"... two shoes, OK, they were totally different. They were the same color and the same size, but that's like all they had in common. They had different toe styles, different embroidery, completely different designers."

It was a girl, maybe college-age, talking across the aisle in a now-fairly-crowded train to her friend.

"But I'm like, what am I supposed to do with these, right? But they were kinda expensive, so I felt bad, and I wore them to school, I'm like eight years old wearing these shoes to school. "And people are like, 'hey, nice shoe,' and then 'wait, are you wearing like two different shoes?'

"And I go, 'Oh yeah. It's the style. Like in France, they love this.'

"And then they all started doing it, like the whole third grade, wearing different shoes. I kind of felt bad about it, looking back. I was such a bad kid."

The train came above ground to go over the bridge. The girl's interlocutor turned and looked over her shoulder out the window. "My favorite," she said, glancing back at her friend. "I always don't talk at this point." She turned and watched the river as we passed over it, then the train pulled into the station. "OK, it's over."

"I was a terrible kid," continued the first girl. "I never played with Barbies, or if I did, I just cut their hair or ripped off their skulls. I liked playing with cars and --" something inaudible.

"With ducks?" asked her friend.

"With guns."

"Oh." The friend was talking to the guy next to her, who was pointing at something on the other side of the car.

"OK, I won't tell the story then."

"No, it's Vic's fault, he was distracting me."

"What?"

"He was just pointing out that they have his full name up there." She pointed at an ad for Harvard Summer School, at which Vic apparently studied, and read out the name printed there. "Does 'Morales' mean morals?"

"Yes."

"That's so cool. 'My last name's "morals."'"

"That's nothing -- my friend's Chinese, and his name is like the character for Sky, then One. He's like Sky One."

"Sky One," she repeated, impressed. I had to get off the train before I could hear the story about cars and guns, but I'm guessing it would have been a letdown.

EVERY SO OFTEN I notice these ads on the T for the Benjamin Franklin Institute of Technology. The first one that caught my eye (no pun intended) was for their Opticianry program, mostly because I think there should be more words in the English language that end in "-nry." But attached to each ad is a stack of postcards that you can fill out and mail in for more information. It details the other programs you might be interested in:

• Architectural Technology
• Automotive Technology
• Computer Engineering
• Computer Technology
• Electronics Engineering
• Electrical Technology
• HVAC Technology
• Marine Technology
• Mechanical Engineering
• Medical Electronics Technology
• Opticianry
• Pharmacy Technology
• Practical Electricity

SPEAKING OF THE JOB, my boss took the department out for a holiday lunch and Yankee Swap.

Gina, who'd been our intern last summer and who's starting full time in January, joined us. Gina and Kate had gone to the same college, and applied to many of the same companies. Kate mentioned how glad she was she'd taken this job over the other offer she had, since a friend of hers who now worked at the other place was always writing her saying, "I hate my job."

"And I'm like, 'I like my job,'" said Kate, her hands typing her response on an imaginary keyboard.

"What kind of tech writer are you?" asked Kathleen, the most senior writer on the staff. "You're supposed to go, 'I hate my job.'" She demonstrated, miming the typing, "Then change jobs; 'I hate my job.'"

Geoff, second most senior, looked across the table at Kathleen. "A new one."