Ok, I have to admit that this is copied from emails to Peggy, my old PI, and Margot, but at least it’ll give you an update…

First, the aftermath of the police encounter.  A letter came in the mail, “I’m investigating your complaint.  There are several cases in front of yours, but make sure to call me as soon as you get this so that I have the most up-to-date contact information for you, &c.”  So, when I called and spoke to the investigating officer, he was actually quite sane and reasonable.  At first, he explained to me that the officers who work the late shift tend to get the craziest cases with students, and I wanted to tune him out because, HELLO, just because they’ve dealt with rude students (however many) in the past doesn’t mean they can be rude to US, especially when we’re being cooperative!  He did go on to acknowledge that the way we were treated was rude and unprofessional, and that it violated their code.  (Or something.)  I don’t think much will become of this, but it needed to be done.

This quarter, I’m taking two “real” classes  (DNA transactions, proteins), a student seminar, an invited faculty seminar, and a once-a-week class on “how to be a grad student.”  There isn’t that much to report on that front; the classes seem pretty standard fare, although my proteins class hasn’t gotten more in-depth than MCB 102’s protein section thus far.  We’ll see.

My rotation is in an Arabidopsis lab, where I’m getting to do benchwork as well as computational stuff, so just what I wanted!  My other rotations will probably be more computational, because I have to learn that more than labwork, so I’m enjoying the familiar for now.

I’ll leave with a story about  the program administrator for my department-

She’s one of those old battle-axe types; if you stop by her office, there’s no way to leave without talking for at least half an hour (and usually it’s an hour).  (Yes, I realize I’ll probably be like her in 50 years.)  By now, we’ve heard her standard spiels–the FDA is a conspiracy, Obama is turning America into Hitler’s Germany, evolution is bunk.  She’s a bit crazy, but the good thing is, she is always watching out for us.  OSU changed to a whole new computer system over the summer, which she doesn’t completely understand, but if she hits a roadblock, she calls the department and yells at them until it’s worked out.  Ha!  And as for setting me up.  Oy vey.

“Now, there’s a young gentleman coming; he’s also from UC Berkeley.  Do you know him?”
“Uh, I don’t think so, Jan.”
“He’s also Asian-American.”
“Oh, ok, Jan.”
“If you’re walking around late at night, he’d be good to have around, and I think you’d make a good companion for him.”
“Um.”

I have been remiss in posting, but here’s good news!  My travel buddy, Tiffany, a friend from high school, is not yet back in school.  That’s right, they don’t start until February!  Can you imagine!?  February. So, lucky for you (?), she has composed a guest post about our travels.  Without further ado…

—

Bonjour readers =) You are in for a treat today: a guest blog! This is Cindy’s good friend Tiffany and more recently, Cindy’s comrade on our fabulous trip to France. It was absolutely one of the best trips I have ever taken, and I highly recommend a trip to France to all those who have never been there. Heck, bring Cindy along too. Then you can relive my experience =P

So what is Paris like? Well, it is all Eiffel Tower, museums, coffee, bakeries, and shopping. Basically, everything anyone has ever told you about Paris. But despite all that I have ever heard, I still was not prepared for what Paris is really like. For one, it is a big city on a very small area of land. Walking from one end of Paris to the other, and I’m talking about edge of suburbia to other edge of suburbia, is definitely feasible if you’re willing to go on foot for probably 3 to 4 hours. Crazy right? I wouldn’t even dare dream about walking from one end of New York City to the other unless I had an entire day. French people are also an entire other aspect. Or maybe just people in Paris since those were pretty much the only French people I was exposed to. First of all, the French are not as rude as their stereotype. Or maybe I was just imagining egregious snubbing, in which case, it is not difficult to exceed expectations. Honestly, though, I found the French very friendly. They say hi to strangers, perhaps even more so than people in the United States. Then again, I’m so used to ignoring the people in my surroundings while at college that my personal experience is most likely a very terrible example to base off of. All I can say for myself is that I definitely said hi to more strangers in France than ever at home. Their fashion during the winter is definitely all drab, dark colors. Everyone in France wore black, gray, or dark shades, and that coupled with the rain, snow, and clouds was pretty dreary at first, but you get used to it. I’m sure it’s just a winter fashion thing because their spring lines came out while we were there, and the colors were definitely very spring-like.

Ok, enough about France for now; I don’t want to bore you ten sentences into this entry, so I’ll tell you about me and Cindy’s first, slightly amusing mishap. As a quick background, in France, Cindy and I stayed with a family friend of mine in a small suburb right outside of Paris called Issy les Moulineaux. It was actually a great location because we lived within 3 minutes walking distance of the train station. Train and subway is seriously the only way to get around Paris if you don’t want to walk, and the system is very good, though there are daily delays and quite a few “accidents.” I should probably also clarify the family friend aspect. We were actually staying at my mom’s friend’s ex-husband’s place in France. He’s definitely a character… Shu Shu is very cheap, as in frugal up to the point where it’s simply ridiculous. He’s been in France for the past year because his company in Taiwan sort of sent him out on this long-term business trip. I found him all at once to be absurd, amusing, annoying, and I guess my relation to him began and ended the same way after three weeks – acquaintances. I definitely relied a lot on Cindy to keep conversations going at breakfast or dinner. My Chinese is most definitely not as fluent as hers nor am I willing to maintain conversations, so Cindy was definitely a lifesaver. His wife, on the other hand, is really amiable and funny, so that was definitely a plus. Ok, but what of the mishap that I totally got off topic from? Alright. So it’s maybe three days into our trip and it’s something like 10 pm. I was lying in bed, about to sleep, and Cindy had just gone to the bathroom and was now brushing her teeth. A while later, she comes in and lies down, and we’re both laying there in the dark, listening to the toilet still run from flushing when Cindy then turns to me and asks, “Is the water still supposed to be running like that?” At the time, I was thinking the exact same thing because the water had definitely been running long enough to become noticeable. We both get up to inspect the toilet, and it must have been near midnight by now. I think we both might have been a bit nervous because we really couldn’t wake Shu Shu up to ask how to fix the toilet since it was late and he had work tomorrow. And besides, it’s kind of embarrassing having to tell your hosts that you broke their toilet less than a week in. It also didn’t help that it was at this most inconvenient time that I was beginning to remember that the other day, the drain on their bath tub was slightly clogged while I was showering. I mean, seriously, why not just pour on the bad news right? “Morning Shu Shu. Um… while you were sleeping, Cindy and I kind of broke the toilet, and your drain is now clogged. I kind of noticed it while showering last night.” It just would not have gone over well, especially since I suspect that the drain stoppage was due to mine and Cindy’s hair…

Anyway, Cindy and I decide to lift the ceramic cover on the back of the toilet. While she holds it up, I kind of start fiddling with the pipes and stuff inside. Eventually, we manage to get this central tube to disengage, and the water stops flowing and actually starts to accumulate in the tank. Hooray, we fixed it! Cindy puts the ceramic cover back on, and we happily go to the sink to wash our hands. Cindy picks up the bar of soap next to the sink and starts scrubbing her hands, and I offhandedly comment, “Oh, is that the soap you’ve been using?” She looks at me confusedly and responds, “Um, yes?” She then watches as I pick up this bottle on the other side of the sink with a blue clear-ish liquid, examining it while wondering aloud, “Wait, then what is this?” I turn around the bottle, which I had assumed was soap since it had the pumping type of nozzle, to read the label and was horrified to read something about daily facial cleansing something. “Oh my god! I can’t believe I’ve been using facial cleanser for hand soap!” Cindy proceeds to burst out laughing, and we hurry back to our bedroom. Not only do we manage to nearly break the toilet and clog the bathtub, but I had been using Shu Shu’s wife’s facial wash to wash my hands for the past few days. Cindy and I both agreed as we got back into bed that we would definitely not mention to them any of this, and we finally got to sleep a little before midnight.

Moral of this little story? None really. Just know that living with Cindy seriously isn’t that bad. There are definitely other tales I could regale you of Brussels, beer, and boys, but that might have to wait a bit as this story took a lot longer to write than expected. ~Tiff

4:15 PM me: hi
Cindy: hi.
4:17 PM this is what i see…
Punal is busy. You may be interrupting.
me: lol
oooo
oops
4:18 PM there
Cindy: hahahaha
who doesn’t?
4:19 PM me: exactly
wssup
Cindy: not too much
just getting ready to get ready to go out
haha
4:20 PM me: ohhhh
where u goingg
Cindy: what about you?
dinner with thursday plan, and then maybe a cookie party, and maybe a cocktail party
4:22 PM what are you up to?
me: im packing

4:23 PM Cindy: ohhh
you’re leaving…the 26th?
4:24 PM me: 25th!!!
4:25 PM Cindy: OH
4:26 PM me: yeah!!!!
4:27 PM Cindy: um
should we hang out?
haha
4:28 PM me: haha
4:29 PM if you wanan come over tonight
after you come back
from whereever you going to
varsha si coming over
Cindy: ok!
i’ll give you a call to make sure it’s ok
4:31 PM me: haha
k coo
4:32 PM Cindy: yay
4:33 PM me: when r u going
Cindy: i’m not sure
my friend’s going to call me
4:34 PM me: haha
okok
4:35 PM Cindy: interested?
4:36 PM me: in ur firend?
who is he/she
Cindy: hahahaha no, interested in dinner
4:37 PM it’s thursday plan
zach
me: oh
naw i gotta hit the gym
wth my friend mohammad
at 7
lol
4:38 PM Cindy: seriously?
4:39 PM also, is mohammad muslim? do your parents know!?
me: haha
my parents know
and mohammad is muslim
are hardcore
*and
Cindy: uh oh!
4:44 PM me: haha
why
Cindy: trouble trouble
4:45 PM religious strife
me: haha
Cindy: so i think i need to try to seduce my genetics gsi
4:46 PM me: how?!
4:47 PM Cindy: idk…i mean, i’m not very seductive
maybe he likes small asian girls…?!
we can always keep our fingers crossed
4:48 PM me: hmm
why dont you try
Cindy: i’ll TRY
but i’m not seductive
4:49 PM me: yes you can be
purr
purr cindy purr
Cindy: wow
that’s quite possibly the most disturbing thing you’ve said to me!
5 minutes
4:55 PM me: lol
sorry
he he he
4:56 PM Cindy: haha
but yeah
i’ll have to talk strategy with you
when next semester commences
and i start working my…lack-of-game
4:57 PM me: oh
no worries
we will talk
and stategize
Cindy: he’s pretty nerdy
me: and etc etc
easy
Cindy: maybe it’ll work in my favor
4:58 PM hahahahaha
but what if i’m not smart enough?
5:00 PM *sigh *
too difficult
me: ur smart neough
cuz u will use MY brains
5:01 PM Cindy: hahahahahahhaa
punal
you basically just said that my brains aren’t enough
5:03 PM me: hahahahha
oops
i didnt mean that
Cindy:
you so did
5:04 PM me: hahaha
NOOO
Cindy: which is fine
it just means that we’d BOTH have to date rich
5:05 PM me: i mean
i am
lol
Cindy: wait?
what?
5:07 PM me: i do date rich
5:08 PM Cindy: his name is richard
me: richard!?
oh
RICH
OH
Cindy: => rich
me: i get it
haha
Cindy: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
me: i thot u emant
like
5:09 PM date wealthy
hahah
Cindy: ppbt!

me: please put that on ur blog
lol
Cindy: HAHAHAHA you should
tonight
me: hahahahah
Cindy: i’ll come over
5:10 PM me: alrite fine
Cindy: and log you in
me: haha
kk
5:12 PM Cindy:
5:13 PM me: its pris happy birthday !
5:14 PM Cindy: aw yay!
are you guys celebrating?
5:15 PM me: she is in london
lol
so no
haha
Cindy: oh!
study abroad? pleasure?
5:16 PM me: i think pleaseure
before she goes to india
Cindy: oh! cool. how long will she be in india?
5:18 PM me: til
foroever
until school starts
haha
5:19 PM Cindy: aww
5:20 PM me: lol
Cindy: so my mom heard me on the phone with thursday plan just now
we were figuring out what to do for dinner
5:21 PM so she starts going, “we can all go to sweet tomatoes together!”
hahahahahahaha
me: LOL
oh wow
Cindy: that would be random as hell
5:22 PM me: haha
that would be awesome
Cindy: dude
i should bring him over to your house
duh
5:26 PM me: LOL
oh
wow
5:27 PM Cindy: so punal
you like to date rich, hm?
me: yes
i do
have a problem!?
5:28 PM Cindy: um yeah. because i want to date rich
hahahahahahaha
5:29 PM me: no
u want to date Rich
i just want to date rich
difference
thank you
come again
Cindy: hahahahahaha
come again? i sure hope so
5:30 PM ok i gotta go get ready
byyyye

Note the lowest rating!

I’m back already (as though this were synchronous communication, like instant messenger…)!  I left a voicemail.  I know, I know.  That’s kind of anticlimactic.  We’ll see how that goes.

Sidenote about anticlimactic:
I went to see BJ Novak perform stand-up at Cobb’s Comedy Club earlier this year.  Because I was sitting on the balcony (great view!), I couldn’t hear everything the people on the floor were saying.  At one point, though, he stopped and said, “What?  That was anticlimactic?  Man, I have the smartest hecklers.  That wasn’t a ‘You suck!’ no…*puts hand on chin* ‘That was anticlimactic.’”  As Joyce would say, hee!

—

At any rate, this was only intended to be a brief update on the Professorial Phone-Call.  I should really do something productive with the rest of my morning (I have class at 11).  This is the beauty of Daylight Savings Time–or, at least, Fall Back.  (I typically think like the tonal quality of “autumn,” you can’t exactly “autumn back,” can you?)  The first couple days after, you feel rejuvenated, and don’t mind getting up early-ish.

This is nothing like last week, when Joyce woke me up at SEVEN IN THE MORNING (I don’t care if you’re on the East Coast; you should know what time it is in California) to ask me how to play mah-jongg.

As promised, today I bring you a guest post.  Let me introduce you to my friend, Getty, a fellow linguist.  His email said: Here was what I have written up – unedited, really, just the raw ramblings. Tell me if it ought to be longer or shorter or less weird or what. I’ve been reading a lot of Neal Stephenson, which has a lot of overstatement, and I’m pretty sure that showed up there.

As you’ll soon see, though, the best version is the un-edited version.  So, without further ado, I give you, The Talk, Getty Version.
——————————————————-

It was never like sex was a secret at our house. As a young child, my parents would watch movies that other parents might attempt to censor well into a child’s teenage years, if only to avoid the awkward explanations of what those people were doing with sheets conveniently covering their naughty bits. Home videos reveal my grandfather – a coarse, often offensive old man with a salt-and-pepper moustache and a considerable belly from years of alcoholism – being frankly shocked by my mother’s candid discussion of breasts while my brother and I were nearby. And I suppose the real talk happened when I was very young – three, or four, I can’t remember – and I asked my mother at point-blank range.

“Mommy, where do babies come from?”

She looked at me and smiled, and explained to me that when a man and a woman want a child, the man inserts tab a into slot b and then the sperm hunt down the egg and so forth. She was, as a matter of fact, a labor coach, and thus had a great deal of knowledge about babies – not to mention the fact that she had two of them. She took care to explain that for nine months, the fetus develops, and then is birthed. I fixed her with my three-year-old eyes and told her, “I don’t believe you!”

I could go on and list other adorable children-talking-about-sex stories, such as when I offered suggestions for why my mother didn’t have a penis, or my brother’s misunderstandings about how cat sex worked, but that’s not really the point of this piece of writing. My parents weren’t overly protective, and they were always candid enough – however, they also had a somewhat odd sense of humor, which is why, when I was in eighth or ninth grade or so, my mother called me in to her room before the family retired for the night.

“I know you already know some of these things, but I feel like it’s my duty as a parent to educate you. So, I think we need to have The Talk.”

Already, I could feel every rational impulse in my head urging me to dash out the door, and most of the other impulses urging me to dash out the window. Against the better judgement of every conscious neuron firing in my brain, I sat down and nodded apprehensively.

“You already know about sex.” It wasn’t a question. It was fairly impossible not to know about sex. Even if the exact physiological details hadn’t yet been revealed to me, even if I had never put a condom on a banana, even if I had never seen a nude woman that was not on a TV screen or made out of marble, I knew quite enough that, should an occasion arise in which I would be called upon to save humanity by having sex (humor me here), I wouldn’t let my fellow human beings down. So, inasmuch as it was possible for a nerdy, introverted twelve-year-old boy, I knew about sex.

“Yes, mother, I know about sex.” Now the question was whether this was going to be merely aggravating or actually painful.

She thought, clearly trying to taking her job as a mother as seriously as possible. “Well, do you know about sixty-nine?”

I nodded, edging into a position where I could tumble backwards out the window, if the situation required it – which it did. “Yes, mom, I know about sixty-nine.” (Around sixth grade, I decided that mommy was too childish, and consciously switched to calling her mom in order to sound more adult and less reliant on her. I would on occasion use it in a pointed, almost patronizing way to let her know that she wasn’t mommy anymore – she was mom, and I was no longer her little baby. I would later do the same thing with mother.)

“I just feel like I haven’t been teaching you enough, like I’m failing as a mother. I need to teach you something new.” She adjusted her glasses and sat up a bit. A smile spread across her face – clearly, she had thought of something to teach me, something which I hadn’t known before. “Well, do you know about golden showers?”

“I’m leaving now,” I said. And I did.

And that was the Talk.

I’ve been back in school for three weeks now, but my BABY BROTHER is about to start college…yeah, the quarter system people are still on summer vacation.  I’d be more jealous if I didn’t also get out in May.  At any rate, because back-to-school sales are hounding us at every corner, I thought it was time for something more scholastic.

Coming soon: tales of The Talk.

That’s right.  Whether it’s abstinence-only sex education or its more promiscuous cousin, abstinence-PLUS sex education, many parents still feel compelled to give The Sex Talk.  I highly advocate this in families other than mine (something many children feel), as it opens the lines of communication, and let’s not get overly political here, but perhaps if there were more communication, we would have less need of “parental notification” legislation.  But, again, that is hotly debated and would be better stowed for another day.

In the meantime, I’d like to share with you some of my friends’ experiences with The Talk.  My parents bought me a book, and there have been mini-talks over the years, but never a full-on talk.  Others?  Much more entertaining.  Stay tuned.

Just a smattering of the dialogue in my life.  You know, kinda like a soundtrack, because I fail at music.

*     ~     *

Diablo Vista graduation speaker: Over the past three years, I have grown so much academically and physically.  When I entered 6th grade, I stood at a solid 4-foot-8.  Since then, I have grown 8 inches…

*     ~     *

The mother of the 8th grader I tutor: I wish I had a son, so then you could be my daughter-in-law.

*     ~     *

Lee Mama: Hm.  Your legs look longer in that skirt.
Lee Papa: Naw…still short.
Lee Mama: We’re talking about Cindy, not your legs!

*     ~     *

Lee Mama: So, are you seeing anyone?
Me: No.
Lee Mama: Why not?
Me: There just isn’t anyone I’m interested right now.
Lee Mama: What are you looking for?
Me: Well, you have to have a connection, and then you see how they treat you, and their friends, and their family, and what they want to do with their lives, and where they’d want to live, and…
Lee Mama: You think too much!  When I married your father, I did not know he wanted to leave the country!

In my planner, I’ve got “Judge class” entered in at 3:00 for next Wednesday.  Because I’ll be working the polls on June 3, I need to take a class on being a poll worker.  Not pole worker.  Not Pole worker, either.  The descriptions for the three positions (*snicker*) aren’t particularly clear on the website, but here’s how it works:

• The Inspector has the most responsibility
• The Judge has less responsibility, but more so than
• The Clerk, which is what I did senior year of high school

So, I get paid to take a class to be a “Judge” for the Alameda County Registrar of Voters.  Hurray for civic duties!  This isn’t really the reason for the title of the post, though.  Yesterday, I felt the judgment of an eighth-grader.

Some of my students are pretty chill.  Some of my students are Bad.  At life.  The student I had yesterday was not bad at life, but she was having a bad day–no, a bad two weeks.  Her boyfriend had broken up with her.  Bummer.  There’s the age-old (ha!) question: can middle-schoolers date?  They can feel deeply.  But, here’s the description: “He’s tall, blond, blueish-greenish eyes, really nice, really smart…”  Danger, Will Robinson!  Danger!  Also, apparently, just like her mother.  Um, that one’s a bit odd.  (By the way, Mik.  She’s about 4′11″, so 5′6 1/2″ isn’t ’short’ next to her.)

They went to the library at lunch, and he told her, “The reason I wanted to talk is because I’m breaking up with you.  And, I don’t think you should sit at my lunch table anymore.”  Yeesh.  That’s a tough one.  Well, I told her that it might work out in the future.  Or, it might not.  Either way, there are plenty of cute boys out there.  Some who might even be, you know, smart.  Or good in bed.  Wouldn’t it be nice if I knew some of them?

Oh, back to the story.

Me: Seriously?  You’re fourteen.  There’s no reason to commit yourself to just one person for the rest of your life!
Her: But he was my best friend.  And now we’re not even talking.
Me: I know that sucks right now.  Because you know what?  That’s awesome that you guys were so close.  Have faith that you’ll have more special relationships in the future.
Her: *sadface*
Me: Really.  You don’t have to be ready to commit in eighth grade!  I’m twenty, and I haven’t committed myself to just one person!
Her: What?  You’re twenty?  And you’re still single?

Audience?  That’s when I felt the judgment of a fourteen-year-old.

No, it’s not like I’m in seventh grade (my academic peak) again.  No.  I know why I threw up.

NO!  (Third ‘no’ of the post.)  I’m not pregnant.  But it does have to do with hormones.  Stay tuned for an awesome lack of TMI filter.  But, before I gross out all two of you, I interrupt the scheduled programming for my “mea culpa” to you:

I sketched y’all a little doodad.  That’s me.  Circa…oh, from the haircut, I’d say, 1992.  There’s a picture of me hanging over my desk with that hairstyle.  While I’m wearing a navy blue dress in that photo, the dress I MSPainted e’er so lovingly was a bit of artistic license.  I didn’t actually own that dress until several years later.  It was a lovely navy Laura Ashley dress with snowflakes.  (Note that the Wiki article includes an Audrey Hepburn reference!  At some point, I should return to my Audrey Admiration…but not in the same post as what I’m about to say.  I was about to say “entry” and corrected myself, using “post,” instead.  Such is the nature of blogging?)  I probably wore it to a piano recital sometime in my youth, so I’m sure there’s an actual photograph somewhere.  Oh, too bad I’m so lazy.

TMI ALERT!

Are you ready?  It’s not that bad, for those who are accustomed to me.  For those who aren’t?  Mea culpa [see above].

Long before puberty hit, back in the days when I read much more than I could pronounce, my mama bought me a book on Growing Up.  Actually.  Let me go check.  Dude.  It’s called Growing Up.  I checked the dust jacket.  Apparently, it cost £17.99.  We got it from the Borders at La Place in Beachwood, OH, so that probably wasn’t exactly what we paid, but, I mean, that was the going rate back in the day.  1995, I guess.  Today, you can get it for £11.50, which is either $22.13 or $22.82, depending on which site you check out.

Then, in 5th grade, we started the maturation unit in gym class.  (Yes, we called it “gym.”  Here in the Yay, it’s “PE.”  I wonder where “phys ed” is in vogue…?)  The girls were on one side; the boys, the other.  There was a heavy curtain/net/thingamajig in between.  We learned about…you know.  *Giggles*  JOKE!  (Not about what we learned.)  I’m not that immature.  Anyway, getting to the point.  In all those lessons about growing up, maturation, &c., all their descriptions of menstruation were so benign.  “You may experience some minor discomfort,” “there is some discharge,” whatever else.

Bull.

Shit.

I always had seven-day-long periods.  My cramps were horrendous.  As in, to the point of throwing up.  Once, I threw up in the middle of Eric Horen’s sax solo during A period jazz band.  Unfortunately, Eric saw.  I think it ruined his concentration a little bit.  There were also the days I woke up vomiting, but having nothing in my stomach meant bile-in-the-wastebasket.  Yeah.  Gross.  My mama made me drink an Asian herbal concoction for three days straight after each period.  Also gross.

The books/lessons taught us that cycles can be irregular, but that they’d even out after awhile.  So, when my cramps eased off, I thought, “Oh, cool.  I’m becoming an adult.”  (Ha!)  By the way.  Tampons are not my friend.  I thought I’d stick that in there (hardee har har) as well, as if this weren’t TMI already.

Well, it turns out the Period Fairy still likes to sprinkle his fairy dust all over my ovaries.  And that, my dear friends, is why I threw up Friday night.  The end.