this is your brain on work

So I felt somewhat like *this* today at work:




























Except replace "sniffing markers" with getting two hours of sleep on the week you have to submit 80 bios to be translated for your conference program. I have a grand total of 18 done.


It's going to be a long...long...looooong week.

the one thing G.W. and I have in common....

Yesterday my mother offered me an invitation to a lunch at Tenh Penh, one of the more acclaimed Asian restaurants in Washington, DC. The occasion was that the head chef of the White House, Christina Comerford (a.k.a. the woman who controls *most* of the things that enter W's mouth-piece....and just so happens to be a FIlipina) was going to demonstrate some Filipino cooking. Well, not only demonstrate it, but we were going to eat her creations as well. Free food? From the woman who feeds the leader of the free world?? Say word! Even though I'd have to trade in my usual habit of sleeping in until 1:30 in the afternoon, I figured it was an even enough exchange.

Of course, even though I woke up on time, I didn't make it on time. Note to self: the traffic near Tenleytown Metro on Saturday mornings is ridonculous. I'd almost prefer a pap smear by a male gynecologist than have to deal with that mess again. Moreover, I went to the wrong metro stop (Federal Center instead of Federal Triangle), and then proceeded to walk the wrong way down 12th street, then the wrong way on 10th street, before I finally found the place. By the time I had arrived, I was an hour later than I should have been, and four of the six courses had already been cooked, eaten, and scraped clean. To boot: my mother comes up to me and, lays a hand on my shoulder as I'm eagerly chowing down on the most delicious paella I've ever eaten and says, "you're covering this for the paper. You can interview her after you're done." Her, of course, referring to the chef. Interview?? I thought I was here to eat? I was in no way prepared for an impromptu interview with arguably the most esteemed chef in the land. I gulped down hard on my spoonfull of paella: "Ma, are you kidding me?"

One delicious banana turon and cup of coffee later, I was in the front of the restaurant kitchen, shaking hands with the woman of the hour, as a mini-legion of assistant chefs surrounded us, chatting amongst themselves and creating a little half circle that served as a buffer between us and the rest of the party outside -- all of whom were clamoring for a chance to speak with her. Lucky for me (but regretably, as well) she only had time for me to ask her a couple questions before she had to be ushered out for photos, but I was struck by her grace. She was small, with her dark hair pulled back in a butterfly clip, thick black rectangular glasses framing her face, and little stud earrings punctuating her ears. She swept her hands through the air trying to articulate the overwhelming response she had received from people since assuming the position of head White House chef. She laughed, recalling the days when she would not even entertain the thought of culinary school, convinced that she would have a career in the sciences.

"I was a science geek," she confided, "My father is the one that pushed me to go to culinary school."

She was ushered away before I could ask her more questions, and I watched as -- in typical Filipino fashion -- the chaos of picture-taking and autograph signing ensued. I turned to one of the other White House chefs, hoping to get an answer to my most burning of questions:

"Does George Bush have a comfort food?" I asked the man next to me, a huge, dark skinned man with a bald head and large hands. He could have passed for Paris Hilton's bodyguard. "Does George have a comfort food?" He repeated my question, chuckling, tucking his chin into his high, white collar. "Yeah, George has a comfort food."

"What is it?" I probed, running the possibilities through my head: cheesecake? waffles? bread pudding? quiche? cocaine?

The cook smiled, and nodded his head over to Chef Comerford. " You better ask Chris that." Nice deferral, but like a good li'l Lois Lane, I persist.

"Has he been eating it a lot lately?"

The cook laughs and looks away, watching Christina graciously take another photo. "...yeah."

coming from where i'm from: memory lane #1A

it doesn't happen every day. mostly days when the weather is warm, when the sun sets late, and there is enough emptiness in the air to carry nostalgia. you put your hand on the black belt of the escalator hand rail and find the memories sticking to the tips of your fingers. they aren't always welcome, but try as you might, you can't wipe their residue off. they become grooves in your skin, changing with the seasons, re-fashioned in the telling, stretching and folding and meshing and sagging with time.

i was in the philippines when mt. pinatubo erupted. the ozone got fucked up, temperatures fell globally: i woke up that morning to find my back yard covered in ash. i was about 8 years old, the news advised us not to go outside, they told us not to breathe in the air, and we didn't. we held our breaths as the world became an ancient urn trembling at the edge of a mantle. we had escaped the collapse of everything for the time being. but we could never know for certain.

sometimes i walk into this gray city and am astonished with how well i've adjusted. how i've timed my gait to the stoplights, how easy it is to locate the nearest coffee shop or Wachovia, how natural it has become to say no to the beggars, to step around the homeless as if they weren't there, to not shudder at the sight of a man picking food out of a public trash can to eat, or to stare straight ahead when a woman screams obscenities to herself on the corner, sweat and spit congregating on the corners of her mouth. there are blips of time during the day when i don't feel anything at all, and time is just the transition of one minute to the next, one task followed by another: right foot/left foot/right foot/left.

but i walk into this gray city sometimes, and see that morning in 1994 when the leaves turned to ash and the sky buried itself alive. i remember the stillness, the anxiety, the lungs held captive in mid-breath: the belief that a shudder may make the world fall down.