, some painful memories, some hilarious exchanges, way too many notes passed during boring classes, and some things that were just plain strange. I ended my evening with a stack of clippings, and I decided to share the best of the best with all of you.

This was a poster from our Senior Fund advertising campaign, designed to appeal to everyone's inner dork. Its other stars included Brian Griffin, an xkcd stick figure, Dumbledore, Master Splinter, Doctor Who, Dark Helmet, Doc Brown, and Lambda Lambda Lambda, among many others.

This was a PowerPoint slide from a presentation I gave about scabies mites. It's the cleverest PowerPoint slide I've ever made and no PowerPoint slide I ever make in the future will ever live up to its awesomeness.

My 2007 Christmas card.

A fun afternoon in Engineering of Body Fluids lecture. I have no idea whose handwriting this is, but it was a pretty typical exchange for that class.

And two whole semesters of that class qualified its students to discuss exactly one scientific topic:

Some doodles that, after lots of hard work, many sleepless nights, and requisite refinements, won five of us an engineering design prize.

Some of our engineering design ideas were obviously better than others.

Another nonsensical design idea, though if Dan and I were actually able to get it off the ground, we could have retired to Hawaii within six months of graduation.

Kim and I thought this made perfect sense at the time, apparently.

My Lab III evaluation. Seems like senioritis had set in by that point, ya think?

My earliest foray into Lichtenstein pop art, doodled on the edge of my junior year schedule printout.

And last but not least, something that still holds true in my world.

Pop!

"When I was a child, I was a dreamer. I read comic books... and I was the hero of comic books." -- Elvis Presley

Experimentation in the style of Roy Lichtenstein. Partially inspired by my third re-read of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay.

Ben-day dots are really difficult to draw freehand.

I Sing The Body Electric

"I float through this town like a cosmonaut, reminding me of the things I haven't got. Like time and space, a smile on my face... and you." -- Pat Monahan

I'm a traditional cook -- give me a pot, a bowl, and a good knife and I can rule the world -- and I generally try to avoid single-function appliances. But I'm also a frozen dessert fiend with frequent cravings for fro-yo, the granita version of whatever I'm drinking, or ice cream with crazy mix-ins (like bacon on chunks of Marshmallow Peep). The plastic bag approach to making ice cream works amazingly for simple recipes, but if I wanted to try anything more complicated, I was out of luck.

So, last weekend, I broke down and bought an ice cream maker. I got a cheap one -- this one, in fact -- but it doesn't take up too much room in my kitchen and it does the job just fine. I then spent two nights experimenting and now have two pints of homemade frozen goodness in my freezer. I used fresh fruit for these, since it's the time of year when my grandfather's fig tree is full of bursting fruit and I had a couple of Costco mangoes overripe in my fridge.

Three tips for making ice cream using an ice cream maker: your custard must be super-cold when you add it to the machine, don't keep your freezer bowl at room temperature for more than five minutes before adding your ingredients and turning your machine on, and wait until your ice cream is almost fully frozen before adding alcohol to the mix.

Fig and Honey Gelato

(adapted from The Perfect Scoop via Vanilla Garlic)

About ten large fresh figs (I used white figs)

1/4 cup water

1/3 cup sugar

1 tsp orange zest

1 tbsp honey

1/2 cup heavy cream

Remove fig stems and roughly chop fruit. Add figs, water, sugar, and orange zest to a medium saucepan, bring to a low boil, and cook for 10-15 minutes until the mixture thickens. Stir the pot occasionally, mashing up the figs as you go. Remove from heat, transfer to a container, and refrigerate for a few hours until the mixture is chilled through. Puree chilled fig mixture with heavy cream (which whips the cream... bellissima!), pour into your ice cream maker, and operate according to the manufacturer's instructions. Makes one serving for you and one pint for the freezer.

Mango Frozen Yogurt

1 ripe mango, peeled and cubed

1/4 cup sugar

1/3 cup orange juice

Couple of drops of vanilla extract

2 cups Fage 0% Greek strained yogurt

Add all ingredients to blender and liquify. Pour into your ice cream maker and operate according to the manufacturer's instructions. Makes one serving for you and one pint for the freezer.

I Couldn't Turn My Brain Off

"I'll keep remembering kisses from lips I've never owned, and all the lovely adventures that we have never known. One dream in my heart, one love to be living for. One love to be living for -- this nearly was mine." -- Rodgers and Hammerstein

I usually commute in a bubble. I'm aware of my surroundings, of course -- obliviousness is akin to a death wish in New York City -- but the hours I spend on the subway each day are my moments of zen. I read. I knit. I listen to music. I do the NY Times crossword puzzle. I play shoot-'em-up games on my iPod. I spend some quality time with my thoughts.

Today, I woke up to a thunderstorm. I threw together a new outfit better suited for rain, laced up my Chucks, shoved a pair of heels into my purse, grabbed the biggest umbrella I could find, and ventured out into the deluge.

Three quarters of a mile later, I arrived on the subway platform. I closed my umbrella, opened my purse, and faced every New York City commuter's worst nightmare. My iPod was still plugged into my laptop at home, as were my headphones. My pile of knitting was on the couch. My book was on the coffee table. My Moleskine was shoved between the pages of said book. I officially, horrifyingly, had nothing to distract me during my commute.

Hey, a seat! At least I can pretend to be asleep, though it's not nearly as effective a trick without my headphones. Can I keep my legs crossed? I usually feel bad keeping my legs crossed during rush hour because they get in the way of the people who are standing, but the train seems empty enough for me to get away with it today. No one is standing; I can definitely get away with it today. The guy across the aisle has the same headphones as me, but of course, he wouldn't know that because I LEFT MINE HOME. I have so much data entry at work, and it's going to suck -- I need background noise to tackle toxicity coding. Sweet Jesus, how am I only at 36th Avenue? This blue shirt looks terrible with my red DKNY cozy -- I feel like Superman. When I have a minute, I have to remember to wrap or tie it so it looks less like a cape. I wish I had the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound like he does; maybe I'd get to work faster. The original clothes I ironed for today looked a lot better than this does... very good things happened the last time I wore that shirt. [Censored.] WHY ARE WE STOPPING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAMN TUNNEL?! Please let it not be flooded, please let it not be flooded. Of course, just my luck, the stupid tunnel would be flooded on the day I forget my... never mind, it's moving now. Ah, it's nice to be able to powerwalk down the platform without having 900 snotnosed kids and their stupid backpacks in my way. Though that's only going to last for a few more weeks... better enjoy it now. SIX TRAIN ON THE PLATFORM! OUTTA MY WAY! Whew. I need to start running again; two flights of stairs and a thirty-foot sprint isn't as easy as it used to be. Why is the 6 empty? Do people just not come to work when it rains? I'd love to see my PI's reaction if I tried that... his roof blew off last year and he still came to clinic. Someone drew a mustache on the Kim Raver billboard. She's like Jerry's girlfriend on the Festivus episode of Seinfeld... really gorgeous when you look at her from one angle and frightening when she turns her head a certain way. No, I would not like an AM New York... did you say there's a Macy's coupon inside? Nah, it'll get soaked on the way to clinic.

I didn't feel like spending another half-hour with my thoughts on the ride home, so I snagged some looseleaf on my way out of work and wrote this blog entry on the N train.

Backwards

"No one can give you courage. No one can thicken your skin. I will not fail so you can be comfortable. I will not lose because you can't win." -- Jason Robert Brown

I went out to pick up breakfast with my father this morning. As is the norm on a weekday, Bagel Works was packed with patrons, including one twentysomething man wearing a backwards Boston Red Sox cap. Never one to miss an opportunity to needle a fan of a team that sucked for 86 years, Dad locked eyes with the man and smirked.

"Your hat is on backwards," said Dad.

The man gave a pained sigh. "Yeah. They suck."

Dad blinked, said nothing. The man paid for his order and left.

Jacked Up

"Two drifters off to see the world; there's such a lot of world to see. We're after the same rainbow's end. It's just around the bend, my huckleberry friend." -- Henry Mancini and Johnny Mercer

New York City experienced a heat index of 110 yesterday, but instead of spending the day in front of the AC in shorts, I braved the weather and the subway system to patronize the Union Square greenmarket. Most of the fruits and vegetables I examined looked pathetic and wilted because of the heat, but by some miracle, I found a basket of perfect red currants.

I brought them home and decided to turn them into red currant mini-muffins, but halfway through adding the ingredients to a mixing bowl, I realized that I was craving chocolate. So, inspired by my new favorite Lindt chocolate flavor and this amazing cake on Epicurious, I broke out the cocoa powder and a bottle of Jack.

I've been in a rut with baking experiments lately, but these mini muffins turned out amazing. The whiskey made the chocolate flavor more complex, and the currants provided a little pop of tartness in every bite. These tasted even better the next day, so I'd recommend waiting overnight before enjoying them (or, if you're impatient, leaving the tray in front of the AC for twenty minutes when they come out of the oven... not that I did that last night, cough). You can also substitute a shot of orange juice or espresso for the whiskey in a pinch.

Red Currant Mini Muffins... With Chocolate and Whiskey

3/4 stick salted butter, softened

2 tbsp olive oil

3/4 cup sugar

1/4 tsp vanilla extract

1 egg

1 tbsp baking powder

1 cup flour

1/4 cup cocoa powder

1 shot of whiskey

1 cup red currants, stems removed and washed

Confectioner's sugar, for dusting

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Beat butter, olive oil, and sugar until fluffy, then beat in eggs, whiskey, and vanilla. Add baking powder, flour, and cocoa powder and mix until incorporated. Stir in red currants. Spoon into greased or lined miniature muffin trays; cups should be nearly full. Bake for 22 minutes or until muffin tops are browned. When muffins have cooled, remove from trays, arrange on a plate, and dust with confectioner's sugar. Makes thirty miniature muffins. (This will also make a dozen regular muffins -- bake for about 30 minutes instead, or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.) These also taste better the next day, so patience is a virtue.

Trios

"You treat me like I'm a princess. I'm not used to liking that. You ask how my day was." -- Alanis Morissette

On my way to work yesterday morning, I shared a subway pole with three other women. They did not appear to know each other. All three women held books. One was reading The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, one was reading The Girl Who Played With Fire, and the last was reading The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest.

On my way home from work yesterday evening, I shared a subway pole with three other women. They did not appear to know each other. All three women were listening to iPods. One's iPod screen displayed the cover art of Glee: The Music, Volume 2, one's screen displayed Glee: The Power Of Madonna, and the last's screen displayed Glee: Showstoppers.

Photomosaic

"Don't you love farce? My fault, I fear. I thought that you want what I want -- sorry, my dear." -- Stephen Sondheim


I began writing this post in late 2008, saved it, and never published it. Tonight, while going back through all of my old blog posts to tag my entries by topic, I discovered the original draft and decided to rework it.

Instructions: Type your answer to each question into a Flick'r search. Using only the first page, pick an image. Copy and paste each of the URLs in the Mosaic Maker.

1. What is your first name?
2. What is your favorite food?
3. What high school did you go to?
4. What is your favorite color?
5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. What is your favorite drink?
7. What is your dream vacation?
8. What is your favorite dessert?
9. What do you want to do when you grow up?
10. Whom/what do you love most in life?
11. Choose one word that describes you?
12. What is your Flick'r name?


Most of these are obvious, but some ended up pretty strange. The bridge represents the color black. The ostrich indicates sarcasm. People with my first name like umbrellas. The ice cream is actually hazelnut gelato. And oddly enough, the coolest image associated with my answer to #3 was Rutila's version of the same photomosaic.


And yes, all of my past blog entries are now tagged by topic. Posts with recipes, music, the Yankees, soapbox rants, NYC stories, blatantly obvious double meanings, my many doppelgangers, etcetera ad nauseam all have a separate label in the sidebar, so have fun clicking.

Dinner With Friends

"I'm back with scars to show. Back to the streets I know. They never take me anywhere but here." -- The Weakerthans

I spent the weekend in DC, and to my surprise, the weather was mild and completely bearable. Of course, it was probably only bearable because it rained for most of Saturday. The rain didn't turn into a brilliant sunny day until late afternoon, so when that finally happened, I took a walk to the supermarket to grab some groceries for chicken cacciatore with farfalle, roasted broccoli, and bruschetta. Everything came together in an hour and I got a request to steal the recipes after we finished eating, so to make that process easier, I'm posting them here. Make the chicken first, then prepare the bruschetta topping, then make the broccoli, then finish preparing the bruschetta, then serve everything together.

Chicken Cacciatore with Farfalle

1 pound farfalle (bowtie) pasta

1 pound chicken cutlets

1 large (24 oz) can chopped tomatoes

Small basket of mushrooms, sliced

1/2 cup marsala wine

Five large basil leaves, shredded

1/2 tsp oregano

5 cloves garlic minced

1/2 large white onion, chopped

Pinch of salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Coat the bottom of a 9 x 13 baking dish with olive oil. Wash chicken and place in one layer in the bottom of the baking dish. Sprinkle on salt, pepper, oregano, and basil. Dump onion, garlic, and mushrooms on top of the chicken. Pour in the wine. Dump tomatoes on top of everything. Bake for one hour. Remove from oven and, using a knife and fork, shred the chicken into manageable pieces.

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Prepare farfalle as you see fit, then drain pasta and mix with chicken cacciatore. Makes a formidable vat of pasta that can easily feed four hungry people.

Bruschetta

Half a loaf of Italian bread, sliced into 3/4" pieces

1 clove of garlic

1/4 white onion

2 plum tomatoes, diced

5 shredded basil leaves

Pinch of salt

1 tbsp olive oil

4 tbsp shredded parmesan cheese

Cut the clove of garlic in half -- reserve one piece and slice the other. Combine tomatoes, onion, basil, salt, olive oil, and sliced garlic in a small bowl and allow to marinate for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Lightly toast Italian bread slices, then rub one side of each slice with the half-clove of garlic. Top each slice with a sprinkle of parmesan cheese. Toast slices in the oven or a toaster oven until the crusts brown and the cheese melts. Allow slices to cool, then spoon some tomato mixture atop each slice. Serves four as an appetizer.

Easy Roasted Broccoli

1 large head broccoli, washed, with stem removed

Salt, pepper, olive oil

Toss broccoli florets in salt, pepper, and olive oil. Place on a baking sheet and roast at 375 degrees for 15 minutes. Serves however many people are capable of eating a head of broccoli.

Three Slices

"My advice is stand firm for what you believe in, until and unless logic and experience prove you wrong... and there's no aspect, no facet, no moment in life that can't be improved with pizza. Thank you." -- Daria Morgendorffer

I spent my morning in SoHo with Rutila, and by accident, our shopping trip was perfectly timed from beginning to end. She caught her bus, I caught my train, we arrived at 10 AM when the stores were opening and the streets were blissfully empty, we arrived at Lombardi's Pizzeria when the place had just opened, and we finished for the day just when Broadway started to get crowded. In commemoration of the three delicious slices of calamata olive and spinach pizza each of us consumed, I'm writing about three slices of our day.

1. Because I'm a crazy woman when it comes to makeup, skincare, and hair products, I had enough Sephora Beauty Insider points saved up to earn a 500 Point Perk today. (You get one "point" in your bank for every dollar you spend. Yep, I have a problem.) Anyway, my perk was a little shopping bag full of Benefit Cosmetics goodies, including a sample size of BADGal Plum mascara. It's a warm purple color designed to enhance one's eye color, but since I live and die by black mascara and black liquid liner, I was naturally skeptical. Miraculously, it works -- my normally nondescript brown eyes looked wider and more striking than usual today.

2. I purchased two cotton tanks -- one black and one slate blue -- at Uniqlo. The cut and quality felt identical to the J. Crew tank I was wearing... and they cost $4.90 apiece. I'm not sure if this is an indication of Uniqlo's general amazingness or J. Crew's slipping standards.

3. As always, Rutila and I lunched at Lombardi's, the oldest pizzeria in America and purveyor of the best coal-oven pie you'll ever devour. We arrived when the shop opened and shared a dining room with a crowd of about twenty visor-wearing, fanny pack-toting tourists. This normally isn't a problem, but we soon discovered that these tourists were on a pizza tour. Meaning they were accompanied by an overeager tour guide who spent half of our meal loudly delivering a lecture on all the crap you never wanted to learn about pizza. We heard about the pizza of New York City, the history of pizza, the composition of pizza, and the importance of staying hydrated while consuming pizza. The tourists were given pizza journals to record their undoubtedly profound observations about pizza, took turns visiting the kitchen to see the coal oven where the pizzas are made, and were instructed to look at the bottom crusts of their pizzas to observe the charring patterns.

Naturally, Rutila and I guffawed into our Italian sodas the entire time. We then began to chuckle audibly when the tour guide demonstrated "the semi-fold method" of eating a triangle slice -- which, allegedly, is the only way to eat pizza like a true New Yorker.

Note that Rutila and I were using knives and forks to eat our slices... and you can't get more Noo Yawk than the pair of us.

The tour guide then confided that the semi-fold method works on a scientific level "because it changes the moment of inertia of the slice." Yep. Cue the huge, ridiculous belly-laughs which earned us at least one withering glare from the tour guide.

And in an example of why the universe sucks, the pizzeria's top review on Yelp is written by some out-of-towner who calls herself a NY pizza expert after taking the same tour we overheard today! Hence the reason why Lombardi's mediocre website, not Yelp, is linked in this post. Too much asshattery for my taste.

Crab Gravy

"I am on your side. This house is empty. We could cross the line... yeah, we could make a big mistake. The silence breaks and you hear me say, 'Don't go! Don't go so far away!'" -- Jack's Mannequin

It's summer! Summer equals fishing trips, which equals fresh seafood -- and, last weekend, summer equaled someone handing me ten feisty blue crabs in a Hefty bag. They were too beautiful to turn into crab rolls or crab cakes, so I cooked them, cleaned them, and decided to use them in a pasta dish. (This decision also meant that my dinner guests, not me, would be responsible for shelling those bad boys. Score!)

I made crab gravy last night, and since it's my favorite way of eating crabs that doesn't involve frying or mayonnaise, I'm sharing it here. This dish is a bit labor-intensive, but it yields a sweet, delicate, flavorful tomato sauce that can't be matched by any other method. Add a vegetable and/or a big salad and you've got yourself an amazing meal. This recipe makes a pretty huge vat of gravy, so definitely halve it if you're feeding fewer than four people. You can also substitute shrimp for crabs -- or three cans of lump crab meat for whole crabs -- in a pinch.

If you've never cooked and cleaned live crabs before, read this for a quick-and-dirty primer.

Crab Gravy with Linguine

Enough whole crabs to feed six people, cooked and cleaned

Half a large white onion

Six cloves garlic

1/2 stick butter

1/2 cup white wine

2 tbsp lemon juice

1 24-oz (1 lb) can chopped tomatoes

1 24-oz (1 lb) can pureed tomatoes

1 tsp chili powder

1 tsp Old Bay seasoning

1 tbsp chopped fresh parsley

Pinch of salt and black pepper

1 lb linguine

Chop the onion and garlic. Add to the largest pot you own and sautee in butter until the onions become translucent and the garlic starts to brown. Add white wine and lemon juice and simmer for five minutes, then add tomatoes, one cup of water, and seasonings. Stir well and bring to a boil, then add the crabs to the pot, submerge in the sauce, and cover. Cook for one hour, stirring occasionally.

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the linguine and cook to your preference. Strain cooked linguine into a large bowl and spoon crab gravy over the top. Feeds six hungry people, or four hungry people with leftovers. (You won't mind eating this one two nights in a row, though.) Make sure to have a nutcracker or a hammer handy so you can attack those crabs properly.

Frozen

"We had a drink in each cafe... you talked of politics, philosophy and I smiled like Mona Lisa. We had our chance. It was a fine and true romance. I can still recall our last summer. I still see it all." -- ABBA

When the weather is disgustingly warm (like it's been for the last few days), I get frozen yogurt cravings. Often. And since Pinkberry, Berrywild, Yolato, Red Mango and their ilk aren't located anywhere near me (and aren't exactly inexpensive, either), I sought an alternative today. I researched frozen yogurt recipes, I studied ice-cream making techniques, I brushed up on basic chemistry, and, miraculously, I created an absurdly easy fifteen-minute recipe that turned out one delicious serving of fat-free tart frozen yogurt.

Here it is, and you don't even need an ice cream maker for it. (You can still make it with an ice cream maker, of course -- simply mix all the ingredients in the bowl of the ice cream maker then process according to the manufacturer's instructions.)

Frozen Yogurt

1 level tablespoon sugar

1 tablespoon water

3 heaping tablespoons Fage 0% strained Greek yogurt

Two drops vanilla extract

Two sandwich-sized zippered freezer baggies

One gallon-sized zippered freezer baggie or one round coffee can with a lid

Two trays of ice cubes (or enough to half-fill the gallon Ziploc bag or completely fill the coffee can)

1/4 cup coarse salt

Add sugar, water, and vanilla to one of the small baggies, seal, and shake around until the sugar dissolves. Add yogurt to baggie, seal, double-bag with the second small baggie (removing as much air as possible) and squish with your fingers until thoroughly mixed.

Fill the large baggie or coffee can with half the ice and all the salt, place the baggie of yogurt atop the ice, then cover it with the rest of the ice. Seal the large baggie or can, removing as much air as possible, and roll it around for fifteen minutes.

Once the yogurt firms up, remove it from the ice and scoop or pipe it into a bowl. Top with whatever you want -- I used strawberries and honey on mine today -- and serve.

Incidentally, this was my first experiment using baggies, salt, and ice to make ice cream since fourth grade science class. Now that I know it works so well, expect lots more frozen dessert creations from me this summer!

Madman With A Box

"To hell with the 'raggedy.' Time to put on a show." -- the Eleventh Doctor

I haven't had to study for anything since I took my last college final two years and twenty days ago. I have a certification exam coming up in a few weeks, though, which means I'm currently calling all of my hard-earned and long-lost study skills into practice. I'm making slow progress on my huge stack of source material, but in the process, I've realized something horrifying: living a couple of blocks away from the Hungarian Pastry Shop and its bottomless coffee mugs during college ruined me for life, since I can no longer concentrate enough to study at home. As a result, in an effort to buckle down and get some work done, I've undertaken an unofficial tour of the coffee shops of New York City. And since the weather has been gorgeous, a lot of walking is involved.

Today, I walked a couple of miles to spend a few hours in my favorite bakery. I was dressed for a lazy Saturday, too -- dark jeans, high-top red Chuck Taylors, and one of my favorite t-shirts:

The graphic is a stylized portrait of David Tennant wearing 3D glasses in the 2006 season finale of Doctor Who. The episode aired way before David Tennant became a household name... not that the man in the image is recognizable as Tennant anyway. It also predates the show's popularity in America (and the Doctor's appearances on the sides of MTA buses) by half a decade. Point is, it's foreign, it's subtle, it's niche, and it's ridiculously obscure. Though I've worn the t-shirt regularly for the past three years, I can count on one hand the number of times someone has been able to positively identify the image's source.

Back to today's story. I studied at the bakery for a few hours, then I began walking to my next destination. Halfway down a residential block, I noticed an Orthodox priest walking towards me. How did I know he was an Orthodox priest? He looked exactly like the image that shows up on Wikipedia when you search for "Orthodox priest," robes, beard and all:

We locked eyes as we approached each other. I smiled and gave a little "good morning" nod. He gasped and pointed at my t-shirt. "That is my FAVORITE television show!" he exclaimed in a deep, heavily accented voice. After I picked up my jaw from the pavement, I told him that it was my favorite show, too. We then wished each other a good day and walked on.

I guess the Doctor transcends more than just time and space.

The Geeks Were Right

"Egghead boys with thin white legs. They've got modified features and software brains, but that's what the girls like." -- The Faint

Today is Geek Pride Day, America's excuse to dork out with impunity from ridicule. According to Wikipedia's description of the holiday, it's celebrated on May 25th in commemoration of the premiere of Star Wars on that date in 1977.

Appropriate, then, that I just encountered a woman on First Avenue trying to rein in a squirmy child. "Get back over here, Anakin!" she shouted. "Don't wander off! Anakin!"

No words. But I salute her for celebrating her geekery so boldly.


- Posted from my iPod Touch

What You Own

"I'm wearing someone else's clothes and looking better. I'm wearing someone else's clothes and feeling fine." -- Jason Robert Brown

It's finally warm enough for me to spend time outside without freezing to death and I actually left work on time today. Thus, when I got home, I dug out a pair of shorts and my Viva La Zvi t-shirt, laced up my sneakers, knotted my curls into a ponytail, and went for a brief run.

A couple of hours later, I took a good look at the shorts I wore.

They're black cotton, size medium. The label says "Discus." They're loose-fitting and, if the shape and stitching of the crotch is any indication, they were definitely designed with a man's anatomy in mind. The elastic band sits at my natural waistline and the hems end about three inches above my knees.

What's wrong with this picture? Working out -- sweating, turning red, getting winded -- makes me feel gross, so when I do it in public, I try to disguise the disgustingness by wearing incredibly flattering workout gear. Meaning my pants are skin-tight, my shorts are short, and my waistbands don't venture any higher than my hipbones. And today's baggy, high-waisted shorts with the mysteriously misplaced crotch seams do not fit that paradigm of hotness.

Which leads me to one regrettable conclusion: I did not purchase the shorts I'm wearing.

This in turn leads me to a second regrettable conclusion: I borrowed the shorts I'm wearing from someone and completely forgot to ever return them.

If they once belonged to you, my sincerest apologies. I'll happily send them home if you're willing to own up to them.

Now I Know Better

"Tonight, you arrested my mind when you came to my defense. With a knife in the shape of your mouth, in the form of your body, with the wrath of a god. Oh, you stood by me. And I stand by my belief." -- Gavin DeGraw

I graduated from college in May of 2008, and two days later, I started my first full-time job. My first week of work was spent in typical fashion for a career in science -- catching up on data entry, doing lots of literature searches, completing half a dozen web training programs, etcetera ad nauseam. I couldn't get through all of that without background noise and I couldn't justify keeping my iPod on for eight hours a day, so I turned to Pandora Radio for my music fix.

I don't remember the name of the Pandora station that occupied my workdays back then; I chose the music specifically for non-distracting background noise and it served its purpose beautifully. Every so often, though, a song would play that cut through my concentration and made me focus on the music. And every time that happened, the artist was always the same.

Gavin DeGraw. A cute guy with a grand piano who had albums on the charts for five years before I discovered him. And when that happened, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. If someone told me that Gavin was practiced in the art of telepathy and regularly rifled through my thoughts as a part of his songwriting process, I wouldn't doubt it. Not many musicians are able to sing lyrics that feel ripped out of my chest, or play instruments with the same passion or misery I'm feeling, or choose melodies seemingly orchestrated to my daily routine. I purchased Chariot during the first week of June and listened to it nonstop for the next two months.

Those two months were some of the most nerve-wracking, mindwarping, emotionally draining days I've ever experienced. I was settling into real life, meeting new people, and trying to balance what was left of college with my newborn career. I admitted attraction to someone who actually reciprocated -- hey, this never happens -- but I was powerless to do anything about it. A very good friend made a very bad decision and I took it too personally. I said some cautious hellos and one earth-shattering goodbye. Gavin and his piano were there to narrate all of it, to give a voice to my frustration, and to help me make sense of everything that was happening to me. He managed to awaken thoughts I didn't know I was thinking and feelings I never realized I was feeling.

The world kept turning. Things got worse, then they got better, then they got really bad, then they got better again. I gained a few new musical obsessions. My type and quantity of work changed, so I couldn't get distracted by Pandora's uncanny song choices any more. I fell for someone best described by Taylor Swift and Peter Cincotti. I left Chariot to languish on my iPod's ample hard drive.

Fast-forward nearly two years, to March 2010. Thanks to Rutila and her excellent taste in literature, I had the privilege of reading a collecion of essays called Heavy Rotation: Twenty Writers on the Albums That Changed Their Lives. Each author chose an album and crafted an essay around it, taking care to explain the music in terms of social impact, emotional relevance, coming-of-age, or inspirational value. The collection blew me away; the writers spoke about their subjects with the same reverence I often feel for favored pieces of music, and it heartened me to learn that I'm not the only lost soul who uses other people's lyrics to shove my own experiences into sharper focus.

I've tried to examine that tendency before. I've written about the poetry of Bob Dylan's songs, sang West Side Story in concert during a time when Maria's situation mirrored my own, borrowed a Jonathan Larson lyric that he had borrowed from Stephen Sondheim. I'd never penned an homage to a complete album, though, and reading Heavy Rotation made me want to try.

I was inspired. I was itching to write. I couldn't decide on an album, though. Sure, I have favorite lyrics -- they show up as the first line of every blog post I write, and they often express what's really on my mind far more frankly than my prose does. I have favorite songs that could easily inspire a blog post or two. Albums, however, stumped me. There's my all-time favorite album (Twentysomething by Jamie Cullum), the first album I ever bought with my own money (The Nylon Curtain by Billy Joel), the album that changed my personal definition of music (Jethro Tull's Thick As A Brick), and the album that I hated when I first heard it and loved a year later (the Les Miserables 10th Anniversary Concert). But I couldn't write more than a few sentences about any of them. They all told a story, but none of them told MY story. Or any story I wanted to tell, for that matter. I set the project aside and decided to revisit it another day.

My PIs were out of town last week, so I settled in to enter data and opened Pandora for background noise. I wasn't in the mood to listen to any of my more recent stations, so I scrolled down to the very bottom of my list and clicked on something random. An advertisement for Axe body spray aired, followed by a hushed, plaintive, nearly a capella lyric:

"You need a friend? I'll be around. Don't let this end, for I'll see you again. What can I say to convince you to change your mind to me?"

As Gavin sang about unconditional love in the face of rejection, I was transported to a lawn on a mild summer night, fighting desperately to stay calm despite the undeniable recognition that I was about to lose something forever. I turned off Pandora, fished my iPod out of my purse, and turned on Chariot for the first time in years.

The album used to serve as the theme music to my existence. Now it evokes emotions, sensations, and experiences with far more clarity than the mere act of remembering ever could. "I Don't Want To Be" fills me with blinding rage, utter betrayal, and just a little bit of disappointment. "Belief" recalls lying on a bare mattress on a bare floor in a bare dorm room in light so faint I can barely see what I'm doing but it doesn't really matter anyway. "Crush" makes me feel like I have a secret... sad, but in a nice way. "Follow Through" sends me walking home with a Silver Moon baguette in my hand, smug as all heck and anticipating the next step in my life.

As an exercise prior to writing this essay, I gave Chariot the American Idiot treatment -- I rearranged the songs to tell my story, added some narrative between the tracks, and made an iTunes playlist. Listening to it was like living it all over again... and it was all a lot better the second time.

Elements of Style

"Maybe it's been crazy and maybe I'm to blame, but I put my heart above my head. We've been through it all and you love me just the same." -- Neil Diamond

The fashion trends of spring 2010 need to die a quick, horrible death. But before I rant about why I can't walk into clothing stores without cringing any more, I need to define my own sense of style so you'll know where my feelings are coming from.

I have a typical southern European look -- dark hair, dark eyes, and an hourglass figure. Consequently, my current sense of style tends to recall the fashions worn by the women of classical Italian cinema. Sophia Loren, Gina Lollobrigida, and all of Fellini's women dressed themselves using a simple, flattering set of rules:

1. Wear curve-accentuating clothing to look sexy without showing too much skin.

2. Choose high-quality fabrics in classic silhouettes for a sense of timelessness.

3. Keep most of your clothing low-key and mix in a select few eye-catching elements. Use color judiciously to add dashes of drama.

4. Tailor your clothing to accentuate your best assets.

Though each of those women reached her prime more than fifty years ago, styles like theirs are visible on the streets of Rome to this day. The principles behind their fashions perfectly flatter women who look like me, and they're great guidelines for building a wardrobe that will transcend fads and pay for itself in the long run.

Their rules are amazing for me, in any case. I work in an environment where I need to dress conservatively, so looking good while keeping covered up has become an art form for me. My waistline is my favorite part of my body, so I like to show it off whenever I can. I buy quality items so they'll last me years. (Yeah, I indulge at H&M as much as the next woman, but I'd rather have one well-made Theory blouse than a dozen Abercrombie tees that will fall apart in the wash.) I wear a lot of black, grey and solid jewel tones because they complement my coloring, but I can never stay away from carefully chosen punchy accessories. I choose my skirt lengths, pants cuts, and shoe styles to provide the illusion of long legs and added height. And if something I own doesn't fit me perfectly, I get it tailored so it does.

So... what am I seeing when I go shopping lately? Neutrals and whites all over the place, which make me look pastier than I already am. Florals and big prints everywhere, which would be awesome if I didn't get lost in patterns. Blousy shirts and frilly dresses seemingly designed to hide the best parts of my body. Embroidery and fabric embellishments, which screw with my silhouette. Activewear, see-through shirts, and metallic lame, which look cheap and won't last me more than one season. Military jackets, which I've been wearing for years already. Clogs and Oxfords, which are ugly as hell. And, worst of all, SOCKS WITH HIGH HEELS, which is an easy way to make one's legs look six inches shorter than they really are.

Sophia would not approve. And neither do I.

Fancy Pants and Flooring Inspectors

"You fight like a dairy farmer."
"How appropriate. You fight like a cow." -- Orson Scott Card*

The sun is shining, the birdies are chirping, the cherry trees are blooming, the new series of Doctor Who premiered last night, and the ovens in my house are filled with delicious Easter cooking. In other words, the world is reborn.

And yet, today, I'm going to forego turning over a new leaf by writing about a man I used to have a huge crush on. I've outgrown it by now, but he still means a lot to me. He was prideful and slightly mean and a bit of an asshole, but he was smart, selfless, and deliciously sarcastic... not to mention sexy in an awkward, gangly sort of way. If you want to be melodramatic about it, I guess you could call him my first love.

It's been years, but lately... we've sort of reconnected. I've had the opportunity to spend some quality one-on-one time with him over the last few days, and though I'm older and wiser than I was when he first captured my heart, he's still a pretty amazing guy.

His name is Guybrush Threepwood and he's a pirate.

Hopefully a few of you will recognize his name from your own pasts. For those of you who do not, Guybrush Threepwood is the hero of the Monkey Island series of video games, where players can swashbuckle their way through various quests in a choose-your-own-adventure format. The first game in the series, The Secret of Monkey Island, was released by LucasArts on floppy disc in 1990. I met Guybrush in 1994, when I got my first computer.

Yes, 1994. Which implies 1994 gameplay and graphics. Which means that my first crush looked like this:

Suffice it to say, I didn't fall for Guybrush for his looks. I fell for him because he was a cool, confident smooth-talker who knew he was destined for greatness despite all evidence to the contrary. He could trade insults with masters and seamlessly toss pop culture references into normal conversations. He was clever and resourceful and could solve complicated puzzles with ease. He was still human, though -- bumbling and awkward and prone to making mistakes. And as if all of that wasn't enough reason to love the guy, he was noble enough to risk his life to rescue Governor Elaine Marley from zombie pirates. He was also secure enough in his own masculinity to fall in love with Elaine, even though she was smart, powerful, and never really needed rescuing in the first place.

After I sprayed the zombie pirate captain with root beer to win the game, I was rewarded with a glorious, pixelated, 256-color closeup of Guybrush Threepwood's face:

Yes, he's a hottie, but I was smitten long before I knew what he looked like. (And whether I subconsciously modeled my current hairdo on Elaine's is a blog entry for another day.)

I found an archaic CD-ROM version of The Secret of Monkey Island yesterday afternoon and played it yesterday night. It only took me a few hours to get through it, as opposed to the weeks I spent solving the puzzles when I was a child. It was just as funny, irreverent, and intellectually fulfilling as I remembered it, though, and the jokes and puns still sparkled with clarity and relevance twenty years after they were written.

Right after I vanquished the zombie pirate captain to unlock the portrait of Guybrush that used to make my nine year-old heart melt, I realized something astounding.

My sense of humor -- my wry, snarky, intellectual sense of humor that I adore and often use as a compatibility test -- is identical to Guybrush Threepwood's sense of humor. Both of us quip. Both of us make random remarks about inanimate objects. Both of us can switch from poetry to intellectual banter in a heartbeat. Both of us have a natural gift for rhyme. Both of us can insult someone so smoothly that they don't even realize they've been mocked. And, most notably, both of us enjoy peppering our conversations with quotes and images from old computer games, George Lucas films, and The Graduate.

My sense of humor is definitely on the quirky side of normal, but it's one of my favorite things about me. And since it came into being around the time I first met Guybrush Threepwood, I'm pretty sure he inspired it. Guess I just found another reason to love him.

* Yes, Orson Scott Card wrote all of the exchanges used in the famous "insult swordfighting" sequence of The Secret of Monkey Island.

Curves Ahead

"Picture-perfect memories scattered all around the floor. Reaching for the phone 'cause I can't fight it any more. And I wonder if I ever cross your mind... for me, it happens all the time." -- Lady Antebellum

I've started drawing again. I've also started reading a lot about New York City architecture and infrastructure. One thing led to another, and before I knew what was happening, I had a sketchbook full of this:

From top to bottom: Wallace Harrison's Metropolitan Opera House; Harrison and Fouilhoux's Trylon, Perisphere, and Helicine from the 1939 New York World's Fair; Eero Saarinen's TWA Flight Center (i.e. my favorite building in the world); and, of course, Frank Lloyd Wright's Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum.

Checking Out

"One day I'll be thirty. One day I'll be fine. One day I'll make fun of this dramatic life of mine. One day I'll be older and then I'll write a book about the choices that I made. If that's what it is, then that's what it is... at least until Disney can rewrite it." -- Jason Robert Brown

This endless New York City winter is starting to melt into spring, which means I'm craving chocolate egg creams more often than not. I took a long walk to Johnny Rocket's for my egg cream fix on Thursday, but today, I decided to pursue a more economical approach to egg cream creation.

Thus, I found myself in the supermarket during my afternoon coffee break, clutching bottles of unflavored seltzer, whole milk, and Fox's U-Bet to my chest. My chosen checkout line was unnaturally short -- the man in front of me held one bag of dog food and the man in front of him was purchasing a six-pack of Fiji water and a bottle of San Pellegrino. Perfect; I only had fifteen minutes to spare, and I had used five of them walking here.

I settled into my place (and a huge cart settled behind me, barring any hope of escape) just in time to hear Water Man say that he required delivery of his purchases. He needed thirty cases of the Fiji water and fifty bottles of the Pellegrino, you see. Fine, I thought; I'd only be delayed by the length of time it took for him to fill out a delivery receipt.

However, my cashier -- a veritable rocket scientist of a woman -- did not realize that modern cash registers possess the ability to ring multiples of the same item by scanning said item and keying "x 40."

Instead, she scanned the Fiji six-pack thirty times.

Then she scanned the Pellegrino bottle fifty times.

Then she squinted at the register screen for five minutes, poking at the tally with a pen cap, to make sure she counted correctly.

Halfway through her Fiji scanning, Dog Food Man and I exchanged incredulous glances. Halfway through her Pellegrino scanning, Dog Food Man and I traded a few snide comments. Halfway through her recount, I picked up a copy of the National Enquirer. Halfway through Kendra Wilkinson's struggle to lose her baby weight, Water Man finally departed and made way for Dog Food Man.

Dog Food Man was my companion in suffering during Water Man's debacle, so I respected him. That is, until he decided to pay for his dog food using a handful of quarters. At this point, I began to wonder if Dog Food Man and Water Man were conspiring to drive me crazy. Our rocket scientist cashier was no help to my fragile mental state, either -- she hadn't gained any mathematical proficiency from her earlier counting exercises, so it took her a while to figure out how much money Dog Food Man had handed her.

After wasting entirely too much of my life in that damned supermarket, it was my turn to check out. I swiped my card, bagged my own groceries, and got the hell out of there as soon as humanly possible. The cashier, in a rare moment of lucidity, seemed relieved to see me go.

Fake Tales of San Francisco: Day Five

"Come back from San Francisco! It can't be all that pretty when all of New York City misses you." -- The Magnetic Fields

03.08.2010

I'm trying to fit three pounds of sourdough bread, my new dress, two new books, and my coat in my suitcase along with all the stuff that actually belongs there. I gasp. I pant. I pinch and pull. I throw myself face-down on the suitcase lid. I pull some more.

Yes! Optimal atomic packing factor achieved!

I take one last walk around Union Square, grab a croissant from Boudin Bakery for the road, and end up getting to the airport obscenely early. There's a line at the security gate despite the hour, though, and as I get closer, I realize why: SFO uses full-body scanners.

I step in and lift my arms. The beam sweeps across my field of vision. I lower my arms and step out of the scanner.

Security guard quote: "Looks like you've got about sixty cents in change in your front right pocket, a twenty dollar bill in your front left, and a driver's license in the back. Show them to me and you're good to go."

As any self-respecting engineer can understand, this amazing application of technology makes me really excited and I ask her if I can look at my scan. She inclines her head towards the scan's monitor and I peek at the image. It's hairless, high-contrast, and naked, but it's undeniably me.

How cool is that?! I laugh, give an excited little hop, and turn to retrieve my bags from the conveyor belt. The cute hipster is standing three feet away, staring at me.

I wonder if he saw my full-body scan image. Never mind; don't want to think about it.

He definitely saw the conference title emblazoned across my messenger bag, though.

Two long-haired skateboard-toting teens sit next to me on the airplane. They spend the entire flight watching Real Housewives reruns.

Once again, I'm awake for five and a half hours. I read a little, listen to some music, watch Alton Brown add soy sauce to caramels and take a kitchen torch to a grapefruit. I read, edit, and rewrite two sets of notes in my Moleskine. Half of the pages detail technical information learned at the conference and half of the pages will eventually become five blog posts outlining my trip. Cute hipster is seated directly behind me, and it doesn't seem like he's able to sleep much either.

Eventually, I can see the lighted streets of the Rockaways out the plane window. A few minutes later, we touch down at JFK.

Cute hipster helps me retrieve my suitcase from the overhead compartment. I thank him and offer a sweet smile before exiting the aircraft. I know I'll regret not giving him my name or my card in the upcoming weeks, but right now, a smile seems like enough of a promise.

Do I think I'm ready to fall in love? Nope. But I'm getting there.

Fake Tales of San Francisco: Day Four

"I wasn't born there. Perhaps I'll die there. There's no place left to go, San Francisco." -- The Animals

03.07.2010

I'm an author on two of the posters hanging in the exhibition hall today. I'm still not used to seeing my name in print, so I take lots of pictures of both posters. I wonder if my colleague ever gets used to the fact that an entire classification system is named after him.

I'd like to see data on the prevalence of performance status overestimation.

The conference is over! I'm walking out of the auditorium for the last time. Someone with an instantly recognizable smile crosses in front of me, suitcase in hand, and walks out the hotel's front door. Crap; I was looking forward to that conversation.

Homeless guy quote: "You have a lovely face and figure, ma'am."

It would make too much sense to sell Muni fare cards inside the Muni stations.

It would make too much sense to have a place to swipe or tap said card on each turnstile, instead of being forced to wander around in search of a station agent to let you in.

It would make too much sense to have complete maps of the Muni on the walls of the Muni.

The Muni trains would also make the G train feel well-endowed if they ever had to pull out the rulers and measure.

Zuni Cafe for lunch. I came for a chicken roasted over a wood fire, but I can't eat one by myself and all of my remaining colleagues are vegetarian. Thus, I order a tuna steak with grilled escarole, baby potatoes, and a hard-boiled egg crumbled on top. I should crumble hard-boiled eggs on my food more often.

A light fish course calls for white wine, so I order a glass of Santa Barbara pinot blanc even though I prefer my vino red.. I can't believe how fresh it tastes. I spend a few minutes swirling the wine over my tongue, exhaling, trying to recognize the finishing flavor before I finally place it: green grapes. I drank a wine that tasted like grapes. Unbelievable.

My dessert was an espresso granita. An espresso snowcone. Frozen, chopped-up coffee with whipped cream on top. I must try making one at home.

My waiter is muscular and very handsome. And he is being incredibly sweet and attentive. Maybe because I'm in a classy restaurant by myself, furiously scribbling in a Moleskine between bites?

A small girl keeps kicking the wall next to me. The heels of her sneakers keep lighting up on impact. The whole restaurant is shaking.

Taking the trolley up the godforsaken hill is a lot easier than walking up the godforsaken hill. I think walking might be faster, though.

A street musician near the Cannery is pretending to play the guitar along with a recording. I wonder if he's related to the guy in Grand Central who pretends to sing. At least this guy isn't selling CDs of "his" music.

Never mind. He is.

Having a Girl's Night In on my last evening in San Francisco, complete with ice cream, a romance novel, and the Oscars.

What happened to Barbara Walters' face?!

Fake Tales of San Francisco: Day Three

"A heart floats in the Bay. I hear it beating far away. There's no telling what I'll do if I don't return to you." -- Alkaline Trio

03.06.2010

Thank goodness for my red Tsubo pumps and their sneaker padding. I can't even feel my blisters while wearing them, which is a necessity considering that I'll be spending my entire day walking around at the conference.

My calves are on fire, though. And don't get me started on how my injured knee feels.

The chairman of my department -- all six and a half feet of him -- sits in front of me during the first lecture. It's like trying to see a projector screen through a brick wall.

MD quote: "This is why your hospital is so good. You come here while your PIs are away. My study coordinator goes skydiving while I'm away."

The dosing schedule for BCG therapy -- six cycles -- was originally determined because each shipment of the drug contained six treatments. Hahaha.

Among the few women here, the style of the moment seems to involve long denim skirts and Clarks. I feel very chic in my little black suit and red pumps.

One panel session includes audience polling! And question asking via Twitter and text message! Oh, I love technology -- and what a perfect forum for it!

MD quote: "You've been voted off the island."

The epigenome changes as a function of aging, so examining methylation patterns for cancer predictors may not yield accurate results in elderly patients.

A young man with long platinum hair just sat next to me. He's wearing a white suit. He looks fantastic, like Draco Malfoy's guardian angel.

One of the speakers presents a painting of Adam and Eve with a diseased kidney Photoshopped over the apple. His point? Don't be tempted into performing a radical nephrectomy when a partial will do the job just fine.

Quote from several MDs: "I love your red shoes. Can you click your heels three times to go home?"