Even a butterly has spots

Yesterday, for some odd reason, I was feeling particularly rebellious about work. While for most people rebellion might mean an extra late lie-in in the morning and maybe skip the first meeting of the day, for me rebellion takes a self-deprecatory format.

So I decided to dress uber-sloppy to work, baggy jeans, trainers, sweatshirt, the works. I figured the peops out there wouldn't mind too much, and besides it gives their HR bod the "warm & fuzzy" aura that everyone seems to think HR bods should have. It's amazing how casualness in clothes encourages casualness in behaviour. Before I knew it I'd developed a dawdling swagger as I made my way to the coffee machine, and barely just caught myself from adopting a leisurely drawl to match.

A lengthy lunch, some warm sunshine, a catch-up chat with Seagull - in general it was shaping out to be a pretty pleasant day - when suddenly a quick glance at my calendar (and why hadn't I done that before, pray tell?!) revealed I had to spend the afternoon at a client site nearby. Sloppy jeans and trainers to a client site are an absolutely no-no - even I with my questionnable standards couldn't allow myself that one.

So quickly rushed home, huffing and puffing through the subway, almost tearing my hair out when the train came 15 seconds later than I'd hoped. Quickly changed into garb that was suitably professional, and dashed back out to work. Made it just in time to grab the ol' laptop and rush over to the client site.

Jumped right into the first meeting, a picture of pure panache. Caught a brief glance at myself in the reflective glass walls, and did a once-over of the smart cream jacket, the subtle black top and the plaid wool trousers. Gazed quickly down at my feet encased in smart leather shoes, where only moments before there had been old and dirty trainers, and felt a sense of secret elation. What a picture of perfection compared to this morning's Sloppy Jane. I crossed one leg over the other gracefully, in a moment of pure elegance and poise. As I did this, the cuff of my trouser leg got raised slightly to reveal my ankle.

And I froze in horror. There, glaringly obvious, was the one thing I'd forgotten to change. There, staring everyone in the face, was a shockingly bright purple striped sock.

And another one bites the dust

What does one get from an invigorating, luxurious, indulgent, three-day ski trip in Colorado?

Apparently, one gets:
- one dubious looking blue & black knee
- one (the other one) sprained knee
- an aftermath of the altitude that feels like a semi-permanent hangover
- sore arm muscles (??!!)

Is it really worth it, you might ask. And then you remember the rush of wind through your hair. The glistening white snow sparkling in the sunshine. The brilliant vistas of pure white mountainous terrain. The therapeutic relaxations in the hot tub. The stretching evenings of flowing alcohol and congenial banter. And then suddenly, corporal dysfunctions aside, you miss it terribly and lament the trip being over.

I am, most definitely, a novice. For those unfamiliar with skiing, there are four basic levels of difficulty: green (learner), blue (adventurer), black (cocky), double black (suicidal). I am, most definitely, a green-blue. What I am NOT, most definitely, (or so I found out first thing Friday morning), is a blue-black. The experience whent something like this:

By the lifts:
Seagull: (partially joking) Come to the top of this peak. It's easy.
Ficali: (incredulous) No way. Looks really steep to me.
Seagull: (semi-persuasive) Come on, you can do it!
Ficali: (naiive) You think so?
Seagull: (disbelieving Ficali's naiivete) Sure
Ficali: (total space cadet) Okay.

At the top:
Ficali: (looking down at the slope in horror) Oh no this is too steep I can't do it. Where's the lift I want to get back on the lift!
Seagull: (trying not to laugh) The only way down is to ski down.
Ficali: (thinking expletives) Oh blimey.
Seagull: (trying to be supportive) You can do it, it's not difficult. Just do it slowly, look I'll show you.

Half way down the slope:
Ficali: Like this? Am I doing it right? Is this corre - oh! OH!! WHOA!!!
Seagull: Yeah that's right you're doing grea - oh dear she's off.
Ficali: (flinging skis and poles asunder, and giving spreadeagle a whole new definition) YARD SALE!!!!

And that is the story of how my knees came to be. And the entire time, as I flew through the air, furrowed the snow with my chin, watched my skis launch themselves in different directions, and waited for Seagull to help me up, all I could do was picture myself like a cartoon character, and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Curses!

For some odd reason, my iPod seems to favour Queen. Not because I choose Queen. It's just that my iPod has developed a mind of it's own, and even when I put it on 'shuffle', it keeps repeatedly playing that darned band. Only 5 Queen songs from a total collection of 550, and yet feels like I'm plagued by the band every third song.

Fall from cooldom:
As a result of the continual (at first unwilling) brainwashing, I have actually started to enjoy Queen.

Worse than that. I've started to unconsciously sing the words out loud.

In public.

I now have no hope of ever integrating into society.

Well, not in my demographic anyway.

Getting a guy (and about time too)

Doobie and I were sitting in Starbucks this evening, trying to kill an hour while we waited for our movie to start.

"Doobie," I whined, "I'm tired of being single."
"Me too."
"Why don't we ever find guys? Every one else seems to."
"I don't know. What are we doing wrong?!"
"Let's try and figure it out, and come up with a plan."

So we started our self-improvement list - thirteen steps to finding a guy:
1. Learn to laugh like tinkling bells.
2. Get only "un-attached" guys.
3. Stop constantly making jokes in our heads.
4. Identify (and develop) the "Ilajna Factor"**.
5. Never admit we hang out at Keats every weekend. It's just not cool.
6. Don't judge guys based on how articulate they are. If a guy says "Explain me..." instead of "explain to me...", that should not necessarily disqualify him (although it should come pretty damn close)
7. Discover (and display) our hidden shy selves. They must be there somewhere inside.
8. Refer back to point 1. Always refer back to point 1.
9. Don't presume to understand guys. Because we don't. Ask guy friends for the male perspective.
10. Realize that our guy friends have failed us WRT introducing other single guys. Make new guy friends.
11. Stop laughing. Get over the fact that our situation is not funny. And if we must laugh, then at least make it like tinkling bells.
12. Learn to attract the guys we like. Or learn to like the guys we attract.
13. Do not go out to a restaurant and eat significantly more than the guy. It is not funny, it's just scary. And eat in small, dainty bites. Don't gobble like we do when we're home.

** The "Ilajna Factor" explained:
- Develop grace and elegance. Or atleast a minimal amount of poise.
- Spy on Ilajna when she talks to other guys. Make notes. Cross-reference with each other. Do not get competitive.
- Don't make smart-alec comments. They are not as witty as we think. Do not lead the conversation to the "High Five" moment, instead steer it towards the "Eyelash-Batting" moment.

It's absolutely foolproof. We both now just can't wait to put it into action.

The wonderful *

One of my biggest pet peeves is the ridiculous amount of typos one can make when chatting on IM. Of course, part of it is the product of typing rapidly, but there is also an undeniable element of general motor incompetence, and that's the bit that rankles. Disconcertingly often I'll glance at the screen to scan over what I have just chatted, and it will say:

Inihtar: How are you doing?
Ficali: I'm alrihgt. How are yuo?

Now that, to the objective observer, is just darned irritating. Doobie kindly offered up a theory for it. Something along the lines of having fat fingers that can't fit on the keyboard keys. Hmmph.

Chatting with Macklaine yesterday, and he recommended a resolution. Everytime you make a typo, he suggested, you should clarify by offering the correctly spelt word with an * at the end. so the conversation above would look like:

Inihtar: How are you doing?
Ficali: I'm alrihgt. How are yuo?
Ficali: alright*
Ficali: you*

I liked the idea and was keen to start adopting it immediately into my work chats, just to throw the ol' colleagues for a bender. Most of the communication at work happens over IM rather than email. Weird, eh. But the perfect context for experimenting with little fun games like the above. You know - even if no one else finds them fun or amusing.

But of course, as soon as I got all excited about it, I stopped making typos. I had to wait, chomping at the bit, for two entire days before my next typo presented itself. And then, disappointingly, it was with Macklaine himself. And that time round, I outdid myself.

Ficali: Macklaine, when are you next coming to visti?
Ficali: visiit*
Ficali: dammit
Ficali: visit**
Macklaine: LOL

Not quite the dignity I'd intended.
But Macklaine was tickled pink.

"Here's how to take it to the next level," he suggested. "When you're actually speaking to someone live, and you make a mistake in what you're saying, you have to then say the correct thing while signing an * to them."
"Eh?"
"Just make a big cross of your arms as you correct yourself."

Hmm, that strategy seems to be lacking a certain element of dignity. Besides, I'm always tripping myself up over my internal jumble of thoughts, and always having to come back and correct myself. I'm not quite sure Big Boss M and the other folks at work would take too kindly to this new enactment of the asterisk.

The Breakfast Club and Tiresome Tuesdays

Doobie, Ilajna and I were all a bit cheeky this week and and had taken Monday morning off work so we could take Ilajna's cousin, who was visiting, out for brunch. I'd blocked my calendar off all morning, with the cryptic note: "Meetings".

You know, just incase Big Boss M should chance upon it.

And if anyone else asked, my plan was to explain, with an appropriate element of regret and apology in my tone, that my red-eye from Seattle had been delayed. I figured it would take an exceptionally paranoid and anally retentive person to actually check up on that. And if such a person should find me out, my Plan B was to wing it on my good looks and charm. Infallible contingency planning as you can see.

I suppose I could have, of course, chosen just to be honest about taking the morning off. But hey - where's the fun in that, eh.
(As it turned out, after all my plotting and scheming, no one even noticed my absence. Don't know what I find more irritating really.)

At breakfast, Doobie, Ilajna and I came to a realization - what a good way to cheer up the grey moroseness intrinsic to Monday mornings! Going late to work - more importantly the miniature form of rebellion that it represented - filled us with a sense of excitement. Not to mention the diner food.
"Let's do this every Monday!" I urged, chomping through my pancakes.
I was greeted by two pairs of apprehensive eyes.
"I mean, of course, that we should do it earlier normally. Like so we aren't really late to work."
(Sometimes you just have to cater to the crowds).
Two enthusiastic nods and whoops of excitement.
"What a great way to start the week!!" Doobie agreed.
"I like this, its so much fun!" Ilajna piped in.
"Knowing me, this is actually going to make me excited about Mondays now," I laughed sheepishly.

And so we've formed our Monday Breakfast Club. Meetings to be held early Monday a.m. at the Morning Star diner on 50th & 2nd. Guest applications for attendance welcome.

"Of course, this does leave the other days of the week to get through," Doobie pointed out, ever the sage cynic.
But Ilajna quashed the thought with her ever-present optimism. "Well, we all love Friday, just because it's Friday. And we love Thursday because it's filled with anticipation of Friday."
"And Wednesdays are fine because they're the Hump Day" Doobie added. (I gave her a quizzical look. I'm not sure I approve of the term 'Hump Day'.)

So that just leaves Tuesday.

How in the world are we going to make it through Tuesdays?!

Weekend in Seattle

A lovely weekend with the Cousin and her hubby in Seattle. Quite an adventure, really, what with their burgeoning zoo of two cats and a dog. Every which way I turned, there was a skulking cat to trip over, a leg-rubbing cat to pet, or an excited dog to be pounced on by. For me, of course, it was a little taste of heaven. Especially when Ol' Macko snuggled up with me in bed (Ol' Macko being the cat, not the Cousin.) Ol' Macko quickly established himself as my pampered favourite (pets are, after all, like children - you're allowed your favourites, right?).

It was a relaxing weekend in Seattle - a warm afternoon in the wineries of Whidbey Island; another lazy, sunny day strolling along the beach; a leisurely lunch gazing out over the Sound to the backdrop of snow-capped Olympic mountains; hot cinnamon rolls at the beachside Alki bakery; peaceful sunset strolls with the dog; evenings of shared wine and familial banter - an entirely new world from my frame of normalcy. It was a glimpse into the Cos' life, and it warmed my heart to see the beauty of it.

Meeting, in Seattle, the French from California

It's an odd feeling to go on a week-long training course with 25 other strangers. We were to be spending a considerable amount of time together - from 8am to 11pm everyday, and living in close proximity in the hotel together.

Of course, I was nervous of the wierdos there were bound to be in the course. All it takes, as you know, is one oddball with a loose screw in his head, and that's enough to throw a spanner in the works for everyone else around. And history and precedent had taught me that if there was an oddball in the crowds, he would inevitably be placed right next to me. Sod's law innit.

I was intrigued by the group behaviour on that first morning - somewhat akin to when dogs run into other unknown dogs on the street. A lot of tentative circling around eachother and sniffing one another out, trying to ascertain vibes and currents, each person subjecting the others to magnified scrutiny and stringent filtering.

But let's not forget that these are, after all, a pack of consultants. By late morning it was apparent that the ices had been broken, and by early afternoon there were already rudimentary signs of developing friendships. I, of course, aligned myself quickly to the French foursome, who had instinctively gravitated towards eachother and formed a sub-clique.

Partially so I could speak French again. But mostly so I could have one of them as my culinary partners for the cooking-school team working event. Can't go wrong with a French chef on your team, right?

Wrong.

Jo-Jo, JM and I started in chagrin at our globs of pasta which were meant to be ravioli. The dough was thick and stretchy exactly like they'd shown us how not to do. Conspirationally, we tried to disguise our raviolis amonst all the others', with the hope that ours would get lost in the mix and we'd be able to eat someone else's. When the judge lifted a glob of ravioli from the large common pot and said, "See this is how you should never make them," Jo-Jo, JM and I took an instinctive step back to try and merge into the shadows.

Our chocolate souffle followed much a similar story.

Nevertheless, by the end of the evening, much time had been spent laughing together, conspiring together, and toasting to each others' culinary expertise.

On the last evening, as we sat together over a shared Moroccan dinner which, to our mortification, had to be eaten by our hands from a large common bowl, we beamed at eachother in delight.

It felt nice to make some new friends. Even if they're - you know - all the way in California.

Awe-struck

Walking through Central Park over the weekend, I saw the horses and started reminiscing about all the horse-riding I used to do as a child. I recalled how, even as a ten year old child, I used to wake up at 5.30 each morning so I could put in an hour of horse-riding before school. And I was impressed by my own childhood tenacity.

And then it suddenly registered how, even for my ten year old childhood whim, Mum and Dad used to wake up at 5.30 each morning just to take me horse-riding. And I was awed by how giving they had been. Could I ever be such an encouraging and supportive parent? Forget parenting. Could I even be such a supportive person?? Five thirty every morning. Seven days a week. I was in awe of the way they had so easily, without hesitation or complaint, given up so much to support my childhood hobby. I was in awe of how they'd never reminded me of it since and called back on the favour. In awe in general of what naturally good parents they were.

And just when I was about to out-awe myself, they called on the phone.
"We've just adopted a little girl!"
"You can't just do that without consulting with your real children first," I argued. Instantly protective of my territory. Selflessness is still unatainable to me.
"She was an orphaned child on the streets outside where we work. We've adopted her, put her in one of the best child care centers we can find, and are donating towards her education so she gets the full education she needs. We were worried about her being forced into childhood prostitution..."
"How old?"
"Five."
"Can you visit?"
"Yes of course."
"Oh.... wow, that's amazing."
"Yes, yes it is."
"That's mind-blowing."
"Yes, yes it is."
"Wow... that's phenomenal." (My coping mechanisms and faculty for articulation were failing me. As usual.)
"Uhm, yes it is."
"I ... oh, wow."

The weekend gone by

The past weekend suddenly transpired into an eventful one. What with one of Milo's brothers visiting and the other one celebrating his birthday, Milo was keen that we all go out for a bit karaoke night at Keats. I reached Keats after work to find Milo, his brothers, NC and Dub already situated comfortably at the bar, so it was hugs and introductions all round. Milo's brothers, with their warm smiles and disarming southern charm, instantly endeared themselves to the group. Doobie, Delt and Ilajna joined shortly later, and the evening picked up momentum in ernest.

Before we knew it, Ilajna, Li'l Ben, Middle Evans and I were belting out Sweet Caroline at 4 am and it was closing time. After my charming display of skills on the dance floor, the Evanses started teasing me about my tap dancing steps. I, of course, maintain that they haven't yet developed a taste for things aesthetic.



The next morning, on but a couple of hours sleep, Doobie, Ilajna and I headed out to meet Rohinton and Jeet for brunch. It had been several months since I'd been back to Arsen's, and I revelled in their usual warm welcome and the delicious home-cooked food. A pleasant lunch, a heartening catch-up chat with Rohinton and Jeet, and then Doobie, Ilajna and I headed off to partake in the St. Patrick's Day celebrations.

It wasn't long before we met up with Milo and gang at the entrance of the Madison Bar. Despite the sub-freezing temperatures, Doobie and decided to wear open shoes and no socks. She donned a brave smile, but her feet were turning an unnerving shade of blue. I offered to lend her my gloves for her feet (not quite sure how that would work, but hey its the thought that counts) but she just bestowed upon me a skeptical look. Once finally inside the bar (after MUCH waiting), we proceeded to bring in Middle Evans' birthday with a splurge of eating, dancing, drinking and general merriment.
But before I knew it, I found myself back at Newark Airport, about to embark on a new week, in a new city, and sure to bring with it a host of new stories.

Plans, games and excitement

After a quick sangria with the work peops yesterday, I rushed home to start cooking dinner for the crew as I'd promised.

As we all settled around the dining table together and Dub poured us all some wine, I beamed around at Azdadoobie, Ilajna and Dub.
"Guys I have something to tell you all," I announced. Mostly just for the dramatic effect of the gaping silence which obediently ensued.
"I've come up with a list of plans for us!"

Yay! Super! What fun!! Ilajna and Doobie exclaimed.

"I thought maybe this summer we could go hiking in untouched northern Canada. Pure wilderness. And if we go north enough we can even see the Northern Lights. Even in the summer!"

Yay! Super! Sounds fab! Ilajna and Doobie chimed in unison.

"AND, I was thinking, maybe in two weeks we could all drive down to Vermont just for the weekend, to go skiing???!"

Sounds great! Fantastic! Perfect!

"AND, for this weekend, do you guys fancy heading down to Boken to meet Rohinton and Jeet for brunch, and then join the St. Patty's Day celebration parade? Seagull, Danby and Conrad will be there, and it's Danby's birthday..."

Excellent! Let's go for it! What a great plan!

"AND, for tomorrow, Milo was suggesting that we have a big karaoke night down at Keats. And Delta might come too. And of course Dub. And Milo's little brother."

Oh that sounds great! I'm totally in the mood for Keats! Want to meet Jackie again!

Wow. How could I ever ask for a better pair of roomies.

I'm sensing this will be another list in our little book of lists.