Flowers make girls silly

I was walking by Clarissa's desk at work the other day, and noticed that she had a beautiful bunch of bright roses on her desk.

"Hey! Those are gorgeous! Where'd you get them?" I exclaimed.
"Oh, from a secret admirer."
"Really? Tell me more!"
"No, just kidding. Carmen gave them to me."
"Carmen??!" I glanced over at Carmen, who was sitting with her head bent over her work, just a few desks away.
"Well, I was on vacation last week, and Carmen missed me so much while I was away, that she got me flowers when I got back."
I laughed, "well that's a surprise!"

Carmen never gets me flowers, I thought with a metaphorical pout, as I headed back to my office.

A few minutes later, Clarissa was at my door.
"Hey, you want to keep these flowers?" she asked.
"Why?! Don't you want them?!"
"Yeah, of course I do, but they're giving me a big allergy attack. It's so sad, but I can't have them close to me."

And so it came about that I had this beautiful vase of roses on my desk.

A few minutes later, Metrohom strolled by my office.
"Hey, those are gorgeous! Where'd you get them?!" he asked.
"Oh, you know me. I get these from Delta all the time."
"Really?!"
Sigh.
"Okay fine. So actually Carmen gave them to Clarissa because she missed her while she was on vacation. But then Clarissa gave them to me because she had an allergy attack."
"Not much romance there, is there."
"That's why I told you it was Delta."

"Girls are just silly," and he walked off, shaking his head.

Just-Another-Pub Day

Last week, Lahsiv forwarded an email to the group:

"Guys, it's International Day in New York this Saturday, let's all go for the parade!! Remember to dress in national costumes, and be there ready to have a great time!"

Of course my mind went wild. There would be a street fair, hundreds of people milling around, all sorts of international food stalls, and varieties of musicians and performers. It would be a sensory kaleidoscope of colours, sounds and scents. It was the very essence of New York, and of course we should be a part of it.

In my excitement, I pulled out the only traditional Indian wear I had, and rushed that off to the tailors for some alterations (no, I wasn't having it taken out). My mind was abuzz with the excitement of getting all dressed up. That Saturday, I rushed home after my bike ride, full of anticipation for International Day.

"Guys, what you wearing? Doobs, what do you think I should wear!!"
"Erm, you know that was a joke, right?" said Doobs.
Eh.
"Ficali, there's no International Day Fair, silly. It's just a Lahsiv and his mates going out for a few drinkies at an Irish pub not far from here."
"Oh."

"Now put on some jeans and a t-shirt and let's head over."

And as always, (well, sometimes anyway), Doobs was right. There was no street fair. There were no musicians or performers or (most importantly!) food stalls. Infact, when we got there, it was a tiny little pub, and a bunch of friends downing a beer bong. International Day indeed.

All I can say is, thank gawd I hadn't donned the whole Indian garb.

A flurry of effort

Next weekend, Ficali the Brave will be, in defiance of all odds and gawds, attempting the 45 mile 5 Boro Bike Ride. Of course, I'd love to say how, without any practice or attempts at general fitness, I'll hop out of bed next week and miraculously just be able to ride 45 miles with a snap of my fingers. But the truth is, I've long learned that miracles are the prerogative of the likes of Mary Poppins.

I, on the other hand, have to prepare myself the non-miracle way - I mean, through actual effort. And seeing as even the slightest incline inspires the fear of gawd in me in my current state of rather delicate fitness, I've been recently dedicating my efforts to a last minute high-intensity fitness routine.

And thus it came to be that this Saturday afternoon, while Delta was visiting his Mum, and Jeet was at a baby shower, and the rest of the gang was contemplating leisurely naps, I decided to take the bike out and head to the park, in a burst of superhuman tenacity.

And just as you shake your head in disbelieving admiration, I'd like to point out that after that, I also went biking with Jeet on Sunday. Yes, that is my unbelievable dedication to this sport. That is the extent of the heart-thumping panic with which I anticipate the approaching bike ride.

Epoch of health

This is to be epoch of getting healthy.

I came to the realisation last week, as I almost suffered a heart attack from biking around Central Park, that I had been letting my body languish and atrophy over the winter. The alarming horror of this, when it dawns upon you all at once, is quite the shocker. I watched my leg muscles quiver and twitch after we were done with our bike ride, and then realised that all the quivering and twitching was precisely because I didn't have muscles to speak of.

And hence, all of this culminated in a life changing decision. Last week, I joined the gym.

Now mind you, such decisions don't come without a significant amount of consternation.
a) Joining a gym means paying for a gym. And we all hate that.
b) Paying for a gym means feeling guilty if you don't go. And we all hate that even more.
c) And going means actually having to exert oneself. Heaven forbid.

But now that I'd made the decision I was going to be a sport about it. I was going to don a pair of shorts and jiggle my muscles around on some kind of moving apparatus, if my life depended on it. And so, I did. Last week, I went to the gym for the first time in years. Luckily, the NYSC isn't like the Equinox was. The Equinox was rather full of pretty, rich peoples who wanted to hang out with other pretty, rich peoples. The NYSC was a bit more - well - normal. Like the kind of place where one might find someone with a shoelace untied, or with a hair out of place.

And so, I did a bit of a workout. And then again the next day. And then again this week.

And slowly, I've noticed, those muscles aren't quivering as much anymore. That exercising in a gym isn't that bad after all (especially once you finally figure out how to work the TV).

This summer, it's going to be the epoch of health.

The painting and singing day

Last weekend, in a moment of grandiose magnanimity, we all pitched up for yet another New York Cares Day. On this one day every six months, thousands of New Yorkers collectively unite to help paint the public schools and clean the parks of the city. Of course, these are the same New Yorkers who would probably draw a gun on you if you bumped into them in the street. But on New York Cares Day, all these pettinesses are momentarily put aside in the name of humanitarian betterment. Oh yeah, and of playing with paint.

Impressively early on a Saturday morning, we all piled pellmell into a little yellow schoolbus headed towards PS184 in Queens. Immediately receding into his yellow schoolbus days, Delta started throwing wadded paperballs at Lahsiv. Kids will be kids. Sigh.

By the time we arrived at the school, Mr. and Mrs. Pooks were already en scene, already covered in paint, beavering away in one of the classrooms. So with economy of time (but after dappling in the breakfast buffet laid out for us), we quickly divided ourselves into little groups and attacked the various rooms that needed painting.

All I can say about our efforts (other than that they really were rather effortful), is that some poor kids in PS 184 have been walking corridors of the most shockingly bright yellow this week.

I'm not quite sure when or how it happened, but suddenly, at the end of the day, the exhausted crew ended up at Keats for a quiet, celebratory drink. And then another.

And then another.

And then, the inevitable, karaoke. Surprise, surprise!

A new Buddy in the family

The other day, I got a text message from Roo. It came in cryptic code format that amounted to nothing, but on my archaic phone, I know what that means. It means Roo had sent me a photo, and my phone just couldn't recognise it as such.

This is what it looked like on my phone: ^%##!!^%E%$#

And I knew Roo wouldn't swear at me. So it must be a picture.
So I used my phone for what it had been intended, and called Roo. "Oy, Roo! I got an old phone. Email it to me please. Wait. While I have you on the phone - what was it anyway?!"
"It's my new cat. I just adopted a cat!!!"

My heart skipped a beat with happiness.

"What's his name?"
"Buddy."
"What's he doing right now?"
"Curled up by my feet, purring."
"Has he adjusted?"
"He's still doing it."

I stopped the interrogation, to let the news sink in. A cat! Roo had a cat!

Last week, on my way over to Delta's, I stopped at the Petco, where they have cats for adoption. As I approached the cages, they all started miaowing in unison. Pressing up against the front of their cages and clamouring for my stroking hands. And, of course, my heart went out to all of them.

Of course, it immediately set me off in my own daydreaming world for the day when I too, will have a purring bundle of fur in my lap. Preferably a tubby fella who sleeps all day and regards us with considerable disdain during his waking hours.

Hasta luego, invierno!

Today, out of nowhere, all of a sudden, the sun came out in all it's glorious brilliance. Warm and glowing and splashing the city with golden happiness. All around the city, people were holding hands and smiling, just like you see in the adds. I spontaneously put on sandals and a skirt, allowing my toes to see sunshine for the first time in six months.

The first sunny day of spring is startling to the system, like an overcast day with a single break in the cloud cover, when a scintillating shaft of sunlight shines through, making you squint in shaky uncertainty. My toes curled in shyness, not accustomed to being exposed so nakedly to the world at large.

"Why are you all dressed up?" several people at work asked me today, in reference to my skirt and sandal (in place of the usual jeans-and-trainers garb). What could I say? To celebrate the first day in six months I didn't have to actually wear a turtleneck?

Such a warm, beautiful day, in the beginning of April!
But such a warm day?

Tomorrow, I'll worry about global warming.

For today, I bask in sunny warmth.

Intro to (ice) hockey

The other day, I went for my first hockey game (I used to call it an ice hockey match, until MetroHom gently chided me about not needing to use the word 'ice' and Delta pointed out it was a 'game' not a 'match'.)
"Hey don't blame me, I didn't grow up in this country!" I responded, my usual fall back when things aren't going my way.

It was a Rangers vs. Devils (New York vs. New Jersey) game in Madison Square Garden. So as you can imagine, a lot of hype and excitement and good humoured competitiveness. In days before the game I started working myself up into a fever pitch of excitement. It was all hockey this, hockey that at work (initially ice hockey this, ice hockey that until I was corrected).

Along with our tickets, we got free vouchers for Rangers hats that we could redeem at a small souvenir booth in MSG. Have you ever tried locating a small booth in MSG? It was like searching for a peanut in a labrynth. We went up escalators and down escalators and up corridors and down corridors and around corners, with no sign of success. Finally, we asked one of the ushers standing nearby if he knew where it was, and even he didn't have a clue. By then, it was getting close to game time, and we had to head towards our seats (oh, way up there at the top).

"What's your seat numbers? I'll come find you when I've located the booth," the usher said.
We gave him our seat numbers and headed off, knowing full well he'd never come find us in this crowded stadium with tens of thousands of people.
But boy, were we wrong. Twenty minutes later there he was, tapping us on the shoulders, having fought his way through the crowds to tell us where we could collect our free hats. Oh, how we underestimate the tenacity of the human heart.

The game itself was everything I had hoped for. The adrenaline, the collective energy of the crowds, the speed and dexterity of the players. It had the entrancing effect of a movie theatre, making you unconsciously keep eating a steady stream of popcorn (except here it was peanuts).
"Here's what you should do," Delta told me, as he passed me my first handful of peanuts. "Crack them open, and just drop the shells on the floor by your feet."
"What do you mean?!" I asked, horrified, "you mean just make a mess?!"
"Yeah, that's just what people do at a hockey game. Just go with it. Make a mess! You'll enjoy it!"
I was mortified. I watched him eating peanuts and dropping the shells all around recklessly. Tentatively, I opened a peanut shell, and popped the peanuts into my mouth. I gingerly placed the shells in the corner, by my foot. Fifteen minutes later, when the game broke for a break, Delta glanced over my way.
"Where are your peanut shells?!" he asked. For I had eaten many peanuts by now, and he had expected to see a whole host of shells, but there were none visible on the floor.
I shifted my foot.
And there they all were, placed neatly together in a tiny pile in the corner. We both burst out laughing, for indeed the delicateness did look pretty pathetic in this raucus atmosphere. "You can't watch a hockey game like that!!!!" Delta admonished, shaking his head.

And that was the moment when Ficali McPipe started eating her peanuts with reckless abandon, throwing shells any which way. It's a liberating feeling. Try it, folks. Only at a (ice) hockey game though.

This was a great first game to watch, supporting the home team through a last minute victory. When the last, deciding goal was scored, the stadium (me included) went collectively wild. Delta and I were jubilant for the rest of the evening.

The next day, back at work, Richie Rich asked me, "so, did you enjoy being at the game yesterday? I watched it on the telly."
"Yeah, it was amazing! Such a close game, and there was so much energy in the crowds!"
"Yeah, too bad Devils won, it would have been even better if your team had won."
Huh? I was sure the Rangers had won. I had cheered for and watched the Rangers win. But immediately, I was full of doubt.
"Erm, I think the Rangers won," I said uncertainly.
"Seriously?!!! I was watching the match. I saw Devils score that last goal!"

Crap!! Had I been cheering for the wrong team? Had I really got that confused?
"Oh. I really thought Rangers won," I said, very softly, no no longer sure of myself at all.
"Ha, ha, Ficali, you're right, I was just yanking your leg," Richie Rich laughed.

What! I narrowed my eyes. "I did get the game, you know," I retorted.
But Richie Rich was already rounding the corner, chuckling to himself.

Bah! Some people just don't appreciate hockey like I do.

Obstinacy and tenacity

Each morning, I quickly get online to check whether the Obama-Clinton decision has been made yet.

Checked Monday morning. Nope, still neck and neck.
Checked Tuesday morning. Nope, still the same.
Checked Wednesday morning. No change yet.
Checked yesterday. Hold your breath - oh no, the debate was still heated.
Checked today. "The democratic candidacy is still under heated contention,..." the newscaster was saying, when I switched the TV off mid sentence.

I can't wait to check again tomorrow. Maybe the situation will have sorted itself. The anticipation is killing me.

Profiteering in the forever stamp industry

I've realised I really like the friendly staff at the Postal Service. Their kindly and affectionate nature just enhances the otherwise rather tedious process of sending mail. You may also remember, of course, the USPS Super who rescued my check almost three years ago, despite all odds. Yep, that is just how great those USPS folks are.

I trundled to the post office this afternoon, to send a little present for a friend in London. Of course, even in that mundane activity I succeeded in introducing a bit of adventure: when I reached the post office, I realised I had forgotten my friend's address back at the office. So back to the office it was, (and then back to the post office). Obviously, I don't have much of a problem keeping myself entertained.

As I was paying for the package, the person at the counter asked me, "so, you want to buy a book of stamps?"
"Nah," I said, having thrown away many unused stamp books in the past. "The price always keeps changing, so there's really no point."
"That's why you should buy forever stamps," she said.
"Eh?"
"Once you buy forever stamps, you can continue to use them even if the price goes up. No matter how much the price goes up."
"Seriously?!" I felt like I'd walked in on a gold mine.
"Yeah, of course." she looked surprised, and probably was, given my disproportionate excitement.
"I should buy a lifetime supply of stamps!"
She gave me an encouraging smile. And, predictably, I was encouraged.
"In fact I could even sell them in 10 years for a profit!"
She just laughed out loud.

Speaking of making profits, I opened my first brokerage account last week. You know, because these volatile markets are obviously a good time to dapple in investments. Anyways, so I opened the brokerage account, and watch my investment half itself in the space of a week.

I guess I should just stick to profiteering in the forever stamp industry.

A blast from the past

I got facebooked by someone entirely unexpected the other day. The younger sister of the girl who had been my best friend all through elementary school.
Woohoo! She said, I've just moved to New York, want to meet up?!

I rubbed my eyes in disbelief at my Facebook page. Talk about a blast from the past! All my memories of her were from when we wee skinny kids (well, they were skinny, I on the other hand enjoyed food way to much to squander my childhood on such irrelevant qualities as skinniness). I remember once when we had helped ourselves to the potatoes in the kitchen and spent an entire day painting potato heads. And then got yelled at because her mother had been planning cook the potatoes for dinner. And the times we used to play battleship games on our bunk beds.

And now, here we were all of a sudden, some twenty years later, sitting across the table from each other sharing a veggie burger and sipping wine. How entirely surreal. How disproportionately preposterous. And so we set about the arduous task of scaling the last twenty years. She had lived in Buffalo, Iowa, Chicago, Cyprus and had now moved to New York. We hadn't been in touch for at least ten years.

But now, here we were, after all this time, with similar jobs and similar lives, having reached pretty much the same point albeit through our entirely different routes. Sharing anecdotes and laughing at life's foibles. Bonding over an upcoming summer of biking in the city. And the years apart suddenly seemed irrelevant.

I must admit, I never thought I'd find myself feeling glad that I'd made that leap over to facebook!