Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Mid Summer Night('s) Mare

After several months of incessant complaining about the cold, I have made an absolute change of direction, like a fickle breeze, and started complaining about the heat. (I maintain in my defence, that as an unfortunate product of the confused and spoilt Generation Y, acting in this capricious and whimsical manner is my absolute prerogative. In fact I'd even go so far as to suggest that it is my obligation.)

Summer hath unleashed herself upon us in all her fury, and obviously Doobie and I had had neither the foresight nor the initiative to prepare in advance for the advent of tropical heat. And so it comes to be that this weekend found us complaining in our kitchen as we steadily melted into puddles of perspiration (because women perspire, they don't sweat, oh no).

"We should have bought fans," I lamented, as though it were no longer an option.
"We still can," Doobie pointed out, sometimes (though not always) the practical one.
"Maybe we should just get those air cooler things, like they have in India!" I brainwaved.
"Erm. Ahem," Delta interjected. "I consider myself somewhat of a connoisseur on this subject, and I've never seen anything like that in the US." I threw him a glare, my preferred response to conceding that he might have a point and I might be wrong.
Bobbis entered the room. "We should just get air conditioners," She emphasised.
And that was that.

So this morning I set about the arduous task of browsing through websites to find the perfect AC for my room. Definitely something white. Definitely something small. Definitely something affordable. That was pretty much all the specifications I had in mind when I started. And then the websites threw me for a loop. There was all sort of numbers - 5,000 BTU, 13x36 inches, etc. It would be typical of me to end up buying something that didn't fit in my window or wall socket. So I resorted to some reasonable guesstimation. Stretched out my arm in front of me and squinted in an attempt to gauge how long it was. Hmm - maybe a foot and a half from shoulder to finger tips. Thought back to my window - probably an arm and a quarter in length. So basically 36 inches sounded about right.

So I bought the darned thing.

I'm excited that I'll have an AC delivered sometime within the next few days - salvation from this heat is nigh! Now all I have to hope is that it actually fits in the window. Minor details.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

The underground OCD club

I reckon I'm a pretty neat person, although not compulsively so. I mean, I'm not the type of person who is distracted into cleaning imaginary specks of dust from the tabletop as you're trying to hold a normal conversation with them. Or the type of person who is obsessively polishing their glasses all the time. (Polishing the phone, I will have you all know before you jump down my throat, is an entirely different matter. Entirely.)

So I was more than slightly non-plussed when Delta happened to notice my shoe collection the other day, all lined up neatly against the wall, and took it upon himself to start laughing at me. "Look at them!" He spluttered, "they're arranged like little soldiers, all standing up at attention side by side!"
Suddenly, I felt embarrassed about the neat row of shoes I'd been so proud of. I quietly reached over with my toe and nudged one of my boots into toppling over, so that there was a modicum of disarray (and therefore normalcy) in the ranks. Since then, every morning I glance over at my shoes and make sure that there is at least one turned over, or out of order, in the row. And that little display of disorder, while on the one hand irking my sensibilities, on the other offers me comfort. At least then I don't feel like I treat my shoes like soldiers anymore.

But I have to confess, during this week staying at Seattle, I believe I have stumbled upon my secret soulmate. The lovely lass who cleans my room has a shoe compulsion that pulls on my heartstrings. When I return to my room in the evening, not only is the bed made, as I'd have expected. Also, my shoes are arranged in a row by the wall, in height order, just so. And all my toileteries have been reorganized on the shelf, side by side, in a perfect row, even in ascending height order. And my laptop has been shifted so that its corner aligns perfectly with the corner of the desk. And my notebook has been placed on my laptop, so that the corners align perfectly. And I'm sure if I had more of an eye for detail, I'd notice more such peccadillo(e?)s all over the room.

Out of habit, I kick one shoe awry, to create the look of deliberate messiness that is so the rage these days. So that I don't feel like I'm treating them like soldiers. But for the most part, I have to confess, her orderliness makes me feel dead good.

Monday, May 22, 2006

I better be earning some instant karma points

Some confounded rule of the universe has dictated that, from all the 300 passengers on a plane, I always find my seat next to the one over-sized person who needs an extension seatbelt and 1.5x the seatspace. Predictable as sunshine.

Which means, inevitably, that I find myself with .5x the economy seatspace (being such that seatspace is a decidedly finite quantity). And sometimes, its easier to just succumb than to fight the laws of the universe. And so it comes about that I have learnt to contort myself, in a Cirque de Soleil fashion, into shapes and sizes that can fit into half an economy plane seat.

This morning, on my flight to Seattle, life threw me a further hurdle. You know. Just for fun.

I had the middle seat. Podgy chap on the right who was merrily overflowing into my seat per usual. Irritating? Of course. But what could I tell him? To wear a corset? So I meekly made him some extra room and shifted to the extreme left side of my seat.

On my left was a fellow who promptly fell asleep, within a minute of taking off, and then his head kept rolling onto my shoulder. At first a soft dip of the head which would automatically wake him up, and he would flash me an apologetic smile. And then again. And again. And then his head would just stay there, comfortably lodged on my shoulder, until I lost patience and gave my shoulder a gentle shrug. Irritating? Of course. But then I remembered the time I myself exploited an unsuspecting stranger's shoulder not so long ago. And I thought how quickly what goes around comes around. (Like a door you throw open too fast which slams back at your nose). And I remembered that the stranger whose shoulder I had fallen asleep on had been nice enough not to censure me. And I thought about how, when one is given something gratuitously by life, like the kindness of a stranger, it's important to pass the favour on. So I tolerated the lolling head.

And that brings me to where I am now. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Between a rock and a hard place. Between the frying pan and the fire. Squashed in the left half of an Economy seat. With a guy on my right pouring into my seat. And a guy on my left periodically falling asleep on my shoulder.

Somehow, in the midst of all this, with four more hours till we land, trying to find a perspective that will allow me to see the positive. Like an instant accumulation of karma points.

Our first Non-BBQ

What with Ilajna planning a five month hiatus from the rigours of New York, we had, at first planned to organise a rooftop barbecue by way of a leaving do. However, on discovering that fire regulations prohibited us from having a BBQ in our building, we had to re-think the plan. Ultimately, we decided to hold a non-BBQ, which, conceptually similar to a non-wedding, has all the trappings of a BBQ (music, rooftop, sunshine, sangria, food) without the actual BBQ itself.

In the run-up to the non-BBQ, my friends surpassed themselves in their industriousness. Ilajna and Doobie spent the three preceding days in a flurry of activity - planning the menu, drafting numerous shopping lists, chopping, marinating, baking, tasting. Jeet shared her tried and tested (and potent to the point of being illegal) recipe for sangria which proved to be the backbone of the party. Delta, self-appointeed Bartender, Light & Sound Expert and General Handyman, came by early in the afternoon to help set up the preparations.

We kept a nervous pulse on the weather forecast, which vascillated capriciously between thunderstorms and hot sunshine. Seriously. (Weather.com should just adopt the standard strategy the Beeb uses to forecast London weather: "Mild, with some potential sunshine and the possibility of showers." That way, through the practised art of committing to nothing, you can't be accused of error in judgement.

Despite the general hurry, flurry and scurry of final arrangements, the party itself went off without a hitch, I'm thrilled to say.

Before long, the crisp night air was filled with the refreshing mingle of chatter and laughter. The rooftop offered an openness so rarely to be found in the city. On one side, a view of the brightly lit edifices of corporate America, blazing against the dusky sunset (a real Howard Roark moment from Fountainhead.) On the other side, a darkening sky and the ink-black East River.

And in between these grandiose scenes, a tiny Manhattan rooftop with a cluster of friends and family, laughingly enjoying the summer's first non-BBQ.



Sunday, May 21, 2006

Gratitude

"Thank you for all your help in organising the surprise dinner. That was really kind."
"That's okay, no problem."

"And thank you for helping us organise our rooftop party yesterday. For helping set everything up. For helping with the shopping. For helping play host."
"No worries, anytime."

"And thank you for the book you gave me, what a lovely present. Really thoughtful of you."
"No probs, I really wanted you to read it."

"And - seriously - thanks for just listening, for being there, whenever I need someone to turn to. It means the world to me."
"Anytime. Really. Always."

What does one say next, when you've already had to say thank you so many times it starts to sound trite?

Monday, May 15, 2006

Some days, you are allowed to stay in bed

Like the mornings when you're jolted out of deepest sleep by a trilling alarm, and even though it's the same alarm that goes off every morning, it still sounds like an alien and unidentifiable sound. A hostile and violent enemy.

Your heart leaps into your mouth.

And as your mind fights through the multiple layers of fog, rising gradually and strugglingly towards consciousness, you wonder why you feel immobile, why your legs feel chained to the bed.

You fight a rising surge of panic.

And then realise that a night's tossing and turning has left you inextricably tangled with your duvet, chaining your legs to each other and the bed. The initial relief that your legs haven't lost mobility after all is replaced by the (logical) philosophical conclusion that life is sending you a sign - maybe you're not meant to get out of bed today.

Much happier for having arrived at this conclusion, you drift back into a contented torpor.

Only to wake up ten minutes later when reality sets in (as it inevitably does). Unfortunately, getting out of bed is not an option; it is a necessary evil.

So you fight the duvet, extricate yourself from its ponderous folds, and swing your legs over the side of your bed. Congratulate yourself for not having stepped on any of the numerous (and ensnaring) sandals lying on the ground in wait of an unsuspecting footfall. Stand up, only to find out your legs are still immobile, and when you try to step forward, you discover yourself sprawled face-first on the floor instead. Look down at your feet, and realise the undersheet is still bound tightly around your ankles.

So you give up on the struggle to make it through the day, and crawl back into bed instead, for an additional half hour.

For the pretence, even if only temporary, that some days, you are allowed to stay in bed.

Self in a nutshell

I was in a bit of an introspective mood the other day, and fancied lobbing a thought-teaser into the fire.

"If you had to use one word to describe yourself, to capture the real essence of who you are, what would it be?" I asked Doobie and Ilajna, usually the unfortunate recipients of my nonsensical rhuminations.

There was the expected period of uhmming and aahing and avid head-scratching.

Then Doobie gave a sage nod. "My word's simple," she said. I have to confess my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Doobie might have many self-professed qualities, bless her heart, but there ain't a drop of simplicity there.
"Are you joking???!"
"Dead serious." And the funny thing is, she actually was. Dead serious, I mean. So I clamped my smirking mouth.
"Doobie, babe, I'd never call you simple."
"NO WAY!" Ilajna rolled her eyes at Doobie.

Her interjection having caught our attention, we both turned to face Ilajna.
"And what's your word??"
"I've thought of one," she said. "Silly."
Doobie and I gawked at her in surprised silence.
"Err, I'm not sure that captures the essence of you, to be honest. I mean, you're not always silly."

"Okay I know mine," I shouted from the bathroom, where I was examining my face in the mirror. Sometimes it helps me introspect if I'm actually looking at myself. You might think I'm cuckoo, but I'd prefer to describe it as 'visually stimulated'. "Loquacious," I said, by way of my self-appointed descriptor.
"Nah," they both said dismissively. No argument or justification. Just - nah.
"But I know me," I argued.
They paused to think that over for a moment.
Then, "nah." And my self perception, so carefully thought over, was summarily dismissed.

And suddenly it struck us all, the vast gap between our self perceptions and the way we were viewed by others. Even some of our closest friends.

Do I know myself? Do others know me? Do I see what others see of me? Do others see in my what I want them to see? Do they see what I see that they see? Do I see what they would see? Could see? Should see?

Gah. This introspection business is no mean task.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Taking it to the next level

We know we've entered a new level of wierdness when...

... movies are released with titles like:

m:i:i
m:i:ii
m:i:iii

WTF?!!!

Luckily a modicum of redemption is to be found in motorbike stunts and a catchy soundtrack.

Speaking of movies, Ilajna and I had an impromptu (and successful!!) movie night last night. Whipped ourselves up a miscellaneous consortium of edibles (I mean nosh) with noodles and spinach and wontons and edamame. Doobie was out for the evening, so we made ourselves (and the numerous dishes, bowls and plates) comfortable and spread everything out on Doobie's bed. Popped the DVD into the player and settled down for a long evening.
"Are we allowed to eat on Doobie's bed?" I asked Ilajna.
She shrugged. "Dunno, we'll find out when Doobie gets back."

And so we had a leisurely dinner. And watched 'Snatch' (WHAT a great film!).

Carpe diem, I say! Movie night is back in style.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Saving the world is an ungratifying task

You might recall the day when Ficali "WonderWoman" McPipe and Delta 007, International Secret Agents and People of Mystery, saved the day by alerting 911 when they chanced upon an unaccompanied briefcase by the monument in front of the U.N.

Rescued the Free World in the battle of Good vs. Evil and Eternal Terrorist Domination. And we must, of course, give credit where it's due.

IF it's due.

Well, today found the two superheroes strolling again past the UN building. Past the (in)famous monument. Glanced at it in a moment of recall. "Remember when we saw that briefcase the other day - "
Almost tripped over themselves bumblingly as the sight before them brought them to a sudden halt. There, unmistakably, lay the briefcase in the same spot. AGAIN.

"What the....!"

Glanced at each other quizzically. Squinted their eyes to get a better look. Yep, there it was, glaringly undeniable.

But how could it be...??!

And then, in the clear light of day, the realization hit them simultaneously. The briefcase, realistic looking though it appear, was built in stone, as part of the monument. Part of the monument. Who, in this day and age, builds a lone briefcase as part of a monument in front of the U.N building??!! And yet, so it was, for all and sundry to be innocently deceived by.

Our friendly neighbourhood superheroes glanced at each other in silent mortification, as the realization of what they had done dawned on them.
"I mean, who would design a monument like that...?!"
"Yeah, what a weird designer!"
"Totally their fault, not ours."
"We still did the right thing the other day."

Thank gawd for superheroes in this world.

And for mutual reassurance.

Monday, May 08, 2006

Summer, the season of feet

Something palpable, living and breathing has taken up existence in my room. Something I have no control over.

My collection of shoes has developed a life of its own, burgeoning and augmenting uncontrollably in a variety of shapes, colours and sizes. Boots, shoes, sandals for sunny days, cloudy days, rainy days, for skirts, trousers, shorts, for blues, browns and blacks. Under the bed, lining the wall, behind the laundry bag. (But most usually on the exact spot where I place my feet on floor as I groggily step out of bed in the morning. Patiently awaiting my routine of tripping and cursing.)

"All these fun shoes," I told Ilajna and Doobie excitedly, "I can't wait to - ". And then I happened to glance down at my feet, and my heart sank. "I just wish I didn't have such ugly feet. Look at my toes, they're mutants!"
"I know what we need!" Doobie exclaimed. "A girlie afternoon of pedicures!"
Ilajna nodded solemnly, as though affirming that this was indeed our obligation - no our duty - to mark the beginning of summer.

And so we trundled down to the little Chinese nail salon round the corner and seated ourselves side by side in the large cushioned pedicure thrones, soaking our feet in tubs of gurgling hot water. I felt just like the girls I watch as I pass by the countless nail salons on the street. A bit silly, and yet naughtily luxuriant.

And then she started scrubbing my feet with the soapstone, and an involuntary eruption of giggles burst out of me. I squirmed, wormed, squiggled and wiggled in my seat, tortured by the agonising hilarity of someone touching the soles of my feet. ("Sshhh," Doobie told me, rolling her eyes towards the other customers about, but I had no control.)

I glanced down at the woman doing my pedicure. "Stop move foot ruin colour bad!!" she slapped my foot in mock reprimand. I liked the woman's maternal strictness instantly.

When we were leaving, she handed us each a frequent user card. "You come seven time, eight time free," she explained.
We grinned at her gleefully. It was supposed to have been a one-off, but we found ourselves saying, "okay see you in a few weeks!"

Oh well. Summer is, after all, the season of feet.

Sunday, May 07, 2006

All you need

Perhaps it was the emotional intensity of the novel I've been reading. Perhaps it was the culmination of all the thoughts that have been swirling stormily through my mind lately. Either way, something was weighing down on me, casting its heavy shadow like a lead weight on my mind.

I wasn't even sure what I needed or was looking for, when I reached out.
"There's something I need your advice on," I blurted when we met in the cafe. And as I started talking, she just listened quietly to everything I had to say.
"...So that's what I've done," I concluded my story, awaiting judgement with apprehension.

Not sure what reaction I was expecting. Perhaps censure. Probably shock, or at the very least surprize.

But she just smiled gently. "I don't think it's that big a deal, actually. I wouldn't worry about it."
I smiled uncertainly. "Really?" Promise?
"Really." Promise.
Something within me soared.

I guess that's what I'd been looking for - a smile, a warm reassurance, and a metaphorical hand-squeeze.

Sometimes, that's all you need - some external validation, from someone older, wiser, trusted and loved.

Friday, May 05, 2006

Playing safe

After dinner we wandered out for a nighttime stroll. It was late in the evening, and the streets were relatively quiet - a rare moment in New York. We wandered down Hammarskjold promenade (looks like las Ramblas in Barcelona, we commented) towards the UN building, absorbing the peaceful stillness of the night air. We paused in front of the UN building, observing the large stone monument situated in front, right in the middle of First Ave. Four tall rock columns side by side - natural, and yet somehow artistic; almost obelisks, and yet not quite.

When suddenly, something caught our eye. A shiny brown leather briefcase, sitting right there on the floor beside the pillars, right in the middle of First Ave. It would probably have stood out at the best of times, but placed right there, with no one around, in front of the UN building, was decidedly incongruous.

We glanced at eachother in discomfitted suspicion. It was too much of a stereotypical threat to be just ignored. There was no one about, save a couple walking their dog a few blocks away. No cops to speak of. Of course, my mind was exploding with images of bomb blasts. What should we do? The chance of it actually being a threat was negligible. Still... Ignore it? Look for a cop?

Finally, we called 911. Right there, in the middle of Hammarskjold promenade, in the middle of the night. "Sorry, but there's a briefcase right by the monument in front of the UN building. [Pause]. No, there's nobody around. [Pause]. Yes, in the middle of First Ave, right by 47th and First."
"Thank you for reporting it, we'll have it looked into right away."

We left shortly after that. There's not too much allure to hanging out by a suspicious briefcase in front of the UN building. I wonder if they did get someone to investigate it. I wonder what they found. I'm just glad I didn't hear an explosion later in the night.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Nosh

What IS it with Americans and their amusement of the word 'porridge'?! Apparently, oatmeal is a perfectly acceptable breakfast, but porridge is reserved for Goldilocks and the three bears. Even though, as everyone concedes, they are one an the same thing.

Mentioned to Delta this morning that I'd be grabbing a spot of porridge for brekkie, and he couldn't stop sniggering, snickering, smirking or smiling. Bah. Boys.

Well, I suppose one MUST get one's kicks from somewhere.

Speaking of food, Doobie's been specially requesting me to cook up my individually concocted recipe of 'kitchen-sink dal' for over a month now, so I decided to indulge her and offered to make it this evening. Managed to persuade Delta to come along as well, although I doubt he knows what he's letting himself in for.

Ps - I just learnt the new term 'nosh' (ie a snack, if you aren't familiar with it either). Hadn't heard it before, and am dead excited to slip it into casual conversation, but as luck would have it nobody around me is eating other than myself. Wouldn't ya know it.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

That's the thing with a loving family

Ilajna, Doobie and I were just indulging in a post-repas chat, being as it was the first evening in a long time that all three of us had got home early. Earlier on, I'd whipped us up a risotto for supper, so we were relaxing in a mood of generally pleasant satiation. Well, not a risotto really, if truth be told. Cuz I'd skipped out on the cream and cheese. And used brown rice instead of risotto. And added my own twist in the flavourings. So basically just a personalised concoction of rice and vegetables. All the same, one mustn't stifle creativity of course, so I prefer not to refer to my cooking in derogatory terms.

Just as I was about to start doing the dishes (the undisputed bane of my existence), my mobile trilled at me. This was a positive and timely occurence on many faces. Primarily because it promised a fun yack-sesh, which is never something to be scoffed at. But perhaps more importantly because it absolved me from cleaning-up responsibilities. So I feigned a rueful look (sorry, I'd have totally helped out with those dishes if the darned phone hadn't rung right now) and scurried into my room.

"Hello?"
"Ficali?" I recognised my uncle's voice immediately. Now my uncle, for all his fortes and lovable idiosyncracies, is not much of a phone-talker. So by the fact that he had called at all I immediately (and wrongly) assumed a family emergency.
But then he said, "So I read your blog."
Now, it might not be of comparable scale, but a statement like that, as you can imagine, is enough to induce a state of panic and emergency of its own right.
So I gave my typical eloquent answer. "Ermmm..."
But he was on a roll this time, didn't even need a response from me. "It's great! It's professional! You have to get it published! I know this one person in the publishing industry, I can put you in touch with him... you should be writing a book..."

I was mortified. Sink-in-a-hole-in-the-ground kind of mortified.

Gently, I pointed out to him that he was bound to like it, seeing as I was family. It wasn't a very objective perspective. "There's literally thousands of more talented bloggers out there," I explained.
"But I really liked your sentence about ol' Macko," he protested grumblingly, as though that in itself was sufficient evidence to prove his point.
Then my aunt got on the line. "You know the best one?!" she giggled, "the best one is where you write the thirteen steps to catching a guy. It was just so funny!"

I hadn't thought I'd see the day when my aunt would congratulate me on my guy-catching strategies. This modern world, I tell ya. Its throwing generational structure into disarray, leaving me somewhat discombobulated.

Then the Cos got online, and laughed so heartily I knew she could tell exactly how I was feeling.

We chatted for a while longer before I hung up (after I'd peeked into the kitchen to make sure the dishes were done). But their kind words stuck in my head all evening. That's the thing with a loving family - it skews perspective towards perfection.

Before he hung up the phone, my uncle even told me, "You're an intellectual." See what I mean about skewed? I let out a thigh-slapping guffaw. But still, it's so heartwarming isn't it. That's the thing with a loving family.

Monday, May 01, 2006

Englishman in New York

Giggsy was visiting New York this weekend, and I was thrilled. It's always heartwarming when friends from my old life in London come visit, and for a brief period of time, the past and present collide.

Giggsy wanted to have a quintessential 'New York' experience. "Let's do things that are typically New York!" he said excitedly as soon as he arrived home from the airport.

This, as I'm sure you can imagine, caused much consternation and kerfuffle in our abode. Giggsy wanted 'metro-cool', and that's a tall order for us whose regular haunt is Keats. But I'm nothing if not mildly resourceful, so we called MePaJoe and Ilajna in panic, and luckily they could give us a few suggestions for trendy bars in the meatpacking district, setting our minds somewhat at ease.

We'd intended to start out with an early quiet drink at Keats, to warm us up for the inevitably lengthy night that was to come. But as it turned out, by the time we reached Keats they were just about to kick off their karaoke session for the evening. Jackie was in full form, calling on Giggsy over the microphone, while the poor chap squirmed in his seat and tried to retract his head further and further into his collar. This, followed by a marathon fest at Pravda (much debate on the social legitimacy of men drinking strawberry martinis) kept us outside and on our toes till the wee hours of morn. The next day, Doobie, Giggsy and I headed down to Pastis for a leisurely brunch (are you still allowed to call it brunch if you only just make it there for 3pm?), and then schlepped over to central park to laze around in the summer sunshine. A glass of chilled wine in a quiet sidewalk bar on the Upper West Side, and then we headed over to Jacques-Imo's to introduce Giggsy to the concept of Creole cuisine. Can't never go wrong with a bit of ol' jambalaya.

This morning, I managed to catch up with Giggsy for lunch before he headed off back to the airport. Headed out for a spot of sushi ("need some healthy detox", we both agreed), and then wandered around the W. Village ("this is Perry Street, where I want to live one day" I pointed out to him). But inevitably (and unforgiveably) soon, it was time to head back to work.
"Did you enjoy your weekend?" I asked.
He beamed at me. "I'm planning to come 5 times a year!!"
We both laughed, and as I hugged him goodbye, I quite hoped he was serious. It had been lovely to see him again. Just like old times. Only better.