Death by wild animal

Buried here:

Ficali McPipe

(1980 - 2006)

Beloved

Killed by suicidal giraffe

A few weeks ago, as I was walking to work, I suddenly felt something falling towards me from aloft. Something large and unwieldy (like a body, the thought flashed morbidly through me), creating a descending shadow of hurtling mass. I caught the flicker of movement from the corner of my eye, and instinctively did a mental flinch. I say mental flinch because although my mind thought 'duck!!!', my body, lulled by urban life into forgetting natural survival instincts, failed to react in any way whatsoever.

Did you ever hear the story, as a child, of the squirrel that had an acorn fall on its head and thought the sky had cracked open and fallen down?

In that moment, I was the squirrel. (there is no dignity in this story).

For a moment, I thought I was dead. Then it occurred to me that if I was actually thinking about death, then I had to be alive. Then it occurred to me that I wasn't even hurt. So I took a moment to glance around. And there, lying beside me on the ground, was an ENORMOUS (almost me-sized), stuffed giraffe. Which had fallen on my head from the third floor window.

What the...?!! Who gets assaulted by a falling giraffe?! It was surreal to the point of inane hilarity.

Turns out, there's a Toys'R'Us warehouse on that street. I found this out a couple of days later when I was walking to work again (yes, despite my near death experience, I continue to follow the same path. Let it never be doubted that I'm a creature of habit), and I saw a Toys'R'Us truck in front of the very building. Unloading large things that looked suspiciously like my animalian assailant.

So then I started thinking, suppose I had died, what would my obituary read like?
Ficali McPipe, pint-sized HR bod with the most cluttered office ever seen. Regular hoarder of dried fruit, nuts and porridge from the kitchen supplies. Fanatic of summer dresses and winter hats. Killed by suicidal foam giraffe.

There's just much coolness in it all, is there? I really am the Napolean Dynamite of this world.

The secret of winning and losing

I sulked and moped at the thought of going outside. It was stormy, billowy, skirt-raising, jeans-wetting kind of weather, but I had to go out to get the bank checks done by the end of the day. That's what you get for leaving things to the last day, I suppose.

I stopped to gaze with renewed horror at the sheeted continuum of downpour, then took a deep breath and plunged into the rain, little umbrella held aloft like a rapier. It took all of thirty seconds for the umbrella to invert and prove itself a fickle ally. Typical. Now I regret laughing at the double layered golf umbrella Bobbis and Doobie use.

So there was I, left alone against the infernal elements of nature. The classic battle - man against nature - that man is just set up to lose.

Not to be thwarted in the check-gaining objective, I persevered in my endeavours. Put on my brave face and battled against la pluie. And so I got soaked in a likely impersonation of a human sponge.

On the way back, I realised I couldn't quite continue in my office all day, with my jeans leaving puddles wherever I went, like a territorial dog. Conveniently, I came to the realization just outside a Banana Republic. So I bought myself a new pair of jeans. And socks, for they too had been victimised. And cashmere jumper, just for good measure.

Sometimes, ya just gotta lose a battle to win the war.

Appetizer Crawl

At the Restaurant Club, we decided it was time for an Appetizer Crawl. You know. Just like a bar crawl, but involving a series of restaurants insteaad. As soon as we struck upon the idea, there was a flurry of excited activity, with everyone throwing suggested venues with good apps. What restaurants had we heard were good, which ones had great ambience, what did Zagat have to say about them - the emails zipped excitedly back and forth across cyber-space. Needless to say, not too much real work was done during that planning phase.

"Hang on, hang on," Jenn had to call order to the commotion, "let's restrict it to an area, shall we? Say Soho?" And so, we finally got consensus on a group of restaurants we were all equally excited about. Jenn industriously even mapquested them all and emailed us little maps indicating all the locations.

And - what a lovely afternoon it was! Filled with gustatory indulgences and epicurious delights. The Bruno Bakery. The Casablanca Tea Room. Balthazar. The Cupping Room Cafe.

And now, tripping over ourselves in eager-beaver enthusiasm, we're planning another one - in Chelsea. Any suggestions?

The doorman conundrum

I was speaking to Macklaine earlier today:

Ficali: Macklaine! Macklaine! Guess what! Guess what!
Macklaine: what.
Ficali: We found a new apartment! And Guess WHAT! It's got elevators. And a doorman!
Macklaine: Hmm. A doorman? Have you thought that through? I mean, what are you going to give him for his Christmas bonus?
Ficali: Oh. Erm. $50?
Macklaine: $50 for each doorman? Isn't that a lot? Besides you're only moving in in December.
Ficali: Oh. Erm. $40?
Macklaine [winding Ficali up]: Well you dont' want to offend them straight away and get things off on the wrong foot?
Ficali: Oh. Erm, so that's a $50?
Macklaine: And are you going to learn their individual tastes and bring them back coffee each time you go out? Like Delta does?
Ficali: Eeks, I'd forgotten about that.
Macklaine: Wow you really need to think about this more seriously.

[Ficali is now in a bit of a kerfuffle about this. Somehow I'd thought our new apartment was an upgrade.]

Happy Halloween, all!

A moment of weakness

I woke up this morning feeling terribly homesick for London. Maybe not London itself, but my life back there. Or mostly just my friends.

It was Brr's birthday, and I knew she'd gone through a big and eventful year. It shocked me to realize how disconnected I had grown from one of my closest friends, and suddenly, being at the receiving end of an email, no matter how detailed, simply wasn't enough. Nothing was enough unless I could be there to give her an enormous hug and reassure her that life doesn't start going downhill from 26. Trust me, I'd know. And all of a sudden I just had to speak to them all.

Called the Bart first.
"Hello?""Hey, Bart, its me!"
"Are you coming to my wedding?" (the Bart is getting married in January, and imbecile that I am, I hadn't as yet responded on my attendance.)
"Well the thing is, err..., you know, I mean the wedding is in India. I don't have leave! I have to go to India in December to meet the mater & pater, can't go again in January!"
"Whatever. You better be there."
"Erm, you know, I wish I could, seriously,..."
"Whatever. You better be there."
Sigh. "Okay fine I'll come down. Hell, you are one of my closest friends after all!"
And such is how I somehow caught myself promising to go to India. Even though I wouldn't have the leave. Even though I wouldn't have the money. Still, it filled my heart and I was ecstatic. I hadnt' realised just how bad I'd been feeling till then.

I called Brr after that, knowing it would be in the middle of her birthday celebrations.
"Fishali, hi, sho gladshyou called, I mish u and nowshyou called and whenshyou coming in deshember cosh we wanna shee you!"
Something like that it sounded. That's what you get for calling someone in the middle of their celebrations, I suppose. But all the same, sounded just like ol'Brr.
"26, so old!" I told her, forgetting I'd meant to reassure.
What are friends for, eh.

After I hung up the phone with Brr, I just sat in my room staring into space for the longest time. Some of you may point out that's what I do when I'm at work every day. But this was different. This was a moment replete with the kind of emotional reminiscence that had struck me silent.

Boy, I can't wait to go back to London again in December.

A perfect wedding

We went to a friend's wedding this past weekend. A poignantly intimate affair in a historic country mansion, in the heart of rural Vermont. The kind of wedding where only the closest friends and family were present. Where every single person there represented intimate stories and fond memories to the couple. To be honest I felt a bit of an intruder in this tearful setting, having only recently met the others present.

Still, I wouldn't have missed if for the world, having returned, as I did, with an intense myriad of emotions and memories.

Certain scenes from the weekend will always stay with me as flashes of memory.

Peeking out of the room window to a verdant view of Vermont countryside ablaze in all the hues of it's fall glory.

A long morning hike through the woods, and the moment of exhilaration when we suddenly broke into a clearing and realized we had reached the top of the mountain. Glancing up through the lattice network of leaves at patches of bright blue sky. Or down towards our feet at the velvety carpet of autumnal leaves. Gazing around us at the wooded forest, falling away down the mountainside. Silenced by the majesty of it all. At that moment, we could well have been the only people in the world.

A midnight walk through the fields, to gaze at the clustered stars, all jostling each other for sky space. And then a loose horse approached us in the dark, nuzzling up to us in much the same way we would have expected of a dog. I'll always remember that moment, standing there in the middle of the chilly field, in the overpowering darkness of the night, still in satin dress and stiletto sandals, gently petting and murmuring to the gorgeous horse.

But most strikingly of all, I was amazed by the wedding itself. The simple sophistication of it all. The sincerity of the vows, the intimacy of the guests, the tears of the groom. How warmly I was welcomed and included by everyone. The live jazz band, the late nights of wine, laughter, music and dancing. And of course, the midnight emergency kitchen raids.

During our drive up to Vermont, Delta and I had listed things in our lives that were Perfect. A song we'd heard. A food we'd tasted. Towards the end of the weekend, as celebrations were dying down, I turned back to Delta. "Now this is perfect," I indicated the wedding. He grinned. There could be no debate.

My true boss

"Ficali, have an airborne."
"But Fran, I'm not ill!"
"Have an airborne."
"Why? I don't even feel a cold coming on."
"Just have an airborne!"
"But - sigh. What's the point. Okay fine."

So I had an airborne.

"Good. Now, who takes care of you?!"
"Erm.... you?"
"Good."

Safe to say, our receptionist is the boss of me.

Pet Central

This past weekend, Doobie and I had offered to dog-sit for Sarah while she did the Avon Breast Cancer walk around New York. So while Sarah trudged and furrowed through over thirty miles of unchartered urban territory, Doobie and I volunteered to take the dog down to Central Park and laze around in the sun.

Sounded like the pleasant end of the deal. Especially since Bella really is one of the most affectionate and well-behaved dogs I've ever chanced to encounter. (Other than the fact that she doesn't realise, as she makes herself entirely at home in my lap, that she's rather the same size as me. But it's only fair to overlook the lack of spatial conception in animals, I suppose.)

And all was going so well, as we trundled through the sunshine-dappled path together, Doobie and me catching up on on the past week, and Bella sniffing the daisies or whatever had her pre-occupied.

And then the inevitable happened. The moment I'd been dreading all along. She decided to take a dump. And at once, she was transformed in my mind from a sweet angel to a depiction or horror.

And OMG OMG but she pooped some serious monster poop!!! I still find it somewhat disconcerting to conceive of a middle-sized dog doing an elephant poop.

I turned to Doobie in horror. "Erm, your turn," I said weakly, "I'll do the next one". Doobie'd never cleaned dog poop before and I thought it only fair that she learn one of life's hardest lessons.

We had wanted to get a dog ourselves, once we moved into the new apartment. Oh boy, that aint happenin' now.

Sweet Bella

Bella the Poop Monster

Something's afoot

Yesterday, on my way home from work, I saw Salman Rushdie sitting in our local diner. Right there, in our booth. Eating his eggs scrambled, just like I do. It must be a sign. Of what, I don't know, but it must be. I mean, Salman Rushdie for crying out loud! And in my diner!

I paused to gawp through the glass storefront for a while but etiquette demanded that I move on, so after a moment, I bumbled on homewards. It did occur to me, as I picked up the mail and shuffled up the countless stairs, that seeing as I'd only seen the shiny pate of his balding head, it didn't have to be Salman Rushdie. In fact, come to think of it, it could pretty much have been any distinguished gentleman with a receded hairline.

But frankly, I still prefer to believe it was ol' Salman. In my diner, sitting in my booth, eating my eggs. It must be a sign. Not quite sure of what, but I'm right tingling with anticipatory delight.