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.