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.