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.