Last weekend, we packed kit and caboodle into our little zipster, and headed northward bound for a weekend in the woods. And when I say kit and caboodle, I say it without the slightest bit of irony. I refer embarrassedly to the kind of packing that has bags filling the boot, bags on the backseat, and overflow luggage by the feet of the co-pilot (aka yours truly). It always seems like a disheartening ordeal at first, but by the time we got to our spot in the Catskills, capming seemed like the perfectest idea we'd ever had.

That is, until the thunderclouds rolled in on us like uninvited wedding crashers. WeShall, Karolyn, Delta and I had barely finished putting up our tents when the sky unleashed upon us with all gawd's fury. It was Karolyn's first time camping ever, and we'd just spent the entire car-ride telling her how it was the greatest thing one could do with one's weekend, so as you can imagine, she was rather non-plussed by the rain.

"I have just the umbrella for this occasion!" she said innocently, and pulled an umbrella out of her Mary Poppins suitcase. We all gaped at it. "S**t, F**k, Hate, B***h" was scrawled all over it. Nice. An umbrella with Tourettes.

But soon enough the rain subsided, and we managed to get a heartwarming fire started - the kind of fire that draws out our primordial instincts for warmth, security, love (and hunger). Soon enough, everyone else arrived, and our weekend kicked off full swing.

A hearty breakfast, and we took off on our day hike. About twenty minutes up the face of the mountain, and I was frankly quite ready to turn around and head back downward. As it turned out, i discovered that my body had no interest in hauling itself up the mountains, against the forces of gravity. How easy hiking would be if it was all flat. But we're not quitters, and all of us laboured doggedly on. It was the most perfect day. The sun was shining, the trees blowing gently in the breeze. There in the woods, it seemed a million miles from the chaos of the city. And finally, after an exhausting day, we returned to camp to a welcome fire, burgers, and smores.

Preparation for Machu Picchu: July

The best snippet of news I have to share is that my physical training steams on - I've established a regular gym routine, and, in an atypical turn of character, have even managed to adhere to it.

That's the best snippet of news I have to report. The rest is rather depressing (or, if you're me, just plain terrifying).

Over the past few weeks I have learnt that:

- Anything more than three-pound weights results in me pulling my pea-sized muscles

- I am a 28 yr old with a 60 yr old left knee

- Each workout needs to be preceded and followed by large sized meals. Consider it bribing myself to move

And next week, ladies and gents, is our first little 'test'. Off we go, next weekend, hiking in the Catskills. Not quite the conditions of Peru, of course, but enough for me to see if my body can propel itself lumberingly up a hill with a pack on the back.

Queen Jaffa goes for a walk

I was thinking to myself, if I were Queen Jaffa, I would be pining to go explore our building roofdeck. So this afternoon, bursting with maternal pride and excitement of a heart-twingingly fuzzy nature, I went to a pet store and bought her a cat-leash so I could take her out of the apartment.

When I got home, I pulled it out of the bag with a flourish, dangling it tantalizingly before Queen Jaffa. "Ta-da!!"

I guess it had been unrealistic of me to expect her bubble over with enthusiasm, but just a bit of excitement - was that too much to ask?

Instead, Queen Jaffa looked rather non-plussed.

Disconcertingly, her non-plussed look is rather similar to her 'happy cat' look.


Which is even more disturbingly similar to her 'sad cat' look.


So as it turns out, Queen Jaffa isn't the most expressive of animals. Apparently one is supposed to devise her mood by the twitch of her tail. Not easy, as I'm sure you can tell, in human-speak.

So I could be forgiven for thinking that QJ was actually happy about the leash. With the unconditional enthusiasm and love of innocence, I tried to pull it over her head.

Needless to say, the episode has ended with QJ returning triumphantly to her little nap spot on the rug, and I withdrew to the couch to lick my wounds and inspect the lacerations on my hand.

I guess it'll be another day before Queen Jaffa goes for a walk.

Too much "Law and Order"

Tuesday night, I'd just returned home from dinner with Queen Noor, had indulged in a long (and rather monologous) conversation with Queen Jaffa, and was all set for bed. Delta had left for his trip earlier that afternoon and would be gone for the next two days, so it was just me and Queen Jaffa flying solo. We got into the typical argument over who gets the pillow, which resolved itself in the same way as it always does (I got the pillow, but she got more than half the bed).

It wasn't long before I'd drifted into sound sleep.

Ding-dong.

I sat up bolt upright, jolted out of deep sleep with a shock. Was that the doorbell? Or had I dreamt it? Glanced over at the clock, it was 2.00am. Total silence for a moment, and then there it was again.

Ding-dong.

Who could it be? And should I open the door? All sorts of horrifying imagery from entered my mind. In that split second, I had no idea what to do. On the one hand, it could be an emergency, a neighbour in trouble. I should go check. On the other, it could be a serial killer, and I shouldn't even approach the door. My heart was thumping so loud, I couldn't hear myself think.

I jumped out of bed and stood stock still in the bedroom, paralyzed with fear.

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.

And then a rational thought occurred to me. No matter who was at the door, friend or foe, I needed to have clothes on. As quickly as possible through the cobwebs of my sleep, I pulled on a shoddy sartorial ensemble to maintain womanly decency.

Ding-dong, ding-dong.
There was a decided sense of urgency to the ring. Causing a decided sense of panic in ye ol' soul.

Finally, I came up with a plan. I'd call the doorman downstairs and see if he wouldn't mind coming up to check which psycho person was clanging away at my door. Picked up my phone, and suddenly noticed I had a voicemail. From Delta, at 1.59am, just before the ringing had started.

"There were mechanical problems, I couldn't fly tonight, I'm back home," it said.

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.
Oops, I realised, it was just Delta. And still I headed to the door tentatively.
"Delta, is that you?" I asked the closed door.
"Yes, of course, open the door already!"

And so it was, after all that panic, turned out it was just my husband, thank gawd. My husband, thwarted from entry into his own home by the deadbolt I had the door. My husband, who had to ring the doorbell a zillion times. While his own wife sat panicking in the bedroom, unwilling to open the door.

A reason to be cool

Delta and I long ago decided that having children was not for us. It wasn't a difficult decision for us to reach per se, however it is of course predicated on the assumption that all our other friends and family will engender multitudes of babies, whom we can borrow or visit when we're suffering from a void of the cute and cuddlies.

And it makes me burst with excitement and happiness that the family is, without further ado, obliging. Earlier this month, the Cos in Seattle just had a baby. Later this month, the Cos in Chicago is all set to have hers. Without even having seen them before, my heart twangs with love for the little critters. Not to mention all our little nieces and nephews already a part of the evergrowing family tree.

I send my love to all the kiddies in our friends and family. We've always positioned ourselves as the 'cool aunt and uncle' the kids could visit as they grow up. Now we're already 'aunt and uncle'. Of course, it means we have but a few years to become cool.