The prodigal child returns

In stealth, I slip back into the room. Somewhat horrified. Somewhat frustrated. But mostly just mortified at my own lack of fortitude. Really, has it been three months? Has it taken me three months to revisit this blog, to come back home?

Like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, I slink back to the table red-faced with embarrassment.

Every week, just a few minutes of creativity. A few minutes of introspection, and self-mockery. And yet, for the last three months, I have proved myself to have time for neither. In the same way, frankly, that it seems I never have time for cleaning. Or laundry. Or the dishes.

There is no reason. There is no excuse. And more importantly, I've missed my dear blog terribly, so it all really doesn't make any sense. In typical fashion, I've foisted myself again.

And so this, here, is my mid-year resolution. A coy homecoming.

A month of travel

In the Wit Hotel in Chicago. Lovely little place, they gave me cookies as a welcome present. I was excited - until I found out they were orange flavored. Seriously. Who gives orange flavoured cookies??! I ate them anyway.

New Rule: please let me know when your birthday is, because I have no intention to remember by myself

As we do every year, a group of us volunteered to participate in Hands on New York Cares Day last weekend. In the spring time, we mostly end up cleaning parks. In the autumn, it's usually painting schools. So this April we were asigned to a little waterfront park in Queens, where we were directed to remove unwanted debris from the coastal water-edge.

We were each given a pair of pickers, and had to poke and prod between the large rocks to pull out pieces of plastic and litter. Doing this every year is always a great lesson for me on the horrors of our plastic generation. But this time, we were otherwise preoccupied with other horrors. What with the recent news reports about the Long Island serial killer, everyone was slightly nervous about reaching their pickers between the rocks, only to discover the remains of a human body. But of course, this didn't transpire in the end (luckily). Instead, the events took a far more pleasant course, with our team wrapping up work early on account of the rain, and heading over instead to the nearby pub.

A few drinks into the afternoon, Lahsiv suddenly announced, "so guys, what should we do about my birthday next week?". We all looked at him in disbelief. How could none of us have known it was his birthday coming up?
"There's no way it's your birthday, man," someone said.
"Isnt your birthday in September?" I asked.
"Are you trying to just get free presents out of us?" someone else demanded.
"Guys!! It's my birthday next week!" Lahsiv launghed at our ridicule.
Not the most supportive of friends, I suppose you could say.

Finally, we checked it on facebook (the wikipedia of personal life), and realised that he had indeed been telling the truth. And so Delta and I decided to throw an impromptu party at our home yesterday, in honour of the ever mistrusted Lahsiv. I even decided to bake a cake (using case mix), but miscalculated the proportion of batter to pan, and we ended up with two cakes instead.

But a party's a party, whatever it's origin, and however many the cakes.

A sedentary month

The last few weeks of our lives have been somewhat circulating around Delta's knee. Of course Delta himself, of the busted knee, hasn't been circulating around anything. He's been pretty much restricted to the five steps between the couch and the bathroom.

Although Delta's own frustration at his situation is starkly apparent, Queen Jaffa and I for our part have both adjusted our lives to this new situation with remarkable ease. Having lost my close biking/hiking compatriot, I relishingly embraced the more sedentary life snuggled with Delta on the couch. We doubled our netflix queue, bought a bunch of microwave popcord, and prepped for a month of catching up on all the movies we'd ever talked about. Queen Jaffa, for her part, warmly embraced having a napping buddy to share the couch with all day.

But if all goes well, Family McDelta's life of sloth will shortly be coming to a close. Delta finally had his surgery last week, and his knee has been steadily (if more slowly than he'd like) improving each day. The day is fast approaching when we will have run out of excuses. When once more, we'll pick up our backpacks and head out into the woods.

But until that day is upon us, until we are compelled by a driving force outside of our control, you'll find us quite warm and comfortable with our posteriors parked comfortably on the couch.

A long journey hoome

With Delta's gimpy knee, it was a very long journey back home from India. It was torturous to watch him hobble along slowly, navigating the airport crowds through his pain. I grimaced in sympathy. Not knowing exactly what was wrong, both of us were nervous about where this would lead. Just a bit of recoup? A more serious surgery? I kept a panicky eye on each tentative step.

And then I said (apparently) the most offensive thing any wife could say to their husband. "Delta, do you think you should get a wheelchair? It might be - "
His look cut me off.

From the fact that he gave me the silent treatment for the next few hours of our journey, I gathered that I had threatened his manhood. The infraction was so grave that I might as well have driven the car of our relationship off a cliff.

Speaking of threatened manhood, we, erm, noticed that the security guards in Amsterdam's Schipol airport wear European shoulder bags. Far be it from me to criticise cultural peccadilloes, and gawd knows I have some of my own, but honestly - aren't security guards supposed to look at least somewhat tough-ish? I hate to judge on appearance (and yet I will), but when the security guards sashay around the airport with european shoulder bags, it doesn't quite inspire the confidence it's perhaps meant to.

But I shouldn't criticise them too much. They did serve the purpose of uplifting Delta's mood, what with his sense of masculinity being instantly restored.

Compatriots

After eighteen hours of arduous travel, our flight finally landed in Bombay, exactly on time. It took us about seven minutes to clear immigration and pick up the bottles from duty free that my father had given us explicit instructions to buy. And suddenly we were released out into warm, moist air of the city beyond, to a warmly welcoming set of parent.

For the first couple of days, Delta and I coccooned ourselves on the verandah, enjoying the peaceful oasis while the city bustled, teemed, banged and clanged all around us below. Then on our second afternoon, we decided to shake the inertia and go to the gym for an invigorating workout.

But barely fifteen minutes into the workout, Delta jumped off the speeding treadmill with a yowl. His knee had, all of a sudden, buckled under him. He hopped around the gym in pain while I stared on frozen in horror, not quite sure what to do. His knee had been a bit vulnerable ever since a bad accidental sprain a couple years ago. But nothing like this. He gingerely tried taking a couple steps, but his knee gave way again. And again. We looked at each other in fear, and he grimaced against the pain. There was nothing to be done but to hobble cautiously, tenderly back to the apartment, where he sank onto the bed and popped a couple Alleves gratefully into his mouth.

Since then, we've been back to passing away gentle hours on the verandah, Delta confined to hobbling about with his knee securely bound in a support.

Then this morning, a pigeon landed on the verandah next to our table, as we finished the last dregs of our coffee. It hopped about tentatively, and at first we didn't notice anything unusual, until all of a sudden, I pointed out, "Delta look! It's wounded, the poor thing! There's something wrong with it's leg!". And so it was. The poor bird was nursing an injured leg, and hobbled about slowly by itself in a corner, shunned by the other, fitter pigeons around.

Delta, in his own state of crippled vulnerability, immediately felt a bond for the pigeon. He started throwing small nuts and dried fruit towards it, that it might get some food. They cautiously eyed each other, man and bird, sizing up each others ailments.

In this wild, aggressive city where everyone and everything's fighting for survival, bound by circumstance, this pair of unlikely compatriots.

A note to my Unc

My uncle left me a voicemail the other day, just before Delta and I jumped on our flight to India. In typical uncle fashion, there was no preamble, no wasted time on senseless greetings or terms of endearment. Straight to the point, just like I like it.

"Hey Ficali," it said, "I noticed you haven't been blogging much. If you're out of topics, I think you should write about me. Just sayin'." Click.

And so, Unc, I'll call your blog post exhortation, and raise you a family reunion invite.

We, erm, noticed that we haven't yet heard when this year's family reunion is taking place. Milwaukee? August? I thought as much. Just that Delta and I were a bit surprised that we haven't received the official word yet, that's all.

You know. Just sayin'. :)

HR bods live life on the edge too, dammit

Last weekend, being the responsible denizens that we are, Delta and I regrouped to do our taxes. As turbotax walked us through step after step of our financial confessions, the conversation quickly degenerated, as it does each year at this time, into an overall lamentation of the state of our financial affairs.

We were glancing over all our numbers, when one particularly leapt out at me.
"Hang on a sec!" I exclaimed, grabbing Delta's arm. "$200 a month for life insurance?!! Two hundred??!"
"You're right, that does seem a little high," Delta agreed, puzzled.

Momentarily distracted from our taxes, we started meandering down the tunnel of life insurance instead. And here's what we found:
The $200 we pay each month is broken down into:
- Delta, $196
- Ficali, $4

I get why Delta's is so high. Being a pilot and flying internationally and frequently flying to Africa and ... I totally get it. He's high risk. And we're happy to pay in acknowledgement of this.

But really, $4 for me? Just $4? Was that kind of slap in the face really necessary?

"Well, erm, I don't think HR is considered to be, ah, a very high risk profession..." Delta ventured tentatively, trying to tread the dangerous line between life's practicalities and a happy wife.
But I was non-plussed.
So what if I spend my life plugged into my laptop and my greatest threat is the risk of carpel tunnel? I live life on the edge too, dammit.

Don't get me wrong. I don't want to pay any more (thank you). I just a little acknowledgement that HR bods are like the Jason Bourne's of corporate mediocrity. Is that too much to ask for?

A quick jaunt across the pond (and then some)

Last weekend, Delta and I went to Jordan. For several years now, we've been talking about going to Petra. And then all of a sudden last month, we decided it was finally time. Delta bid it as a trip, and I tagged along as his partner in crime.

Jordan itself was wonderful. The country is modern and extremely clean, the infrastructure is impressive, the people are incredibly warm and welcoming, and above all, the food is just wonderful.

But one of the most enthralling parts, by far, was actually being right there in the Middle East during Ghaddafi's first speech. Jordan itself feels stable. Delta and I never felt personally unsafe. Rather, it was as though the country was spellbound by a trill of tension, closely following all their neighbours on the telly. A mood of electric exhilaration was pervasive. When Ghaddafi came on to give his first rambling speeches, it was aired in arabic. But one of the Jordanians standing nearby instantly took us under his wing, translating the highlights for us. The nation was stupefied. Riveted. Frozen. All around us, history was in the making. And there we were, li'l ol' Delta and me, right in the middle of it all, shoving olives in our dumbfounded mouths like popcorn at the movies.

And then, of course, there was the spectacular Petra. Every bit as magical as it's reputation, and even much much more so. We were lucky: it wasn't yet high season, and we ended up having large stretches of the trail pretty much to ourselves.



A whole new look

Last week, we gave our living room a facelift. And seeing as our apartment really only has two rooms, I guess I could say we gave half our apartment a facelift. We bought ourselves some new furniture - an armchair, a sleeper couch and a bookcase, to be precise.

As soon as the couch and armchair were in place, we noticed that skulking cat Queen Jaffa eyeing them from  her corner of the room, immediately sizing them up as good scratching posts. So Delta and I had to run out in panic and buy little plastic guards for the arms of the couch.

And let me tell you, nothing downshifts a facelift as much as plastic covers on the couch arms.

And then I noticed another new feature I hadn't seen before. How had I missed this in the showroom? Both the couch and the armchair are too big for me. Yes,  I kid you not. If I sit upright leaning against the back, my thighs are too short, and my knee joints don't quite reach the edge of the seat, so I have to sit with my legs sticking straight out in front. It's not the furniture's fault. The furniture is just made for  the normal human body. How could they have known I map to the height of the australopithecus afarensis?

So there you have it. A couch with plastic covered arms, and a girl with her legs sticking straight out. Like I said. We gave our room a facelift.

Laugh though you might - visitors, rest easy. Our guests now have a sleeper to rest their weary heads on. No more airmattress that keeps infinitesimally losing air throughout the night. No more having to patch the air mattress with bike tire seals.

Like I said. We gave our room a facelift.