Festivus is as Festivus be

There was a fine old family reunion awaiting us when we got to Rochester. Delta's sister had prepared a spread of food which put Thanksgiving to shame. Wine was flowing freely, and each time I paused in conversation to breathe, seems like someone topped up my glass. There were mothers and sisters and grandmothers and daughters, sons, nephews and cousins. The evening was even peppered with an airing of grievances and a sprinkling of tears. For what family reunion is truly a reunion without an airing of grievances.

We got to spend a considerable amount of time at home with Delta's mum, who is a living example of how old age should be. Any time you caught her when she wasn't aware of being watched, she would be dancing by herself to the radio in the kitchen. May we all age with such good cheer.

And we pulled on our wellies and sloshed through the snow in a nearby park. We followed deer and bunny tracks along the river, until our frost-bitten toes were shouting out for a toasting.

Overall, it was a weekend to warm the cockles, and we were filled with a sense of emotional repleteness as we arrived at the airport for our return trip home. And then, our hearts sank. There they were, people by the hundreds. All pulling their hairs out of their head, pushed to their limits with delays and cancellations. The flight boards told a morbid story. Delayed. Delayed. Delayed. Cancelled. Cancelled. Delayed. Cancelled.

We had just about resigned oruselves to a night at the airport, when suddenly an announcement was made over the PA system. Flight 137 to JFK will be departing on time. Ours! On time! In the midst of all this mayhem! I have no idea why it happened, or even how it could have possibly happened, but if our flight was set to take off on time, I wasn't about to question it. If I didn't know better, I'd have called it a Festivus miracle.

Today

Like Santa's footsoldiers, Delta and I set forth while it is still under cover of night. Early this morning, we fly to Rochester to spend the holidays with Delta's family.

While I am busy ploughing through all kind of gustatory delights myself, I wish you all happy holidays, fine wine, and presents that make you exclaim with joy (because at the end of the day we all know that's what the holidays are about).

An un-challenging resolution

I'd just got home from the bitter cold, put the kettle on, and settled myself comfortably on the couch for an evening of telly. I was just trying to decide between Law and Order and House, when suddenly I remembered the mat.

Last week, in a sudden burst of healthful ambition, I had entered a sports store and procured myself a yoga mat. Classic purple mat designed for the occasional spot of yoga at home. Brought it home, immediately rolled it up into a neat tight log and tucked it away in the far corner of the coat closet where I wouldn't feel compelled to make immediate use of it. Just owning the mat brought such a ring of satisfaction, I didn't actually have to even use it.

So this evening, just before I settled my posterior into optimal telly-watching position, I decided to make a go of flopping around a little bit on the mat. So I sat myself down with legs outstretched, and tried to reach my arms out towards them. I could barely reach past my knees.

I , recoiled, mortified by my own inflexibility. I'd never been like this before. Who was this person who couldn't reach her toes?!

I've always taken health and fitness for granted. Effortlessly, without trying, without practicing, without having to work at it. And now, all of a sudden, here I was, held away from my toes as though by a glass wall. So I decided to take a different angle, and tried to split my legs apart to see how deep I could split. I barely got half way down, when I was stopped, grunting and mid-split, by my own body's limits.

It was at that moment, legs mid-split, grunting exertions, muttering expletives, that I decided: It has to get better than this.

Voila my new year's resolution. In 2005, my resolution was two-fold: eat healthier; swear less. It took my three years to actually be able to perform these, so there were no new resolutions till now. But this year, I'm going to make one again. Not because I've particularly mastered the art of eating healthier, or swearing less. Just because, if I haven't got those two down by now, let's face it I'm never going to.

But a bit of flopping around on a purple mat at home each evening - now that sounds like a resolution which doesn't pose too much of a challenge.

Nesting

We actually spent the entire weekend absorbed in domestic chores like putting up shelves and blinds. Sorry, I mean window treatments (been watching HGTV). And by saying "we" put up shelves, I mean Delta did all the measuring, hammering, carrying, sanding and sawing. I hovered around helplessly, trying to generally stay out of trouble, and passing Delta implements when he needed them (think an operating room when the surgeon says, "scalpel please").

Delta would be balancing precariously on a footstool, singlehandedly holding up the curtain rod, with a measuring tape in his mouth, and the other hand hanging on to the window to prevent himself from falling, and he would ask me a small favour like "pass the leveller, please" and I wouldn't know what it was. I would hum and haw and generally buffoon around, leaving my husband hanging at the window, while I tried to learn what a leveller looked like.

That is exactly how little help I was this weekend.

But partners we are, when it comes to such tasks, and now at the end of the weekend, I'm proud to announce that we now have blinds on the windows and shelves on the walls.

Little steps. That's how it goes. Little steps.

Back on track

It's hard to write that first blog, after you've had a break for a while. It's like being the first one to break that awkward silence on a dinner date. No matter what you say, it sounds trite and irrelevant.

So having couched myself in trite irrelevance, let me plod on.

Over the past four weeks, I've been otherwise preoccupied with all of life's banalities which typically preoccupy the average bod. Work (and lots of it!), visits, dinners, friends and family. And a fair share of muddling through sloshes of snow, a skill which I somehow find I need to re-learn each time winter comes around. As though my body is on it's own personal strike against these wintry climes.

And, I have to broadcast with considerable pride, I've taken to going to the gym again. Each Tuesday and Thursday evening, I'm back to enjoying my biking routine, until that little screen tells me I've burnt 200 calories. That's exactly the time when Blitzer leaves and Lou Dobbs comes on the telly, and I have to hastily shut off the screen and jump off the bike so I don't have to listen. You wouldn't think it, but Lou Dobbs actually controls my gym routine.

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving morning, I rushed to the supermarket for a quick last minute shop of forgotten items. Paper napkins and candles, for example. As I browsed through the aisles, there was a person next to me speaking loudly on her cellphone.

"Frickin' hell, I can't believe Thanksgiving time has come around atgain. I might just die, having to spend the entire weekend with the family." As you can imagine, I was shocked. But also instantly hooked. Actually, mostly I was just hooked. The person on the other end of the phone presumably uttered clucks of sympathy, for then my woman was grumbling again. "I can't believe they created a holiday forcing the entire family to spend time together. Just frickin' so irritating."

The sentiment was so incongruous with the goodness of Thanksgiving, and the excitement of a long-weekend, that I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. I was tempted to stick with her, I must concede, and see how the rest of her weekend transpired. But I had guests of my own, and things to get done, so I rounded the corner and continued my hurried shop.

In the next aisle I passed by two boys in their early twenties, two roommates doing their weekly shop, I quickly surmised. As I passed, I heard one say to the other, "I've never been more unenthused about anything more than this weekend. You can't imagine how boring it is to spend an entire four days with the family. It kills me."

Crikey, I thought to myself, as I quickly picked up what I needed and headed for the front desk. What's with all the Thanksgiving scrooges.

But I quickly forgot about it as the girl at the checkout started ringing up my items.

"Working on Thanksgiving?" I asked her sympathetically. "I hope you at least end your shift in time to be home for dinner?"

"Oh gosh, I always volunteer to work on Thanksgiving!" she responded with a laungh. "My family's mental, I'm happy to be out of the house on Thanksgiving day."

And all of a sudden, if I hadn't been before, I was especially thankful for the people with whom we sharing our giving of thanks.

Turkey Day

This morning, as I brushed an icycle off the tip of my nose, I rather disappointedly resigned myself to the realisation that winter is actually here.

Still, what that really means, I suppose, is that Thanksgiving is already upon us. This year marks the first time that Mike and I are hosting Thanksigiving at ours (well, come to think of it, it's the first year we have an 'ours' to host at). So we called the gang, and then we couldn't have anyone left out, so we called other friends who didn't have alternative plans, and all of a sudden, we were too many to cook for.

"Delta, what in the world are we going to do?! I can't cook for ten people! I don't even think I've ever made mashed potatoes before!"

Delta looked at me for a moment. "Let's just get it all on Fresh Direct".

And so it comes to be that the first Thanksgiving we are hosting, we are actually ordering the meal pre-cooked and pre-delivered from our online supermarket. Even (especially) the potatoes.

Welcome to the twenty first century.

When you know you're on to a lucky day

This morning I jumped out of bed with the fright of my life. Heart thumping in my ears and the works. Looked at the clock, and it was 8.30. Eight-thirty-frickin'-o'clock!!
"OMG f*&%ing shite!!" I shouted.
Poor Delta, soundly asleep next to me, rocketed out of the bed with a personal heart attack of his own.
"What happened?" he asked, once he'd surveyed the place rapidly and elimimated fire/earthquake/intuders, and had caught his breath a little.
"I guess I slept through my alarm. Go back to sleep," I told him soothingly. As if anyone can go back to sleep after being awakened like that.


Then I looked at my alarm and realised I hadn't overslept it. In fact, I'd entirely forgotten to set it the night before. How inconvenient. Especially seeing as I was supposed to have a 9am meeting this morning. There was no way I could make it to work by 9.


No time to think no time to think. Just pull on my jeans with one hand while brushing my teeth with the other and then quickly feed the cat while pulling on my socks and. Crap. There was just no way I was going to make it in on time.


So I logged into my email with all the noble intention in the world of confessing my over-sleep, and grovelling for a reschedule. Pulled up my inbox, and what's the top email there? An email from the person I was supposed to meet that morning.

Sorry, personal emergency, need to reschedule.


I couldn't believe my luck. Guess he had overslept too, if you ask me. Moot point anyway. So I put on my most magnaminous tone, and responded that of course I understood and would be willing to reschedule. But of course. Because that's just the kind of forgiving person I am.

Optimistic and hopeful

I hesitated to write this, I didn't want to go down rathole of politics, but I just have to. Or else think I might just burst.

"I think I'm going to head down to DC for Obama's inauguration speech in January," I told one of my colleagues yesterday.
"Oh you're just saying that because he's black." she retorted (obviously a republican).
I just blinked. I had no idea how to respond to something like that. It hit me in that instant, our spheres of comprehension, our parameters of reality, were so entirely different from each other, I couldnt' even bring myself to talk to her on the subject.

Of course it's because he's black!!! Don't you understand the enormity of what that means?! I wanted to shout.
But propriety (and my role as an HR bod) demanded a more polite etiquette than that. So i just smiled outwardly, and bit my lip inside till I almost drew blood.

But it was so much more than the race issue. It was larger than the petty and singular view of race that had polarised the country before. It marked the point in time when we had suddenly grown up, as a people, as a country. When we actually said to ourselves, that's enough of this rubbish - we are better than this. And for this, I could barely comprehend the surge of pride I felt. For this country which wasn't even my own, but to whom I felt a sense of belonging anyway. A country which had risen to the demands of the current day, and proved that the whole is truly better than the sum of its parts.

On election night, we had called everyone over for an election party. Over pizza, beer and wine, we alternately cheered and jeered at the telly, lifted by our own elation. Outside in the streets, as the news slowly unfurled, all of New York turned into a roaring continuum of excited chants and cheers. The atmosphere was contagious, spellbinding.

For the situation is more than Obama himself. It is the philosophy of unity he stands for. It is about witnessing history, in the making.
I am optimistic and hopeful, for the future that lies ahead.

A life of humour

Like I mentioned in my previous post, I've decided to participate in National Novel Writing Month (nanowrimo) for November. The thing about nanowrimo is that it demands an alarming alacrity of thoughts, and some hasty typing that gets my fingers in a tizzy. Needless to say, I'm already considerably behind schedule. Per my own calculations, I should have been about 10,000 words done today, in order to complete the requisite 50,000 words by the end of the month. But if truth be told, I'm on an embarrassing 5,700. I feel pressured, and pushed, and facing a tremendous writers block. Stuck at 5,700, what kind of novel is this going to be. Bah humbug.
"What are you writing about?" Delta asked me the other day.
"Oh, just about myself. I figured I'd start with the time that I moved to NewYork, and just see where it takes me."
"You're writing about yourself? So, erm, I hate to ask this but, how's that different from your blog?"
Touche.
I'll tell you how it's (marginally, microscopically) different. My blog is semi fictional. I mean, all the stuff that I said happens does actually happen, but I use some literary license to dramatize the mishaps of Ficali - you know? Just like a director might do when they make a film like "Into the Wild" (except with a lot less fame, no money at all, and considerably less glamour). So there's a bit of dramatic license, for humour's sake.

But with this mini-novel, I was determined to stick to the truth as much as possible. I started documenting my life with an exacting amount of accuracy, and a surprising amount of memory for detail. I started relating incidents as they actually happened.

But you know what? The stories were still funny. Without any exaggeration at all, the stories that encountered in my life just had a penchant for the ludicrous, somewhat like a Chevy Chase movie.

That's the story of my life. Just one funny thing after another, and me at the butt of it all. Rather an element of pathos to it all, but who am I to complain. I mean, I'm getting a blog and a mini-novel out of it, after all.

Literary Panic

Somehow, in conversation with a colleague at work, I talked myself into signing up for National Novel Writing Month. Which means, over the month of November, I have to write a short novel of 50,000 words (~175 pages of type). Which comes down to typing about 2,000 words a day. Arduous, but achievable. I mean, there's people who climb Mt. Everest, for gawd's sake. Surely this was doable.

Of course it sounded to me like a lofty goal - but still, an exciting challenge. Until I suddenly realised that November starts tomorrow. Which means, if we do some nifty calculations and work back from t here, that I now have less than twenty four hours to come up with some semblance of plot, theme and characters.

I wonder if there's a Booker Prize for incoherent literature.

The Pitfalls of DIY

Trrrng, trrrring.
Delta's picture was staring up at me on my iPhone.
"Hi there! How's things going?"
"Erm, I have a bit of a problem here."
Sigh.

Earlier that day, Delta and I had scuttled over to Home Depot to buy new metal switch plates and dimmers for the lights in our apartment. Things like this make us positively brim over with ill-contained excitement. Our enthusiasm for homebuilding knows no bounds.

"Are you sure we should be doing this ourselves, Delta?" I'd asked cautiously, when he started fiddling around with the wires.
"Of course!" he'd reassured me, "this isn't rocket science, you know."

So now when he said there was a bit of a problem, I wasn't quite sure what to expect.
"Well, the good news is," Delta continued, "the dimmer is working perfectly."
"Great!!" I exclaimed excitedly, knowing what a difference this would make to our living room. "So what's the problem?"
"Well, the bad news is, somehow, the hallway switch is now turning on the light in the kitchen."

What.

"Seriously?"
"Yeah. It works, but for some reason it works in the kitchen."

Craziness.

"So what light does the kitchen switch turn on?"
"I'm not sure yet, I'm still trying to figure that out."
"Delta, are you serious? I don't think we can live with all the wrong switches turning on the wrong lights."
Even as I said it, I was thinking to myself, actually, it could be pretty entertaining.

And very quickly, I found myself quite accustoming to the idea of random switches for random lights. In fact I was just about to suggest it to Delta, when he cut my thought off right there in its nascent stages:
"You know what? I'm quite liking this. Wait till I connect it so you have to pull the flush to start the microwave."

Lesson 3: Strangers must smell funny

Whilst in Bombay, we wanted to learn more about the Doorstep School, a charity organisation that supports and sponsors the education of streetchildren in Bombay. Nooj, who has already been involved with the organisation for several years now, put us in touch with the organisation's founder, Bina. So we met Bina late on Friday afternoon, and she talked to us about the organisations and the initiatives it had undertaken.

Then she asked if she could take us to the field, so we could meet the children and and see their classes being conducted in the slums. We entered the narrow, dingy corridors of the first slum, and started cautiously making our way towards the centre, where the school had set up base in the midst of the little one-room homes, tightly packed up against eachother like coins in a roll. There was a raggedy old stray dog lying languidly in the sand, enjoying it's afternoon siesta. Bina stepped past him as we pressed on. The dog, sapped of all its energy under the direct glare of the sun, barely reacted. I stepped past him next. He barely twitched a muscle to shoo away a hovering fly. Then, just as Delta started to walk past him, the dogs nose suddenly pricked up. It cocked its ears and rose up to a sitting position in a sudden burst of alertness, and emitted a low-throated growl of warning.

We've probably just stepped in it's territory, I figured, and it'll stop when we walk a few more steps away. But it didn't. It wasn't about the territory, we suddenly realised. It was about Delta. Out of the hundred or so people passing through or just hanging out in that little area, it had picked the one white guy, and decided there was something different. And he wasn't having any of it. The dog followed us along for a little while growling threateningly the entire way, keeping all three of us on edge. Then, suddenly tiring of Delta, it headed off in its own direction, much to our relief, and we proceeded further into the slums to see the school. We laughed to ourselves on how odd it was that the dog had picked Delta out from the entire crowd, as the person to feel threatened by.

Half an hour later, having spent a thoroughly enjoyable time with the children and the classes, we were heading out of the slums from an entirely different direction than where we'd entered. We were deep in conversation about the school and its initiatives, when suddenly we heard a growl in the distance. It can't be, I thought, but yes, it was. The dog had somehow kept a watch out for Delta, had picked him out amongst the crowds in the distance, and came pounding towards us from more than a hundred yards away. Barking and growling loudly the entire way as it approached. It had actually been threatened enough by Delta's presence (white skin? different smell? American accent?) that it had hunted him out from the crowds to chase him out of the slums.

The dog didn't harm any of us in any way, but it sure made us all remark in wonder about it's uncanny discernment.
"I probably smell funny to him," Delta remarked, "just a scent he's never smelled before."

Lesson 2: Never take anything for granted

We needed to get passport sized photos taken so that Delta and I could get updated membership cards to our club in Bombay. So we headed over to a local photo studio to get the pictures taken.


The taking of passport sized pictures is done with a formidable level of seriousness in this city. Once Delta was seated in front of the camera, the photographer said, "look a little left. No not that much, now look a centimeter to the right. And up a bit. Now smile." And he continued with commands like that until Delta's face was positioned in his camera lens to perfection, before he would agree to click. And then he started with me. "No, look down more, we're seeing too much forehead. Smile less. No teeth. Look up into the lens. A little to the right." All of these commands had to be obeyed by subtle movements of our heads until we were positioned to the photographer's satisfaction. There was something reassuring about the amount of conscientiousness applied to our pictures. I felt like we were guaranteed the mugshots would come out good-looking. Now, if only the guy who took my green card and driving license pictures had applied this level of diligence to my photos, I wouldn't have to cringe every time I produced those documents for inspection, would I.


"Come back in fifteen minutes and we'll have these photos developed for you," the photographer told Delta and I. So we left the store and wandered the streets for a while, taking pictures of everything of interest we encountered. Finally, about half an hour later, we headed back to the photo studio, only to find a dejected photographer shaking his head in apology. "I'm sorry, but my memory card got ruined. I've lost all the pictures on the card. I'll need to take the two of you again." And so began the entire process of perfected head-positioning all over again.


"Come back in fifteen minutes and we'll have these photos developed for you," he said again, once he'd re-taken the pictures. So Delta and I hit the streets once again, with another fifteen minutes on our hands.


There was a shoe-shine man who had set up shop on the sidewalk outside the studio, with an eccentric look to him that immediately drew our attention.
"Man, I would love to take a picture of him!" I said.
"Well, why don't I get my shoes polished, and then you can take a picture," Delta suggested, so we approached the man for a polish.
"How much for a polish?" I asked the shoe-shine guy in Hindi.
"Just pay me as much as you like when I'm done," he suggested.
I hate it when people do that, because you nearly always end up paying far more than you would if a price had been pre-agreed upon. I tried to coax a price out of him, but he was adamant on his "at will" payment policy.

As he diligently rubbed various coats of various types and consistencies of polish into Delta's shoes, I asked Delta, "how much do you think we should pay him?"
"Erm, I was thinking a hundred?"
I smiled. Delta was falling into the tourist trap of paying far too much for a service because he was converting from dollars. "A hundred rupees? You know he probably gets five for this when he does it for the locals."
The shoe-shine man looked up. "This is not a five-buck job, ma'am," he said, in clear, fluent English.

Delta and I both did a double-take. It was entirely unexpected for a man living and peddling wares on the streets of Bombay to speak fluent english. But before I had time to examine the amazingness of this fact, I was overcome with a wave of mortification. Right in front of his face, I had told Delta it wasn't worth more than a fiver. How does one backpaddle out of that one?


"Erm, you're right, you're right," I stuttered.

The shoe-shine man continued to mumble under his breath for a bit, decidedly unimpressed with my attitude. And Delta and I stook in awkward silence, unable to talk to each other about the shoe-shine experience anymore, fully aware that he could understand everything we were saying. The awkward silence went on for about ten minutes, and I'm convinced he put on an extra effort of diligence and an unnecessary two coats of polish, just to prolong his moment of revelling.


Finally, when he was done (and it had seemed like this moment would never come!), Delta thanked him and told him what a fantastic job he had done, and gave him the hundred he had first talked about. And then he sat himself down on the sidewalk next to the shoe-shine man, and asked him if I could take a picture of both of them together. The shoe man was happy to oblige.


I had just raised the SLR to get my shot, when the shoe man suggested, "why don't you stand over there to the left instead, you'll capture a nice light falling on our faces. I moved over to where he suggested, and saw that the lighting was indeed much improved. I looked at him in surprise.

"I used to be a photographer," he explained.


Wonders never cease. Here was this man, living on the streets of Bombay in tattered clothes, who would have ever thought he had been fully educated, spoke english, and had been a photographer. Unbelievable. Shows you can't assume anything of anyone.


I wonder what happened to him in life to bring him to where he was. But that would be a thought for another day. For the moment, we were just filled surprise, awe and admiration.

Lesson 1: Bombay is a party city

No matter what crazinesses New York brings into our daily lives, Bombay is just a whole different kettle of fish.

Our flight over was everything we could have hoped for. I'd been a bit worried that we might have a problem at airport security, seeing as I haven't had a chance to update my passport yet, but the kind people at security seemed unconcerned by the different names I bore on my ticket and passport, and who am I to interfere. We also managed to swing a seat in first class, which, on a thirteen hour flight, makes a world of difference. when we reached our seats, Delta and I gaped at each other in surprise. On this new 777 plane, no luxury had been spared. We had each been assigned little pods, and infact my only complaint would be (since I must have one), that out pods were so big it was difficult to talk to each other. As Simone would say, Oh, welp. They brought us a glass of champagne before the flight took off, and Delta and I toasted to our first trip to Bombay together. And positively gluggled the champagne in our excitement.

Our first night in the city, my parents said one of their friends were hosting a party, and had invited Delta and me to join. Would we be interested? Of course, we said. I mean, a quiet little get together with my parents friends, it would be a great chance for us to talk to everyone, right?
Wrong.

As soon as we entered the friend's apartment, Delta and I did a double-take. The apartment had been converted into a nightclub. The lights had been dimmed, loud bollywood music was pulsing through the apartment, alcohol was flowing freely, and everyone who had got there before us was pretty much already drunk. I mean, these were my parents friends!
"I'm heading for the bar," Delta murmured, and we knew we'd need a drink or two just to catch up. An hour into the evening, we'd eaten a bit, we had a couple of drinks in us, and we sashayed onto the dance floor and started pulling out our repertoire of bollywood moves. Jumps, hops, hand-swinging, head-bopping, spinning and twirling and hip-swinging, the entire kit and caboodle. I couldn't complain about it, it was rather fun. We just lost ourselves in the boogey of the moment. Although every few minutes, when we grew conscious of what we were doing, our eyes would meet and we'd laugh in sheer disbelief. Here we were, trying to keep up (and failing miserably) with the partying habits of my parents friends!

"Boy, Bombay sure is a party city!" Delta commented as we returned home later that evening, as we stared at each other in awestruck silence. And this marked the beginning of our vacation.

Off and away, for a couple of weeks

Tonight, Delta and I fly to India to spend a couple of weeks with the mater and pater. In many ways it's the most ill-timed trip in the world, what with the apartment still being in shambles, but on the other hand, I have to admit it's also a bit of a relief to not be worrying about DIY for a while.

We left Queen Jaffa with the girls, who offered to take care of her while we were away. Despite how much I poke fun at her, as soon as we left her there, I missed the little critter. Queen Jaffa of course, returning to her old abode, at once made herself entirely at home, and splayed herself across the living room floor. When we left their apartment, the girls were already fawning over her, and Queen Jaffa, who was regaling in this added affection, just barely had time to look up and squawk a quick "mao!" in farewell.

So there was naught to do for Delta and I but to shuffle back home, like bereft parents who had just dropped their kid off with the grandparents for a week, worried that the kid would be spoiled rotten, and when they returned, their kid would love their own home just that little bit less.

But there isn't much to be done, for tonight, we fly to India.

With a bit of luck and a lot of crossed fingers, I do believe we might just get a seat in first class. Which I'm not a snob about usually, but of course it goes a long way when you're sitting on a plane for 16 hours. And though it goes without saying, there's definitely that something to be said for clean toilets.

Thank gawd for a thick skull

Despite our valiant effort to unpack our clothes, Delta and I are still living in boxes and suitcases. With our furniture, on the other hand we've proudly made more headway.

The other day, we were shifting out bookshelves to their designated corner. Delta and I make a comic pair, when we're trying to shift furniture together. With him being an entire foot taller than me, and significantly stronger, it creates a precarious imbalance to our coordination. So when we took hold of the shelves, him and one end and me at the other, we could only manage to lift them at an awkward tilt and hobble painstakingly (and inchingly) across the room.

There was a lot of "oh! oh! not that high!" and "slow down!" and "ouch!" (mostly from me), I have to admit. And neither of us thought to check what was lying on top of the shelves, before we picked it up at it's rakish angle.

We were just barely half way across the room when we heard something slide along the top of the bookshelf, skidding down the incline towards the floor. It was a frozen-in-time "oh-oh" moment, when there was nothing to do but wait and see what would fall off and crash to the floor. A ming (erm I mean ceramic) vase? A fragile candlestand? A....

Turns out, it was a knife. We'd been using it to cut the tape off the boxes, and had entirely forgotten we'd kept it on the top shelf. And now it skidded down the slope, towards the lower end. Towards me. Slid off the end of the shelf and hurtled downwards, right at my head.

We had no time to do anything. Do you remember the time I was almost killed by a giraffe falling on my head? Well this was immeasurably, immeasurably worse. A knife! Pointing at my head!

Of course, as is my norm, in the moment of crisis, my instincts, bluntened by my life of complacency, completely failed me, and I simply stood there, frozen and awaiting impending disaster.

Thunk.

The knife fell on my head, bounced off, and clattered to the floor. Cut? Gash? Outpouring of blood?
Nothing. Just a faint thunk.

Not that it's too much to brag about, but I have to say, thank gawd for a thick skull.

Oh no! We have a cat whose favourite passtime is to sleep...

.... like this :S

Movers are always late

I'm sitting at home on the couch, waiting for the movers to arrive. Predictably, they're running late. Which is a pretty torturous thing, when everything you own is in boxes, except your laptop. So I'm reduced to watching re-runs of Saturday Night Live skits on the internet. Which, come to think of it, is actually pretty fun. I might keep doing it even after we've moved.

Queen Jaffa, having shown tremendous fortitude throughout the chaos of this move, has chosen this morning out of all, to insist on sleeping on the keyboard. Which makes blogging an interesting adventure in its own right.

For the fifth time in 7 years, I'm packed up to move again (but this time to stay put for longer). Once again, all my worldly possessions have been summed up in two suitcases and a handful of disposable boxes. And a scratching post (doesn't fit in the boxes), and a sleeping cat.

Boxes, suitcases, scratching post, sleeping cat and me, still waiting for the movers to arrive. In eager anticipation, that in a couple hours, we can start the rest of our lives in the new home.

Spelling games

I called Amex Customer Services to inform them of my marital name change.

"Hi there, I just got married and I need to update my name with you please. My new name is McDelta."
"Excuse me? McDelta?"
"As in M for Malta, C for Cap, D for Doodles, E for Egypt, L for Lichtenstein, T for Turkey, A for Apple."
I hate spelling things out like that, I can never think of common words starting with the letters I need. Hence the desperately chosen 'Doodles' and 'Lichtenstein'.

"Thank you, ma'am. Let me repeat it to you. That's M for Mike, C for Canada, D for Donkey, E for Elephant, L for Lemon, T for Tom, and A for Alpha?"

I was suddenly intrigued by this new word game I had found.

I responded, "Yes, that's M for Money, C for Caterpillar, D for Doodles, E for Empathy, L for Lily, T for Temple and A for Annabel. Or Alphabet."

There was a long pause. Then an exasperated sigh. I was hoping she'd start the spelling bee again, but she didn't bite the bait.
"Okay I have it now, thank you ma'am," she said, and ended our conversation.

An Autumn Gourd

I suddenly looked at my blog this morning, and realised - OMG I haven't posted anything since the 8th of September! The last two weeks have been a whirlwind of activity and simply disappeared before me in a whizzing continuum of chaos. Guess it goes to show, if there was ever any doubt, that time truly is an elastic concept. Experiential putty, figuratively speaking.

The last two weeks have been a time for a sudden spurt of growing up, in my life. Before last Friday, I never owned anything more valuable than my cellphone. And now, all of a sudden, we own a home. A home!! Delta and I whooped in excitement as soon as the 'closing' was over.

And then we went back to the apartment, and were immediately sobered. Oh the apartment was as lovely as it always had been, but there was so much work to be done!
"Come on Ficali, let's head over to Home Depot," Delta grabbed my hand and we headed out.

We bought little cans of wall paint, and painted large patches on our walls, trying to choose the colours for our new home. And over the next few days, I learnt about sanding and spackling (??!!) the trim, and about primer and choosing paint sheens. And about ridiculous paint colour names like "Autumn Gourd" and "Summer Overture".

And then finally, last night we got home and collapsed in an entangle exhausted pile onto the couch.
"I'm TIRED!!" I exclaimed. I hadn't thought that painting was this much work.

But at the same time, I was also exhilarated. Here it was, after days of hard labour (and many, MANY trips to Home Depot), our home was slowly coming together.

A Hoarder's Purge

Have you ever tried to whittle down your belongings and throw away the ones of no use to you anymore? I guess elsewhere in the world one might call it a yard sale. But in New York, with no yard and no sale, I guess I'd just call it a trip to the Salvation Army.

Anyways, I browsed through about 120 items of clothing in my wardrobe, before I could finally persuade myself to give one away. It was a top I'd owned since highschool, and hadn't worn in at least the last five years, and frankly hadn't even remembered it was there for the last couple of years. And still, still, persuading myself to give it away was like agreeing to donate an internal organ. Seriously. Pathetic.

I have to say, I have undertaken this purging activity with some perplexity as to the nature of the human mind. I mean, who would have thought to invent the concept that couples should live together and share the same wardrobe? Dont get me wrong, living together is a beautiful thing. But sharing a wardrobe but it's very nature means that each person gets only half a wardrobe. Preposterous.

But back to the task at hand. So I've identified one top. Back to the pile of clothes, in search of more such casualties of this ruthless purge. Something tells me getting rid of just one top isn't going to cut it in the "whittling down your wardrobe" book.

At long last!

At long last, after waiting for many a day with bated breath, we have a confirmed closing day for our new apartment. Finally, finally, this wait is at an end. Finally, we can start getting serious about the furniture, and the wall painting, and together start creating this home which will be our own.

For two weeks now, I have been pestering our lawyer with pestilential tenacity on an almost daily basis.
"Have they given us a date yet?"
"What about now, do you have a date yet?"
"What about today, have you heard from them yet?"

So you can imagine, the lawyer quite expected me to whoop in jubilation when he called me this afternoon: "We have a date! September 19th!"
Instead, I dissolved into a puddle of panic. The 19th! That's less than two weeks away! But I still hadn't weeded through my stuff at home! And we still hadn't decided on the wall colours! And the furniture, and the movers and ... there was no way we had enough time.

In typical Ficali fashion, I had been so fixated on getting the closing date finalised, I hadn't really thought to plan for the day after. Or the day after. Or after.

I rushed home in a huff of panic and excitement, but no one was home yet, except Queen Jaffa, squawkingly demanding her food. So I proceeded to tell Queen Jaffa all about the closing date, and what that would mean for all of us. About what her new home would be like. About how she really shouldnt' scratch Delta's couch if she cared for us at all. About how we planned to take her for walks in the new neighbourhood. She was a rather silent participant in our conversation, but that's okay, I had enough to say for the both of us. And then in the end, after having silently endured the entire monologue, she squawked. She was just wondering why I was blithering on instead of giving her her food.

So I gave her her dinner, and headed to the room. Where the closet still needs to be weeded through. But closet control can be kept for tomorrow. Today, it's just about telling Queen Jaffa all about her new home.

The "New iPhone" Look

When I stopped at the fruit stand this morning on the way to work, as I do every Monday morning for my weekly supply of bananas, the fruit man was occupied in playing with something on his phone.

So absorbed, in fact, that I actually had to tap him on his shoulder just to get his attention long enough to actually pay him for the bananas I had just pocketed.

And then, immediately, he was looking back at his phone.

I know that look, I thought to myself. It's the same look that Delta has had all weekend, since he got his new iPhone.

A look of absorbed concentration, mixed with rapture, confusion and sheer ecstasy.
"New phone, huh?" I asked the fruit man, as I handed him the money.
"Yeah!!" he said, beaming, and held up his phone for me to see.

Yep, there it was. The new iPhone.

The scrabble linguistic standard

It put me in rather a huff, when Delta read on the cover of the Scrabble box, that "good players will achieve between 300-400 points in a game."

I'll have you know, Mr. Scrabble guy, it's impossible to get 300-400 points when you're playing against Delta, and he doesn't let words like yeti in (especially when it sits on a triple-word-score square). I mean, yeti, for crying out loud. Everyone knows that even if it's not in the dictionary, it's a real word. Right?

Just like bigfoot and sasquatch (although those are immeasurably harder to assemble in scrabble).

Eeks. 300-400 points to be considered a good player?!

Sign me up in remedial courses for the linguistincally inadequate.

Simply inspired!

I can't stop saying it. Bloomberg has got to be one of the most visionary city mayors there ever was. Against the formidable impediment posed by the conservativeness of the local and state government systems, he perpetually succeeds in moving this city on a forward-looking path to growth.

The past three weekends, NYC has been celebrating Summer Streets, where each Saturday, Park Avenue has been shut down to traffic, and open only to walkers, bikers, and roller-bladers. Probably an incredibly sore point to all those who enjoy driving into the city, but, as I overheard one of the cops nearby saying, "If you're a New Yorker, you just get it. You know what this is about." And she couldn't have said it better. It's simply inspiring to have a city that forces you to just imagine a different and better way of being.

Delta, Lahsiv, Gussie and I went biking up and down Park Ave, exhilarating in the silence without constant traffic; absorbing the grandeur of the old buildings bordering the avenue; revelling in the moment which brought this entire diverse community together.

Experiencing the city, yet again, as we never had before.

From the nyc.gov website:

For the Bart

"I'm getting bigger every day!" Bart Tulula wrote me.

So, Bart, this post is for you, as you get ready to breed.

I can't believe, that in just a few months, there will be Li'l Barts! Enjoy the "getting bigger" (and just call it 'getting glowing-er'), after all, one only gets a few months of it in a lifetime. Unless, of course, you guys are planning a dozen or so Li'l Barts - which is just nutty.

And if you ever wanted them, use this opportunity to buy crocs, which are otherwise unacceptable by any normal fashion standards. When you're preggers, everyone tells you you're beautiful no matter what. And they mean it.

And most importantly, always know, that without even trying, just by being yourself, you'll be the kind of mum any Li'l Bart would dream to have.
(Do read the maternity books though, I think they teach you about cleaning baby poop).

Interviews are scary (even for an HR bod)

Yesterday, Delta and I had to appear for a Board Interview. This interview process is peculiar to New York, it appears. Essentially, after you agree to buy a home, and after the seller agrees to sell it to you, and after you get all the mortgage shenanigans sorted, you still need to get approved by the Board. The Board is a panel of the building's tenants, who ultimately decide whether or not they like you enough to let you stay in their coveted building. Essentially, a group of strangers deciding upon the fate of your life. Charming, really.

"Remember to dress up for this interview just as you would for a job interview!" our broker cautioned. And so Delta and I had to cobble together a set of vestaments suitable for the occasion. At least Delta wears suits every once in a while, usually for the odd wedding or another. But me, I hadn't dressed corporate smart in years. Delta took one look at the shirt I had in my hand, and sighed. "We're going to need to iron that," he said, shaking his head. And (with good reason) he proceeded to iron it himself, for fear that I would ruin it.

So after a bit of ado and kerfuffle, there we were, all spiffed and shined. I ogled at the girl staring at me in the mirror - the one in a crisp white shirt tucked into a tight skirt and 3-inch heels. And wobbled my way precariously to the door. Other than on my actual wedding day, I dont' think I've worn any footwear but flip flops all summer.

We reached the building a few minutes early and seated ourselves in the lobby. I wondered nervously what the board would be like. Who would interview us. Whether they'd be personable. Whether they'd like us. And of course, most importantly, whether we'd pass their test. I was mulling these questions over in my head when a man approached us in the lobby.

"Delta? Ficali?"
It took me a moment to register that he might actually be a member of the board. He was dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, obviously on his way to the gym.
"Hi, I'm Zor," he stuck his hand out warmly.

And at once, I knew it would be just fine. There were two people who interviewed us in the end, and they embodied exactly the simplicity and casual warmth that had attracted us to the building in the first place. We liked them both instantly. After a friendly half an hour chat with these two happy bods (one of them turns out to be our neighbour, coincidentally), we were already on our way.

So there we go, final hurdle almost done, and now, at the end of September, we might actually have our first home.

Why eating solves everything (except when it doesn't)

We can't put me on Delta's travel privileges until I 0fficially change my name in my passport.
I can't change my name in my passport until I update my name on my green card.
Can't apply for a green card update until we've moved to the new home.
We can't move into the new home until we pass our board interview.
Need to figure out what to wear to pass this interview.
Can't think of what to wear until I eat lunch.

See - food solves everything.

Except...

Crap. Ate lunch. Very full. Now must sleep. Can't work when full.

Raindrops and puddles

Yesterday, I got caught in a downpour. Don't mistake this for a complaint, it's just an observation.

In New York, the downpours come in brief bursts of thunderous skies, flashes of lightening and continuous buckets of plummeting water. And then, as though it had never occured, the storms pass suddenly to reveal blue skies and bright sunshine.

So most sensible people, when they notice a thunderstorm, hunker down for an hour or so till it passes. The Don Quixote's like me, on the other hand, prefer to face the storms valiantly, only to get soaked in the process.

Which brings me to my first point - I got caught in a downpour yesterday, but can't afford to complain, being as it was a product of my own quixoticness. Halfway through my way home, I was wading through water above my ankles.

Instantly, it took me back to the Bombay monsoons of my childhood. Sitting at the window ledge watching the rain pouring down in sheets of blind whiteness; waiting to hear whether school was closed for the day because of the floods; my mum packing Rohinton and me off to play in the floods in our little dinghy boat; and of course, the electric flashes of lightening and thunder.

If you haven't got soaked in a summer downpour before, I would totally recommend it. It fills your heart with a fresh and happy (and washed out?) feeling. And fills your wellies with water. All fun and games.

Jackpot!

Popcon Dan sent out a note the other day. Picnic in Prospect Park, folks! Come Join! Doobie and I hadn't seen Danny in almost a year, so we got all excited about this perfect opportunity for us to have a great catch up with the fella.

But heaven forbid Doobie and I ever learn to navigate Brooklyn on our own. Theoretically, the schlep to Prospect Park should have been a simple one. In theory. Just jump on the F train, and hang on for a few stops till you get there.

So Doobs and I picked up a bottle of wine, some fruit, a couple of sandwiches, and clambered with kit and kaboodle onto the F train. Caught up in our conversation as we were, however, it's no wonder that we didn't register the train driver's announcement - that the F train would be running on the E line this weekend due to engineering works. So the train veered off in it's new direction, unbeknownst to us.

Caught in what must have been a rivetting conversation as we were, it's also no wonder that we only picked this up about 10 stops down the line. Suddenly, one of us mentioned, "these stops aren't looking familiar, are they?"
So I headed over to the train map in the cabin. It took us a long time to locate where we actually were - but then we finally did - right at the opposite end of Brooklyn than where we needed to be.

A young chap listening to our consternation and understanding clearly what we had done, kindly offered to help. "What you need to do is take this train to Utica, then change to the opposite platform, and take the train back to Franklin. Then change to the shuttle which will take you to Prospect Park." We blinked at him blankly.
Sigh. "Don't worry, I'll tell you when we reach the station you need to change."

And, bless his heart, he did. So we got off at Utica and changed to the opposite platform, just like he told us. A train pulled in to the platform, and we excitedly jumped on it. He had forgotten to tell us to watch out for Express trains, however. And so it turned out (inevitably) that we entered an express train that didn't stop at the next five stops. In silent horror, we watched outselves speed past Franklin at 60 mph. Crap! Now what!

We ended up at stop which seemed to be a pretty major hub. "Let's try changing to the G train" I suggested, I think it goes to the park. So we made our way over to the G train, just as it was pulling into the platform. About to get on the train, when it occured to us that it might be helpful to double-check with the official on the platform.
"Excuse me sir, does this train go to Prospect Park?"
"The G train? yeah. But you need to cross the platform and take the one headed in the opposite direction!"
Thank gawd we asked. Otherwise back to nether Brooklyn it would have been.

So in any case, with several wrong trains and turns under our belt, we eventually found ourselves by Prospect Park, only two hours later than originally intended. Finally located (with similar directional ineptitude) the spot where Popcorn Dan had indicated the picnic would be.

And we couldn't find him anywhere. There were many, many picnic groups in the area, but no sign of Popcorn Dan. After all that faffing around on the trains, there was no sign of Dan.
"Do you have his number?"
"No, do you?"
And suddenly we were taken back to the days of how we all had to slum it before the world of cellphones. After half an hour of looking around, Doobie and I, admittedly tired, cranky and hungry, decided to lay open our own picnic. Spread out our mat, poured ourselves some wine, started munching through the grapes. It was a beautiful day, cool and breezy, and we began to relax and adjust to the reality of a picnic by ourselves.

"Between the trains and not finding Popcorn Dan, I dont' think today's the kind of day we should bother with the lottery," I told Doobs.

There was a high risk that the day would amount to Doobs and me faffing around on the subway system for 2 hours, only to have a picnic by ourselves in Prospect Park. Quite frustrating when you think about it.

When suddenly Doobs had an idea. "I know! Let's call Mrs. Pooks and get Popcorn Dan's number from her!"
D'oh.
So we finally got his number, called him excitedly, and what do you know it, it went to voicemail.
"Popcorn Dan! We're here! and we can't find you!" we left a message.
And continued our picnic-a-deux.
And poured ourselves more wine.
And munched through more grapes.
And started into our sandwiches.
It was just coming to the time when we were thinking of packing up our stuff, when who should we see sauntering over? Popcorn Dan!
"Hey girls," he said warmly, "got your voicemail, so I thought I'd come over and find you!"

Fond hugs were exchanged all around, and we scrambled with all our stuff to join Popcorn Dan's picnic. And what a beautiful picnic it was! We got to meet his lady-friend, and some of his other friends, and more than anything, just got to catch up with Popcorn Dan himself! "What's been going on with you?"
"You wouldn't believe what happened last month, Delta and I got married!"
"Hey I'm going to university right next to where you guys live!"
"Hey I can't believe we don't catch up more often!"
Words spilling out of us faster than we could control them, thoughts interrupting each other in our excitement.
And all of a sudden, it turned into a wonderful, wonderful day.

Maybe we should have played the lottery after all.

Polar Bear Survival Plan

I can understand that New York gets fairly hot in the summer, and so we need to have everything air conditioned. What I can't for the life of me get my head around, is why we have to air condition all buildings to polar temperatures (the same temperatures, mind you, that induce us to put on the heating in the winter).

As I sit in my office huddled in the cardigan I've started keeping at work, I've been thinking more and more about this perversity in our behaviour.

I do believe it would help the polar bear survival rate immeasurably, if they would only migrate from the melting ice caps to NYC office buildings for the summer.

Foisted by a narwhal

One of the rooms in the Cloisters museum had large tapestries relating the story of a mythological unicorn hunting trip. In a glass case in the corner of the room, stood an unmistakably tall tusk, a single, long, straight tusk, exactly as depicted on unicorns.


Narwhal tusk, it said below the case.


What's that, we wondered, all of us peering at the tusk in curiosity. We knew unicorns were mythological creatures, so this certainly couldn't be a anything to do with unicorns. But what in the world was a narwhal?


"A narwhal is a unicorn without wings," I told them. "It really existed." It started off, as many downfalls do, with an amusing little lie.
"What do you mean it really existed!" Delta scoffed disbelievingly. "You're telling us that there was actually a creature like the unicorn, which used to exist?!"
"Sure," I said, convincingly. "I mean, other animals like rhinos have tusks, so why do you find it so unbelievable that there used to be an animal called a narwhal, which was basically like a horse with a tusk? Or like a unicorn without wings," I added to drive the point home.
"Really?" said Jeet, not quite believing it either, but wanting to.


In fact, I was so persuasive in my argument, that somewhere half way through that discussion of reality and myth, I convinced myself that an animal called the narwhal (unicorn without wings) used to actually exist, and that it was driven to extinction by the hunting. I mean, didn't the medieval tapestried depicted it exactly?


And then I came home and googled the narwhal. Not that I doubted I was right, mostly just to prove to everyone else that I was right.


And, OMG OMG OMG, a narwhal is a type of whale.


David Attenborough would have killed me for this. And rightfully so.

Back to the Cloisters

Ever since I we celebrated my birthday at the Cloisters last year, Delta and I had been thinking about biking out there, so finally this last weekend we decided to put our money where our mouths were. We called Lahsiv and Rohinton and Jeet to join as well - Lahsiv was ready instantly, but Rohinton and Jeet suggested that perhaps they could take the train up there and meet us with a ready picnic.

A ready picnic!! What ingrates we would be to refuse such an offer.

And so, on possibly one of the most beautiful days we've had yet this summer, Delta, Lahsiv and I set off biking along the hudson up towards the Cloisters. It took us almost two and a half hours to get there - mostly because Delta and I kept stopping to photograph the stunning views. ("Hey, can you stop taking pictures of the George Washington Bridge and get a few of me instead?" Lahsiv asked at some point, tiring of our incessant photography). But we couldn't help ourselves. The ride was absolutely spectacular.

Trust me, I romanticise it not (well only a little anyway) when I tell you that the Hudson was a serene blue, dotted with occasional sailboats, and the bike path itself was a verdant green, tracking right along the river's edge. The path remained this scenic route almost the entire way to the Cloisters, except for the last mile, which caught us off guard by turning into a mile-long steep climb up the hillside. I mean, what earthly reason could there be to build a road like that, other than to give bikers premature heart attacks.

Nevertheless, we (somehow) all made it to the top. We got to the park, leaned our bikes against an oak, and collapsed onto the grass in a trio of sopping messes. We were just busy munching our way through the couple of chutney sandwiches that Lahsiv had packed with him, when Rohinton and Jeet approached, with an entire lavish picnic spread.

Mats and cups and forks and sandwiches and fruit galore. May everyone's life be so blessed. And so proceeded one of the most resplendent picnic days yet.

Resplendent... luxurious... leisurely... well, until we had to start the 2 hr bike ride back, anyway.

A Perfect Day

"Didn't you hear the minister?" Delta chided me yesterday, "during the ceremony, she confirmed that you're supposed to make me coffee every morning."
I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously.
"Yep," he said, looking into the distance as though searching his own memory for confirmation, "and right after that, you said 'I do' ".
I scowled and pouted and generally made dramatic expressions until Delta realised it would be a far simpler task to just get out of bed and make his own coffee on himself.
"Make me one while you're at it?" I asked, grinning like a cheshire cat.

Welcome to the life of Ficali McDelta (nee McPipe).

The wedding ceremony was the shortest (and by that logic the sweetest) wedding ceremony I've experienced. Not that I've experienced that many, of course. It took all of ten minutes to wait our turn in City Hall. It took three more minutes for the minister to actually marry us.

"You do?" (to Delta)
"I do."
"You do?" (to me)
"I do."
There was a moment of faffing around with the rings.
("Delta, you're putting it on the wrong hand!"
"Crap! Yeah! Give me your other hand!"
Minister pretended not to witness this.)
But then, all of a sudden, there we were, as woman and hubby.

We were just leaving City Hall, when suddenly we were accosted by an entourage from New York Magazine.
"Hey there, can we do a photo op with you? We're doing an article on people who get married at City Hall!"
So of course we did our share to oblige the paparazzi. I mean, even people who choose to get married in City Hall like their fair share of glitz and flashing bulbs, you know. Update on this to follow if, by absolute fluke, we actually do make the it into the magazine.

And then we did what I think every New York couple should consider. We had our wedding as a picnic in Central Park. Green grass, blue skies, balmy air, close friends, it was absolutely perfect. Absolutely perfect.

The Day Before

Tomorrow, Delta and I promise ourselves to each other for ever.

Just like any other day, we'll wake up in the morning and bumble around and scratch our heads over whether to have blueberries on the cereal or not.

And then, we'll head down to City Hall with our erstwhile allies Gus and Doobie, and hold hands before Gawd and Law and Mankind (and minister and Gus and Doobie) and say "I do".

Which means, today is my last day as a single woman. What in the world should I do with my time?! I've already gone for a manicure-pedicure session, kissed Queen Jaffa to the point that she has taken to ignoring me, and eaten my lunch. I've already done my laundry and put anything wrinkled into an ironing pile to be ignored for the rest of the year. Nothing earth-shattering, as you can see. Nothing quite remarkworthy for one's last day as anything.

But ooh, the pressure!

The Queen Jaffa animal confusion

Everyday, I am increasingly enamoured by Queen Jaffa. But perhaps more importantly, between the way she follows us around the apartment and her constant need for attention, I'm still perplexing myself over whether she's a dog or a cat.


She falls more on the feline side of the taxonomy, I suppose, particularly when she feels the undying urge to sharpen her claws on the couch. But then, just when she has me convinced about her general cat-ness, she pulls an odd move like sleeping on her back with all four limbs in the air - which make me wonder if she isn't perhaps human (Delta claims I sleep like that, although I refuse to believe it of course - if you aren't awake to see it, then it isn't true).

Needless to say, whichever animal Queen Jaffa chooses to be on any given day, she certainly has the whole house wrapped around her whim and fancy. At least, I hope it is the whole house. It better not be only me, who falls for the puppy eyes, feline miaow, the cow-like lumbering and the sloth-like perpetual somnia.

With a wedding like this, who needs a honeymoon?

"That wasn't a very positive post," Delta remarked when he read my previous post about our cruise. And I guess he's right. Biased by my absolute abhorrence to the idea of five days of gluttony, I guess my description of the cruise wasn't quite as scintillating as it could have been.

But folks, don't get me wrong! A cruise might not be my cup of tea, but a wedding in Bermuda is a whole different kettle of fish. Not a thing could be faulted. I guess we might have just discovered our new retirement destination (well, until we go to Tuscany next year, anyway).

A five day party

The wedding itself, of course, was beautiful (how could a wedding in Bermuda not be?!), and pictures to follow shortly.

The cruise on the other hand, ahem, left something to be asked for. Did you know that cruises are just an excuse for gluttony? It was the most bizarre thing I'd seen. Everyone seemed to eat five full meals each day, without any seeming desire to exercise whatsoever. It's as though as soon as we got on the cruise, we entered a surreal world where the only activities that existed consisted of eating and sleeping. And eating and sleeping. And eating and sleeping.

And then, a bit of dappling in the casino (with remarkably un-positive results. Needless to say, we still need that mortgage for our apartment). And then, a bit of eighties dancing in the disco (my most horrendous memory of the entire cruise).

The setup and atmosphere were distinctly horrifying, and needless to say, there's no risk of Delta or I ever going on a cruise again.

But that aside, I do have to admit, we had a simply marvelous time. All our friends together on one boat for five days - how could it go wrong?! There were meals together, and soaking in the sun, and lounging by the pool, and wallowing in the hot tub. There was so much to be done, and hardly enough time to do it. There were anecdotes to be told, and re-told. And memories to be shared, and pranks to be played.

That by the end of it, we had quite accustomed ourselves to the idea of vacationing together. As we left on the last day, there were already ideas being spun for winter ski breaks to be spent together. And cruise aside, I'm fairly sure that's exactly what Billy and Anneliese were thinking of, when they planned their wedding on the cruise.

Thank gawd for scopolomine

Who woulda thunk we'd be going on a cruise.

That was possibly the last vacation on Delta's and my minds. And yet, when his friends decided to have their wedding on a cruise to Bermuda, we thought, hell, why not - when would we ever go on a cruise otherwise?!

And then we read about Hurricane Bertha, developing in Atlantic. And we thought, eeks, imagine the plight of those poor people whose cruises face hurricanes.

And then we read that Hurricane Bertha is headed right for Bermuda at the same time that our cruise is supposed to head there.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080711/ap_on_re_us/tropical_weather

Oh, crikey. Who woulda thunk.

A rainy day conundrum

I have three umbrellas, and I store them with a fair amount of calculated strategy: one in my apartment, one in Delta's apartment, and one in my office at work. The idea being, of course, that should an unpredicted shower suddenly catch me off guard, I always have an umbrella close at hand.

This ingenious tactic has saved me through many a drenching over the course of time. But let me tell you, the success of such a plan involves its fair share of mental expenditure. Taking an umbrella from one place to another (because of the rain) and then forgetting to bring it back (because it's sunny the next day) can throw the entire plan off kilter.

Which brings me to last week, when I somehow managed to flummox myself into leaving all three umbrellas at Delta's. Which means, I somehow managed to get wet twice this week, while Delta was away, despite actually owning three umbrellas.

It's just like that riddle: how do you take a tiger, a sheep and a bundle of grass across the river, one at a time.

With some mental application, I still feel I might be able to triumph.

Audacity

The other day, I was waiting in queue at Starbucks, and there was an elderly woman in front of me. She looked the rather well-off kind. Well, you know - the regular Starbucks kind. When she reached the counter,

"Can I just have an empty cup?" she asked.
Then, cup in hand, she shuffled over to the milk and sugar counter, and proceeded to fill the entire cup with milk.

Superslueth Ficali was, of course, watching the entire action covertly, while pretending to innocently wait my turn in line. To be honest, I was as impressed as I was aghast. This entirely beat the Smooth Criminal move Doobs, Bobbis, Delta and I had pulled earlier in the year when we snuck in an extra movie at the cinema. Nope. This was Bonnie and Clyde caliber. Anyways, it's all about bringing down the Establishment, right? Especially when the establishment is Starbucks (a.k.a. FiveBucks).

Just then, "hey!" shouted the Starbucks attendee. And went over to where the woman was neatly finishing topping up the glass with the last sip of milk she could fit in there.
"You're going to have to pay for that milk, ma'am" the attendee told her firmly.

I didn't blame him, I suppose. He was just being the good corporate citizen. I thought she might apologise and pay for the milk. But boy, I guess I just don't understand human nature at all.

"What do you mean?!" She exclaimed, "Why are you picking on me?! I'm just adding milk to my coffee same as everyone else."
"Ma'am, that's a whole glass of milk, and Im afraid you're going to have to pay for it."
"I refuse to pay. I just bought my coffee, and now I'm adding milk."
"Ma'am, I just gave you that empty cup. You didn't buy any coffee. Now if you would kindly pay for the milk, I would really appreciate it."

I, of course, absorbed by the situation playing out in front of me, had totally forgotten my own coffee. Anyway, this was far more entertaining. Wow, all this for a glass of milk? I hope Starbucks knew how lucky they were to have this employee. I hope he gets promoted to head barista for this.

The woman, obviously, was rather less impressed by his antics than I was. She slammed the glass of milk down on the table (some milk splashed out with dramatic effect). She tossed her head and snorted. "Scumbags!" she said (although she'd been the one thieving). And she stalked out the door, filled with a genuine sense of self-righteousness.

Queen boss in the house

I was rudely awakened this morning with a nudge to my face. I awoke to the sight of Kitty McDelta's face pressed right up against mine, staring straight into my eyes.

"Aaah!" I shouted, and leaned back in a moment of panic (before I realised it was just Kitty McDelta).
"Maow!" She squawked back at me, and prodded my nose again with her paw.
I could have sworn, if she wasn't a cat, that was the human equivalent of a punch in the nose.

"Morning, Kitty" I mumbled, rubbing my nose sleepily.
"Maow!" she squawked again, gesturing towards her food bowl.

It was breakfast time, and she wasn't having any of this 'sleeping-in' rubbish.

As I hauled myself out of bed and headed over to the food cabinet, she was instantly her old self again, purring and rubbing herself affectionately against my calves. Don't get me wrong. I didn't forget for a moment that had I changed my mind and gone back to bed, I would have been greeted with another punch in the face.

Now I know how used and downtrodden parents can feel like.

Kitty McDelta

Enter the newest member of our family - Kitty McDelta.

Every once in a while, I stop by the PetCo near home. They keep cats for adoption there, and when I can, I like to wander in and spend some time petting the little critters. I can't imagine what it must be like to live in a cage, and I try to shake the mundanity of their daily routines with a bit of personalised TLC.

But last week when I went to Petco, I was greeted to a bit of personalised TLC of my own. As I approached the kitty cages, one of the cats rushed to the edge of it's cage to greet me, and stuck out its front legs in what I can only describe as a human greeting hug.

As I approached it's cage, it stretched out it's legs and wrapped its 'arms' around my fingers, and kept reaching out to touch my face, as though to make sure I was really there.

Now you may know, cats are normally not the most affectionate of beings. Not cold, as they are often mis-characterised, but certainly not affectionate either. So you can imagine how these gestures of enthusiasm rather took me by surprise.

This simply can't be, I thought to myself, but I spent a few minutes that day smothering her back with affection in return. And I came back the next day, and was greeted to the same exuberance. And the next day. And the next.

Until I had to go to Delta and let him know, "I think this is the one. This is the kitty we should get."
And I had to go to Doobs, who is mortified at the very thought of anything remotely feline, and beg borrow grovel her into accepting kitty.

And so it was that Saturday afternoon, amidst a fair share of chaos, Doobs, Queen Noor and I shuffled through the downpour to get Kitty McDelta from the shelter. Brought her home, and opened the cat carrier with some trepidation, wondering what she would think of her new environs.

But out she jumped, to all our pleasant surprise, and immediately took to exploring the apartment. To endearing herself to Doobie, Queen Noor, Ilajna, Bobbis, Delta and me. To staking her claim on the couch and the bed. To lying on her back for a belly rub.

And really, she must be the one, because I've never seen a kitty who is more puppy than cat.

An old friend look-up

"Hello? Ficali?"

I stared at my phone in shock. The voice had a ring of blast-from-the-past to it, I couldn't place exactly, but somewhere deep inside, I knew it well.

"Ficali? Is that you? It's me, Esji!"

I gave the response I usually resort to when caught off guard. A stunned silence (far gone is any natural instinct for self-defence).

And then, at almost the point of offense, my wits luckily gathered themselves together and I could speak again.

"Esji!!! OMG where are you?! How are you?!"

Esji, Ilajna, Bobbis and I had gone to highschool together. I hadn't spoken to Esji in 8 years.

"I'm in New York, do you want to meet?"

I remembered how Esji and I used to meet in school to play tennis early in the mornings. How she used to come over to our dorm for sleep overs. I wondered if she'd still be the same. If we'd still be able to laugh the same way we used to. What direction her life had taken during these definitive years since high school. Whether we'd have common topics to talk about.

Entirely unfounded fears, as it turned out. As soon as we met each other, it was as though we'd never been apart at all. There was so much to talk about and years to catch up on. There was our local pub to show her, stories to be told, wine to be drunk, and dinner to be had. And when, at long last, it was time for her to go, it was just a casual good bye, for we knew we'd see each other again. We'd look each other up the next time we were in each other's towns.

Isn't there something just soft and fuzzy and heartwarmingly lovely about old friends?

A weekend on the Shore (first one this summer!)

Seeing as summer's here, Delta and I headed down for a long overdue visit to the shore. Infact, Delta was already down at the shore, having gone a day earlier for BillyO's bachelor party. I decided to join them down at the shore at the Crane Kinder household.

I took the train for the first time, and a surprisingly smooth journey in general, other than the moment of absolute panic I felt when I thought I might have over-shot the station. With my heart in my mouth, I called Mama Crane. "I'm at Spring Lake already!" What in the world would I do?! I would have to get off at the next station, and then wait for the train going back the other way, and gawd only knew when that would come. I'd be stuck in the inner bowels of the NJ Transit train network forever. I'd be -

"Dont' worry," she reassured me, "you still have one more station to go. You aren't there yet."

"Oh. Phew. I guess I'll see you in a few minutes then."

And it was all fine after all. Just another case of general panic for the sake of panic.

When the boys got to the Crane Kinder household in the aftermath of the bachelor party, they looked rather worse for the wear. They took their opportunity to indulge in their fair share of groaning and wincing.

But finally we got the barbecue burning, and it wasn't long before we found ourselves lounging in the pool, one after another. And there we were - some chilled wine, the grill burning, the Crane Kinders playing in the pool - two days of absolute bliss right in the middle of this crazy month.

An Accountant's February

If you've been wondering about my recent bloggerly reticence, it's because this has been the singly busiest month I have ever experienced.

What with this being the "annual review" time of our year at work, it's enough to keep even the slothiest of HR bods on their toes. June is, for HR, the tax Accountant's February. And so I have been scurrying from meeting to meeting, room to room, call to conference call.

On a normal day, those meetings would have been peppered with occasional moments of respite. Jokes cracked in the corridor between colleagues. A quick trip to the kitchen to sneak a bite. Maybe even a 'spaced out' moment of withdrawal into the inner vacuum of my mind. But not this month. Like I said, this month is my Accountant's February.

But lest I leave you with the opinion that my life is all work and no play, let me tell you about our past weekend on the beach. Not now, not here. This post is all about lamenting the current way of my life. This post is all about making sure everyone knows that at the moment, I'm living in an Accountant's February.

Tomorrow, I'll talk about the fun we've also been having along the way.

A Precipice of change

"Are you going to change your name?"
She blinked at me across the counter, kindly large eyes magnified through the thick glasses.
Huh?
"Are you going to keep your names, or change them?" She looked from Delta to me, and back again.

Delta, having known from the beginning that he wasn't going to change his name to become Delta McPipe, just sat in silence. I, on the other hand, was caught off guard, as I seem to be with most things in life.

I had to decide on the name change NOW??!

Early Friday morning, Delta and I headed over to the NYC Marriage Bureau in the City Hall, to apply for our marriage license. If you've never been to the building before, let me tell you, it's an enthralling juxtaposition of grandeur, romance, and just downright governmental bureaucracy.

As you approach the building, you pass through a sweep of towering, gothic mosaic arches. And enter into ornate, vaulted elevators which take you back into the 1930s. And your heart surges as you inhale the sheer grandeur of it all.

Until the elevator doors open to reveal the Marriage Bureau, which is probably situated in the most bureacratic office I have ever seen. Second only, of course, to the DMV. A long grey corridor, which led into a large grey room with a myriad of lines and counters. Line 1 to collect an application form. Line 2 to submit the completed form. Line 3 to pay the chashier. Line 4 to collect the license. And then, once you had the licence, that wasn't even the marriage. That just meant you were allowed to get married.

But the funny thing was, it wasn't dull and boring and lifeless like other bureacratic procedures are. In fact, the entire hall was full of happy couples, just engaged, or getting marriage licenses, or getting married. Holding hands and smiling at each other, full of life, love and hope for the future.

Delta and I stared in fascination at the sheer contrast of romantic idealism and bureacratic drudgery that inundated the room. Stared, that is, until I was rudely awakened from my reverie.

"Are you going to keep your names, or change them?"
Somehow, when reading the marriage bureau website, I had missed the line that said you had to decide on your name change right there when you applied for your license. My heart lurched. I didn't know yet. Didn't they understand that?
"Erm, do I have to let you know right now?
"Yes ma'am, or if you want to change your name in the future, you'll have to get married again."

I looked over at Delta, hoping he would have the answer. But he shrugged.
"Do whatever you feel comfortable with, Ficali. It's your name. Just go with your gut."

I felt my heart pouding in my ears. All my life, I had been Ficali McPipe. Was I really ready to change that? But even as I thought the question out in my mind, I heard myself say, "yes, I'm going to change my name please. I'm going to go with Delta's last name."

And then I sat in a stunned silence, absorbing what I had just committed myself too. I played the new name in my head. Ficali McDelta. I rolled it around in my mind, and on my tongue. Imagined what the new signature would feel like. Wondered whether I'd ever get used to having a new name, after 27 years of just being me. And yet, it just felt right, that we would have the same name. But before all these rhuminations had even had a chance to play themselves out, she was done, and had printed out our new license.

"Here - this is your marriage license, you have sixty days in which to get married."

I glanced down at it. Yep, there it was, unmistakably loud and proud. Ficali McDelta. We both looked at it, and beamed at each other.

And before we knew it, Delta and I were strolling out, hand in hand with silly grins across our faces, like all the other ridiculously happy couples in this ridiculously bureaucratic building.

Not quite married yet, of course. Not quite owning an apartment either, as a matter of fact. But inchingly closer, teetering at this precipice of change.

The world can change, between mouthfuls of salad

I'm not the sort of girl who ever craved the long white dress with tiaras and lillies. Or wanted to find an engagement ring in the middle of my dessert in a formal restaurant. Or daydreamed of a knight in shining armour, getting down on one knee.

But if you would have asked me a few years ago, I could have never in a million years guessed the moment would be in the middle of a perfectly normal afternoon, between mouthfuls of salad at the Cinema Cafe.

We had just come from looking at the apartment we wanted to buy one last time - and were full of self-re-affirmation of the choice we had made. Yes, this was the place we wanted to make our home. We strolled hand in hand around the block, perusing the new 'hood. Local deli? check. Dry cleaners? check. Pharmacy? check...

And we came to a stop outside the outdoor sidewalk tables of the cafe, inviting in the gentle afternoon sun.

"Lunch?"
"Absolutely, I'm famished!"
And it was there, between perfectly normal mouthfuls of salad,

"Do you think we should get married?"

I might have had a lettuce popping out of my mouth, even, and I quickly swallowed.
The question took us both equally by surprize. The spontaneity of the thought. The enormity of the decision. The excitement of everything else snowballing in our lives.

For the first time in weeks, swirling thoughts of brokers and interest rates and mortgages and floorplans suddenly shrank into a barely perceptible hum in a remote corner of my mind. This moment, this was big. This was no place for mundane thoughts like apartment-buying.

"Do you think we should get married?"
"Yeah."
"Me too."

We clasped hands across the table, and I distinctly remember thinking, I hope I don't knock the salt over and ruin the moment.

We smiled at each other in delight, newly bonded by this intimate secret, ours to cherish for the moment.
"Should we just walk down to the city court and sign the papers?"
"I couldn't think of a better way."

And with such simplicity it comes to be, folks, that yours truly is now effianced. On the road to betrothedom. Part of a gruesome twosome.

Who woulda' thunk.

Eating an elephant

If you haven't done it before, let me tell you something about life (said the grouch). The initial glee of buying an apartment very quickly changes into sheer panic.
Pure, unadulterated, panic.

For no one told us when we put an offer on the house that we'd also need to find a lawyer. And haggle for mortgages. And make sure the brokers were on top of their stuff. And still continue normal lives at work each day. Well, maybe they did tell us all this, but they never warned us that it would be impossible.

I mean, doesn't life stop to give you the time you need, when you want to buy a house? Doesn't anyone teach you a more efficient method of coping than with a thousand en-scribbled post-its stuck all over your desk?

Today was reserved for sulking about the fact that co-ops just dont' seem to play by the mortgage rules that any other normal purchase. Tomorrow will be reserved for sulking about tomorrow's dilemma.

But I'd once read, as a child: the way to eat an elephant, is one bite at a time.

(although for most of my life, I took the adage quite literally, and applied it to every voracious meal I ate).

But today, for the first time, we're genuinely eating an elephant. Panickingly (and yet excitedly), one bite at a time.

Fingers crossed

My heart was thumping in my chest.

Yes, we're going to take it, I said. Yes. Yes.

"Hello? Are you still there?" it was our broker.
And suddenly I realised I hadn't been speaking aloud, only in my head.
"Oh sorry, I said yes, we're going to take it."
"Brilliant. I'll draw up the paperwork, and the next step is to get the lawyers involved."

And that was it. That is how quickly we decided, and all of a sudden, we were buying a home.

Of course, a zillion things could happen to stop it from going through in the end. Maybe the co-op board would hate us. Maybe we would see the apartment one last time and realise we had made an egregious error, and backpaddle desperately out of the deal. Maybe we would suddenly re-look at our bank accounts and realise we couldn't afford it after all.

But until any of those fears actually come to fruition, it still stands that Delta and I are buying an apartment. Our first home together, right here in the epicentre of this microcosm of insanity which is this city.

The terms are sparse (but then, "sparse" in the world can still be plentifull in Manhattan), but it's our home all the same: a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen and a closet. I mean, who needs more, anyway. I'd even go so far to suggest that anything further would be outright wasteful.

"I wonder how we're going to fit all our clothes," I mused, staring at the floorplan and mentally willing the closet space to double itself.
"I know!" Delta exclaimed. "If you could just get rid of all your clothes, if you don't mind terribly, I think I could manage to fit mine in there."
I scowled and gave him a playful shove, and we grinned at each other in glee.

For in three months, maybe, just maybe, we will be building this home together, closet space and all.

Personally coiffed

"Ilajna, if you're not doing anything much, do you fancy giving me a haircut?"
"Yeah, sure! That would be fun!"

Which brings me to Monday afternoon, perched atop a chair in the middle of the sun-filled living room, holding my breath. Ilajna hovered around me, hands and pockets equipped with combs, scissors and rubber bands.

"Do something wild, tousled and fun. As long as my hair is still long enough to tie up when I go biking, totally feel free to be creative with it."

These words must have come out of my mouth of their own volition, because none of my brain filtration processes would have allowed for such a degree of free license. As soon as I had said them, I felt a twang of insecurity.

Silence, for a few moments, as I pondered my folly.
Snip. Snip, snip, around my ears.

"Erm, what are you going to do with my hair?" I finally ventured.
"Hmm, don't know yet," Ilajna murmured, lips pursed in concentration as she cut off a pedantic 2 mm from the tips of a few hairs.
"Erm. When will you know?" I asked, since she was already half way through the haircut.

She laughed. "Relax," she said. "I did your hair two years ago, remember? And it was fine!"

I couldn't dispute that.
So instead I must mentally willed the stress-knots in my unwind themselves. Bit my lip nervously as she cut the hair framing my face.

"There, done." she said at last, putting her scissors down. And I bounded out of the chair to examine myself in the bedroom mirror.

And there it was, the perfect, perfect summer haircut. Tousled and messy, short but yet tie-up-able. Nothing like a roommate to add that personal touch.