Home

After nearly a month which started with hopping around from family's homes..

"Tibical" cookie decorating session

 ...to a beautifully glamorous wedding in Santa Barbara for one of my best home girls....

...to a less-than-pleasant week long stay with the dead beats at the Red Roof Inn on Route 1 in Lawrence, NJ..

eye....won't...stop...twitching...

 ...to a quick weekend in DC for my sister's slip n' slide-themed baby "sprinkle"....

...Followed by another week+ stay at the Holiday Inn Express, where life wasn't so bad because, hey, at least we stayed at a Holiday Inn Express last night, but even so after a week of batting the cleaning lady away so I could get some peace and quiet "working from home" in room 115, the farthest room from the front door, I could no longer take her dirty looks when she would not accept that "NO I WOULD NOT LIKE THE ROOM CLEANED TODAY, THANK YOU, GOTTA GO, ON A CALL, GOOD-BYE."  


Although on second thought, maybe we should have gotten the room cleaned, because what the heck are these bites on my leg?! They were not there last night..Hmmm.... uhh....

OMG DO I HAVE BED BUGS!?

Leave it to the Dr. to inspect 

...to we are finally living in a home that we actually own!!! (well we own a very small percent of it, but still!).

Along with all the stresses from months of house hunting, preceded by months of grueling job-searching and followed up by boxing up all our belongings, saying good-bye to good friends and neighbors, hiring movers, finding professional cleaners, finding temporary housing, driving a huge u-haul truck over the George Washington bridge, finding temporary storage, buying a car, dealing with lawyers, sellers, real estate agents, septic inspections, electrical repairs and the like, all while "working from an always changing home,".... I was also pretty stressed out about what would be our first new-home-owners photo.  It had to be good... blog-worthy!  I really, really wanted our first picture of our first legally-owned home to be of me in some daisy dukes, an american flag tank top and a coon-skin cap sitting on a John Deere tractro and Trevor with a plaid shirt and cowboy hat waving an American flag high... picture it now!

I was super grateful to find said American flag for sale at the Stop and Shop grocery store immediately after leaving the lawyers office after closing on the house and thought YES! it is a sign! Picture. Blog. Announcement. Boom!

Well it was a sign alright.. a sign that it is almost September 11th.  I got home and took a closer look at the flag and was disappointed (in a very mad then sad way) to find out that the flag is no ordinary American flag....but a 9-11 memorial flag...  with instead of white stars shining bright and proud, gray silhouettes of the towers are pictured as they once stood before thousands of Americans were murdered in the worst American tragedy of my time. And as much as I whole heartedly support America and its battle against terrorism, and I will absolutely never forget the events that took place during my first week of college life... I refuse to connect our first homeowners picture with such a sad, sad day....

And now what the heck am I going to do with this flag?  I feel too bad and guilty to try returning it.  I feel super weird trying to give it to someone. I don't really want to hang it up... So it is in the garage.  But hey, at least WE HAVE A GARAGE!

So we still haven't taken a new home owners photo, but perhaps we will soon when I have an even better idea and can manage to not screw it up!

In the meantime, here are some pics from the journey:

Saying good-bye is the worst!

so long 1137 Mass Ave.

Thanks for the memories!

Will miss the Donkey show crowd and proximity to Dunkin donuts!

Last time in a dirty coin-op laundry basement! Will not miss you!

Our beautiful little apartment

Key word: little

Let's get a move on!

Buy a car...check!

Anyway, I have been too busy to blog what with all the new exploring and experiments we have been doing in the new house... attempting to answer all the fun new scientific questions that come with owning a home like: What's this switch do? Where do you think that mark come from? What's this thing for?  Why's this making that noise? Is it supposed to work like that? Who should we call to fix that?  Is that still alive? And my personal favorite: What's that smell?

Another favorite... how do we keep these out of the house?

Trevor's new favorite treasure is a little, left-behind piece of gym equipment, which I took one look at and immediately thought "Oh hell no! that is going straight in the trash!".... But Trevor has a very unique talent for always seeing the good in things... He climbed right up on it, and gave it a try... I nearly peed my pants with laughter...Ok, ok! we can keep it!....for the nieces and nephews!... but it's staying in the basement.

Now that we are "settled" we have started a bit of decorating:

n

However, we have also kept some of the home's "original" charm... The previous owners were quite fond of the feline ....

Now we are all ready for our new nephew, Carstens, to come visit!

Professor-In-Training

Hoarder...Not High Maintenance

Oftentimes when planning a trip (and in this case an inter-state move followed by a brief period of homelessness) I seek out the wisdom of Spaceballs...

...PACK ONLY WHAT YOU NEED TO SURVIVE...

In this case not an industrial strength blow dryer but,

A ceramic horse head,

A bucket of old yarn,

Random wooden masks,

Wiffle ball bats,

Glow in the dark frisbee,
Glow in the dark football,

Thrift store Bob Ross paintings.

A collection of gold mirrors,
A cat-shaped plate,
A toy-sized VW Bug,
A Flowbee,

A Clapper,
A small tent, 

A large tent,

A dire wolf skull,
Multiple ceramic sugar skulls,
A picture-less frame,
An oversized purple thermos,
An old clarinet,

A new violin, 

A shiny trumpet,
A fresh electronic scale which tells me daily to "STEP OFF,"

Three guitars of varying condition,

A box of tiny bird houses,
A zebra print ottoman,
A Macho Man poster, 

A Beatles mirror,
A life-size wall decal of Yao Ming,
An overpacked costume box,
A shopping bag of wine corks,
Recycled glass jars of various sizes, 

And most importantly, that 30 year old teddy bear.... 

AND I CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT THEM!!!

Flying Stinks, But Hope Floats...And Stinks

I have become a fairly seasoned traveler if I may toot my own horn for a bit.  I am not really trying to brag about traveling, as it is not as glamorous as it has once seemed, all the packing and unpacking, missed connections, and forgetting chargers; rather, I want to highlight my pride in controlling my traveler's anxiety.  I used to despise flying alone and I have finally begun to master the art of unashamedly avoiding eye contact and pretend sleeping, which has greatly improved my travel experience.  Here are three good reasons why I much rather keep to myself when traveling:



Reason #1:

Loud public conversation overheard from suited-up businessman on his cellphone in the airport terminal:  "I thought she was a hooker... she was all dressed up and had all this money and I don't know why money doesn't make her happy, but I guess it's because she's not my wife...."  

I hate you....and your wife.





Reason #2:
Conversation with flight staff after getting off the plane and walking into the terminal:

Airline staff: "Cold out there?!"

Me (trying to be honest): "Ummm it looks like it, but I don't know, I could only feel a little breeze getting off the plane..."

Airline staff (with sassy attitude): "Well aren't you lucky you little jet-setter, living the life, going to all these exotic places!!  I wish I could be you, even if just for the hair!"

Okkkkk, thanks crazy lady, gotta go, Bye!



Reason #3

Semi-empty plane.  Young hipster dude sitting in the aisle seat across from my aisle seat enthusiastically says this as the middle-seat passenger next to him gets up to move to another vacant seat after asking the fight attendant if it is OK:

"There are up sides to not wearing deodorant or showering for 5 days."

Then he gets out a deck of cards, starts shuffling and looks back and forth from me to the uninterested window seat guy next to him and says "Anyone wanna play poker?"  

Ummmm, No, but I want to barf all over you!

And since we are now open to dialogue....

"GO IN THE BATHROOM AND WASH YOURSELF IN THE TOILET, YOU FRIGGING DISGUSTING SLOB!  YOU CAN AFFORD THIS PLANE TICKET YOU CAN AFFORD TO TAKE A SHOWER!!! NOW I AM NAUSEOUSLY STUCK NEXT TO YOU FOR THE NEXT 6 HOURS OF THIS CROSS COUNTRY FLIGHT WITH POOR AIR VENTILATION.  YOU ADMITTING TO YOUR AWFUL HYGIENE IS CRIMINAL!!!  YOU SHOULD BE INCARCERATED AND TORTURED FOR VIOLATING THE LUNGS AND NOSTRILS OF THESE 100+ INNOCENT PASSENGERS.  I HATE YOU."

Deep breaths...no wait....bad idea....



My last travel date was fairly uneventful in the flight frustration department.  We visited our good buds, Kevin and Serena, who were recently married in Australia. Kevin, as you will remember, was our second third wheel for awhile.  Serena, as you may recall, was a random girl at a bar that I drunkenly/jokingly picked out to be Kevin's new girlfriend, and 5 years later...they got hitched!  So yes, next to Serena and his mom, I am Kevin's third favorite/most important person in his life.

At their wedding party I recited a poem, which was inspired by Bob Saget's Old English folk song, that I wrote for them while on the plane to meet them:

This was my poem for Kevin and Serena (sing it like Bob while you read it):

Kevin's our third wheel who has the best of luck.

   We hoped he could find someone he'd like to

Spend time together doing nothing at all.

   So I hand-picked Serena cause she wasn't too...

Scared off by Kevin's crazy looks and fun fam.

   When she showed up at Thanksgiving, I think we all thought "God

this is exciting! Wonder what will come next?"

   Then she drove home and we all thought "maybe they will have

great times in the future!"  Then they started to kiss.

   We were scared to tell Serena that her boyfriend drank

something from the bathroom that wasn't a beer.

   But she didn't mind and she stuck around proving Kevin's not

incapable of finding a girl who'll judge him

   for who he is, and not what he drinks, let's cheers to Kevin

and Serena, a match made at a bar.

   But who's love for each other is felt near and...

AFAR is where Serena landed her first real sweet job.

   And she traveled round with our third wheel who wasn't 

aware of what he should do to help an absurd

   situation that started with Serena's floating

hope for a partner with good plumbing skills.

 Congrats to the newlyweds, here's to many more thrills!

Dear Schnepners, You are welcome!

Bloody Mary Never Flossed

I floss my teeth religiously.... about twice a year around the holidays.  I kid, I kid.  I only floss them twice a year around my dentist appointment time.  Usually my dentist appointments go something like this:

1.  I forget about flossing my teeth for the 6 months ahead of the appointment.

2.  I remember the night before that I should floss my teeth so I don't get yelled at.

3.  Regardless of my pathetic attempt, I still get scolded for not flossing my teeth because what has one day of flossing actually done?  Nothing.  It has not helped at all, the disgusted look on my dental hygienist's face has me guilted into thinking I am a horribly disgusting human being because I do not floss my teeth...

4.  After the dentist appointment  I floss like a lunatic for the next three days thinking about how great and healthy I am, and why am I not like this all the time?

5.  Eventually, while flossing too close too the mirror a big goober of tartar  or a piece of the evening's meal flings off the mini-tight rope wire and catapults onto the mirror, or worse, my face... Then the floss is in the trash can and no more flossing for me for the next 6 months.

You can judge me as you wish, but to me flossing is annoying.  Maybe I am doing it wrong, but I cannot seem to avoid slobbery hands, slobbery chins, and flinging gunk everywhere.  Plus it is super boring.  By the third tooth I am so over it.  And staring at my teeth tends to give me nightmares about my teeth falling out  (which makes me think I should floss my teeth more....or maybe just get dentures)

Regardless, I just had a dentist appointment and had the good sense to put a weekly reminder on my calendar so I could start flossing way ahead of time and avoid the usual judgement and embarrassment.  As my dental hygienist sat down and started picking at my teeth, I was very proud that that she was halfway through scraping my top rack before even saying anything.  I was even more smug when her first words were "Wow, I can tell you have been flossing!....."  (yes!! personal victory is mine).  My cheeks warm with delight in her obvious praise.  But then she furrows her eyebrows.. "eh"....."hmmmm".........."Maybe you have been flossing .....hmmph....too hard?"......."There seems to be a lot of blood"......"How often did you say you floss?!"

I consider lying and telling her that I floss every day, because anything less than that and I know she will be disgusted.  But, she seems very concerned.   If I am bleeding this much and she thinks I floss every day, then she might suggest something even more crazy, like gum graft surgery. Personally, I would rather floss.  I decide to tell the truth.  "I don't usually floss, but I started to a few days ago (because I knew you would make them bleed, and I knew you would tell me to floss, so I was hoping to get the blood out and have them scarred over before I got to you and it obviously has not worked, Satan Lady.  Sorry I will floss two weeks earlier to trick you next time...)"

I call her Satan Lady appropriately because after I tell her the truth about my bloody gums being likely due to lack of flossing (and her being brutal), she says "I don't know.. I am not sure if they should bleed so much....I am going to do a little test..."  And her little test was to stab every tooth and gum juncture repeatedly with a scalpel to watch how much it bleeds.  And if the amount of blood produced did not satisfy her, she would stab it again, until she was convinced that there is too much blood.

The dentist eventually arrives, takes one look at my vampire teeth,  and refers me to a gum specialist.

I hate dentist appointments even more than flossing.

The Problem-Prone Parking Lot Panty Dropper

For most city residents living in a first floor apartment the view out the window is oftentimes a wall, a dumpster, or a view into your neighbor's bathroom.  We lucked out with our apartment.  Our windows look out onto a church and its parking lot.  The church is old, so it makes for a pretty view, and the church also seconds as a dance studio, which makes for good people watching.

The down side to living next to a parking lot is that oftentimes the car sirens go off for no reason, or big huge tow trucks with loud engines and  blinking lights tote away illegal parkers in the middle of the night, or people leave their cars running with the exhaust pipes leaned up against our windows stinking up the place.  One exciting morning last weekend I was lying in bed staring out the window watching the snow fall when I heard  a huge smash, what sounded like a car accident.

I sat up in bed and was not disappointed: a sleek black Audi had plowed into the cement post lining the parking lot entrance.  The four-foot tall post was now blocking the sidewalk.  After the driver backed into a spot right outside our window, he got out of the car to assess the damage.  He was wearing a sweatshirt and looked cold, as it was technically freezing out and we were right in the middle of a blizzard.  He got back in his car and a few moments later the police show up.  The driver spoke to the officer, who inspected his car, and assessed the damage to the cement post, the more talking.   The cop writes some things down and leaves.  The driver gets back in his car to stay warm.

A few minutes later the driver emerges from the car with a small fluffy dog on a leash and walks it around the parking lot.  I feel very bad for the guy and his dog and I consider bringing him a cup of coffee or hot chocolate.  Just thinking about this potential act of compassion makes me feel like a good person.  How nice am I to think of helping others who are struggling with such a cold and frustrating day.  I am so kind.  I am a saint.  I call Trevor over to the window to have a look at the beat up car, the knocked over cement post, and the sad man and his poor shivering dog.  I tell Trevor about my idea to make them some hot chocolate to help brighten their day.

He has a look outside and then says "that guy's car has a bumper sticker that says 'panty dropper"

What the hell?  Are you serious?! What a pervert!

I then hate him tremendously for a) having such a pervy sticker, and for b) being such a bad driver, and for c) leaving his car running while our apartment fills up with carbon monoxide.  No way am I bringing a self-proclaimed 'panty dropper' hot chocolate.

An hour or so later a tow truck shows up and as the car is still running the technician goes to jump start it.  We are so confused as to what is going on.  After putting the cables away, the tow truck driver drags a still running car up on to its platform and ties it up.  We yell at the window to turn for the people to turn the car off, but to no avail, the tow truck drives off with the Audi tale pipes still smoking.  Now I hate the panty dropper for d) being a crappy environmentalist.  A+ job everyone.

Turn off the car!

Later the next day we get the blizzard of the century.  There is no one on the roads except snow plows.  We accumulated about 3 feet of snow with huge snow drifts burying cars.  We went for a walk later in the evening to find snow piles well above our waists and people skiing down the street.

Why would anyone drive in this weather?

We come back home and are sitting in our living room when we hear the vrooooom, vroooom, vrooooooooom of a car in the parking lot.  It goes on and on for a while this vroom, vroom, vroooooom-ing so I finally look out the window and see a car stuck in the parking lot.  It is well after midnight.  No one is around.  The guy is shoveling away around the tires, then trying again vroom, vroom, vrooooooooom non-stop with the wheels just spinning and spinning and spinning.

I make Trevor get on his boots and we go outside to help (this is convenient because I can 1). actively put an end to the noise that is driving me nuts and 2). feel like I am doing a good deed in the process).   We walk up to the car as the guy is fiercely shoveling.  We say "Hey can we help give you a push."  The guys says "That would be great, thanks!"   The three of us shove the car back to the road where it can get some traction and I nearly fall on my face in the process because the car was so easy to move I barely had to push.  A job well done.  He says "Thanks."  We say "No problem, have a good night" and head back inside.

On the way in Trevor  and I talk about how easy that was and we wonder whether that guy had even tried pushing the car as he really didn't seem to need our help.  He was a big, strong guy.  Then  Trevor asks if I realized who that was.  No, who?  It was indeed our favorite parking-lot-friend-in-distress, that infamous panty dropper....

7 Days in the Life of 30-Year-Old-Nothing

"Today my greatest accomplishment was removing a splinter from Trevor's foot.  It felt pretty good... for the both of us."

"Today I almost ate chocolate out of the garbage can.  Keyword: almost."

"Today I mistook the blood blister on my hand for chocolate and tried to lick it off.  I was equally terrified by 1). the surprise of licking my hand and finding out my chocolate meal was an injured part of my body and 2). my lack of judgement to just go ahead and attempt to consume something brown on my skin assuming it was yummy chocolate left over when after taking an extra second to think about it after the fact, when was the last time I ate chocolate?!.   What if it was poop!?  I would have ate it, I guess."

"Today I was getting a pedicure for my sister's wedding.   I was waiting for my pedicurist to attend to my tootsies and after soaking them in scolding hot water she finally came around, grabbed my feet from the hot tub,  took one look at at my toes and exclaimed  "O-ma-ga, long feet!"

"Today the neighbors across the hall knocked on our apartment door when Trevor was not home and invited me to their party on Friday night.  I gave them a non-committal thanks-for-the-invite-I'm-not-sure-if-I-am-busy-or-not type of answer.   Then as we were parting ways they asked me if I was Jewish."

"Today I went to the grocery store and at the check out counter the cashier asked me if I go to Harvard.  I said "No, but my husband works there..." The clerk says they would need to see his ID in order to get a discount.  I asked how much the discount is and they replied 10%.  I respond with "Well I guess I better send him shopping next time!"(thinking I am super funny).  Nobody laughs.  I leave."

"Today Trevor figured out what smells like a dirty-rotten-butt-hole-of-a-month-old-decomposing- body in our communal apartment hallway.  I used to work in a morgue and I can 100% attest that this smell is very synonymous with rotten life.  I contemplated calling the police and checking up on all the neighbors to assure they were all still alive and not dead and rotting.  Then Trevor came home and said he was sniffing through the packages lined up at the entryway where the smell is the absolute worst.  There he found a packaged from www.plated.com/ (a company sends you every ingredient you need for a meal and delivers every so often).  Whoever is in apartment 36 is going to be thoroughly disgusted when they get home from vacation and find a box of rotting food on the doorstep."

Haunted by Homeless

Cambridge, like many big cities, is full of people on the streets trying to sell you something or asking for money.  Let me first say, that I have no idea what is the ethically correct way to handle homeless people.  Should we give them money to buy food or whatever they need?  Or should we not give them money assuming the donation would just fund their meth habits?  I have no idea.  But if I did  hand out cash, I wouldn't be able to pick and choose who to give what and there are so many homeless people, I would go broke pretty quickly.   I also honestly never carry cash on me so I can legitimately say, "sorry, I got nothing."   I have become pretty good at avoiding eye contact with strangers and walking right on by (again, I am not sure if this is something to be proud of).  However, there is the occasional non-street person who says 'excuse me' or 'have a nice day' or needs directions, so I am not totally cold to everyone all the time.

One day a young, student-aged fellow comes up to me and says "Excuse me, miss!"  and I am thinking I dropped a glove or that he genuinely has a question he needs me to answer.  So I turn and give him my attention.  He follows up with:

 "Are you as awesome as you look?!"

Startled by his weird question, I look down and see he has a clipboard (red flag). The clipboard, the way he approached me, his weird question...... I come to the conclusion that he has an obvious alternative motive and I will not have any of it.  I will not give in to being bombarded by a sales pitch on the street and so in answer to his question I dishonestly respond:

"No"

He laughs

I walk on by.  Obviously, I do think I am as wonderful as I look and I appreciate him for recognizing my awesomeness (although I am sure he says that to EVERYONE).   I am however, willing to lie about self-esteem to avoid being guilted into signing up for monthly donations to Planned Parenthood.



Another day I walked passed a bum who was talking to a Harvard student saying "...so this guy walks into a bar..."  I look at the homeless man's sign.  It reads "Bad jokes!  4 for $1."   I wanted to wait and listen to the next three jokes, but I thought the bum might ask me for money...I did not have any cash on me and I did not want him to think I was enjoying his services for free.  So I kept walking...




Just recently, I was walking up the stairs out of the subway, or "the T" as the locals call it, and was moving pretty quickly when a grouchy bum yelled at me.  He sounded enraged.  His accent was similar to Chris Rock and his delivery was comparable to Christopher Walken.  He barked at me:  "Giddy up, ...jingle horse!!! ......Pick up, ...your FEET!!"  He was so loud and mad,  that my primary goal was to run away and then secondary to that I could figure out what he said.  As I double-jumped the steps to get some distance from the disgruntled character I sifted through what I thought I heard,  'Did he just call me a 'jingle horse?' ... What the heck is a jingle horse?' ... It took me a second.  Then I understood the reference.  He was just singing a Christmas song.



Yet, another day I walked past a garbage can with a young man sitting in it like a recliner chair with his legs hanging out.  Aside from the image of him sitting in a public garbage can, the man did not seem all that homeless.   He was holding a sign that said: "Extra Cash for Man in Trash?"



I drew you a picture:

Click Here and Listen to Faceman's song 'Fitting In' (its about garbage cans)

Clever....Funny.....I also did not give him any money.   But I did appreciate his humor.  At least for a minute or two.  After a few more blocks I started to get mad about this man in the trash, because "what if I had a piece of garbage I really needed to throw out?!"  Get out of the garbage can, come on, mister!



I have since expanded this man-in-the-trash image with my own creative take. Now every time I take out the trash to the communal apartment dumpster, which I imagine some bum has turned into his own private bedroom, I have an irrational vision that I am about to hit this fictional sleeping bum in the head with my dripping bag of garbage.  And that he is going to yell, jump up, and run after me.   It hasn't happened yet.  Let's hope it never does...

Google Ga-Ga

I recently signed up for a google voice number so I can call people for free over the internet (you should do it too, and google should pay me for saying that).  Google voice has a great feature where if someone leaves you a voicemail, google will write down what it thinks the person is saying and send it you you in an e-mail.  This is about how well it works...

Trevor's voicemail:"If you own server. So if you can, in replying. From Paris blowing you. But we can gain You know what I need to know is that checking bags in your Be Gone Wild with both checked bags. It's only 2003. Both of the bag. Maybe I'll just do it The this. Hey, gimme a call back when you get this thing, but I wanted to put it right."


At least they got the "gimme a call back" part right, although I would have needed to do that anyway.

Airport Amnesia

I did it again.  I arrive at the airport.  Print out my bag tag and bring my suitcase over to the bag drop area.  The lady behind the counter politely asks to see my ID and questions me "And what is your final destination today, Mrs. O'Grady?"  I freeze.  Where the hell am I going?!  What month is it?   If I could figure out the time of year, then I could remember who is getting married and could then remember where they lived.  Or I could determine if it is a holiday and then I could guess NJ.  But Trevor would definitely be with with me if it was a wedding or NJ.  Solo travel is usually reserved for work.   However I don't travel for work anymore... hmmmm

Right when I feel down right terrified that my brain is lost, the neurotransmitter reaches the synapse and the memory is released...  It is January.  The holidays are over.  Trevor has work to do.  I am not going to a wedding..."Uhhhhh, I am going to Wahsington DC"   to visit my niece for her baptism.  The lady stares at me as I obviously look and sound as crazy as I feel.

This same situation happened to me about a month before, again while I was flying alone.  I walked onto the airplane and took my middle seat in between a middle-aged woman at the window, and an older, balder construction-worker-looking man in the aisle seat.  As I sat down the man introduces himself by saying:

"Oh good, I was worried I was gonna have to sit next to a fatty!!"

I instantly know more than I want to about this jerk:  1. he's a talker, and 2. what he has to say is downright awful. ...  The passengers have not even finished boarding yet.  I pull out my book and put on my head phones.

A few rows ahead of us a guy is attempting to fit his suitcase into the overhead compartment.  It requires a bit of shifting around of the luggage that is already in there. It was not an especially large suitcase and it is not really holding up the line for any considerable length of time   It is not really anybody's place except the flight attendant or the guy behind him in line to say anything.  But Mr. Jerk next to me starts yelling "It's not gonna fit!!!  It's gotta be under 22 inches!!  You're gonna have to check that, buddy!! Come ON!!!!"  The passenger fits it, gives my friend a nasty look, and takes his seat.  Mr. Know-It-All-Rule-Enforcer starts going off to me about what an awful guy that passenger was... "some people...that guy's an asshole"

Moments later a young college girl in the aisle across from Mr. Know-It-All-Rule-Enforcer throws her coat and purse on her seat and starts putting the handle down on her rollarboard suitcase in preparation for heaving it overhead.  Mr. Know-It-All politely asks her if she needs help with that.  To which she genuinely replies "Aww, no, but thank you."  The girl was tall enough to reach the overhead herself. She was not handicapped.  She had help if she needed it, but she obviously didn't need it and respectably didn't want it.  But Mr. Forced-Chivalry can't help but pop out of his seat and release his seatbelt like his butt is on fire and in one swift move he has snatched the suitcase out of her hands while it was over her head and nearly knocks her to the ground in the process.   As he buckles back in after the assault, he leans over and says something to me like "always happy to help."

Deep in my book, I nod, avoid contact, and pray he shuts up.  Now that everyone is boarded, he has run out people to harass, and digs into me.

Mr. Forced Chivalry: You fly a lot?

Me: Sometimes.

Mr. Forced Chivalry: You from Boston?

Me: At the moment....

Mr. Forced Chivalry:  Where you flying to today?

Uhhhhhhhhhhhh ..... .............Go through the list:  Thanksgiving just happened, Christmas is coming up but not yet here.  It is not NJ.   Trevor is not here.  So it is not likely a wedding and I am not flying for work...  This flight is going to Chicago... But my finally destination is????.......

DENVER!  I am going to Denver!

Again, after an appropriately awkward amount of time passed with me staring up at the ceiling seemingly without a thought, I then excitingly scream where I am going as if I just proudly figured out the $1 million dollar double jeopardy question.

He seems to be taken aback by my strange response, which, if he were a normal person, I would be totally embarrassed, but I instantly realize the advantage of him thinking I am a crazy, weirdo.  Maybe he will leave me alone.  He gives up on questions about me, and turns to small talk....

"Did you see the pilot of this flight is a woman?  Can you believe that!?"

If I was not stuck to this guy for a considerable length of time, I might have tried a different approach.  I do still regret not ripping him a new one.  Instead I close my book. Close my eyes.  Turn the music up.  And pretend Mr. Sexist does not exist.








Mental Health Disclaimer:
Before you get too concerned about the status of my mental capabilities, let me assure you that this has only happened to me twice in my life and both times happened when I am flying alone at like 6am, which is technically 3am for normal people since I am usually on California time.  3am is dream time.  My brain is asleep and not used to questioning at this hour.

The Harvard Women of Science Couch Club

1. Per the suggestion of a fellow Harvard affiliate's wife, I joined the Harvard Wives' Club.  It is actually a spouse club, but it is full of women.   The first meeting I attended was right before Easter.  It was a two hour meeting from 4-6pm.  Everyone, except me, was from another country.  We painted Easter eggs the whole time.  There was no alcohol, but it was pretty fun.  Although a little awkward at times (however, that could have easily been me, goofy and insecure in a room full of new people),  I still enjoyed myself.   I did not show up to the second meeting though, because I had work to do.  My French friend was a little worried as to why I really did not show up. She might have been a little unsure if I was actually working or if it was because we painted Easter eggs the whole time.  I really did have to work though.  And I really did enjoy painting Easter eggs.  But my friend has since moved back to Paris and I have yet to go to another meeting...



2. I also joined a 'Women in Science' club.  Because why not? (My friend convinced me to do it)... One night they hosted this event that can best be described as speed dating for science careers.  The event was geared toward networking opportunities.  There were about 15 or so professional women with different types of scientific careers and a crowd of about 100 young people.  Although the event was targeted for the ladies, they did not exclude the dudes, so there were a few guys in the audience as well.  Every 10-15 minutes everyone would switch tables and discuss a new career with the hosting professional.  The conference room was full of fresh, ambitiously youthful and earnest ladies who were passionately preparing to explore grad school programs, or students who were finishing up grad school programs and were just so full of excitement and anticipation of what their future life as a woman in the real-world scientific community would be like (seriously it was sickening).  And then there was me,  jaded old been-there-done-that-don't-care, Julie, looking for someone or something to spark a flame of interest.    I sat down at the first table, and since the speaker was late, the rest of us started small-talking...

     "Where ya from?"

     "What do you do?"

     "What do you want to do?" etc.

The only man in the crowd, who looks like he is in his 30's,  mentions that he currently works for Amgen.  Around the table the girls' eyes light up...

     "Oh WOW Amgen?!"

     "That must be a great pharmaceutical company to work for!"

     "You must love it there, huh?!"

 The guys looks around the circle in subtle disbelief, and  responds with a semi-sarcastic, slightly irritated, but 100% realistic tone...

"Well, I'm here, right?"  .....  Hello, my been-there-done-that-don't-care, new best friend!





3. From the recommendation of my Dad, I looked up Tom Lehrer.  He was a Harvard-educated math nerd from the 1950's who wrote hilariously appalling songs, like 'Poisoning Pigeons in the Park.'  Think of him like a vintage-version of Weird Al Yankovic.  The guy is funny and clever and a pretty talented musician to boot.  We watched just about every single video of his we could find on youtube and you should too.  Here are a couple of our favorites:

This is a quick and easy one:

Block off the next hour.  This is worth watching all the way through:

Bonus: It is in Copenhagen!

Now if only there was a Harvard women's youtube-watching club.... I could get into that!

Plunger Planning 101: Do Some Push-Ups First

My husband (who I will from here on refer to as Mr. T for identity protection reasons) is trying to find a real grown up, professional job.

The other day he had his "job market talk" where he presented his favorite research paper in front of his whole department.   Mr. T has been up late all week in preparation for this presentation.  He has been staying at work past midnight, he has pulled a few all night-ers, he has not been living the most relaxed lifestyle.

As you may recall from a previous post, we live in a very old apartment with very old plumbing.  Just as a hair nest from an apartment above can block a drain in the tub below us and flood all the floors underneath, the same situation can occur with the toilet.   The morning of the presentation Mr. T uses the bathroom uneventfully.  He leaves the bathroom, continues to work on his presentation at his desk, then returns to the bathroom an hour or so later and well...  I realized something was up when I heard a sincere "oh sh*t!"

I, the good wife knowing he still needs to shave, finish up his work, and get himself to campus in the next 20 minutes, tell him not to worry about it, to sit back down, and to finish his presentation.  I then head to the bathroom to take control of the situation.   The water in the toilet is full to the brim (thankfully the water is clear).  There is a good amount of water on the floor already as well....

Hmmm where do I begin?  Should I start plunging the toilet?  Or begin with drying up the floor? I decide that if I start plunging the toilet, I will make more of a mess and the floor will get even wetter.   There is no point in drying the floor until the toilet has been cleared.   I mash the plunger into the toilet bowl and a niagra falls of water splashes out.  Soaked and startled, I pause my plunging attempt and reassess whether or not this was a good idea.  A good inch or two of water had overflowed out of the bowl.   I stand and ponder how to make my next move without making more of a mess.  I then watch in horror as the toilet refills and starts spilling over the edge once again.  The water will not stop running!

Not knowing how to shut the water off and not wanting to bother Mr. T, I quickly hit panic mode.  I scramble for the nearest bucket I can find and start scooping the toilet water out of the toilet an throw it in the sink.*  I work fast enough where I can get the level down far enough in time so I can repeat my plunging efforts without overflowing.  I grab the plunger again, but it is made out of such a thick and sturdy rubber that I cannot even get the darn thing to push down.  Am I too weak to plunge a toilet?!

The toilet water reaches the brim yet again.  It is at this point,  as the water begins to flow like niagra falls again, that I realize my approach of "oh-don't-worry-let-the-big-strong-wifey-take-care-of-the-toilet" has embarrassingly back-fired.  I return to my bucket approach as I curse myself for not being strong enough to plunge a toilet.  Maybe if I get mad enough about that fact, I could acquire some sort of enraged, feminist she-hulk strength...  Nope.... I pause to think of other options.  I could feasibly:

1 - scoop all the water out of the toilet then
2- put on my shoes, grab my keys and coat then
3 - scoop all the remaining water out of the toilet again and then
4 - quickly run to the convenient store next door and buy a new plunger and
5 - run back home and fix this thing...

But could I do that without Trevor knowing? .... And as I think of the logistics of this plan, the water overflows again and I snap...

"TREVOR!!! I NEED YOU NOW!!!"


*Side note: I read this blog post aloud to Trevor and when I got to this part about me scooping water out of the toilet and throwing it down the sink, he was thoroughly shocked and horrified.

Is There Winter in Hell?

Last winter during the long, dark, cold Northeastern winter that is about to rear its ugly head yet again,  I remember making myself leave the house to venture off into the frostbitten air to walk down the street and grab a cup of coffee, some fresh air, and humanly interactions with the fine folks at my favorite coffee joint.  On my way to Dunkin Donuts a homeless man says to me "Hey, nice hat!"  It was the first conversation I had had in weeks (besides Trevor) and I remember feeling a spark of excitement like "Hey someones talking to me!  This is a great way to meet people, all I have to do is leave the house and people will talk to me!" Then I remembered thinking...this man is homeless.  He is not exactly new-best-friend material.  And he likes my hat...now what does that say about my fashion sense? ...  I am never leaving the house again.

It was a rough winter.  At the end of the winter I visited Brooklyn to see my Uncle who is a Roman Catholic priest.   He had had a bad winter too.  In the aftermath of one of our weekly snow storms, he slipped on the ice and tore all sorts of things in his knee which required major surgery, casting, and crutches.

A month or two later he is healing, but not 100% walking yet.  Springtime has arrived and my Uncle is hosting a party for my Grandma's 91st birthday.  The whole family is hanging out around his apartment when we decide we should go for a walk around the neighborhood to enjoy the lovely weather.  Because he still cannot walk very far, we rent my uncle a wheel chair from the local pharmacy around the corner.  Big, strong, coordinated me offers to push him first.  We cautiously make our way through the awfully uneven sidewalks of Cobble Hill.  I was pretty nervous (like usual) and attentive at first, but about a block or two into it I started picking up my confidence and we start picking up speed.  I enjoy my new found strength, fearlessness, and pride for about 10 more feet... Right as I am thinking about how all the people passing us on the streets must think I am such a saint for helping this poor, injured priest, we hit the mother load of all cracks.

As the front wheels hit the six inch divot in the sidewalk at cruising speed, we abruptly stop dead in our tracks.  I nearly throw my wounded uncle out of the wheel chair from behind.  My poor, Catholic priest uncle gasps in pain and grabs at his knee as I responsibly hold back from screaming  "oh sh*t" or  "what the f@%#" or "holy cr@p."  I mentally remind myself not to cuss using the word "holy" in front of a priest as I move on to my next line of exclamation words which I deem safe and appropriate and cannot help from blurting out a big ol'  "Jeeezus Christ!!!"

Before I even finish pronouncing the "t" in "Christ,"  I remember who I am talking to (doh!) and follow up with a sincere "Oh my God!  I am so sorry!"  (double doh!)

I am going to hell.  At least the winter will be warmer...

The Absolute Beginner

Last spring, I decided to take a violin class called "The ABCs of Violin for the Absolute Beginner" because why the heck not?  I have a violin.  And I would consider myself an absolute beginner, as I have absolutely no idea how to play the darn thing. The adult education center down the street offered a relatively affordable class, so I signed up.  Unfortunately the day I thought 'I should take violin lessons' was the day after the first class.  I emailed the instructor to see if it was ok that I missed the first class.  She said "of course it is fine, give me your money and show up!" 

Turns out the first class of any lesson is absolutely critical.  I show up to the second lesson.  I remind the teacher that I missed the first class and I take a seat in the very back.  The instructor starts off the class asking everyone to show her how they hold the bow and violin (i.e. what they learned in the first class).  I cheat off the person next me.  Then the teacher says "Ok, let's turn to page 5...and a 1 and a 2 and ready and a go!"  Everyone starts playing an awful version of Mary Had a Little Lamb.  Try as I might, it is impossible to cheat.  Are you kidding me?!   I move my bow (without actually touching the bow to the strings) in a motion that would make an unintelligent child believe I was playing the violin.   I cannot even guess at a note.  Realizing I am not fooling anyone, I stop and sit still like a dumb-dumb. I wait for the embarrassment to end as my face pools up with blood and my lunch starts climbing towards my throat.  I should have made it to the first class...

This is what adult beginner violin class sounds like:

My first homework assignment for violin class was to buy a shoulder rest and come back properly equipped.  The instructor recommended a music shop in Boston... someone she knows personally.  My teacher is a professional violin player, and this music shop she suggested is a store for super professional symphony players.  I show up in my hobo clothes and K-mart coat with my mediocre pawn shop violin which the smug little man tactfully insinuates is a piece of garbage.

The pompous violin guy proceeds to give me a tour of his grandiose violin factory and repair shop, showing off his $5,000 bows and symphonic accomplishments.  He casually reminisces about this one time when he was talking to some mathematical genius guy who makes violin strings and asked him about his business and then explained how this MIT wizard went on and on about how he figured out exactly how the angle of the string should be when it is pressed down and how that is related to the tension in the string which is determined based on the ...angle... frequency...waves...emittance...  sin. or..... cos sin of the angle between the bridge and the string when you press the string down ....

At the end of his story, the chubby store owner exclaims, "Isn't that soooooo SEXyyyyy?!"

 No.  No, it is not.  You're an idiot.  And you need to find yourself some normal friends that will call you out on this non-stop, persistent pompous ranting.  Of course I do not say that.  I give him an awkward, uncertain, "yeaaa, that's great," buy my shoulder rest, and get out of there.

In the meantime on the walk home, I can't help but wonder where is the violin shop for the absolute beginners?  For violin-ers who just want to know how to play a little bit and not be a total presumptuous jerk about it, where do we go?  We should not have to be subjected to such abject snobbery.

After my second lesson, my violin teacher told me I was the most improved from last week.  As the saying goes.... when you are an absolute beginner, you are at rock bottom, and the only place to go, is closer to the mediocre beginners.

Good Food, Baaaaaad Taste

A few days ago Trevor and I had a last minute date night.  After a couple has been together for nearly a decade, date nights go something like this:

9:45pm on a random Tuesday evening:

Partner #1 (enters the apartment, stressed after a long day at work):  "Sorry I am really late getting home from work."

Partner #2 (is in the same position on the couch since 11am): "I don't really care I have been in my pajamas all day."

Partner #1: "Did you eat dinner?"

Partner #2:  "No, I didn't feel like cooking, so I just ate chips.  Did you eat dinner?"

Partner #1: "I ate not too long ago but I'm a little hungry."

Partner #2:  [doesn't feel like cooking...] "Want to have a date night?"

Partner #2  changes into socially acceptable attire and the pair head out to try the local Venezuelan restaurant.  They split a couple of delicious plantain-based appetizers and then split the yummy lamb chop special.  The tender juicy taste of the melt in your-mouth baby lamb meat sits very well with Partner #1 who asks "what kind of meat is this?!" Partner #2 replies "It is lamb chops."  A few silent minutes go by as the seemingly starving couple focus on devouring the delicious meal.  Partner #1 has subconsciously drifted to lala-land starts belting out Tom Tom's sweet encouraging words to Bo Peep who has lost her sheep from Babes in Toyland:

 [Excellent movie. I highly recommend it]

Halfway through the second line.."Neverminnnd Bo Peep, you will finnnd your shhhheeee..." Partner #1 cuts himself off with a sheepish grin.  Perhaps it is not the most appropriate song to sing as we chow down on baby sheep.   We had a good chuckle about the inappropriateness of it, then I thought to myself "I should get back to blogging."