Hard at work
You look familiar...
A well-built snowmanTuesday, December 29, 2009
There'snow Place Like Home
...and nothing better than having the ability to build a GIANT SNOWMAN.
Hard at work
You look familiar...
A well-built snowman
Hard at workYou look familiar...A well-built snowman
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
May I Offer a Suggestion?
Dear TSA,
I want you to know that I appreciate what you do. Really, I do. Some people may whine and moan about 3-oz liquids, shoe removal, and the fact that the $4 bottle of water that you just bought at the only airport shop outside of the secure area cannot come with you through security, but I understand. It's to protect us. Minor annoyances, once you look at the big picture.
I also appreciate the diligence you employ when scanning the loads of baggage that we've dumped mercilessly into your hands. Most of us are just crossing our fingers that our luggage will follow us all the way to our destination, but you have to take that extra step of actually figuring out if there's anything threatening within the mess. Not an easy job, considering how confusing those x-rays can look.
Now, I understand that x-rays can only be so good; sometimes it's necessary to physically search the bag with your own hands. Sometimes it's because you think there might be something suspicious, but other times it's simply a random search. I'm beginning to wonder, however, just how random the selection process is. In the past two years, every time I have checked bags, I've received one of your nifty little "Notice of Baggage Inspection" pamphlets as a surprise gift waiting for me when I open my bag after finishing my travels.
It doesn't bother me. Why should it? Usually the only differences between before and after inspection are the placement of the zippers and the inspection notice. Harmless. I would, however, like to offer you a bit of advice. I have gotten packing down to an art -- an art. No, not intentionally, and I don't even like packing, not one bit. Problem is, I have a tendency to overpack. If you could see the pile on my floor of the stuff that I want to take with me on my trip, you'd laugh; there's no way it will all fit in your bag!, you would say. But oh, I have gotten so good at it. Roll this sweater here, stuff these socks into those boots, allow the center to be just a bit higher than the sides because of the physics of the zipper, and then -- and here's the trick -- sit on it. Sit down hard, squeeze down the sides, struggle and pull and sweat and yank until the zippers finally meet. It's a wrestling match, woman versus luggage. I always win, but not without a good fight.
I have a feeling you don't want to go through this trouble. If you were actually inspecting the contents of my bag by hand, I would guess that the contents would inevitably be shifted, to a certain extent. But they never are. I have a feeling that once you open it up and look inside, you immediately recognize that it's not worth the effort, stick in one of your little pamphlets, and then struggle and pull and sweat and yank until the zippers finally meet again. So here's my advice: Just say no. Don't do it. Save yourself the physical and mental exhaustion that are my luggage.
I'm only telling you this because I think you're genuinely nice people who are doing us all a big favor by keeping us safe. Now I'm trying to reciprocate that favor. Next time you see one of my bags passing through, save yourself the headache. Or, if you choose to go ahead and open it anyway, just remember that it's an art. Don't beat yourself up too badly if it takes a team of five to tame and subdue those stubborn zippers.
Yours Truly,
Michelle
p.s. I would also appreciate it if, in the future, you didn't steal my hairspray. Thanks.
I want you to know that I appreciate what you do. Really, I do. Some people may whine and moan about 3-oz liquids, shoe removal, and the fact that the $4 bottle of water that you just bought at the only airport shop outside of the secure area cannot come with you through security, but I understand. It's to protect us. Minor annoyances, once you look at the big picture.
I also appreciate the diligence you employ when scanning the loads of baggage that we've dumped mercilessly into your hands. Most of us are just crossing our fingers that our luggage will follow us all the way to our destination, but you have to take that extra step of actually figuring out if there's anything threatening within the mess. Not an easy job, considering how confusing those x-rays can look.
Now, I understand that x-rays can only be so good; sometimes it's necessary to physically search the bag with your own hands. Sometimes it's because you think there might be something suspicious, but other times it's simply a random search. I'm beginning to wonder, however, just how random the selection process is. In the past two years, every time I have checked bags, I've received one of your nifty little "Notice of Baggage Inspection" pamphlets as a surprise gift waiting for me when I open my bag after finishing my travels.
It doesn't bother me. Why should it? Usually the only differences between before and after inspection are the placement of the zippers and the inspection notice. Harmless. I would, however, like to offer you a bit of advice. I have gotten packing down to an art -- an art. No, not intentionally, and I don't even like packing, not one bit. Problem is, I have a tendency to overpack. If you could see the pile on my floor of the stuff that I want to take with me on my trip, you'd laugh; there's no way it will all fit in your bag!, you would say. But oh, I have gotten so good at it. Roll this sweater here, stuff these socks into those boots, allow the center to be just a bit higher than the sides because of the physics of the zipper, and then -- and here's the trick -- sit on it. Sit down hard, squeeze down the sides, struggle and pull and sweat and yank until the zippers finally meet. It's a wrestling match, woman versus luggage. I always win, but not without a good fight.
I have a feeling you don't want to go through this trouble. If you were actually inspecting the contents of my bag by hand, I would guess that the contents would inevitably be shifted, to a certain extent. But they never are. I have a feeling that once you open it up and look inside, you immediately recognize that it's not worth the effort, stick in one of your little pamphlets, and then struggle and pull and sweat and yank until the zippers finally meet again. So here's my advice: Just say no. Don't do it. Save yourself the physical and mental exhaustion that are my luggage.
I'm only telling you this because I think you're genuinely nice people who are doing us all a big favor by keeping us safe. Now I'm trying to reciprocate that favor. Next time you see one of my bags passing through, save yourself the headache. Or, if you choose to go ahead and open it anyway, just remember that it's an art. Don't beat yourself up too badly if it takes a team of five to tame and subdue those stubborn zippers.
Yours Truly,
Michelle
p.s. I would also appreciate it if, in the future, you didn't steal my hairspray. Thanks.
NYC, Christmas-Style, Take 2
After getting through exams, my classmates and I experienced a collective puzzlement: "What do we do now?" The answer, as always, was to go into the city. Here are a few more pictures of holiday-style NYC, including the blanket of snow that made the city look like a postcard.
Busy travelers at Grand Central Station
On Saturday afternoon, the snow began to fall as we shopped in SoHo.
The Macy's window displays were like museum exhibits.
The city somehow seemed calmer after the snowfall, as if everyone just wanted to take some time to look around and enjoy themselves instead of the usual rush.
Who knew that New York could be so peaceful?
Busy travelers at Grand Central Station
On Saturday afternoon, the snow began to fall as we shopped in SoHo.
The Macy's window displays were like museum exhibits.
The city somehow seemed calmer after the snowfall, as if everyone just wanted to take some time to look around and enjoy themselves instead of the usual rush.
Who knew that New York could be so peaceful?Friday, December 11, 2009
NYC, Christmas-Style, Take 1
Emily visited last weekend, which provided an excellent excuse to ditch studying and hang out in Manhattan. I'm currently panicking about the upcoming exams along with everyone else, so further exploring of Christmastime Manhattan will have to wait until next weekend, but here are the highlights from last week:
We took the Staten Island Ferry as a great (free) way to see the Statue of Liberty while avoiding being in the cold rain as much as possible.
Not the nicest day, but always an impressive sight
Manhattan loomed mysteriously in the distance.
A trip to Macy's at Christmastime is a must...
...and apparently the rest of the city thought so, too.
No trip to New York is complete without a visit to Rockefeller Center.
Angels guarded the pathway to the tree.
Even though we were soaked and cold from our endless trekking through the city, we were excited to see the giant Christmas tree!
Typical science nerdiness: A giant tree/shrub/wreath (?) shaped like a dinosaur, outside of the Museum of Natural History
We took the Staten Island Ferry as a great (free) way to see the Statue of Liberty while avoiding being in the cold rain as much as possible.
Not the nicest day, but always an impressive sight
Manhattan loomed mysteriously in the distance.
A trip to Macy's at Christmastime is a must...
...and apparently the rest of the city thought so, too.
No trip to New York is complete without a visit to Rockefeller Center.
Angels guarded the pathway to the tree.
Even though we were soaked and cold from our endless trekking through the city, we were excited to see the giant Christmas tree!
Typical science nerdiness: A giant tree/shrub/wreath (?) shaped like a dinosaur, outside of the Museum of Natural HistoryBring on the exams!
Italian Surprise!
Another comparison of this year to last: December 8, Feast of the Immaculate Conception. Last year, it was on a Monday, which happened to be my busiest day of classes every week. With the exception of chapel time and a brief hour between anatomy lab and band, I had no free time from 6:45 a.m. until after the Norseman hayride (and dinner and bonfire). Masses at St. Dominic were all during my classes and activities, so a contingent of us Norseman Catholics discovered that our only option was to leave the hayride early to go to Annunciation (how appropriate!), a small church a few miles outside of Northfield. Normally there would be nothing wrong with this; I had been to Annunciation before and didn't mind driving there. Last year, however, there was a snowstorm on December 8. By the time we left the hayride, the gravel roads back to Olaf were slippery under 2-3 inches. After picking up more churchgoers at St. Olaf, for a total of 8 (yes, 8!) of us in my tiny Saturn, I drove slooooowwwwwllyyyyyy through the quickly accumulating snow to the little church on the hill. Mass was warm and beautiful, and you could feel the little-kid excitement throughout the congregation because of the snow. As we left church, the snow was still falling quietly, peacefully -- and had deposited several inches on the vehicles. There was an attitude of congeniality despite the difficult driving conditions, and everyone helped each other clear the white powder from the cars. Everything about it -- the feast day, the people, the church, the weather -- was beautiful.
This year on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, I followed the Minnesota blizzard with interest, mostly because I wanted to be there myself. There's something about extreme weather that's exciting to me. Here in the Bronx, though, it was a sunny, warm day (although most of my classmates would skewer me for saying 40 degrees is warm). I decided to go to Mass at St. Clare, and I assumed the schedule would be the same as a typical weekday schedule, with Mass at both 7:00 and 8:00 a.m. I also assumed that, with the typical 15-minute daily Masses, I'd be able to make it to my 8:45 class on time. My assumptions were only marginally correct. I arrived at 7:55, heard the priest greet an old couple with a quiet, "Buon giorno," and thought nothing of it. We are, after all, in a very Italian neighborhood. Turns out I should have thought something of it. Since it was a feast day, the church was on its Sunday schedule, in which the 8:00 Mass is in Italian. And there was music. Music in Italian. After an initial moment of confusion, I realized what was happening, and then I started beaming. Mass in Italian! It was wonderful. I ended up being 10 minutes late for lecture, but it doesn't matter. It was a beautiful morning, with a joyous service, a sunny walk, and an Italian surprise.
This year on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, I followed the Minnesota blizzard with interest, mostly because I wanted to be there myself. There's something about extreme weather that's exciting to me. Here in the Bronx, though, it was a sunny, warm day (although most of my classmates would skewer me for saying 40 degrees is warm). I decided to go to Mass at St. Clare, and I assumed the schedule would be the same as a typical weekday schedule, with Mass at both 7:00 and 8:00 a.m. I also assumed that, with the typical 15-minute daily Masses, I'd be able to make it to my 8:45 class on time. My assumptions were only marginally correct. I arrived at 7:55, heard the priest greet an old couple with a quiet, "Buon giorno," and thought nothing of it. We are, after all, in a very Italian neighborhood. Turns out I should have thought something of it. Since it was a feast day, the church was on its Sunday schedule, in which the 8:00 Mass is in Italian. And there was music. Music in Italian. After an initial moment of confusion, I realized what was happening, and then I started beaming. Mass in Italian! It was wonderful. I ended up being 10 minutes late for lecture, but it doesn't matter. It was a beautiful morning, with a joyous service, a sunny walk, and an Italian surprise.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Opinions
Flashback to September 24, 2008. After being so sick that I passed out on the airplane the night before, I made it to my Einstein interview in the morning, shaky and lightheaded from illness and lack of food but less nervous than I thought I would have been, probably because I was too busy thinking about not passing out again. I sat down in the second floor conference room with Dr. Dannis, who paged through my application, squinted, looked up at me and said, "You're from Minnesota. What the hell are you doing here?" I can't think of a less expected opening question for an interview, much less a medical school interview, much less my first medical school interview. Despite my surprise, I apparently answered this and all of the remaining questions satisfactorily, because here I sit in my apartment in the student housing at Einstein, procrastinating from my anatomy studying.
Fast forward to this afternoon. I had an appointment with Dr. Wollowitz, an orthopedist. He recognized my address as the Einstein student housing and asked what year I am. I told him that I'm a first year, and that we're gearing up for our anatomy final in a week. He made a disapproving grunt and said that anatomy is "useless; they make you remember all those useless pancreaticoduodenal arteries and the like." I laughed and said that all those arteries were exactly what I was having trouble with. I suppose you don't need to know which arteries supply the stomach when your primary concern is bones. Then he asked where I'm from. I told him Rochester, Minnesota, after which he asked, "What the hell are you doing here?" This time, I can't say I was expecting it, and I can't say I wasn't surprised, but I wasn't quite as shocked as last time.
What is it with these New Yorkers? I thought they were proud to death of their city, and that any location not touching an ocean was too worthless to even be able to recognize on a map. Maybe it's the Bronx. Maybe it's self-preservation. Maybe they just think all of us Midwesterners are sheltered, that we shudder at the thought of lights and crowds and traffic and endless motion. To them, the Midwest is a blob of homogeneity; how can we even break out of our shell? Maybe, though, I'm not giving them enough credit. Maybe they recognize the virtues of honest Midwest living and, despite their love of their city, simply cannot understand how we could adapt to a place like this. Either way, they sure have a funny way of showing it!
Fast forward to this afternoon. I had an appointment with Dr. Wollowitz, an orthopedist. He recognized my address as the Einstein student housing and asked what year I am. I told him that I'm a first year, and that we're gearing up for our anatomy final in a week. He made a disapproving grunt and said that anatomy is "useless; they make you remember all those useless pancreaticoduodenal arteries and the like." I laughed and said that all those arteries were exactly what I was having trouble with. I suppose you don't need to know which arteries supply the stomach when your primary concern is bones. Then he asked where I'm from. I told him Rochester, Minnesota, after which he asked, "What the hell are you doing here?" This time, I can't say I was expecting it, and I can't say I wasn't surprised, but I wasn't quite as shocked as last time.
What is it with these New Yorkers? I thought they were proud to death of their city, and that any location not touching an ocean was too worthless to even be able to recognize on a map. Maybe it's the Bronx. Maybe it's self-preservation. Maybe they just think all of us Midwesterners are sheltered, that we shudder at the thought of lights and crowds and traffic and endless motion. To them, the Midwest is a blob of homogeneity; how can we even break out of our shell? Maybe, though, I'm not giving them enough credit. Maybe they recognize the virtues of honest Midwest living and, despite their love of their city, simply cannot understand how we could adapt to a place like this. Either way, they sure have a funny way of showing it!
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