A New York Family Christmas

The only thing that bothers me about christmas each year is not being able to spend it with family. Not that we really celebrated christmas as a 'family' event while I was growing up. It's just that - well, watching everyone else go home to their families always makes me sad and nostalgic.

So at this time of the year, when everyone disperses homeward-bound to their respective families, friends still left behind become family.

This year, Ilajna, Azdadoobie and I threw ourselves into arranging Christmas festivities. What with Caveboy and Adle visiting at the moment, the apartment was already feeling full and festive. An impulsive last-minute invitation to Seagull, and our party was ready to rock and roll. The couple of days preceding Christmas were spent in a flurry of culinary panic, baking ginger cookies, christmas cake, rumballs and mulled wine, so by the time Christmas day finally rolled round, the scene was set for a veritable gustatory orgy.

Over an extended lunch at La Mangeoire, the six of us toasted to pretty much anything and everything possibly toast-worthy, even at a stretch. And Seagull's sage warning proved prophetic - the toasts really do degenerate into the ridiculous as the meal (and vino) progresses.

"To a five-floor walkup and a table that tells you whether you've put on weight over Christmas," Seagull toasted. "To Ilajna finally having curtains up," Caveboy toasted. Yep, that's pretty much a succinct description of our apartment in a nutshell.

On returning to the apartment, we proceeded to spend the rest of the evening playing charades, drinking games, imbibing shamelessly copious amount of alcohol and laughing so hysterically I do believe I've pulled a stomach muscle. I wouldn't venture a guess over the number of beers that somehow managed to find their way into my system (no fault of mine, mum & dad), but suffice to say the mere thought of beer causes involuntary shudders even as I write this entry today.

'Charades' put a new definition on how "The Eighth Wonder of the World" can be a two-word movie; 'Asshole' suddenly gave us an (alarming) glimpse of what kind of president Azdadoobie would make (boy, power is a scary thing!); 'Kings' taught me that if you're ever doing an alcohol waterfall, the only trick to survival is to position yourself after a weak drinker; and '21' made us realise that saying 'bizzy bizzy buzz bizz buzz buzz five bizzy bizzy buzz' can be remarkably intellectually challenging at 2 am. You know, even if we all have college degrees and all.

The next morning, as we sat around the breakfast table re-hashing the events of the night before, we were all looking a bit shaky and worse for the wear. But all of us agreed it had been a great Christmas.

"So... what about New Years? Are we all going to Keats together?!!" asked Ilajna, as we all looked at eachother with ill-concealed excited anticipation.

Lessons from a striking MTA

Have you ever watched the news with the kind of dispassionate curiosity where you logically understand the horrific events but your mind refuses to compute that they are actually real and happening and will impact your life?

That's how I was as I followed the news on the MTA strike unfolding in the city. Yes, I saw the bitter recriminations, stalled negotiations and threats to close the subway system. But somehow I saw it as a remote story unfolding in another land. Somehow, it still took me by surprise on Tuesday morning when I realised that my faithful 'E' train wouldn't take me to work anymore.

I expected the city to be crippled. But in fact, it conducted itself with remarkable orderliness. Everywhere, strangers were sharing cabs amicably, neighbours were carpooling willingly, people were walking miles across the city unfazedly - in fact, the manner in which the city took the entire event in its stride was humbling.

From my perspective, there was naught to be done really but to don hat-scarf-gloves-coat and trek through the polar weather for the three miles to work. And so, hardy trooper that I am, I did. Nearly lost a couple of appendages as victims of frostbite along the way, but all in all I reached work in generally functioning condition. When I finally made it in to work, Big Boss M took one look at me and packed me off immediately for a thawing coffee. "We can't lose our HR bod on her first day as a full-time employee!" he admonished. I would have smiled if my mouth wasn't frozen, but as such all I could muster was a botox-blank stare.

The second day I made the trek in to work, the whole ordeal somehow seemed much easier. It seemed warmer, it seemed shorter - although in reality it was neither. It's just that I was more prepared.

And the third day, the walk was even easier.

Now the strike is apparently over. Hurrah!!! The subway system will be working again. But you know what I learnt over the past three days? That now I'm used to walking in to work. More than that - I'm actually enjoying walking in to work. What a crisp and refreshing start to the day. And, as an added bonus, I'm actually awake when I reach the office. I think I'm going to keep at it even when the strike's off.

That way, when the next MTA strike comes around twenty years hence, I'm going to be the only one prepared.

Adrift and floundering

As we caught up for one of our regular tete-a-tetes yesterday, Milo mentioned to me, "Over the last three months, you've changed so much about yourself from the way you were when I first met you. The changes might all individually seem really small and superficial, but they're probably reflective of a more fundamental change in your personality."

His comment startled me, and has set me examining myself and the ways in which I've changed since moving to New York. Over the whirlwind of the past two months I have:

- Found a new job
- Made new friends (and earned a new nickname - and inexplicably, something as simple as a new name can sometimes make you a new person)
- Had a shot for the first time
- Had a pint of beer for the first time
- Started eating chicken wings (!!!!! At first it was 'just this once'. But after the third 'just this once' yesterday, I think I now have to call myself a vegetarian who eats seafood and chicken wings. So not quite a vegetarian then)
- Moved into a new apartment with new roommates

Milo was right - on the face of it, they're all superficial changes. But somehow, they've been working together, insidiously, subtlely, to gradually change the person I was. Not quite sure what the changes are, I can't quite put my finger on them. Something along the lines of more hardworking, more friendly, less shy, more adventurous, more carefree, more fun-loving, more light-hearted and less serious.

I'm not quite sure if those are accurate, but at the moment that's the best I can come up with. All I know is that on the whole, I'm a somewhat different person today than I was even a couple of months ago. Without the decency of a warning, something fundamental in me has changed. Or maybe its just the frame of reference within which I live that has altered transformed itself, and with it my bearings.

The more I think about it, the more I feel like I might be floundering.

Up for adoption

I'm acutely conscious of, and thankful for, for the life I have. Not because I particularly have a lot, but because, even with whatever little I have, I'm lucky enough to be genuinely content. Without doing anything particularly deserving on my part, I've somehow landed myself a job I enjoy immensely, friends I love to bits, and even the weekend chores don't get me down (knock on wood, knock on wood).

Yep, safe to say, occasional bouts of nostalgia notwithstanding, I love my life in New York. I revel in the independence and freedom and sheer joie de vivre.

But even then, there are inevitably some days, just some days, when I need a holiday from my own life. When I don't want independent free-spiritedness. When all I want is to be taken care of like a child. Some days, all I want is to crawl home to be mollycuddled and fed a hot meal and tucked into bed feeling warm and safe and secure.

Some days, I'm up for adoption.

Oh dear, we're not in highschool anymore

When we were in highschool, we had this concept of 'movie nights'. All of us would gather together with our sleeping bags for a slumber party, rent a bunch of movies, make numerous batches of brownies, popcorn and noodles, and watch movie-after-movie in succession all night. More than anything, it was a communal activity, and I have very fond memories of those evenings, even with some of the crappiest movies. The point was the togetherness and intimacy of it all.

So Ilajna and I were very excited as we suggested to Azdadoobie the other day that the three of us hold a movie night. "What's 'movie night'?" Azdadoobie ventured, and Ilajna and I, biased by our rose-tinted memories, gushed about how it was just SO much fun and how it was the best thing ever. So we all booked it in our diaries, emailed each other repeated reminders of our Friday night 'date', and generally hyped the event far beyond what it merited.

When Friday evening finally came about, I was the first one home and busied myself putting dinner on the stove per usual. I must confess, I broke the movie-night code of conduct by making stir-fried tofu for dinner. When Azdadoobie and Ilajna got home, they eyed the dish dubiously. "I don't think you're supposed to make wholesome food on 'movie night'," Ilajna commented, "I think its supposed to be chocolates and popcorn." Nonetheless, we cracked open a bottle of wine and sat down to a very civilised dinner.

Shortly after, we schlepped over to Blockbusters and engaged in an hour of suggesting-debating-arguing-vetoing until finally, at the end of our collective tether, we settled on Life Aquatic. Got home, made ourselves steaming mugs of coffee, loaded the DVD, clambered onto Azdadoobie's bed and snuggled into our blankets to watch the film.

And to its credit, the movie was pretty darned funny. At least the first half an hour, which is all I remember before I drifted off to sleep. "Wake up!" Azdadoobie nudged me, "movie night isn't fun if you go to sleep!!". I jolted awake with a disoriented 'huh?' and watched another ten minutes of the movie before drifting off again.

Periodically, I awoke to giggle to another five minutes of the film before falling asleep again. At one point, I was woken up by Azdadoobie's incredulous exclamation: "Man! You guys are such losers!!". I turned over to glance at Ilajna, only to find that in her corner of the bed, she too was fast asleep. Azdadoobie rolled her eyes, "so this is movie night huh".
"Sssh," I mumbled, "some of us are trying to sleep".

We used to make it through movie nights with four movies in a row! What happened to the Ficali of those days? I refuse to believe it's me getting older. I'm going to blame it on the stress of the week gone by.

Traumatised

This morning as I was walking through the 14th St subway stop during rush hour, there was a woman walking through the crowd in front of me, with a little boy in tow. The child was obviously on his way to school, and dragging his feet over it. He kept stopping and digging his heels into the ground and transforming his body into a limp deadweight in the way that only children can.

I was about to start feeling sympathetic for the mother when suddenly she stopped in the middle of the crowd and started screaming at the boy: "YOU BETTER GET YOUR F'ING ACT TOGETHER AND GET TO SCHOOL RIGHT NOW, OR I'LL SHOVE MY F'ING BOOT INTO YOUR MOUTH."

Passersby stopped in stunned silence. The child looked up in wide-eyed terror. But she just continued shouting, unfazed: "NOW START ACTING YOUR F'ING AGE AND GET TO SCHOOL."

Then she jerked the little boy by his arm so suddenly that he fell over, sprawled on his front. He scrambled up in haste and scampered after his mother who was already stalking away.

A station full of rush hour commuters, and nobody did anything. Subconsciously, the crowd had edged away to form a circle around them. I felt I should have intervened, but was paralyzed by alarm, and all too suddenly, the moment was over.

The scene has been pounding in my head all morning. I don't know what, but I should have done something, I should have done something.

What's the story with guys and presents?!

A couple of years ago, Macklaine gave me a gift, all wrapped up and looking pretty. I can't even remember now what the occasion was - perhaps christmas, perhaps my birthday, perhaps it was just spontaneous present. All I do remember was how excited I was as I tore open the wrapping with childish spontaneity.
Nestled inside the wrapping were two Playstation games - something about car racing and something about football.
"Thanks, Macklaine!!!!" I exclaimed excitedly (because getting a gift is always exciting, no matter what it is).
And then, "But, errr, you know I don't play computer games...?"
"Oh, that's right!!" He said, slapping his forehead and feigning innocence. "How could I have forgotten!"

Pause.

Then he suggested, "So I suppose, rather than wasting them you could just give them to someone else who could put them to good use. There's surely no point in them going to waste... do you know anyone who would enjoy those?"
I thought for a second, and then narrowed my eyes with suspicion. "The only person I know into Playstation is you," I pointed out.
"Oh, that's right!" He said, slapping his forehead again. "I better have them back then. Next time I get you a present, I'll put more thought into what you want."
And with that, he handily took back the present he had just bought, and headed off to put the games to test.

For a moment, I was stupefied. Then I just laughed and laughed, until tears streamed down my face.

I'd forgotten all about the incident until last week. As we got into the car to drive down to Flyback, Seagull handed me a CD he'd burnt the night before. "Here, I made this for you," he said casually. Seagull has a ton of music I've been openly coveting for a while now, so you can imagine my excitement to be given a CD with over a hundred of my favourite songs all in a row.

"OMG you won't believe how disproportionately happy you've made me!" I exclaimed as I pushed the CD into the player. And it really was one great song after the next. It was like the pot of gold under the rainbow.

Then, two days later as we were all heading home from Flyback, Seagull casually asked, "Can I have the CD back for this weekend?"
I instinctively tightened my grip on the CD possessively. I'd been looking forward to listening to it during the weekend, and started to protest.
"But - "
"Come on!" he urged. "I'm going travelling, I need it more than you do."
"FINE." I grumbled. "But only for the weekend, and I want it back right after, okay?" I handed it over to him reluctantly.
"Hmm," he said, glancing at the CD in his hand. "It really is a great CD, huh. I might just keep it and make you another one at some point."

!!!!!
What do you have to do in this world to get to keep your own presents.

Dub's birthday bash!

Thanks to Milo for distributing pictures from Dub's birthday bash two weeks ago!

As everyone there can vouch, it was a great evening - as GLG pahtays normally are. First an early dinner with just the four of us at Jacques-Imo's (a definite two thumbs up!!), where there was far too much discussion and sniggering on the rather dubious subject of oysters and their significance and purpose in the world.

And then stumbled a few blocks through the icy wind to nearby Prohibition, where the evening quickly blossomed into full regalia. Some general pics to share:

Indiana, Ilajna 'n' me Milo and Dub acting Cool (as usual)
The GLG team: Big D, Sizzle, Milo, Deb & Dub
Indiana and Milo being silly (as usual)
Me and Dub (with his special winter beard)

Sod's law

This is the first time I've taken such a long break from the blog, and it's felt like an appendage was cut off. So where have I been?

Flyback: Once a year, the company hosts what we call a 'flyback', where all 150 employees in the region travel down to stay in a hotel together for three days - this year, it was held at a casino resort in CT, which was absolute luxury. It involved a mix of educational conferences (feigning interest in the presentations while surreptitiously catching the proverbial forty winks) and social events (frequenting the casino and plethora of bars till the early hours of morning). So basically three days of decadence and debauchery. So basically three days of freaking shangri-la.

Except that:

I was to be meeting about a 100 out of the 150 employees for the first time. And, you know. When you're meeting people you work with for the first time, you kind of want to create a good impression. So what's the worst thing that can happen?

That you wake up the morning before Flyback to find that some frickin' capillary or something has burst in your eye so that it's all red and resembling something from a horror movie. WHAT. Seriously. Could only happen to Ficali. So there I was, about to meet the majority of my colleagues for the first time, and all I had to show for it was a quasimodo-eye. I thought about keeping it shut for the entire three days, in a sort of permanent state of nictitation, but I reckoned it would probably look a bit lascivious, like I was constantly winking at everyone the entire time. I thought about wearing an eye-piece, but as you know, my times of dressing up as a pirate are long past.

And now Flyback is over, and everyone has returned to their own offices all over the country, and what is the image they will have of their HR bod?
And wouldn't you know it. Today, the morning after, my eye's totally back to normal. Sod's bloody law I tell ya.

Btw - A special thanks to the Bart, for missing me while I was gone :)

House rules

Rule number 1: I am not allowed in buffets

Just like that. No ambiguity, no get-out clause, no room for negotiation. The reason being that I have not as yet acquired the faculty of self-control, and have proven time and time again that I am fully capable of eating myself to the point of sickness. So about ten years ago I established this rule for myself as a means of self-protection, and have managed to adhere to it pretty successfully.

Until this afternoon that is.

I was speaking to Inihtar yesterday when she mentioned she would be going to Flushing this afternoon to engage in a spot of investigative reporting. "Wait a minute," I interrupted, stumbling upon an idea in a flash of synaptic brilliance. "Does that mean you'll be passing by the Jackson Diner?"
"Yes, sort of..." she admitted.
"Fancy going there for lunch??!" I asked. "I've heard so much about it from Caveboy and Ximmix, I've wanted to try it for ages."

And that is how we came to find ourselves, this afternoon, faced with an enormous lunchtime buffet. And I knew, even as my eyes grew saucer-shaped at the sight of all the food, that it was sinful. That I shouldn't be doing this. But how often do I get to dabble in authentic Indian fast-food? Almost never. So my traitorous resolve wavered momentarily and then fizzled out completely without delay.

Eating a buffet, for lack of a better metaphor, is like eating an elephant - you have to tackle it bit by bit. Problem is, by the time you're done, you really do feel like you've eaten an elephant. I can't see why the concept of a buffet would have been invented at all, other than to perpetuate human suffering.

The main thrust of our conversation:
"Do you think I should get another serving, or would that be just too greedy?"
"I'll get one if you get one."
"Oh okay then. You're on."

So now here I am, safely ensconced back at home, and feeling more than slightly uncomfortable and regretful. In such situ's, there's naught to be done but to snuggle into a nap and hope that you feel totally fine by the time you wake up again.

Rule number 2: Don't break Rule number 1

Are white justified?

Are white justified?

That's what I texted Seagull yesterday towards the end of a long evening out - causing much puzzlement at his end, I'm afraid to say.
Is this a riddle question?, he responded.
But of course it wasn't - I'm hardly that clever. It was just a plain old typo.

What I'd been trying to ask was: Are white lies justified?

Milo and I had been discussing it earlier that evening. Is it justified to sometimes lie to someone if this is to protect them from harm? This wasn't about deciding what to do, because the act had already been performed. It was more about appeasing the conscience after the act.

I found myself defending the argument that white lies can be justified - and sometimes even merited. But later I started questionning and double-guessing myself - I wasn't sure if I'd taken the stance because I genuinely believed it, or just to take Milo's side in the event. And I started thinking of the various untruths I myself have told in time - about whether they were really worth it in the end, even though at the time I'd thought them so wise. Self doubt can eat away at you like a nagging itch.

Hence the text to Seagull for reassurance and clarification.
And his response when I finally clarified the question: "Yes. However, only if the recipient and all people impacted benefit from it. However, not if the teller is the only one who benefits. And if there's any manipulative intent, then its not justified. However, sometimes the situation demands it, and then it can be justified. As long as everyone benefits."

"That's a lot of clauses," I said doubtfully, not too much the wiser for his explanation.
But it made me feel better all the same, if for no other reason then because it mirrored the lack of clarity in my own mind.

Three new things about myself

Even when I don't want to hear how particularly crap I am at something, feedback from friends can be a great thing. If nothing else, it reduces the need to have to introspect for myself. But today for some reason, a bunch of friends passed a variety of comments that have lingered in my mind.

First of, I dropped Dub an email this morning, and he responded, "Ha ha, when you write I can just imagine you standing there pouting with your hands on your hips."
Do I pout??!
I admit I have a (possibly over-indulgent) flare for the dramatic - but a pout?? I haven't ever really considered myself to be girly. Not for me the pouts and twirls and coquettish tosses of the hair. But Dub's comment made me think - maybe, subconsciously, unawaredly, I do. Maybe I DO pout. How exciting, really. So French chic. Now I can stop worrying about what it means that I'm so infatuated with gadgets.

Later this morning, in a totally separate conversation, I dropped Milo an email and he responded, "Ha ha, when you write I can just visualise your facial expressions and it cracks me up."
WHAT. Do I have a funny face?
Now, I might not be the most composed of lasses, but is my face really that funny? I mulled over this one for a bit, and have come to the conclusion that it must be the new expression I've been donning when confused. :S What I've come to realise is that it's much cuter (and easier to pull off) as an MSN emoticon than in person. Nonetheless I've taken to pulling the face often (confusion is a common occurence with me), in fact arguably too often to be socially acceptable or femininely elegant. But I hadn't realised yet that it was verging on the hilarious.

And then the killer comment. I was talking to Seagull today and he said, "You're so closed as a person, you never volunteer any information about yourself unless specifically asked." I thought it a sharp observation, and was surprised by his astuteness.
But then he proceeded to say, "But then there's points when you sometimes confuse yourself and unintentionally let out more than intended."
Confuse myself???? Hey, Mister, I'm in full grasp of my faculties.
It's no secret to any of you that I'm somewhat restrained with volunteering information about myself. Both Inihtar and I have discussed this before: It's not about wanting to be secretive, it's about wanting to be asked. But ultimately, this is to do with the games people play, and if I'm not up to the guile, best figure that out now.

Confuse myself, eh. Like tripping over myself in my own enthusiasm. Or being hoisted by my own petard. Ha. AS IF that could ever be me.

Pet peeves

Is it wrong to not have a hate?

I've been wondering that for the last few days, ever since the Bart, Caveboy, AP and I were discussing our pet peeves the other day. Each of them had something they absolutely hated:
- Successful people, said Caveboy
- The formal education system, said the Bart
- People who walk slowly in front of you when you're in a hurry, added AP

But when it was my turn, I couldn't think of anything. "Err... not sure I really have anything that rankles like that," I admitted, but they all turned to stare at me in shock.
"What, can't you think of anything?!!"
"Surely no one is that positive about life!"
"My next pet peeve is people without pet peeves!" with a roll of the eyes.

I racked my brains, but if I was going to be true to myself, there really wasn't anything. I shook my head embarrassedly. "Seriously, guys, I just don't think I hate anything" I asserted defensively.

But since then I've been feeling somewhat inadequate for it. As though not having a hate indicates an absence of passion. As though it means I'm disengaged from life. Or lacking in opinions. Which is not true. And which I know I'm not. But all the same, it bothers me that a certain element of malcontentment is regarded as a pre-requisite for being taken seriously in life. That positivity can equate to shallowness and a general lack of substantiveness.

So to clarify to the world that I too can be in a grump, I've been pondering and perplexing over a possible pet peeve. And this morning, as I sat in Starbucks waiting for my flight, I glanced at some of the other customers and realised what my pet peeve was: I hate people who take piles of extra napkins with their coffee when they only actually need one. I hate that kind of wastefulness and disregard for the environment.

HATE.
There. Do I qualify now?

And the battle continues

2.00 a.m. last Friday morning found me scrambling to complete a presentation which had been due earlier that evening. At that point exhaustion must have got the better of me, because I ended up sending out an email to the entire management team with a whole bunch of erroneous information. Now this, as you all know, is not particularly out of character for me, even at my sharpest best. The difference was that this time I failed to catch myself and send out the usual email of retroactive correction and apology.

Early the next morning, my inbox displayed a sharp stricture from Rizlo.

Now, this is the first time I've mentioned Rizlo here, so perhaps a little background is due. Rizlo's a member of the management team, and the only person at the company with whom my relationship got off on a bit of a rocky start. He is a stickler for detail and accuracy, and takes it upon himself to reprimand those who fall down on these two points. Being as I often fall down on these two points, I am accordingly often the subject of his critique. Of course, the infuriating part is not so much the ensuing argument (although that is pretty rankling), but rather the fact that he is always right (dammit).

So with some helpful advice from Seagull ("every time he says something, just laugh"), I've been working hard over the last few weeks to improve my relationship with Rizlo. Gradually our interactions have developed from adversity to tolerance to respect and friendly banter. I've been feeling especially proud of these giant strides of mankind.

So it made me especially glum to see his correctional email in my inbox yesterday. It was like picking a Chance card: Go back to Adversity. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

As usual, he was right, and I was mortified by the enormity of my mistake. Yikes, they're going to fire me, I thought, and then remembered that as the HR bod, I'D have to fire me. This made me feel somewhat more cheery, although all the same, I did indulge in a fair share of moping and sulking, primarily for Rizlo's benefit. By the end of the day, he finally picked up on my hints.

"Don't worry about your email," he consoled me, "you want to know about the big email error I made today?" Ad he told me about a pretty shitty email he had accidentally sent to a client. Rizlo is never one to easily admit his own flaws, so for him to share this with me just to make me feel better, I thought was a great bonding moment.

"Oh Rizlo that's awful!" I exclaimed. "Thanks for telling me about that, now I feel so much better about what I did!"

At once the bonding moment was over. "Oy, steady on," he said. "What I did wasn't that bad."

Hmm, I do suspect this relationship needs some more work. Time for Seagull to give me Advice step # 2.

What's wrong with my hair?

Fran and I were talking about girly stuff - manicures, pedicures, and facial treatments.

This is my weekend of self-indulgence. On Wednesday, I'll be meeting Caveboy again. The last thing I want is to get off the plane, for him to see me for the first time in months, and to think omg she's looking a bit shoddy. I would just die.

I voiced these concerns to Fran, and she exclaimed with all the right indignation in keeping with her role as my surrogate-mum in the office. "Don't be silly, Ficali, you're looking lovely! You're so pretty, you don't need to do anything to yourself, any guy would be lucky to have you just as you are!"

(I, of course, lapped up the lines.)
Really? I did a little twirl for her benefit.

"Well, hmm," she scratched her chin, "Now that I look closely, I guess you could afford to do something about your hair."

People in glass houses...

.... should remember they can be seen by the public.

Danby returned from the Phillippines today, and the first thought that struck me was that I totally hadn't anticipated just how happy it would make me to have him back. Although he and I were both incredibly busy, we each treated the mandatory office-gossip-catch-up sesh with the gravity and importance it deserved.

First a good half hour poring over the pictures and squealing and exclaiming over his anecdotes. Then a good half hour conspirationally filling him in on the goss back home. Then we had eaten through all the important stuff, and the conversation degenerated pretty rapidly into inevitable inane trivia.

I told him about the gym I'd joined and immediately we stuck out our arms and compared biceps. A glance at his, a glance at mine , and I felt obliged to clarify that I only used the gym for its treadmill. Mention of the gym led to talk of push-ups, and I realised it had been years since I'd actually done one, and I wondered if I could still do them.
"Do you think people will think I'm a freak if I try a push-up right here in my office?" I asked him.
"Sure they will," he said, "but then they know that already. That's why they like you."

(Hmm. I'm going to have to mull over that one for a bit. I'm not convinced by this veiled compliment/insult business.)

So I did a push-up.
Then he upped me by doing a one-hand push-up.
So I had no choice but to prove my mettle by doing one too.
And discovered, much like a baby discovers it can't yet walk, that I'm not strong enough for that yet. Plop, on my face on the ground. For all to see, in a glass walled office.

Quickly stood up, dusted myself off (with dignity), looked up at Danby's laughing face, and peered out through the glass walls to check who had caught my pea-brained moment. I half-expected Big Boss M to be outside, staring at me in alarm. But this time, luck was on my side. Nevertheless, maybe it's not the best thing for the HR bod to be doing one-arm push-up-flops in an office with glass walls, I reminded myself.

Although, as Danby took pains to point out, my blog has been somewhat lacking in ridiculous adventure since he and Seagull left town. So maybe here they come again...

Fate, ye evil mistress

Ilajna and I bought all of our furniture from good ol' IKEA, and had to build it ourselves. "Ha, ha, ha," I told everyone, "I bet I'm going to end up with crooked shelves."

But, you know. It was meant to be a funny joke. Self-deprecatory humour and all that, ha ha ha. It was NOT meant to come true. But I guess I forgot to knock on wood.

So what was the fruits of Ficali's labour? A wardrobe which looks like a fashion statement. Me and my big mouth. Remind me to keep it shut.

Elephant ballerinas

I was so busy moaning about summer's last sigh, that I clean forgot about one of the most exciting things brought on by the advent of winter: ice-skating! Macklaine, Pangli and I rose excitedly on Sunday morning and gamboled over to Central Park to dapple in a bit of ice-skating. The fresh morning air had just the right amount of chill, the ice was glistening white, the park was quilted in autumn colours - the entire scene was absolutely gorgeous.

After an early breakfast at possibly the priciest and most touristy breakfast cafe on Fifth Av (we stumbled in accidentally and then were too embarrassed to beat the hasty retreat we should have beaten), we headed over to the ice rink in the park. Then there was the awkward moment of grimacing and grunting as we struggled to stuff our feet into the skate boots (Of all the frustrating flaws one can have, my feet are of different sizes, which means, inevitably, one foot gets squashed like a sardine). Then the even more awkward moment of hobbling from the lockers to the rink. And finally, we were on the ice.

Slipping, sliding, twirling, gliding - unfortunately a bit like elephant ballerinas - but it was just so exhilarating. After ten minutes on the rink, when we'd smoothed our techniques, perfected our glide and boosted our mutual confidence, we started getting experimental. I tried skating with my hands clasped behind my back, everyone else looked so elegant doing it. But I realised pretty immediately that this had the unanticipated result, for some inexplicable reason, of making me lose my momentum and come to a halt. Well, at least I don't need to crash into the wall now each time I want to stop.

And we tried skating backwards - which left (ahem) much to be desired, but also much to look forward to for next time. But atleast we know the methodology in theory if not practice, and as the wise philosophers I'm sure would confirm, there's a lot to be said for theory (if not practice).

Warning: watch out for the little knee-high torpedo kids that zip around - they haven't yet developed a distaste for crashing or falling.

To the little kid who almost fell: I'm sorry I spun around suddenly (hadn't intended to, but you'll learn that sometimes in life you just don't have control) and even more sorry I almost lost my balance, scaring the daylights out of you and almost making you fall. I'm glad your daddy was there to hold you up, otherwise would have been a bit embarrassing for the both of us.

And I felt a bit cheated when I pulled off my skates and suddenly remembered I had to actually lift my feet to walk.

Can't wait to go again!

The week gone by

What with Pangli and Macklaine and Shan-K and Inihtar and Ximmix and Milo and Dub, these past weeks have been an absolute blur of activity. I guess I could write a story about each day's adventures, but at this point I'd rather just share some pictures. Make of them what you will. Here's some of the loveliest friends a person could wish for.

First off, CONGRATULATIONS to Ximmix, who today joins the community of the betrothed. I've never seen someone as excited. And to her husband - good luck! ;)

Ilajna, Azdadoobie and me at SEA Bistro - best Thai food in the city!


Milo, Macklaine and Pangli: MNF, Coor's Light (my first pint!!) and an obscene amount of chicken wings (for a fiver). Where we learnt to 'do as the Americans'

Milo, Dub and me: being introduced to the GLG post-work watering holes
Ilajna, Pangli and Macklaine: and then Gawd said, 'let there be wardrobes'

Emergency Control and other stories

Emergency Control:
I was feeling a bit fat today, so I went and joined the neighbourhood gym. Not that I'm normally impulsive or reactive in this manner, but some situations call for emergency measures. I am NOT going to go to London in two weeks only to have my friends think omg she went to the US and came back fat. Not that there's anything wrong with fat. It's just that it looks kind of comic if you also have the misfortune of being short. So its serious cardio from tomorrow. Well okay not tomorrow, because that's a Friday. And not the weekend because that's always a health write-off. Okay from Monday its' going to be a new Ficali.

In fact from Monday onwards you can just start calling me Ficali McTrim.

Other stories:
Today the global head of my department dropped me an email out of the blue to say: "You are on my radar as a key talent resource". Just like that, sans preamble or context, and sans greeting or salutation. What does it mean? Don't ask me, probably HR-speak for something or other, but it was positive rather than negative, and one must bask in little slivers of glory where one can. I was well chuffed with myself all afternoon, until it sudenly occurred to me: Omygosh what if he's a bit scatty like me and has sent it to me in error when actually it was meant for someone else! Which seems more and more likely given the out-of-the-blueness of the email. But until I hear otherwise, I'll have all of you know that I'm a Key Talent Resource.

Which probably means they like the picture of the big fat Thanksgiving turkey I drew on the HR strategy whiteboard in my office. Yep, that sounds pretty key-talent to me.

Snippets

What with shuttling back and forth between two homes and living out of a suitcase and going out every evening to explore the new abode, my life is feeling rather disorganised and haphazard at the moment. Even the thoughts swilling in my head are disjointed, so bear with me as I spill them out for you in a bit of a fragmented entry.

Firstly, I've finally finished moving apartments. I whined and moaned about it a great deal to any willing listeners, and then spent ages procrastinating and worrying. So it was a bit of an anti-climax when the whole moving process ended up taking just 20 minutes. I guess there's only so long it CAN take when all your belongings in the world can fit into two suitcases. Still, it made me feel a bit ashamed for having made such a big deal bout it. Only a bit.

Acknowledgements: Thanks to Shan-K for coming all the way to NY and spending his afternoon fixing up my curtains (albeit two feet too short).
Thanks to Macklaine and Pangli for helping me carry the two suitcases up five floors. Because otherwise I would have just taken up residence in the lobby.
And thanks to Milo and Dub for introducing me to a whole host of bars and restaurants in the area.
My pals are such troopers.

As I engaged in a furious bout of packing and unpacking, I found my old digital camera. Typical. Just after I bought a new one. Still, there's a silver lining - it means I have my pictures from Miami again, so I can indulge in some grimacing at the sight of me in a bikini. Self-pity is a highly underrated activity. Not quite sure what to do with the camera exactly, if Milo's interested I'll probably give it to him as he sets off on his whirlwind adventures tomorrow.

On Monday I had my first full pint of beer ever. I'd tasted a couple of beers before but never drank a whole pint, so I was particularly proud. I bragged about it no end until Milo pointed out yesterday that now that I'd started drinking beer I would become fat. That shut me up pretty quick.

After shattering evenings on Friday, Monday, Tuesday and today, I have an inkling that the proximity of my new apartment to the GLG after-work watering holes is going to precipitate my downfall. Things are going off-kilter, I think I need a life coach. Volunteers?

Idiomatically challenged

I have admitted before in this forum that I am idiomatically challenged. The fallout of this being that I have a fundamental problem stringing together even the most basic idiom. Yet, I have enough of a fascination for idiomatic expression that I dogmatically insist on peppering my daily conversations with its attempted (ie erroneous) usage. A typical example of what would come out of my mouth, for instance, is 'people in glass houses should be doing as the Romans do' or something equally ludicrous.

So I was particularly proud a few weeks ago when I came up with an idiom of my own (although it must be noted there was remarkably little appreciation of my genius by my audience).

Danby, Seagull, Schaffs and I were grabbing a bite to eat in a Boken cafe towards the end of a long evening out. "I wonder what the opposite of 'A pot calling the kettle black' is," Seagull mused. There was a moment of silence as we all pondered this conundrum.
Then, "I know! I know!" I shouted excitedly. Three pairs of curious eyes turned to stare at me. "How about 'A shark calling the beach white'?!"

There was a moment of silence, which I took to indicate general awe of my sheer genius.

Then, a chorus of:
"How exactly is that the opposite?"
"What if the shark is grey?"
"What if the beach isn't white?"
"How are the shark and the beach similar really?"
"How does that even work??!!"
I was flabbergasted.

Since then I've come up with the Idiot-Proof Idiom Plan. The key is to use half the idiom, and then trail off for the second half. So in (usually) appropriate situations, I've taken to saying, "You know, when in Rome..." or "You know, people in glass houses..." and just trailing off during with a sufficient roll of the eyes.

This has two benefits:
(a) It reduces the risk of messing up the second half (e.g. 'people in glass houses should do as the Romans do'). Although there is always the risk of messing up the first half, which would be pretty shitty luck;
(b) If you use just the right expression on your face (e.g. rolling your eyes), you can convey the assumption that it is such a common idiom that of course everyone knows the second half so there's just no need to say it. That reduces (but doesn't eliminate) the risk of the listener questioning how the phrase actually ends.

I figured it to be a generally foolproof strategy. Until I hit the hurdle of uni-clausal idioms. Like 'no stone left unturned' or 'pulling teeth'. You'd assume that because they're so short it should be easy to get them right. So you'd assume. So I assumed anyway.

Until yesterday when I was having a bit of a debate with Macklaine, and I thought his points were particularly weak. "Well that's like pulling out teeth, Macklaine," I gave a triumphant smirk.
He paused. "Errr... like clutching at straws you mean?"

Dammit. So not only do I need to remember the idiom but also when to use them. Sigh. Life is such an uphill struggle.

The Jedi Mind Trick

A colleague taught me about Jedi Mind Tricks (JMT) the other day. So here's what it is:

When you're in a sticky situation at work and are being pressed with difficult questions you don't know how to answer, you can use the JMT as a last resort. The JMT consists of suddenly changing the topic by throwing a comment/question way out in left field, to surprise the other person into forgetting their train of thought.

I looked at my colleague in disbelief when he introduced me to this concept. "That's ridiculous, you can't just change the subject, who would fall for that?!" I said. But he insisted it worked. I was still skeptical, but ever since then, I've been noticing that people actually do use the JMT. And frequently.

Just last Friday I had to call one of the employees into my office to discuss a performance improvement plan.
"So," I said, "let's come up with some explicit objectives for a development plan."
"Sure," he said. "By the way, I hear you're off to London for Thanksgiving?"

The sly thing is not only when people change the topic, but when they know exactly what to say to make you forget what you were talking about.

Half an hour later, as he was leaving the office: "... well, that's why I'm going to London for Thanksgiving. Anyways, it's too bad we didn't get round to the improvement plan this time. NEXT time we absolutely MUST get it decided."
"Sure," he said with an impish grin and a jaunty wave.

Only as I returned to my work it occured to me, Damn, he used the Jedi Mind Trick.

So I'm throwing this to you as a general warning: beware, kids, there's a bunch of aspiring little yodas out there.

Not to be outdone, I decided to dapple in a bit of JMT of my own. Big Boss M called me into his office the other day, requesting a status update on particular arrangements for a meeting. This time, instead of panicking and prevaricating as would be my norm, I decided to pull a smooth yoda on him. "So isn't it a great day today?! Who would believe it's actually November!".

He narrowed his eyes at me. "You're not trying to change the subject, are you?" he questioned suspiciously.

Note to self: Don't experiment on new strategies with the Big Boss.

Mysteries explained

When I was young, I remember reading a book on the unsolved mysteries of the world. It explained UFOs and extra-sensory perception and the Bermuda Triangle and the Lochness Monster.

It did not explain how laundry always comes out of the dryer with orphaned socks.

Dammit. I feel inadequately equipped or educated to deal with real life.

Don't we just love blind dates

I was out to dinner with Ximmix the other day, and riveting though our conversation was, I noticed one of my ears straying wontonly towards the conversation on the neighbouring table. There was a couple sitting there, and there was an air of awkward discomfort about them that immediately caught my attention.

My social acuity, usually M.I.A., this time stepped in to suss out the situation pretty quickly. It was a first-date situ, and they obviously didn't know each other very well. In fact, by the way each of them was grappling for conversation and commonality, I'm pretty sure it was a blind date situ.

"So," said Coolboy, putting on the smirk people often wear when they know they're about to embark on a tale that will leave their companion in awe. "This past summer, I was in Spain, and it was, like, SO cool. I mean, there were parties everywhere. Man, we went, like, to Barcelona and Madrid and then San..."

Something in Shygirl's look wiped the smirk off his face and made him trail off.
"I don't really like to travel," she said, looking down.

"Oh." There was a long pause, almost to the point of an awkward silence. The waiter brought their food and they both thanked him too loudly and too quickly.
Come on, kids, I thought, you can do better than that.

"So," he made a second attempt, "Don't you like this restaurant? Have you been to the other one just like it, in the Village, I forget what it's called..."
"I don't really like Chinese food," she said.

WHAT, I felt indignant for Coolboy, Who says that on a date in a Chinese restaurant.

I could feel Coolboy's rising panic. They had only just started dinner, so there was at least another hour before one could make a dignified retreat.

"So what do you do outside of work?" he asked.
"Not much," Shygirl said, with a shrug. "You know, there's always chores on the weekends."

Another long pause.

I, of course, was tickled pink. Maybe partially because this scene had played out exactly the horrific stereotype I had built in my head of blind dates. And partially out of sheer relief that it wasn't me in their spot.

But then the silence went on for so long my attitude graduated from amusement to empathy. I couldn't just leave them there to stew in stony silence.

"So," I said to Ximmix, speaking just loudly enough to give them something to listen to. "Did I tell you about the other day when I got my hand caught in this girl's butt pocket...."

Kudos

One must give credit where it's due. So today, kudos to two things:

1) 1-800-mattress
You might laugh at my choice, from all the things to credit in the world. But I am just so damn impressed with them. I called them up on a Sunday, and they could deliver me a bed in one hour. In fact, in half an hour, but that was too soon for me to be ready for them, so I had to push them back to an hour. How quick is that?!!! I do suspect it's faster than our emergency services.

Next time I'm caught in a building fire, I'll think, should I dial the fire brigade, or should I call 1-800-mattress and ask them to put a bed outside so I can jump out the window.

2) Me
You might also laugh at this choice (and with good reason), but I'm feeling particularly proud of myself at the moment. I have now gone to the supermarket four times and successfully avoided buying myself tofutti cuties. If I do some quick arithmetic and astound you with my razorsharp numeracy, that comes to exactly four weeks of not eating them. Now some of you will undoubtedly psha at this. But the others of you, the ones who've ever had any kind of addiction whatsoever, know that four can be a pretty big number.

The Butt Pocket Tale

Philadelphia, Friday Oct 28th, 10.30 pm

Danby, Schaffs and Ficali found themselves at the entrance to an apartment building, trying to figure out which buzzer they needed to press. While Danby studied the buttons and scratched his chin thoughtfully, Schaffs and Ficali rubbed their hands to keep them warm and huddled further into their jackets from the biting wind. A pretty young lady approached the door, hands busied carrying a large basket; she obviously lived in the building and had a key. Nevertheless, she patiently waited a moment for Danby to figure out which buzzer to press.

When it became apparent that no flash of lightning brainwave was forthcoming, she decided to focus her interests elsewhere, namely on Schaffs. She turned her back to him and leaned forward slightly, sticking out her posterior towards him in what was definitely supposed to be an attractive position.

Pretty lady: "I think I might have the keys in my pocket" [sticking out posterior closer to Schaffs].
Schaffs: [uncomfortable about what he was meant to do] "Errr..."
Pretty lady: "Well they're just in my pocket, if you want to reach in and get them for me. I'd do it, except my hands are busy." [flutter, flutter, flutter]
Schaffs: [slowly getting the plot but still not sure whether to act on it] "Erm...."

Pretty lady took a further step towards Schaffs. Schaffs took a hesitant half-shuffle back.

Ficali did NOT get the plot. Ficali did NOT recognise this prelude to a courting ritual for what it was. The only thing Ficali DID recognise was that she was in a hurry for the keys.

Ficali: [clueless and somewhat lacking in patience] "Here let me get them for you."

Both Schaffs and Pretty Lady turned to stare, Ficali reached over to Pretty Lady and put a hand in her butt pocket. There were no keys there.

Ficali: [puzzled] "Oh!"
Pretty Lady: [irritated] "I meant they were here." [removed them from jacket pocket and handed them to Ficali]
Ficali: [surprised at how Pretty Lady managed to get her keys herself after all] "Oh!"
Pretty Lady: [stern] "You can get your hand out of my pocket now"

Ficali looked down, and realised to her horror that her hand was still in Pretty Lady's butt pocket. She quickly whipped it out, and stared assiduously at her feet. Pretty Lady opened the door herself and walked in.

Schaffs: [shaking his head in disappointment at Ficali] "man, I think that was meant for me!"
Ficali: [mortified] "oh."

My first halloween

I've been ridiculously excited about celebrating my first Halloween ever. All the decorating and celebrating and dressing up - the whole scene is right up my alley. So it's been with much hand-rubbing glee and excitement that I'd been anticipating the festivities of this weekend. And seeing as it was my first halloween ever, I wanted to go all out, no holds barred. The elbow-little-kids-out-of-the-way-and-go-trick-or-treating-myself kind of all out. "You're disproportionately excited about this," Seagull cautioned me. And of course he was right - but hell, you can only celebrate something for the first time once, right?

So my halloween weekend has consisted of three parties and a batch of cookies.

I'd promised all the peops at work that I'd bake and bring in some Halloween cookies. And my big mouth talked about it all week so that on Thursday morning I suddenly found myself faced with the daunting task of actually having to deliver on all the big talk. So I woke up early to spend a nerve-racking two hours baking numerous batches of cookies, packed them neatly into plastic tupperware, and brought them into work. To my pleasure, within an hour, all the cookies were gone. "Mmm, thanks for the cookies, Ficali, they were yummy," people kept commenting all day as they passed me in the corridors.
Tip of the day: Baking cookies and taking them into work is a very simple and quick way of getting popular and making friends. And is just so gratifying.

Friday evening, a bunch of us from work headed down to Philly for a party. To sum up the evening: Large Mexican dinner, *giant* margeritas (is it really legal to make margeritas in pint glasses?), tasted a Yuengling for the first time, realised that even rubber spiders can make the blood crawl (and oh, oh they were everywhere!), and a rather unfortunate event that left my hand stranded in another girl's butt pocket. "Man! I think that was supposed to be me, not you," Schaffs said, shaking his head. But that's a story for another time.

Late that evening we returned to the hotel rooms we were sharing, and omg omg omg, Danby snored so loudly and continuously the entire night. I tried the usual pillow-over-head trick, but nothing could drown the thunderous roar. And it wasn't just me, everyone could testify for this. After an entire night that left us all tossing and turning in sleepless frustration, Danby was the only rested person by morning. He grinned sleepily at us, "sorry guys, I think I might have snored a little last night. Hope you guys got sleep". We all turned to gawk at him.

On Saturday, I donned full costume and headed out with Rohinton and Jeet. Being a gypsy fortune teller was thrilling, if nothing else then for the unbelievable amount of beads, rings, bracelets and other ornaments I was legitimately licensed to wear. The woman at the store counter gave me a funny look as I passed her six bead chains, a few rings, and a whole batch of bracelets, none of which seemed to go with each other. I gave her the look to say, hey don't look at me, missy, you're the one selling this stuff. Instead I came off looking rather sheepish. Conclusion: I liked being able to jingle-jangle wherever I went - I might even consider it as a full-time profession.

I can't believe Halloween happens only once a year. When I'm the president-ess I'm going to rectify that.

Like the evening tide, it waxes and wanes

I was feeling a bit down, what with Seagull and Danby heading off for a month in the Philippines. Partially cos they get to go to the Philippines (what is up with that?!!). But mostly cos I realise I'll miss them. Who am I going to take constant coffee breaks with? Who am I going to procrastinate and shirk with? Who am I going to debate with about whether to travel to Boken by bus or Path? Suddenly I found myself feeling a bit at loose ends, a bit like things were amiss and awry.

And then - as usually happens by chance rather than design, things started to fall into place on their own.

Macklaine and Pangli are coming to visit New York for ten days, and they'll be staying with me. I can feel myself brimming with excitement over their approaching holiday. In our enthusiasm, we've come up with a full-fledged agenda, as we are naturally wont to do.

On Friday there's Milo's house party. (Macklaine and Milo, without ever having met in person, have developed a blog-affinity. Difficult to comprehend, and even tougher to explain.) Saturday, it's brunch in Clancy's with some morning football (Macklaine mentioned something about the Spurs, but I must confess I keyed out at that point). On Monday there's MNF and an obscene amount of chicken wings (for a fiver). Thursday is a sangria-and-jazz evening at Cafe Del Artistes. Friday is Thai at the tastiest Thai restaurant in the East Village (because, Macklaine insists authoritatively, the East has an 'edge' compared to the West Village). I don't think we've ever met and not gone out for Thai. After seven years, its become indoctrinated as a friendship ritual.

And today, life fortuitously threw me another bone. I was just telling Shan-K how much I missed his being in New York where I could meet him on whim and fancy, when he reminded me that he is going to be in town next weekend too.
"Can we meet for lunch on Saturday?" he asked.
"Yes please." And can we also have a heart-to-heart about things in our lives? And can we also reminisce a little about the old days? And can we examine together the uglies and beauties that life fancifully throws our way?

And then, of course, there's meeting Caveboy and Bart Tulula for Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving! That's nearly round the corner. Albeit a big fat twisty windy curvy corner.

So what with Macklaine and Pangli and Shan-K and Caveboy and Bart Talula, this month will be gone in the flashest. And before I know what's hit me, things will be back to normalcy.

But that doesn't change the fact that at the moment, all I can feel is the waning mood of Danby and Seagull's departure.

The Apartment, the camera and the nano

There have been some crises in my life lately. Crises of an earth-shattering magnitude. Crises which would have undoubtedly precipitated my downfall if I didn't have such a light-hearted approach to life in the first place.

First, of course, as you are all aware, there was the little housing dilemma. Not exactly the risk that I'd end up barefoot and pregnant on the streets, but an urgent desire to find a home all the same. And that had been rankling and festering and eating me up within.

And then, I somehow managed to lose my digital camera. How I lost a big hunky chunky one like mine I'm not quite sure. Part of the crisis was the camera, part of the crisis was the loss of the Miami pictures. It's not often, after all, that one catches oneself dancing on the beach in a bikini in the midst of a minor hurricane.

And then, just when I was feeling pretty shitty, my mp3 player decided to flake out on me. Just upped and decided it was time to retire, without giving me any real say in the game. For some odd reason, venting at the poor guy on the Sony customer service desk didn't get my mp3 player started again. But it did fill me with a sense of satisfaction to actually reach the person at the end of the 1,899 automated options on the phone. All it takes is a *bit* of patience.

So all in all, the past few weeks left me feeling rather bereft.

And then, all of a sudden, just when I was getting reasonably convinced that it really does always rain on me, Ilajna, Az and I found the absolute perfect apartment, in the absolute perfect location, at the absolute perfect price. None of us could believe it either. Even after we collected the keys and marched in. Polished wooden floors, granite kitchen counter tops, decently large rooms, and all this in a dream location. I still pinch myself from time to time.

And then I bought a new camera today. Sometimes, reluctant as you are to deplete your bank account, you've really just got to splurge. And decide that's its time to be self-indulgent and slightly wasteful, and recognise when life's beating down on you and you need a bit of pampering. Sometimes, all this can come in the form of a slinky little camera with an awesome LCD screen at the back. Sometimes, its ridiculous what a small price one pays for happiness.

"My mp3 player just don't work no more!" I wailed, as I told Seagull the saga of my mp3 player yesterday. It was my bosom buddy. My pal through thick and thin. I don't go anywhere without its protective shield. And now it's dying. It was a story worthy of heartbreak, I thought. But Seagull just said "uh huh".
"What's that?" I demanded. "Aren't you going to give me sympathy??"
"No soup for you," he responded, "time to get a nano."
At first I was a little miffed to not get the attention I wanted. But now I'm thinking, hmm, a nano...

Playing cupid

Milo and I, being the infantile imps that we are, are trying to set Cilla and Dub up together. And I don't see why not - they're both single, warm and friendly - and we're hoping they'll hit it off just great. The only sad part of it is the amount of glee and excitement I'm deriving from the whole situ.

Next Thursday, the four of us are going out to Sushisamba for a couple of drinkies. This is the first time I've never done something like this, and I'm feeling dead chuffed with myself. Can't stop rubbing my hands together in anticipation.

Of course, I can speak here frankly and freely because I know that neither Cilla nor Dub reads this blog. So this is just my little secret. And Milo's. And now yours.

Hehe messages

Have you ever sent out a funny email and had a friend send you a 'hehe' message back? I love it when that happens. Usually cos I've just said something remotely witty.

But then yesterday I sent out an email to the 'all employees' distribution list - something to the effect of: "All employees attending such-and-such event, please make sure you register yourselves via the link below."
Which would have been fine in principle if I'd actually remembered to include the link.

So then I sent out a second update email to the 'all employees' distribution list - with the link.

And then I realised that I'd put the dates of the event wrong.

So I sent out a third email, again to 'all employees', amending the dates and pointing out that the link had been added.

Suddenly I noticed an influx of 'hehe' messages in my inbox. I've decided I don't really like them that much anymore.

"But it means they like you," Seagull said. "Because otherwise they'd be sending 'hehe' messages to each other behind your back and laughing at you not with you." Hmm, I'm not quite sure I totally buy into that. But then on the other hand, it's so easy to find yourself believing things that make you feel better :)

Why wasn't I named Jane

Yesterday I met Milo and Dub for a drink at a bar in Tribeca. It was a charming Britishy place I hadn't been to before - with a novel idea I found particularly engaging. They write a common name on a little board by the counter each day - and if it happens to be your name, then you're entitled to free drinks all evening.

Yesterday was 'Danielle'. So none of us were lucky.

I got really excited by the idea though. "Do you think they have a 'Ficali'??!!!" I asked Milo excitedly.
"Erm no." He laughed.
Dammit. Why wasn't I named Jane.

Show yourself, oh Elusive One

I can't believe my confounded luck. I've somehow managed to lose my digital camera. I know what you're thinking. First check your desk again, Ficali, and it'll be there, right on top of everything. But I have. And it isn't. And before you take it upon yourselves to list all the obvious places, let me clarify that i have already checked the kitchen cabinets; and under my bed; and in all my purses/bags; and in the fridge (because one never knows). But somehow the little rascal has managed to escape my clutches.

So I spent the day lolling in the doldrums of self-pity. I even indulged in a moment or two of self-chastisement, a particularly rare phenomenon for me. I raised the metaphorical fists at the sky and sighed loudly and repeatedly so others would notice and ask me what was wrong. Nothing like too much sympathy if you ask me. But none of my dramatics has helped my camera re-materialise. So if you notice a big grey cloud hanging over my head, you know what it's about.

Now that I've vented and purged my system of its miseries, I also have a little guilty confession to make. If I'm brutally honest and hold my hands up in the air and accept that I haven't developed even the most rudimentary sense of scruples in the last 25 years, I have to admit that somewhere deep inside, I'm quite excited about the prospect of buying myself a new digicam. Unlike Inihtar, I don't need the best. But somewhere buried under the grief of my mourning period, a litte monkey is rubbing its hands in glee at the thought of shopping for a new gadget.

Any suggestions on brand/size/pixel quality/price/vendor?

Evening escapade

"Fancy going to Newark this evening?" Seagull asked me yesterday.
"The airport???"
"Yeah well I need to check their lost and found..."

You see, Seagull forgot his laptop on his flight into NY this weekend. My first thought was oh no, he probably lost a ton of pictures, reflecting the main use I have for my laptop. But of course, it's much more serious than that, and involves much replication of work which he has grumblingly set about to do. The thing that really got to me was that this is exactly the kind of thing I would do. Forgetting the laptop on a plane I mean. Not conscientiously re-doing work.

And what's a buddy for if not to bolster one's spirits and indulge in a whinge-session (and drive to Newark) during such moments of crisis? So shortly after that, Seagull and I found ourselves in a painful crawl through the rush hour traffic towards the airport.

The Newark Lost and Found is an interesting place to be. The large room is surrounded by glass cabinets where all the lost items are placed on display. Presumably, passengers are supposed to just point out to their bags in a truly sophisticated process for matching finder to findee. About 50% of the lost luggage consisted of strollers. How do people forget their strollers??!! Presumably they've got a baby with them if they have a stroller - so does that mean they forgot the baby too?! Suspicious, if you ask me.

We, of course, had come to the airport based on no prior knowledge whatsoever (or indeed even an insinuation) that Seagull's laptop had been located and stored in the L&F. So when we finally got to the front of the queue, the gentleman at the counter said: "Did we call you to let you know we have your laptop?"
"Err, no" Seagull said.
"Do you have a confirmation number?"
"Err, no"
"We don't have your laptop. But of course, the plane could have flown somewhere else after the stopover. So basically it could be anywhere. I suggest you just keep calling the airline all the time everyday and hopefully it will turn up sometime, somewhere."

Hmm. Didn't bode well, but far be it from us to notice the glass was half empty.

Instead, we decided it was time to go out for dinner, get a pitcher of sangria and repeatedly toast to finding the laptop sometime soon.

Those of you who know me, you've heard the rest of the story many times before.

We set off on the way back home, and ten minutes into the drive, I announced, "Seagull, I need to pee."
He laughed. "Ok we'll be back soon."
I waited thirty seconds. Anything beyond that doesn't qualify as 'soon' if you ask me. "Seagull I HAVE to pee."
"Yeah okay okay".
And then what does he do? He takes a wrong turn and gets lost. I couldn't believe it was for real. Ridiculous.

"OMG, OMG you don't get it do you? I. HAVE. TO. GO. NOW."

And THEN what does he do? After finally having found the way back? He parks about TWENTY blocks from the bar we were supposed to go to. "You don't mind walking ten minutes do you?". Boy, I thought. This chap doesn't know me at all. The ten longest minutes of my life. Aged 20 years and sprouted 20 grey hairs.

When we finally made it to the bar - with much squirming, worming, squiggling and wiggling - I turned to him with my hands on my hips. "I think you owe me a drink, Mister", I clarified. But what are buddies for if not to buy each other drinks in moments of crisis.

Getting to Miami

I was at Penn station about to catch the train to the airport, when Mrs. Potter's Lullaby by the Counting Crows started on my MP3 player. Remembering Milo's entry on the subject, I decided to listen attentively to the lyrics. Listening to a song in a station is an interesting experience. It sounded like:

"Well I woke up in mid-afternoon cos
That's when it all hurts the most

THE LOCAL 4.20 TRAIN TO TRENTON IS NOW BOARDING ON TRACK 11

If dreams are like movies, then
Memories are films about ghosts

ATTENTION ALL PASSENGERS THE 4.22 EXPRESS TO BOSTON IS DELAYED TILL FURTHER NOTICE

If you've never stared off into the distance, then
Your life is a shame

LAST CALL FOR THE 4.20 LOCAL TO TRENTON ON TRACK 11. THIS TRAIN IS NOW READY TO DEPART.

Hey, Mrs. Potter don't - "

Shite! That last announcement was my train. Grab my bag, scramble down the escalators, hussle past the other travellers and hurl myself through the doors just as they slide shut behind me. Phew!

I finally get to the airport, only to be greeted by the PA system:
HEY YOU. THE ONE GOING TO MIAMI.

Me?

YES YOU. THE ONE TRYING TO ESCAPE THE NY FLOODS. YOUR FLIGHT'S DELAYED BY 4 HOURS. SO BUY SOME TRASH LITERATURE AND MAKE YOURSELF COMFORTABLE.

Finally, finally, hours later, I'm on the plane. I hate flying in general, and I especially hate take-offs. Planes seem to take off so sharply, I always expect the tail to scrape against the ground. And ever since Seagull told me this is a fairly common problem with small two-seater planes, I've been expecting it to happen the boeings as well. So now I really hate take-offs.

And as if take-offs aren't bad enough by themselves, try taking off in the middle of a thunderstorm. I'm absolutely blue-faced terrified of flying through an electric storm, what with the lightning flashing outside. I always expect a stray bolt of lightning to strike the plane and turn it into a metal tube full of little cinders. So when I saw the telltale white flashes through the window, I let out an involuntary gasp.
"You okay, miss?" asked the kind passenger next to me.
"L-lightening!" I managed to blurt out in terror.
He peered out the window diligently. Peered back at me. "I do believe those are the winglights," he said.

Oh.

Welcome to Miami!

South Beach, Miami, was everything I'd seen in the movies and expected it to be. Starting our evening out at 2 am Friday night, Bobbis, Case and I strolled along Ocean Drive, settled ourselves in a quiet outdoor bar on the marina and indulged in funny-named/coloured cocktails as we caught up on our lives.

The next morning, to our dismay, it was pouring. But both Bobbis and I were intent on heading down to the beach anyway. We weren't about to let anything rain on our parade (heh heh). So we donned our bikinis, headed down to the (deserted) beach, and did something neither of us had ever done before: we gamboled around in the crashing grey waves under the steady downpour, in an entirely empty ocean. It was kind of eery, and yet fantastic.

Under the steady rains, there was water EVERYWHERE, blurring the boundaries between land and sea. It was wierd to not be able to dry off when we finally crawled out of the ocean. Result: considerable puddles in Bobbis' car.

Later that evening, after a lovely outdoor dinner under the palms, we headed to the famous Delano hotel which Cilla had recommended. "Make sure you go to the pool-side bar," Cilla had said, and boy, she was right. It was absolutely gorgeous, a miniature heaven in the middle of Miami. There, we spent a leisurely evening lounging on the low beds and dangling our feet in the warm water as we sipped our wines. Above us, the palms swayed lightly in the suffused light of the poolside lamps. The soft music, the dim lighting, the fresh salty air, everything was just perfect. Bobbis and I have remained good friends since high school, but I hadn't spoken to Case in eight years, and was surprized by the ease with which we settled immediately back into our comfortable banter. It filled me with a fuzzy, warm, comforting glow.

In the taxi on the way back to the airport this morning, we went over a flyover from where I could get a sweeping view of the entire bay. In the early hours of a sleepy Sunday morning, the scene was just breathtaking. I tried to take a picture, but nothing would do the scene justice. So instead I just gazed at the view for as long as I could, letting the image form a permanent imprint in my mind.

Although who needs permanent. I just know I'll be back sometime soon.

Lop-sided

I've noticed with some discontent that my collar bones are lop-sided. Which is a pity, because I think collar bones are one of most the attractive parts of the body. So I often try to wear wide-necked tops to put mine on display.

And today I looked in the mirror, and realised to my chagrin that my collar bones look asymmetrical and lop-sided (like my darned eyebrows, but let's not go there). This is a disconcerting discovery about what you feel to be your most attractive body part.

On the other hand, if I stand in a lop-sided manner, tilting to one side, then my collar bones look straight.

I'm going to have to play around with this a bit more to find the perfect balance.

Up, up and away!! (And back very soon)

OMG OMG OMG I'm going to Miami for the weekend!!!

I'd almost forgotten about it, until Bobbis called me last night. "Case and I are dying for you to get here!!" she gushed. And then suddenly I remembered.

I'm going to Miami! Finally, finally, away from this dratted rain. And oh - to the hurricanes in Florida. But still. At least I'll be on the beach.

After speaking to Bobbis I had a moment of panic. Here I was, going to Miami, land of the Perfect Women (second only to California). The panic was followed by a frenzied period of plucking, preening and sprucing. But then after a while, I gave up and had to resign myself to the fact that there's only so much one can do to change one's appearance in time for a beach holiday the next day. So instead, I'm going to resort to taking the moral high ground: at least I'm a 100% natural.

Well - whatever comes our way, it promises to be a great weekend. Anecdotes and hopefully some pictures (depending on blogger.com's capricious mood swings) when I'm back!

Some days, you were just meant to stay in bed

This morning when I left for work, it was in the midst of a downpour. And by downpour, I don't just mean heavy rain. I mean water descending in a steady continuum, so that the individual drops can't be differentiated from each other. And I must have been using a trick umbrella, because it was offering me no protection whatsoever. By the time I completed the 10 minute walk to the station, the rim of wetness at the bottom of my jeans had risen till my knees.

On the five minute walk to work at the other end, I hadn't counted on a mini-flood in the West Village. But such it was. And the wind was playfully gusty, so that by the time I actually reached the building, the only parts of me that weren't dripping puddles were my head and shoulders. At one point the wind got so strong, that for a second I thought I might have a Mary Poppins moment. But instead my umbrella just turned itself inside out every few seconds. Not so cool. Then a spoke sprang loose and twanged me a solid one on the forehead. It would have been pretty funny, if it hadn't been just so damn pathetic.

But I wasn't one to complain - yet. Rain can be a beautiful and romantic thing, and getting soaked to the bone once in a while never did anyone any harm.

But what did I find when I got to the office? That it was Yom Kippur and almost no one was in. Great. So there I was, tenacious, conscientious HR bod, fought my way to the office through parted seas, and now there's no one to HR-ise.

So I dried my hair (which is no mean feat under a hand-dryer, but it helps if you're only yay-high), made myself a steaming mug of chocolate, and settled down in my office to read the news.
Was just about to start figuring out how to beat the natural elements home, when I got a call from a housing broker. Did I want to trek from the West Village all the way to the Upper East Side through the deluge to see an old, tiny, overpriced apartment right now? No, not really. But when you're looking for a new home, there are some bitter pills you have to swallow.

So I trudged through hell and high waters from the West Village all the way to the Upper East Side to see an old, tiny, overpriced apartment.

By the time I got back to the office a couple of hours later, I was soaked, shivering and quite the bedraggled state. "Oh, Honey!!" Fran exlaimed when she saw me. "You look miserable!". And she sat me down and brought me a mug of hot coffee. For the first time today, I could feel myself smiling.

Letter of complaint

I was overcome by a chocolate binge craving this afternoon. How come I don't get boiled cabbage and spinach cravings like the Kate Moss' of the world? I think its intrinsically unfair.

Anyhow, when I have these cravings I'm typically hostage to them. So there was naught to be done but buy a whole pack of Pepperidge Farm's soft-baked chocolate chip cookies proceed to empty its entire contents into my waiting mouth. But after the first bite, I stopped short.

Ewww. These weren't soft. Despite the enticing promises on the packaging, these were hard and crunchy and dry, crumbling like sawdust in my mouth. Of course, this didn't stop me from eating 2-3 (just to check if they were all like that) - but - Ee-eww.

Pepperidge Farm was getting away with deceiving the unsuspecting innocents, and something had to be done about it. So I decided to write a letter of complaint to customer services:

**************
Dear Sir or Madam:

I am writing to complain about one of your products, the soft-baked chocolate chip cookies. Although on the packaging the consumer is promised cookies that are freshly baked and soft, I have discovered today that in reality the cookies are dry and sawdusty. This would not normally induce me to complain except that you obviously differentiate yourself from your competitors on the basis of your (spurious) marketing.

I have been literally unable to finish the pack, such was the poor quality. As a consumer I find this disappointing, and am surprized that a company with as much brand presence as Pepperidge Farm would incur such a reputational risk through poor quality control.

For reference, the packet I bought was item number WO 3A1455, purchased on Monday, 10/10/2005.

I have long been loyal to Pepperidge Farm for your other baked goods (e.g. multi-grain bread), and await your explanation and response.

Sincerely,

Ficali McPipe

*************
You think this is a joke, don't you? Well I've actually just dropped the letter off in the mail this evening.

I got the idea of complaining through one of Caveboy's friends, who once wrote a letter of complaint to a company because she found their ads on telly so boring she thought it was offensive to the viewer. So she wrote a letter to that effect to the customer services department, and received a polite letter in response explaining that they had to go through great pains to satisfy a wide variety of consumer tastes and preferences in advertising. Apparently there's a large proportion of viewers who demand boring marketing. Aah well.

Tee hee.

I wonder what I'll get back. I wonder if they'll enclose a voucher for another packet of cookies. I'm full of gleeful anticipation.

Friends, old and new

Friday evening started out as planned. I headed home early, immersed myself in the weekly domestic chores of cleaning and laundry, and lazed around in the lounge bantering with Rohinton and Jeet. I was knackered and looking forward to hitting the sack early, but just then Seagull called with a proposal that sent my plans awry.
"I'm with some friends in a bar five minutes away," he said. "Come join us!".
Oh why not, I thought. I'll go for just the one.
Famous last words.

Turns out one of Seagull's friends is the president of the "just-one-more" society. So it was some considerable hours/bars later that we all ended up saying goodbye, a bit worse for the wear.

Despite feeling somewhat shattered and fragile the next day, I woke up on Saturday an excited bunny. My old pal Ximmix is in town for three weeks, and she, Inihtar and I had fixed up to meet for brunch. The last time I'd met Ximmix was in London three years ago, and was looking forward to a hearty catchup. Of all the marvelous places to show her in NYC, we took her to the Starbucks on the third floor of Macy's. But I don't think we would have noticed our surroundings no matter where we went.

As we exchanged hugs and beams, the distance and years somehow melted away and it felt just like we were all in high school again. Except a bit older (but not wiser). So over brunch we slowly caught up on our lives - boyfriends, finances (!!), relationships, work and studies.

When finally it was time to leave, I schlepped over to Penn Station to catch a train to Providence, where I was headed to visit
Shan-K.
What is the worst way to spend a Saturday afternoon?
Waiting in Penn station for a train delayed by three hours. Even at the best of times, that station is a skanky place to be. Looking at the 200 other disgruntled passengers camped on the floor around me, I had visions of the Katrina superdome.

My experience, predictably, was compounded by having to use the bathroom at frequent intervals. Please, please, people, if you have even the most rudimentary sense of self preservation, do NOT hazard a visit to the Penn Station toilets.

When I stepped out of the train in Providence to find a patiently waiting Shan-K, I instantly forgot all my pent up ill-will.
"Hope you're hungry," he beamed at me. "I don't normally go out to restaurants with people here, so I've got a bit of an agenda worked out for us."
And boy. Shan-K was not kidding around. First we went to a lovely Italian restaurant on Federal Hill. After walking around on the highstreet and curling our noses at a couple of restaurants, we finally found one that met our standards (ie was affordable). Then we proceeded to eat ourselves to the point of sickness. Why do Italian restaurants always serve enough food for two people in each dish? And why do we feel compelled to try our damnedest to finish it, even when stuffed to our gills? Or maybe it's just me.

As we finished our dinner, Shan-K must have noticed the seam-bustingly pained look on my face, because he said, "well, I was going to take you to a lovely dessert place after, but if you're too full..."
Huh?
Dessert??
"Oh there's a separate stomach for desserts," I assured him.
So we ambled over, through a network of quiet back alleys, to one of the quaintest little dessert cafes I've ever been to.

There, over steamed milk (??! - can't take that chap anywhere in public) and apple tart, we continued to exchange the reminisces, tales, predicaments and anecdotes that you can only recount to one of your oldest friends ever.

A stern talking-to

After my sixth trip to the bathroom this morning, I decided I had to take some decisive action to remedy the situation.

"Fran, can you please tell my bladder to stop peeing so much?" I asked Fran plaintively.

So she gave my bladder a stern talking-to.

Everybody, but everybody, listens to Fran. I hope Bladder McPipe steps into line soon.

My nightly companion

It is with some consternation that I admit, following my previous entry on the subject, that insomnia has become my regular nightly companion. When I crawl into bed each night, she crawls in right with me.

Not that I have any trouble falling asleep. Oh no, I'm always out like a light within a minute of my head hitting the pillow (touch wood, touch wood). But then, exactly 4.30 every morning, a silent internal alarm pings me into consciousness. Not a groggy, hazy awakenedness, but rather a sharp, alert consciousness that makes falling back asleep out of question.

Why? Why me? I'm a sleep-lover.

Stress, everyone says. It's a sure sign of stress. Believe me, I have tried ad nauseum to identify what the stress could be, but can't think of anything consistent or grave enough to have such serious ramifications. The only regular source of stress I have is in trying to figure out how I've been surviving, for the last 3 weeks, on just 4-5 hours of sleep each night. That is not the Ficali I know and love. My Ficali needs to luxuriate in at least 8 hears of slumbering torpor before being able to function as a normal mortal.

So are there any simple fixes? I've taken to having quick narcoleptic top-up dozes on the train ride. But there's only so much one can achieve on a 15-minute journey. Any suggestions would be appreciated (hot milk and warm baths have already been tried and crossed out).

So this Friday evening, while the world rocks in its fiesta cradle, I hope to be crawling early into the sweet bliss of my bed. Me and my pal that is.

A day in the life of

Danby, Seagull and I were shooting the breeze after an early conference call this morning. A conference call in which I announced helpfully, to a whole bevy of listening managers, "All those of you who haven't been able to attend this call please let me know and I'll schedule a catchup." How I had expected the non-attendees to telepathically hear the announcement I'm yet to figure out. But Big Boss M chatted me later to say it was funny, and one aims to please.

I knew it was going to be a long and busy day, and wasn't yet prepared to get stuck in. So instead, ('Why work when you can procrastinate?' says the HR bod) I suggested a quick jaunt down to Starbucks for a cuppa.
"I could be persuaded," Seagull agreed (without any persuasion, I should point out).
We all turned to stare at Danby's just-bought cup of coffee he had picked up from Starbucks on the way into work. He might not have needed a coffee, but obviously fancied a wander in the gorgeous weather outside as well. So five minutes later found the three of us meandering down to the Starbucks together.

This was my first introduction to the Starbucks Swipe Card. At first I thought the bright little card Seagull mysteriously produced from his pocket was a funny kind of credit card. But turns out dear Starbucks has launched it's own swipe card where you can buy drinks on credit. How come the whole world found out about this before me (as usual)? I'm intrigued. I'm going to poke my nose around - more info on this later.

The chai tea was just what I needed to kick-start the launch of my busiest day yet at the company. The next few hours brought a flurry of sending emails, attending meetings, hosting conf calls, and sending more emails (correcting, per usual, the misinformation sent in the first emails).

Later in the evening, as it became apparent that I still had a few more hours of work stretching in front of me, I started a bit of a whinge session with Seagull.
He laughed. "By this age," he said, "I had thought I would be a bazillionnare and be working 15-minute days and sipping cocktails the rest of the time. Instead, here I am now writing extension contracts".
I liked the sound of that. "Well I'm going to be a bazillionnaire in five years," I informed him peremptorily.
"Great," he responded, "how do I get in on some of that?"
So I've appointed him my Chief Profit Strategy guy (the one to come up with the ideas). Hmm. Let's see where that gets us.

Pipe dreams like that are fun. Especially when they have a total disconnect from reality.

It reminded me a bit of the time I'd once suggested to Eddie Dubs that we start a band of our own. "Great idea!!" he'd responded enthusiastically. "I play guitar. You??"
Huh?
"Well, err, I guess I could manage the triangle," I'd reluctantly offered.

The child that just won't grow up

When in a bit of a disagreeable situation, do you ever miss being a child, where having a little tantrum was enough to get you whatever you wanted? When pouting or sulking or getting the odd tear in your eye was enough to earn you a comforting cuddle? When the world only existed in black and white, and even your most irrational desires seemed logical and perfectly reasonable in your mind.

Do you remember the first time, perhaps when you were seven or eight (or was I just late?), when you suddenly realised that the world wouldn't always be like that? That suddenly you were being asked to grow up, and you found that the Grown Up place was discomfittingly complicated and nuanced. That you couldn't tear at your hair and stamp your feet and holler anymore, and no one was rushing to set things right for you. That suddenly, you were expected to be, oh horrors, sensible.

I'm not often displeased, but just occasionally, by trying exceptionally hard, someone can do just the thing to disturb the equilibrium. To simmer the blood, or summon the tear. And I'm upset, but for some reason I can't bring myself to express myself, paralysed by fear of my own vulnerability. So instead I withdraw into the protective shell to lick my wounds - and get even more upset that nobody recognises I'm hurting. And the fact that they haven't intuited my feelings, although I haven't even expressed them, is somehow their fault in the perverse logic of my mind. They should have known what would make me upset. They should have known how to make me feel better.

I don't mind that it was a rocky road, if only there was a comforting cuddle waiting at the end.

Da weekend past

On Saturday, Ilajna, Paulus Maximus and I had an "End of Summer/Start of New Jobs" party. Bit of a dubious reason as evidenced by the fact that we had to clump together two half-excuses for the soiree. But then, who needs an excuse to pahty anyway eh.

The bar Paulus had chosen, the Good World, was in deepest, darkest Chinatown. Just when I thought the cabbie must surely have taken a wrong turn and I was about to get kidnapped, mugged and plundered, we arrived at the foot of this little oasis in what is otherwise a jostletown-by-day-but-desert-by-night scene. The bar may not have been much to look at (there's a reason why the picture on its website is blurry), but it filled all the requisites of being affordable, young, trendy and (most importantly) fun! The management threw in an extra freebie by allowing Paulus to DJ for an hour and a half (and thereby allowing me to brag to any willing listener that I knew the DJ). So we got to listen to some happy tunes that hit a striking chord ("Do you think they're liking it??!" Paulus kept asking nervously, although the crowd was all-beams).

The next morning, I woke up to an absolutely beautiful, golden Sunday. Fretting that it might be the last fairweather weekend before Winter launched herself in full fury, I decided to spend the afternoon reading leisurely in the park. So I ambled down there book in hand, sprawled onto my belly on the grass, and immersed myself in my book. Predictably, I hadn't been reading more than a few minutes when I started to feel myself get drowsy. The gentle breeze, warm sunshine and sweet smell of grass just has that soporific effect on me, and soon I was lulled into the deepest sleep I've had in ages. (Dear Gawd please tell me I wasn't snoring.)

When I woke up, some youths were throwing a football (the American pointy type) around nearby. I eyed the almond-shaped thing suspiciously, thinking how easily it could go off track and bop me one on the head. I had barely finished registering the thought myself when the ball came flying towards me, hurtling through the sky with lightning efficiency like a skull-cracking missile. Without time to get up, I reflexively curled up into a little ball, arms flung over my head in a protective gesture. I might even have had my posterior sticking out in the air in an undignified position. But still I was pretty chuffed with my reflexes. I stayed waiting like that a few seconds, heart in my mouth, fully expecting the ball to pound into me at any moment.

Nothing happened.

Few more seconds of nothingness, and then I hazarded a tentative peek out from between my elbows. No ball hit me on the head. Instead, one of the guys was standing over me trying (in vain) to control his laughter. "The ball fell over there," he explained, pointing to a spot a good twenty feet away. "You were totally fine."

I sat up straight, dusting the grass off my top. Gave him a nonchalant smile as though I'd known that all along. Got up with a deliberate slowness, proffered a smile and a wave, and affected as casual a stroll as possible out of the park.

What's a girl to do in such a situation, eh.