A stand for independence

There was a brief period of frenzied panic. And when I say panic, I don't mean it lightly. I mean the breath-constricting, thought-disorienting, pulse-quickening state of agitation.

It started with Doobie surveying her room in dismay.
"I have less than 6 hours for my flight and I haven't even started packing yet!!" She wailed. I gingerely entered her room to survey the extent of crisis. And yes, the crisis was extensive.

There was a large pile in the centre of the room. It consisted of fresh clothes, laundry, socks and shoes, presents for friends and family, and about 20 pounds of chocolate, all balancing precariously on top of each other. Navigating oneself anywhere around the room required making a leap over the ever growing pile. In one corner of the room were two small suitcases, into which one ostensibly supposed that the entire pile was meant to somehow pack itself.

And so Doobie rolled up her sleeves and without further ado, started attacking the pile with renewed determination. As she continued to plug away at it, her progress was punctuated and accompanied by constant mutterings under her breath.

Rush rush rush, and soon enough (far too soon), it was time to go. So together we dragged the suitcases (each weighing about as much as ourselves) down to the road, and hailed a cab. Quickly I hugged her, packed her into the cab, and before I new it, she was off.

I breathed a sigh, feeling suddenly underwhelmed. The moment reminded me of having dropped Bobbis off in her cab, two weeks ago, as she headed off to Bombay. And having said goodbye to Ilajna three days ago, as she headed off to Toronto. And suddenly, as Doobs' cab disappeared around the corner, I realised I was alone tonight.

This is the second night I have ever spent an evening alone in my life. I know, I've counted. The other time was once in London about 4 years ago.

So naturally, when I got back to my apartment, I was somewhat out of sorts. I triple-locked the door, but it wasn't a concern about security, really. It was the odd silence that came from no one calling out 'helllo!!!' when I entered the apartment. And no one squabbling over what program to watch on the telly. Disconcerting, really.

"Are you scared?" Delta asked when he called.
"No, not really, it just feels weird." I couldn't pinpoint it exactly.
"Weird like as in scared weird?"
"No, not at the moment, but I promise if I see a roach or anything I'm going to come running over to yours even if it's the middle of the night." I knew I wouldn't see a roach or anything, but it was comforting to say that all the same.

Turns out, it wasn't so different from any other night after all. Watched a spot of telly, read a bit, checked my emails and scanned the web. When it got too quiet, I voiced my thoughts out loud, and the inanity of the situation cheered me up instantly.

And most importantly, I survived to tell the tale. Now I know, having done it twice before, that I can indeed survive a night or two by myself.

A wriggle-hole in the visa net

I couldn't believe my eyes. I rubbed them vigorously and looked again at the screen. There it was, the list of citizenships requiring a visa for entrance into Bermuda.

And India was not on the list.

If you're American or European, the adventure of travel visas is probably not something you've had to deal with much, and perhaps you take unfettered travel for granted.

If you're Indian, you know that visas are the bane of your existence. You need a visa to go everywhere. In fact I'm surprised when I don't need a visa to travel from one state to the next in the US.

So I read the list of countries again. "Citizens of the following countries require visas to enter Bermuda:" it said. There was a long list of countries. I skipped straight to the 'I' portion of the list, scanning for India. It wasn't there. Unbelievable. Oddly suspicious, even. I scanned the rest of the list, just incase the country had been mis-spelled to start with a different letter. Nope, it simply wasn't there.

It might seem trite to you, but I feel compelled to repeat it again (and again, and again): Indians do not require a visa to enter Bermuda.

I'd love to say this is the triumphant bastion of Indian consular achievement. More likely, it's just a legacy remnant of the ex-commonwealth. But far be it from me to wallow in thoughts of lowly cynicism today. No, today is the day to celebrate the fact that there actually exists a country in the world where Indian tourists do not require a visa.

Which means, of course, that when we take the Bermuda cruise for Billy and Anneliese's wedding next summer, I won't be stuck alone on the cruise while everyone else attends the wedding in Bermuda.

Resolutions, for what they're worth

I'm not quite sure why I make resolutions for myself each year, given my poor track record for success. Still, they fill me with hope, I suppose. Anyways, no harm done in lofty aspirations, right?

Last year, I made three resolutions, which I wrote on a large yellow post-it and stuck it on my office closet at work. I figured that way I would see it every morning, and hopefully it would automatically get absorbed into my everyday life through some form of behavioural osmosis. What I'd forgotten to take into account is how little I actually look at my closet (and therefore at the post it). I guess that's what to blame for my little failures this year - the wrong place I stuck the post it.

Resolutions for 2007:
- Be healthier: dubious success. I mean, I quit my gym right at the beginning of 2007, probably a week after making the resolution. But then again I started walking to work, and on those days that I'm not accosted by giraffes, I feel I do make my life infinitesimally healthier. Also started drinking coffee through a straw, which works to my social detriment, but in the long run Simmer has promised me it makes for whiter teeth.

- Swear less: moderate success. I've curbed my swearing from external expletives to a little angry woman shouting in my head, which might very well one day explode, but for the benefit of the rest of the world yonder, I'm calm as a cucumber. I say 'moderate success' because the other day I was in Richie Rich's office and I clean forgot he was in there with me. I received an email of some consternation, and immediately shouted, "shite shite shite shite shite!"

There was a moment of silence. Then, "wow that's the first time I've heard you swear," Richie Rich commented. Which is testament to my success, I suppose, in its own muted way.

- Be more sensible: abject failure. There is no evidence over the past year of increased sensibleness (grown-upness?) from my side, instead I've come to further embrace the joys of insensibilities, which means this objective is off the agenda and therefore no longer relevant. Look how that worked out, a win-win.

Now what in the world am I going to resolve to accomplish (or fail to) in 2008?! I'm tempted to say 'learn Spanish', but given my track record, it does appear that if I make this my resolution then I likely won't accomplish it, and I really do want to learn Spanish.

A catch 22. Sigh.

A very merry Christmas (complete with a Santa)

This year, Doobs and I visited Mr. and Mrs. Pooks for Christmas. We figured a little get together over the holiday season, maybe a couple of presents, and just most importantly a weekend together at the Pooks'. We had NOT figured how the Pooks would embrace the season with such a fever of flurry and frenzy.

But suddenly there we were at the train station, and Mrs. Pooks leapt out of her car to pick us up - dressed like Santa no less. "Mrs. Pooks, we're so excited!" we exclaimed, giving her hugs.
"Oh there's more, let's quickly head home!"
And then when we got home, we were greeted with further festivities and frolic. There was wine to be drunk. And food to be barbecued. And cookies to be baked. And a gingerbread house to be built (my first ever, and I maintain that it was a masterpiece - albeit inedible).

And after we'd completed six hours of continuous ingestion and imbibation, there still remained more wine to be drunk. And more cookies to be eaten. And, most importantly, presents to be opened (!!!!).

So that when we were finally on the train back home the following day, we rubbed our bellies and sighed to ourselves in replete satisfaction. "What a lovely Christmas!"
"How nice of Mr. and Mrs. Pooks!"
And we could feel it sink in, what Christmas was all about (the friends, I mean, not the food), and how lucky we were to be a part of it.

Geriatric charmer

Last night at the nursing home, we had arranged for a Frank Sinatra impersonator, you know, just to bring a bit of thrill and razzmatazz to the place for the holiday season. And believe me, it came as close to a rock concert as I could possibly imagine the place. There they were, all the residents, sitting up straight in their chairs, waving their arms, some even hooting and cheering.

Most of the residents are women, and the Sinatra performer had them all swooning over his every move and smile. Charm poured out of him, along with one love song after the next. With each move, sighs of happiness and romantic reminiscence ensued throughout the elderly audience.

When Sinatra had finished his last song, there were cries for an encore. After the requisite amount of fussing, he willingly obliged, and performed yet another one. "Let's do Pennies from Heaven," he suggested, and the entire audience swooned yet again.

The oldest resident there, Edith, is 102 years old. Age has brought her to lose all her eyesight, yet her mind still remains sharp as a razor, and still keeps me on my toes with her witty banter.
When Sinatra was done with his last song, Edith broke the silence with a shrill cry, "Frankie, I love you!! I LOVE YOU FRANKIE!! Will you stay with me tonight?!"
A stunned silence filled the room. The singer paused, not quite sure how to respond.
"Edith!" I said, in a tone which was meant to be mock reprimand, but which really came out as awe.
"What?!" she turned in my direction, "Can't an old lady also have some fun once in a while?!"

I hope we all grow old with as much spirit as Edith.

Festivus for the Rest-of-us

This weekend, Delta and I invited the gang over to celebrate Festivus. The idea being some fine wine, delish food and an airing of grievances (which any good evening should have!). The morning of the party, Delta and I were still victims of our own inertia, sitting on the couch devoid of ideas for our menu.

After some serious bouts of debate and discussion, we settled on going Mexican (homemade guac, Chicken Adobo, bean salad), and created a painstaking shoping list. We headed over to the supermarket, and Delta watched in horror as I headed over to the shopping carts. "Do we really have to take a cart?!" For New York super markets are not built for manoeverability. But there's no getting around using a cart when you're shopping for 10 people. We had barely turned down the first aisle when Delta yelped, "I can't do this! The cart wheel won't turn properly and there's people bumping into me and there's no place to think and..." I seriously panicked that he might leave me alone there in the supermarket, but in a display of heroic effort, he pulled through in typical fashion.

The rest of the afternoon is a blurry memory of frenzied cooking and cleaning. So that when the first guest arrived, we had barely just sat down to rest and poured ourselves a celebratory glass of wine.

The evening itself proceeded exactly as we had hoped, as evidenced by the basic success factors that mark our parties:
- We plied everyone with food and drink (for what could be better than turgid guests)
- The jubilant revelry lasted well into the night (until a neighbour had to bang on our common wall, following the standard New York signal for shut up)
- The evening concluded with Ilajna doing some wild karaoke'ing at Keats (now doesn't that sound familiar!)

All in all, when you have to stay in bed till 2.30pm the next day just to recuperate, you know it's been a good festivus!

The Belly Club

Yesterday, we had a mini-reunion of sorts. Milo, Dub, Doobie, Ilajna, Bobbs and me.

This is how it all started. I logged into my email the other day, and had a little reminder pop up - 'Dubs Bday today!' it told me. I'm mortified to say, I hadn't spoken to Dub in more than a year, in fact I didn't even know if I still had his uptodate contact information. How do we let ourselves do this to our good friends?

I took a chance anyway and dropped him an email - "happy birthday, dub" I said, knowing it would come out of the blue for him. I had a response from him less than thirty seconds later: "thanks! it's been too long, let's meet!!". I was ecstatic. Maybe we let ourselves do this to our good friends precisely because we know our relationships can weather this.

So I sent out a note to the gang - guys, want to meet up, where else could it be but Keats. It took less than a minute to get a whole bunch of replies. Yes! Absolutely! Brilliant! Can't wait! It's been so long!

And so it came to be that yesterday, we all met each other again, some of us after more than a year. I couldn't stop hugging Dub when I saw him. And I couldn't stop asking him questions - they tumbled out of me in disorderly fashion, interrupting Dub's answers as he grappled to keep pace.

Milo and Doobie looked each other up and down, having met each other after months.
"You've put on weight."
"Oh, yeah? Well on a scale of 1-10 I'd rate you a 5."
And less than 30 seconds into their reunion, they slipped right back into the feisty balance they've always taken comfort in.

There's something so touching about meeting old friends again, and I could feel my heart brimming with happiness that spilled out through the goofy smile plastered across my face.

"We have to do this more often!" someone announced.
"Let's form a club!"
I looked over at Doobs and Milo. They were still arguing over who had undergone more physical change since they last saw each other.
"I know," I stepped in, trying to mitigate their argument. "Let's call ourselves the belly club. We're a belly friendly place."
Milo made a face. "I am NOT friendly with my belly. There is going to be no belly here."

But Doobie and Mrs. Pooks were already laughing, and the name was just going to stick. And so here we are, the Belly Club, all set up with monthly catch ups and all.

Mars and Venus

Delta: [flipping through TV channels] there's nothing interesting on TV! Sigh.
Ficali: [excitedly] well that's okay, we can just sit and talk!
Delta: Talk? Again? I thought we did that this morning already.

Mutual Reassurance Committee

Delta and I have signed up for a 'fundamentals' course in photography at the New York Institute of Photography. We're really excited about it, and photography has become our raison-d'etre in the past month or so. Sometimes we recede into the inner depths of our dorkiness, and just sit on the couch discussing styles and lenses for hours. I shudder to think of what we might do once the course starts and we actually know what we're talking about.

Well, Delta has reason to do this, for he truly has a natural eye for capturing that pulse-quickening picture. I, on the other hand, am banking on this course to arouse in me the wells of untapped artistic potential which I'm convinced exist in the nether regions of my mind.

As we progress through the course (and assumingly improve), I might use this blog to publish a picture of two which we deem worthy of our collective self-admiration. When you see a picture which might resemble such, dear reader, that would be your cue to leave a compliment on the blog.

This way you assure me of my artistic abilities, I assure you of your discerning tastes in art, and there we are, the Mutual Reassurance Committee.

15 minutes of fame

For the past three days, I've been at the Mohegan Sun Casino Resort in Connecticut. For yes, that is exactly the kind of exciting place that we hold our work offsites. You wouldn't have thought this place is up my alley, for I'm not much of a gambler myself (although I did win $20 at Atlantic City this past summer, ahem).

A typical work event, conferences during the day, and happy hours, dinners and socialisation in the evening. Except this year, a group of employees had got together and secretly formed a band as surprise entertainment for everyone. I knew they had been rehearsing for the past couple of months, but nothing prepared me for how good they actually were.

The evening before their performance, I was speaking to one of the band members. "So how come you don't have any girls in your band?!" I asked. Being the HR bod and all, I just wanted to make sure they hadn't been exclusionary.
"Glad you brought that up, we actually do need a female background voice for one of the songs - you wanna do that for us?"
I found myself backpaddling rapidly.
"I can't sing! I'm tone-deaf!" I blurted.
"Doesn't matter, it's just a small part and it's really easy, we'll show you."
Sigh.
They pretended I had to be formally interviewed to participate in their band. They sat me down on a stool in the band room, and all stood scrutinizingly across from me.
"What previous experience do you have with rock bands?" the band leader asked.
"Erm, I used to date the drummer of the school band in high school?"
"Okay that's fine, you're in."

And thus it came to be that I found myself back in the days of Keats karaoke. In truth, I had only one line. Each time the lead singer finished the chorus, I had to sing "gimme, gimme". And that was it. But boy, just standing up on stage in the limelight, with the crowds cheering, there it was, my fifteen minutes of fame.

A holiday jingle

Unbeknownst to me, a hole had gradually formed in the right pocket of my winter coat.

Unsuspectingly, I dropped three quarters into my pocket the other day. Silently, the quarters slipped single file through the hole making their way into the nether depths of my coat lining.

I might have actually never noticed, having blissfully forgotten all about the quarters. Except that this morning, as I walked to work, I noticed a faint jangle in time with my gait. At first I thought I must be imagining it. When the jingling sound persisted despite my attempts to shake it from my head, I thought perhaps it was some roadside music. But a quick glance around confirmed this to be unfounded as well.

I stopped. The jangle stopped.

Took a step. One quick jangle. And then silence.

Took two steps. A bunch of jangles. And then silence.

Dammit I thought. I put my hands in my jeans pockets. Nothing. Put my hands in my coat pockets. Nothing again. And then, as I readjusted my coat, I realised that the sound was emanating from somewhere in the coat itself. So I raised different sections of the coat to my ear, shaking each section gently to try and exactly pinpoint the location of the jangle. All this while still leaving my coat on, since it was bitterly cold.

I shudder to think of the sight I made. Luckily, in New YOrk, there's never reason to be embarrassed. There's always someone even weirder.

So in this manner, through some painstaking coat shaking, I realised that there are three quarters nestled noisily in the bottom hem of coat, inside the lining. Nothing to do but go on jangling to and from work all winter, it appears. Just my luck.

I would have been less troubled, perhaps, if they weren't actually quarters - which we collect so dearly for our laundry.

A zebra in leopard spots

Delta and I went wetsuit shopping. I mean, how often does one get to say that! But then again, this is all part and parcel of the fact that we're going to the Galapagos, and how often does one get to say that.

Mr. Pooks recommended a discount diving store to us, so on Sunday, possibly the coldest day yet this century, we buried ourselves as far as possible inside our winter coats and shuffled slowly against the Siberian winds to the diving store.

"We're here for shorty wetsuits," we announced excitedly to the person at the counter.
I even giggled when I said it, the words just sounded so alien in my mouth. Soon enough, we had a couple of them in our hands.

Delta went in first to try his on. A few minutes later and he was back out. "Perfect fit!" he affirmed with satisfaction.
Then I went in. The last time I wore a wetsuit was when I went waterskiing in London when I was 5. And I think the must have given me an adult suit then, because I somehow have memories of the suit being quite loose. Which this one most definitely was not.

I mean, how do you make a skin tight suit, which is really just a rubber skin, and expect a girl to pull this up past her hips? I put my legs in, pulled the suit up my body, everything was going fine, and then suddenly it jerked to a halt.

I tugged.
Nothing.
Harder tug.
Still nothing.
Yep, don't you know it. The wetsuit would not get up past the old posterior.

"You okay in there?" Delta called, hearing my grunts of effort.
"Yes. Just. It. Won't. Get. Up. Past. My. Butt."
And just then I gave a tremendous heave-ho where both my arms pulled with concerted effort and suddenly the suit swooshed up the rest of the way, and I was inside in, this new seal skin on my body. I stood there for a moment, panting from the exertion.

And then I engaged myself in the arduous task of peeling it back off again.

But what can I say. For now, I own a wetsuit. Who woulda' thunk.

The perfect Tuesday evening

"Delta, since you have the week off, will you come volunteer at the nursing home with me this week?"
It was so important to me that he came and saw the nursing home, which I have grown incredibly attached to over the last few weeks.

So I finally introduced him to Bertha (who knows everything there is to possibly know about 1930s Hollywood).
And to Eunice (who barks crabby coments at anyone passing by, but we love her anyway).
And Mary (who is disgruntled that the place is called 'Greenwich Village Nursing Home' when Greenwich village actually starts two blocks away).
And Julia (who sang Besame Mucho again, as she does for me every week).

And as I took him around the nursing home, it suddenly dawned on me how dear it had become to me, how much it now was a part of my life.

When we said goodbye to the residents that evening, I gave them each a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. ("What you hugging me for, they didn't even give me no turkey for Thanksgiving, that's the more important thing" Eunice grumbled, but I could still tell she was secretly pleased by the affection).

Most importantly, I could see how much Delta enjoyed it himself, and that just made my heart want to burst.

A quick look at Key West

I must admit, I was ill-prepared for everything that Key West turned out to be. I mean, I expected beach, and sand, and some lazy days. I had NOT foreseen the turquoise blue waters, the coral reef to go snorkelling in, or the dramatic sunsets.

When I told Richie Rich I was going to Key West, he whooped with delight. "There's that famous writer's house over there - you should go see it!"
"Jimmy Buffet?!" I asked. I mean, how was I to know Hemingway had lived there too.
"No, silly, a writer!"
"Erm, Jimmy Buffet?" I tried again. I mean, he wrote his songs, didn't he?
Richie Rich rolled his eyes at me. "Hemingway," he said, suddenly remembering, "and remember to check out the cats that live there. They have extra digits in their front paws. They're the Hemingway cats."
I rolled my eyes at him as one does at a child with explaining their fantasy world.

The entire vacation was a beautiful one - even so, a few memories stick particularly in my mind.

The early mornings, sitting in the quiet beach alcove by ourselves, reading our books and letting the soothing sound of the waves wash over us gently.

Our first night there, when Mrs. Pooks, Doobie and I sat in the hot tub, sipping our glasses of wine. It was midnight and we were the only ones around. As we caught up with each other, we listened to the waves lapping at the beach, just a stones throw away. And from the other side, trills of soft island music, drifting towards us from a nearby bar.

Parasailing tandem with Bobbis. As we sat together, suspended some 400 feet over the ocean, silenced by our awe of the majestic views around us. Miles and miles of shimmering turquoise in every direction. (I remember peering down to see if there were any sharks below us, just as a safety measure, and I was quite relieved to not find any.) "I could sit here for ever!" I remember exclaiming, as a breathed in the fresh air deeply and took in the panorama around me.

Snorkelling over the coral reefs, watching the waving sea sponges, and the brightly coloured fish weave in and out of the coral fronds. The sight was so magical it was just entrancing. (Just like in "Finding Nemo!", Mum told me when I described this to her).

Lying back exhausted on the boat deck after snorkelling, the sun was setting, and the sky was taking on its reddish hues. Suddenly Doobie had clutched my arm, "look!" she exclaimed. And there they were, a school of dolphins heading out to sea. Bobbing up and down in unison by the boat, and they stayed as though suspended there for a few moments, and then just as suddenly as they had appeared, headed off into the distant sunset.

Going to the Hemingway house the last morning before we left Key West. And as we wandered through the network of beautiful rooms and gardens, I suddenly stopped short, transfixed. There it was, one of the Hemingway cats, and it had an extra digit in its front paws. Well, I'll be damned.

A Typical Thanksgiving

In case you'd been wondering where I'd disappeared to last week, I thought I'd better send a quick summary.

After celebrating Thanksgiving last year in snowy Vermont, we decided to do just the opposite this year and head for the beaches. And so the week found us in Key West, the southern most tip of the US, only 90 miles from Havana.


Pushing new limits, keeping watch over the seas and the skies.




What can ya say, just your ol' typical beachy Thanksgiving.

Doobs Birthday # 3

As if we needed more proof that the seasons were changing, it was once again Doobie's birthday yesterday. This is now her third birthday we have all celebrated together.

Back in 2005, we had only just moved in together, and we had celebrated her birthday in the midst of unpacking IKEA boxes and multiple trips to Bed, Bath and Beyond. Last year, we'd been better prepared. Dinner at Le Colonial, drinks at a bar in the Village, just a proper night out.

This year, we were stumped. "I don't want to do anything," she had said emphatically. "Turning thirty is hard, you know!"

We were puzzled.

"But Doobs you're only turning 29," we'd pointed out. She was so focused on the self-pity, she had forgotten to focus on the reason behind it.

"Oh yeah. Okay fine. But still don't feel like doing anything."

"Okay what can we get you as a present? What do you need?"

"Nothing, I don't want presents this year."

Now how in the world do you plan for a birthday like that?!

But little by little, we pecked away at her veneer, until she finally conceded to having an intimate, quiet, low-key soiree. Just the girls (and boy), and just at home.

But let me tell you, once all the girls (and boy) are together, we are not soiree-like, definitely not low-key, and certainly not quiet. By midnight, the evening had proceeded nicely to champagne and dancing.

Some moments rather graceful.

Others, erm, less so.

But no matter, for such is the nature of quiet soirees at home.

The 5 Minute Get-Fit Program

Yesterday, I started a new exercise routine. That is, if you can use the term 'exercise routine' for brief periods of turgid activity.

The idea is that I wake up 15 minutes earlier than normal everyday, and spend those 15 minutes indulging in a splash of holistic yoga. You know, for my overall flexibility, digestion and sanity.

Yesterday was Day 1, and the 15 minutes looked like this:
- First I hit the snooze button on my alarm and fell back asleep (9 minutes)
- Took a minute to force my eyes open and orient myself (1 minute)
- Did 5 suryanamaskars (5 minutes)

Today (surprise, surprise), my 15 minutes looked like this:
- Hit the snooze button, fell back asleep (9 minutes)
- Jumped out of bed with more gusto and determination than yesterday (30 secs)
- Did 4 suryanamaskars (4 minutes)
- Collapsed from the muscles I had pulled yesterday from those 5 minutes of exercise (1 minute 30 secs just lying on the floor)

Yes, as you can see my fitness program is on to a great start.

The Wild West

If you've been wondering where I'd gotten to, my sweets, it's because I spent last week in San Diego. Yes, that's right, our company has team meetings in the land of sand and sunshine. And big zoos. And forest fires, but let's leave that out for now.

Got off the six hour flight from New York, jumped into a cab, and asked the cabbie to take me to the W Hotel downtown.
"Work event?" he enquired.
"Yep."
"Wow, your work puts you up in a party hotel?!"
Apparently.

And he wasn't kidding. I walked into my room and there was a welcome note, along with two beers, some beach flip flops, a set of his and hers boxer shorts and a teddy bear, all compliments of the house. And an enormous satin stuffed ball on the bed which I'm sure was meant to be funky but which made me kind of nervous so that even when I slept I kept my body straight along an edge, with a wary eye on the monstrosity which dominated the rest of the bed.

I made mental notes of the street names I passed so that I could come back and tell Mr. and Mrs. Pooks (for this is the land from whence they hail), but as soon as I got on the flight to return, I promptly forgot.

I do remember eating some authentic Mexican food though, and some thai food to die for. And I distinctly remember some hours spent around the fire at the rooftop beach side bar.

And I do remember some work, but that's a hazy blur in the distant past.

And such was my introducton to San Diego.

Instant rewards

I was running out of things to procrastinate with at work. I'd already checked my personal email addresses for the tenth time (no new emails as usual), my facebook account (no new messages), read through CNN (the country is still at war), I was really running out of things to do.

Carmen popped her head into my office. "There's some spare cookies going, if you want," she announced.
"Nah, I'm not really hungry at the moment."
"Suit yourself honey, but just so you know, they might be gone by the time you're hungry."
That caused an instant surge of panic. "Okay I'm coming!" and I ran into the kitchen and ate a cookie. Even though I wasn't hungry. THAT is how bored I was.

And heaven forbid, I couldn't work!

So I though, might as well check what my credit card rewards program is like. It took me half an hour to log into the site. If you're ever looking to kill an ineffective half an hour, I highly recommend calling your bank's rewards program hotline. Anyways, so I got it sorted in the end (the operator was really nice and cracked a couple of jokes, which immediately redeemed my experience).

And then I logged in to see what this Mastercard rewards program was all about.

And ended up spending hours rubbing my hands in gleeful anticipation of all the presents I can get myself.

A toaster with an inbuilt egg-poacher; a day white water rafting; a whole set of MTV Power Yoga DVDs; a pair of battery-free flashlights

Now I can't WAIT to go out and spend more money so I can earn more points!!

A day late and a penny short

Yesterday, New York witnessed the 2007 NYC Marathon. Our very own Mrs. Pooks participated in this, so all of us got in the spirit of things and ventured out to indulge in a bit of jubilant cheering. I'd been telling everyone who'd listen that Mrs. Pooks was running in the marathon. Mostly I think because it made me feel more famous and important to know someone who actually ran in the marathon.

And we might as well clutch at as much vicarious glory as we can.

Because it's not something we could do ourselves, this running thing. I mean, the other day Delta and I just walked ten blocks and we had to head back home and take a nap.

So instead we nominated ourselves as the chief photographers for Mrs. Pooks' crowning moments. For since we bought our new SLR, Delta and I have been quite fancying ourselves as new generation photographers, running all over the city with the camera hanging around our necks, trying to capture forever those artistic glimpses of normal life (most of them quite blurrily, but this is just the beginning stages yet).

"Taking photos of Mrs. Pooks running is different, it's hard to get action shots," I pointed out to Delta the day before the marathon.
"Well we can't afford to mess up with Mrs. Pooks," Delta responded, "so we better spend today practicing action shots!"
"Good idea," I agreed, "now all we need is a moving target to practice photographing."
"Well, why don't you keep running rounds around the apartment and I'll take pictures of you," Delta suggested.

Yes, he seriously suggested that I run in circles around the apartment so that he would have a moving target to click at.

Obviously, I was rather nonplussed. Instead, we ended up going to the ice rink to take pictures of ice skaters, a decidedly more positive result as you can imagine. So after an afternoon of practice, we felt adequately equipped to film Mrs. Pooks as she ran past us in the marathon.

So yesterday we headed over to 60th and 1st where we could watch the thousands of marathoners enter the city. We beat our way through the crowds of onlookers to find ourselves a niche spot ideal for capturing the perfect picture. And we crossed our fingers and wished and hoped for the sun to stay out and maintain the perfectly diffused lighting it was casting over the city. And we held our camera aloft and clicked away at everything moving, just incase it turned out to be Mrs. Pooks.

And then we turned around, to speak to Davis, Gus and Kate, and all caught up in the conversation for a couple of minutes, and suddenly realised (too late as usual) in that moment, Mrs. Pooks had passed us by.

Did you know Hogwarts was real?

Did you see that? The address for this place on Hudson is # 639 1/2. AND A HALF.

Which made me start thinking, now that has to be the most Harry Potter-esque thing I have seen in my life.

Which made me start googling Harry Potter chat rooms to see if others were seeing the same things. And this what I found. Blimey. I just want to let it be stated for the record that I am not this involved.

I just really like the half address, that's all.

The crappest HR Bod ever

Yesterday, I was on the phone with one of our employees, discussing a rather difficult issue. And then he started crying.

You think that's bad? I was perfectly calm pacifying him on the phone. But then when I hung up the phone, and our conversation just made me so sad, that I started crying. THE HR BOD STARTED CRYING.

Talk about the most unconstructive response ever.

Richie Rich came into the office at just that rather inconvenient moment. He had quickly ducked into my office to avoid bumping into another colleage in the corridor who talks too much, we have gradually entered a co-complicity in mutual office-ducking strategies.
"What's up with you?!" he looked at my teary face in horror.

Do you know that moment, when you're about to cry, but you're fighting to gain control of your emotions, and at just that moment someone extends a kind word, and that just opens the floodgates to the tears? That's what I was like. If Richie Rich hadn't come into my office at exactly that moment, I would have been fine. But what with him coming in and being all kind, I suddenly realised I had started to bawl.

When I had finally explained everything to him, about half a box of tissues later, he gave me a comforting pat on my shoulder. "Well, you wouldn't be human if this didn't upset you."

But boy, doesn't that make me about the crappest HR bod ever?

A feelgood haircut

So I'm a ridiculous cheapskate about some things in life. Like a absolutely refuse to drop $65 on a haircut. If you knew how fast and furiously my hair grew, you'd understand why as well.

I suppose it's a disproportionately adamant stance, given that I'd gladly drop $100 on a dinner out, but then again, I guess I can't really compare a haircut to dinner, given the amount of time I spend dreaming, speculating and fantasizing about food.

It was only last week when I finally capitulated, and decided to go to the salon below Delta's building for a haircut. It had been 9 months since my previous haircut, so I was a bit nervous. I hate it when hair dressers tsk tsk about the condition of your hair, it makes me angsty. Same as I get angsty when I take too long packing my own groceries in the super market and there's a lengthening queue behind me, but let's not get off track here.

Anyways, so there I was sitting in the chair feeling slightly uncomfortable, my hair had been shampoed and conditioned and wrapped into an enormous towelled pile which was balancing precariously on my head.

The hairdresser snuck up on me from behind.
"So, what do we want to do with our hair today?!" she exclaimed, and I, who had been lost in thought, nearly fell out of the chair.
"I'm not fussy about the style, but I just want it much shorter," I said firmly. "Three to four inches off at least." There. Now I wouldn't have to worry about another haircut for another 9 months.

"What?! Your hair short?! No no no!" she exclaimed.
I stopped short. Eh?

"No, no, your hair look so nice and straight and healthy! You can't make it short! Other girls, they have dry hair and I tell them cut. But not you, your hair must be long. I tell you what. I cut it one inch, and I give you some layers. Okay?"
"Okay," I said meekly. I mean, who was I to know anything about my own hair anyway.

So a quick snip snip in the back, and then she was asking me what I wanted in the front. I get somewhat anxious when they ask me what I want, because to be honest, I never know. I envy the girls who can come in with a picture of Jennifer Aniston, or Scarlett Johanson, or whoever, and be like - I want my hair to look like that. Jeez, how do they know!

"Okay, how you want your front?"
"Can you give me something that slims my face?" I asked. "It doesn't matter what style, but it just needs to make these cheeks of mine look narrower."

"What?! Your cute baby face?! Oh no no no! We can't do that!"
Eh?

"I tell you what I cut some layers to frame your face and blend in with the back. Is look good. Okay?"
"Okay," I agreed.

When I left the store an hour later, to be honest my hair looked more or less the same. Infinitesimally shorter, perhaps, and with a couple of layers. But boy, she had complimented my hair, and my face shape, I was on top of the moon!

When you spend $65 on a haircut, who cares what the hair looks like if you come out walking on clouds, eh.

Self-perpetuating exponence

In the beginning ... there was life.

Then ... there was this blog, about the life.

Even more recently ... there was that blog, about this blog, about the life.

And now... there is this entry, about that blog, which is about this blog, which is about the life.

Talk about the circular nature of life, eh.

Today I'm Hera, the Tempestuous One

Last year, despite much planning and excited gibbering about halloween, we ultimately didn't end up getting in costume after all. This year, in typical fashion, we decided to compensate for this by an exceptional amount of over-enthusiasm.

And in our excitement, we ended up getting dressed on entirely the wrong day.

Thus is came to be that yesterday found us all dressed up and heading out to paint the town red, albeit a whole day early. Does it matter anyways? Is there any dignity in the whole event anyways?

We trundled out together, a motley crew of Bob Marley, 80s chick Rita (allegedly Bob's girl), a devil, an angel, Lady Godiva, and yours truly. For what would life be, eh, if we couldn't adopt fantasy existences every once in a while?

A house finding tip

Earlier this week, I had to fly to Houston for work. (I wasn't particularly impressed by the city, although I will admit I didn't get the chance to do a thorough evaluation.) All the same, when I found to my dismay that my return flight was delayed due to thunderstorms, my heart sank like a pebble in water. However, far be it from me to get thwarted by life's petty ways. With a mad dash to the opposite end of the terminal, along with an element of hair-pulling (my own) and cajoling (the ground staff), I managed to wrangle myself a seat on an earlier plane. So I was in a pretty self-satisfied mood when I boarded this flight, which probably was what caused me to lean over and greet the passenger next to me.

Usually, I just leave co-passengers on their own, although I'm bursting to have someone to yak with, just because I assume they're bursting for quite the opposite. But this time, I was filled with an air of such jubilance and general joie de vivre, and that's not the moment for strangers to remain strangers. So I leaned over and said "hello!". Not a tentative hello. The kind of hello that precipitates further conversation.

Turned out the chap was in the real estate field. So immediately I told him about wanting to buy an apartment next year. "Will the market correct itself?!" I asked. I wasn't asking for honesty. I just wanted to hear that I'd be able to afford something in the city. But he told me about Williamsburg, and described the area, and somehow, during the course of the conversation, convinced me that that's where we should be looking to buy.

Why listen to a stranger? Perhaps because he was in the real estate business? Perhaps I trusted him implicitly precisely because, as a stranger, he had nothing invested in our future? In either case, the thought of Williamsburg started playing on my mind. So I looked it up.

And here's a tip for anyone looking to buy an apartment in this area. Start looking in Manhattan first. Look diligently and tenaciously enough, for long enough, to get sufficiently disillusioned. Then look wherever else you want - and suddenly, the world seems so much a more welcoming and luxuriant place. Seriously.

A closet-cleaning pride

In line with the sudden burst of volunteering we've been doing recently, we decided to all participate as a team in NY Cares Day this weekend past. It started off as a company team, but I sent out the email to the gang at home, and suddenly there were more friends than colleagues - but with such situs, the more the merrier!

And so we all donned our grubbies and headed over to Queens early Saturday morning, to help decorate school PS222Q. Of course we'd each secretly harboured romanticised visions of painting murals on the school wall. Or arts and crafts with coloured paper and Elmers glue, just like the old days.

Of course the truth was as far as it could be from that. "Who will help me organise this closet?!"
Our jaws collectively dropped, and there was a visible shriking into our seats, hoping we wouldn't be picked on to volunteer for the task. Not us, we had come to do finger painting and the like.

But as with any time in my childhood when I shrank back in my seats to avoid getting attention, I was immediately picked upon. "Would you guys please do it?" the principal looked at our team. What could we say? No, we want to volunteer, but for fun stuff only? Of course we had to be the troopers we were supposed to be.

And so it came to be that Saturday found us dragging boxes, dusting shelves, creating systems of organisation and reorganisation from the largest (and messiest) stationary closet I had ever seen. Delta was hauling boxes to and fro (Benny also helped but she was only given the little boxes). Bobbis was quickly drawing the organisation plans ("red boxes will go here, crayons on that shelf, blue folders next to the green folders at the bottom..."). Doobs and Ilajna were sorting craft papers outside. Neat little piles of red, blue and green papers spread across every visible surface, with a confused looking Doobs and Ilajna in the middle. For my part, I was hanging (and I mean it quite literally) from the top shelves of the room closet, while others passed up boxes that I could place up there for storage.

In short, it was mayhem.

Everywhere we looked, there were files, papers, crayons, staplers, and lots of other which somehow or the other evidently qualifies as children's stationary. It was a truly colossal chaos, and it took our breath away. But we slowly started chipping away at it. One crayon box here, one pile of art paper there. And gradually, this seemingly futile task slowly started ordering itself.

We picked away at it, piece by piece, and suddenly, without our realising it, the time had come to wrap up. So we took a step back and looked at the room, and it truly had been transformed.
"I wish we'd gotten to paint," someone said. And we all agreed.

But also, we were suddenly hit by the enormity of what we had accomplished. And what a difference it would make to the teachers going forward. And suddenly, we were all pretty proud.

Casino night at the nursing home

So one of the main reasons I joined New York Cares , as you may already know, was so that I could work with old people. I love how they're always teeming with memories and anecdotes, and how they candidly express grumpiness when they feel it. I love how all they want is someone to listen to them or hold their hand.


So you can imagine my excitement this Tuesday when I registered to volunteer at the Village Nursing Home, nestled in a perfect little location in the West Village. Did I have a romanticised image of what it would be like? Was I going to be let down? Weekly bingo with a group of golden oldies. I mean, how could one go wrong with that?! It sounded like my life calling, if you ask me.

("Remember not to get too competitive about the bingo!" Doobs smirked before I went. Don't you hate it when people know you that well.)


As it turned out, the evening was even better than I had imagined.


Maybe it was Olga, the little old lady who sat in the corner, who insisted on wearing her red headband with macrame flowers stuck all over it, just because she had been a flamenco dancer in her youth. Maybe it was Julio, the old man who wanted to play his favourite song on the harmonica. Quite possibly it was Annabeth, the lady who kept squirrelling away her chips with a anticipatory glint in her eye. I can't put my finger on it exactly, like you never can with anything truly emotional and heartwarming.

Needless to say though, I'll certainly be going back there on Tuesdays...

The bike ride success

On Sunday, Jeet and I finally did the MS bike ride that we had been training for (and living in dread of) all this time. Delta would have come too, except he fell terribly ill just the day before, and smartly opted to stay home and be pampered instead.

And so it came to be that in the pre-dawn hours on a Sunday, unbelievable though it seem, I dragged myself out of bed, donned myself in multiple layers of clothing, and adorned ol' Blue Lightening with multiple tags and reflectors. As I set off from home, the wind bit into my arms like icy needles, for autumn had fallen (or fall had autumned?) with a whimsical chill.

I had forgotten what it was like to be out and about in the city at dawn - all soothingly quiet and velvety grey. As I breezed through the streets, I let the feeling sink in to me with a welcome calm.

By the time I reached the starting line-up there were already thousands of bikers congregated. I walked to the spot where I was supposed to meet my team, and could not locate them in the crowds. I poked and prodded and peeked and peered, but could not identify anyone with our "Miles for Myelin" team t-shirt. Before giving in to a surge of panic however, I decided to call Jeet.
"Where are you?!" I gasped.
"Just a few feet from you," she said, "write by the lampost. I fought my way through the crowds towards the lampost, and there they all were. I just hadn't been able to see them, for such is the nature of a short person in a tall crowd.

And as I stood there, nestled into the security of our team, I noticed that the sun had risen to unveil one of the most beautiful days this autumn could have possibly granted us. Jeet and I set off then, chattering away the whole way through.

Like tourists experiencing this for the first time, we paused on the FDR to take pictures of ourselves by Brooklyn Bridge. Like rookies biking for the first time, we panted our way up each flyover and let our legs hang limp as we coasted on the way down. Like a child without impulse control, I had to pull over at the side of the FDR to use the bathroom BEHIND A CONSTRUCTION SHEET. Let it be noted, that at this point, Jeet, fairweather friend that she be, almost disowned me. Not that I blame her, I'm just saying is all.

In the end, despite our initial dawdling, Jeet and I stuck to our plodding pace, and ended up finishing the race one of the first in our team. Like the hare and the tortoise, we pulled it off by the end - and - other than our resentment for not actually being the first, we were pretty excited about how easy it was.

Now I can't wait for the 5-Borough Bike ride in May!

All growns up

I was walking to work this morning, when I suddenly found myself navigating through a swarm of teenagers. You'd think this an innocuous activity, but something about this lot sent a trill up my spine. Something about the way they stood in small huddled groups which resembled gangs. Something about the soggy cigarette ends drooping from the corners of their mouths. About their sullen expressions and muted subversive movements. I thought for a moment I was passing by some kind of juvenile delinquency centre.


So I paused and read the sign outside the building. But I was wrong. It was just a normal highschool. Those were just normal teenagers, pimply faces and all.


How weird, I thought, and moved on. And then suddenly it occured to me: I had just seen a whole bunch of perfectly normal, modern-day teenagers, and found them weird. I had just alienated myself from this entire subsection of society.


That's when I realised it - I couldn't even relate to adolescents anymore. For I was all growns up.

Gloria

This past weekend, I made a connection.

I was volunteering with the cat shelter in New York.

"Don't come back with cats," Delta told me as I left for the shelter that morning. There was a note of pleading in his voice, as though he'd already resigned himself to the possibility.
"of course not," I'd said, knowing fully well that there was a fifty-fifty chance that I might.

I mean, how can one look at those round innocent eyes, hear the pleading mews, feel the soft purr as you cuddle them, and not want to take them all home?! I was actually astounded by my own resilience, when I returned home that afternoon sans mewer.

There was one cat, Gloria, with whom I made a special connection. The first time, as I walked past her cage, she suddenly stuck both her arms out through the bars. "Miaow!" she barked at me, and so I stopped short. I stretched my hand out towards the bars, and instantly she was upon it, rubbing her face against my fingers and purring loudly. So what could I do? I crouched beside the cage to give her a thorough petting. I guess that's all she was looking for, really, because instantly her mew changed to a rumbling purr. And that was the moment which sealed our special friendship. As I continued on to feeding the other cats and cleaning out their cages, Gloria kept an eye out for me the entire time. Each time I'd pass her cage, even if from a few feet away, she'd hurl herself at the front of the cage, stick her arms out through the bars, and call "miaow!!" loud enough to grab my attention. And of course, each time my heart would melt, and I would simply have to stop to pet her.

So there we were, Gloria and me, in our uncanny, albeit momentary, friendship. Just now as I was writing the blog, I went to the NYACC website to look for a picture of her, and I couldn't find her anymore on the 'for adoption' list. I wish I could have shown her, she was a beautiful grey tabby with mischievous eyes.

But I hope this means a loving family took her home. I hope they realise how she likes her head stroked and belly rubbed, and how she likes to be cuddled in your arms just so.

A happy gut

Richie Rich came into my office the other day.

"I have a bad feeling about this situation," he said, referring to a conversation we'd been having earlier that morning.

"What?! What!" I exclaimed, looking up at him in wide-eyed panic. Every time I feel like I have my job under control, he throws another bender at me to set everything askew again.

"I don't know, but my gut tells me things are going to go wrong. I dont' know what. I just feel it in my gut."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "I don't like your gut," I grumbled, "it never tells us anything nice. Come to me when your gut's in a good mood, please."

Complacency

Over the last two years, I've adopted New York as my home. I've grown to love her, like I did London, and Kodi before that. I've gotten to know her soul, so that the other day when a taxi cab nudged too close to me as I crossed the road, I actually raised my arms in a gesture of WTF, rather than scuttling hastily away as I would have otherwise done. Unconsciously, I've learnt her unspoken rules. About having to us public laundromats. And being efficient in supermarket queues. And weaving briskly through pedestrianised sidewalks. I've fallen in love with the vibrance and adventure she offers to life. Over the last two years, we have gotten to know each other, the city and me, and adopted each other into the folds of our lives.

And just as I was slipping into a warm and familial feeling of complacency, this weekend sent me a jolt or two to set me upright.

Doobs and I had gone over to visit Queen Noor. It was a balmy evening, and we decided to buy a bottle of wine and set up picnic on her rooftop, from where we could enjoy a view of the city. The night was dark. There was nobody else around, and the roof top was ours for the having. A gentle breeze blew through our hair. We could see the Empire State Building not far away, looking down at us with its diamond brilliance. Queen Noor had brought up her iPod and sounddock, and beautiful french lounge music filled the air. A perfect evening for relaxed banter and a glass of wine. Then at one point, a couple of hours in, we decided to go down for a quick toilet break. Must have been gone for less than 10 minutes - and yet, when we came back, the iPod and sounddock were gone.

At first, we were creeped: if the iPod had been stolen in exactly the ten minutes we were gone, it figured that someone might have actually been watching us while we sat there. But mostly, we were saddened. Not only was the iPod gone - but it was even more than that. The rose-tinted mood had been shattered by the sudden harshness with which life can deal swift blows. It was a rude awakening from the idealistic and romanticised view of the city we had developed.

The very next morning, Delta and I were to go for a bike ride around the city. I stood there with my bike waiting for Delta in front of my building, as the time ticked by. Ten minutes late, then fifteen - which was entirely uncharacteristic for him. Finally he approached, pedalling towards me furiously. "You're not going to believe what happened!" he exclaimed.

Delta had witnessed the final stages of an incident which shook the neighborhood that weekend. A rampant man randomly stabbing (to critical condition) two innocent passersby.
"They had four cops on the guy just to hold him down! And the ambulance was just pulling away as I reached there," he described in horror.
I shuddered. This was, after all, only a few blocks from my building.

Something about the weekend jolted me upright. As much as I love my life in the city, it wasn't the dream I had come to see it as. There was a sinister side to it, always lurking, but around the corner, out of sight. It was as though New York was reaching out to me through her murky depths. Don't get complacent, she said.

The Best Blog site

Look what I ran across in a random trawl through the intranet:
http://www.blankestblank.com/best/blog/

Training for the big day

I flop on the bed in an unwield pile of exhaustion.

Over the past two days, Jeet and I began our biker training program in earnest. Similar to how in high school I used to cram for my exams in the last two days, Jeet and I have only now decided to raise the notch on our biking training.

The bike tour is in two weeks, and we were feeling somewhat unprepared - which is unsurprising, given that we hadn't really done much biking in the last couple of months. So over the past two days, we decided to wipe the dust off our bikes and really test our mettle. Yesterday it was on the bike path around the island, all the way up to 125th street and then back down the west side to the tip and up the east side till we got home. Today it was a loop of Central Park before we hit the bike path.

Which brings me to where I am now. A definite sense of accomplishment. A weary elatedness. But most of all, an unwieldy pile of exhaustion.

Volunteering together

One of my colleagues sent out a note about New York Cares Day and suggested we start an Avanade team.
Totally, I'm going to sign up! I thought to myself, and forwarded the email to the others at home. "Guys, interested in taking part in this?" I asked.
"Count me in!" Delta was quick to reply.
"Me too!" said Ilajna. Me too, Me too said Doobs and Bobbis in quick succession.

And soon, there we were. A team of New York Cares volunteers, all set to paint schools on October 20th. And then, out of curiosity, I started researching more into the organisation (http://www.nycares.org/).

"Look, babe!" I pointed out to Delta. "There's all this other stuff we could be volunteering for too." We pored over the list of opportunities excitedly. There were food kitchens for the homeless. There was tutoring for young children. Animal care in petcare centers. And most importantly, times and dates and locations to suit everyone. And then one of particular interest caught my eye.
Play bingo with residents in this nursing home, it said. Bingo with old people?! I could not believe my eyes. Hell I'd do that just for fun, any day! I was excited. This could very much become my calling in life, I thought, envisioning already a future of bingo halls and heartwarming old folks' tales.

So we all signed up for the volunteer mandatory orientation. And next week, I can't wait to get started with the real thing.

Who needs a mama when...

What with my usual lunch buddy (Metrohom) amiss this week, I've been a bit out of sorts at lunch time. Today, I decided to head down to the Chinese deli just below the building.

"Korean deli," Metrohom would have corrected me, if he saw me writing this.
But the truth is, when you have a deli which sells Chinese food, is owned by a Mexican, and employs Korean staff, doesn't that give you the right to refer to it however you want?

So I wandered in to the deli and served myself some grub from the hot food buffet. Headed over to the counter, and the lady there subjected my food to a thorough inspection, while I squirmed awkwardly and awaited judgement.
"Where your green?" she asked.
Huh?
"Where your green?! No is healthy all tofu no green."
"Oh no, I got greens," I told her brightly. I shook the box gently to displace the tofu and reveal the steamed green leafy something-or-others below.
"Okay you got green is healthy is good."
"Thanks," I grinned.

I waited for her to ring me up. Nothing.

Another moment or two. Cleared my throat.

"Where your fruit? Is no good no fruit."
"Oh ok I'll get an apple. See? Here you go, I have apples and greens."
"Okay is very healthy now is very good you see what I mean when you old."
"Thanks!" I beamed as I paid for my lunch and headed out.

"You come here everyday and I make you nice and healthy and very strong and tall!" she shouted after me as I headed out.

Hmm, I think I have my lunch place figure out for this week.

A Peep into their Life

The weekend after camping once again found us heading to Connecticut for the second time. Twice in two weeks - that's actually more than our total for the rest of the year to date.

And this time we had even bigger and grander plans - a weekend chez Mr. and Mrs. Pooks. I couldn't believe I hadn't even been to see their house once since they bought it in February. I was mortified by my own slackerdom. And then I started thinking of slackers, and realised that Doobs still hadn't filled the photo frames in her room (now coming on a year since we moved into our apartment, and yes she still has a collage of empty frames on her wall), and I realised that I was hardly the slacker of the house. It's funny how all you need to do is point to someone else's misery, and that has a remarkably cheering effect.

Anyways, back to Mr. and Mrs. Pooks. So Doobs and I wanted to take them something, and being as there isn't that much choice in Grand Central station, we settled on a bunch of sunflowers and an assortment of baked goodies. Climbed on to the train and I started to read (what is it about trains that always makes me want to read?!), but Doobs swatted my book away with a pointed look. Nope, she had a list of topics she wanted to yak about, so by the time we'd got through all the gossip, and given each other minute-to-minute updates on everything happening in our lives, and finished hypothesising about what might happens to ourselves and everyone around us, it was already time to get off.

Mrs. Pooks was waiting for us at the station. We handed her the flowers and baked assortment excitedly, but only to have her push them back at us. "I have no time for this right now, I have to pee!" she yelped. Oh phew, to be with someone just like me.

When we finally got back to the house, I just stood by the doorway in stunned silence. Partly because I was being driven comatose by the instant pandemonium that ensued, accosted by yowling cat, and headbutted by yelping dog. But mostly because I was in awe of the home they had made for themselves. The shiny hardwood floors, laid by Mr. Pooks (diagonally, he pointed out). The skirting boards around the guest room wall (to enhance the beach effect! Mrs. Pooks exclaimed ecxitedly). The rolls of blue and white towels (procured, ahem, from a hotel in Omaha?).

And it wasn't just about the house either, it was simply the perfection with which the entire weekend had been planned. The barbecue lunch on the back deck, the walk down to the beach, the slide show of their trip to the Galapagos, the tour through their wedding albums, the candlelit dinner, and the beers on the porch. Every little detail planned to perfection. As Doobs and I pored through their photo albums, they interjected with explanatory anecdotes.
Mr. Pooks would start, "and that was the time when - "
" - Wait a minute that's my story! Let me tell it!" Mrs. Pooks would interrupt.
"Mine!"
"Mine!"
Doobs and I exchanged amused glances. It was endearingly obvious how they had actually built their memories and stories together.

And there it was, a peep into the entirely new life that Mr. and Mrs. Pooks had created for themselves. With dog and cat and boat and house, they had built their new home, and it warmed our cockles to finally see a sliver of it.

Our weekend in nature

The comedy started way before we even got there. Before we gasped about having to go to the toilet a la nature. Before we had to spend an hour trying to decipher how to erect Metrohom's designer tent. Even before we realised that deserted islands have no pier - that we would have to swim from boat to land.

In fact, the comedy started right at the onset, when Delta, Doobs and I boarded the crowded rush hour MetroNorth train. There was them - a cabinful of businessmen, in their designer suits and rush hour demeanour. And then there was us - a motley crew of three flustered individuals, two tents, three sleeping bags, three clothes bags, and one bag full of pillows. Tripping over each other in our haste to get the luggage stowed safely away. Panicking at each station that we were about to miss our stop. Yakking excitedly in anticipation of the weekend about to come.

"Boats, Trains and Automobiles," Delta mused, as we finally reached Norwalk and rushed to meet Doug at the dock. And there it was, their new boat. A little wonder bobbing before us on the water. The wonder which would whisk us off to the island (but not before hitting a sandbank on the way). We rushed to give Doug a warm hug.

"Come on, let's hurry up and get all the luggage on the boat," he said gruffly, all Sea Captain and all business.

It was my first time in a private boat, and I savoured every moment of the ride - the wind blowing through my hair, the fresh smell of sea air, the bobbing and lurching over the waves. Just as we approached the island, Doug cut the engine, and asked Delta to lower the anchor.

"But Doug, we're still some 50 yards from the island," I pointed out.

"Yeah, the boat doesn't go any closer," he responded, not even glancing at me.

I was puzzled. "So how are we going to get there?!"

"Jump in and swim!"

Ha,ha I laughed. I actually thought it was a joke. I mean, wouldn't you? When you looked around at the black ocean of Long Island Sound (for now the sun had long set)? When you could hear the waves gently whispering on the beach, but you couldn't really tell how far it was? When you looked down at the inky blackness of the water around the boat, and couldn't tell how deep it was?

So that's why I laughed. Ha,ha I said.

And then Doug swung his feet over the boat and jumped into the water. "Pass me some of the luggage," he said, holding the tent over his head and wading through the waist deep water towards the shore.

Oh.

And so I learnt the nature of camping on deserted islands.

And wasn't it worth it, too! I wouldn't have changed it for the world.

Not the black coffee in the morning (with melted marshmellows to act like sugar and creamer). Not the heavy downpour that first night (Delta and I huddled in our tent, listening to the rain drumming on the roof, watching it trickle down the windows).

Not even that big ember which suddenly burst out of the fire and flew into my sock ("@#$#$!, $&*%&!!, @#$&!" I said involuntarily from the sudden stinging shock. And the group had all stared at me in stunned silence. I don't think anyone had heard such a string of expletives escape my mouth before, not even myself.)

Nope, I wouldn't have changed it for the world.

Man vs. nature

The other day we were all sitting having a picnic lunch in Madison Square Park, under the shade of a tree. All of a sudden we noticed a shower of little tree-stuff falling on us - you know, berries, twigs, leaves, etc. We looked up, and noticed there was a squirrel parked in a branch directly over our heads, merrily munching its way through whatever squirrels munch on, blissfully unaware of the bunch of disgruntled picnickers it was leaving in its wake.

I waved my arms at it, in an ineffectual attempt to shoo it away. But high as it was, I doubt it even noticed our distant scramblings.
"Go away, Squirrel!" Bobbis shouted. Erm, ahem. Unsurprisingly, that had little effect either (other than eliciting weird glances from the picnickers nearby).
"Make it go away!" Mals shouted, as another berry fell on her head.
Now, I find squirrels just as cute as the next person. But surely this one was just being obstreperous. The naughty kid of the family. The messy eater of the family.

So in a valiant effort to rescue Mals, I balled up my paper napkin, and aimed it at the squirrel. The idea being, of course, to startle it enough that it would run to another part of the branch, and continue eating there in peace (possibly bringing grief to other picnickers?). The squirrel was some twenty feet or so over our heads, so throwing the paper ball that high would require a feat of human fortitude. Concentrating all my strength into my pitcher's arm, I heaved the ball upwards, towards the unsuspecting squirrel.

Eeks. The ball went a bit faster than expected. I guess I'm a bit stronger than expected, huh. It rocketed through the air, torpedoing towards the squirrel, as we all watched in anticipatory horror.

It hit a bunch of leaves right by the squirrel (no, it didn't hit the squirrel and knock it off the tree, silly!). There was a sudden squeak, a flurry of branches, the sound of pattering feet, and suddenly the squirrel was gone. Silence. Peace. Man had won the Battle of Squirrels.

And then suddenly a shriek from Mals. "EEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeekkkkk!!!!!"

She was looking down at her arm. "What happened?!" we asked.
"The squirrel got so scared I think it peed on me!"
And there it was, an unmistakable puddle of wetness on her arm.
The squirrel had gotten scared and peed on Mals.

That's the thing with nature, it sure knows how to get us back, where we least expect it.

This weekend, a bunch of us are going camping on an island off the coast of Connecticut. Cut off from the mainland, it'll just be the ten of us on an island, fending for ourselves in the wild, just like our original forefathers (what, you mean cavemen didn't barbecue their burgers on a George Foreman?).

A true feat of man and nature, living together the original way, as life had intended. I just wish there were toilets, that's all.

Ramping up for the big day

"I want to know what biking thirty miles really feels like," I told Delta, as we planned our route on Sunday morning.

When we'd registered to participate in the MS Bike Run scheduled for this October, it had all sounded a bit easier viewed through the rose-tinted glasses of distant future. But with the day now fast approaching, we realised we really ought to get all trained up.

First, Jeet bought herself a new bike (looks similar to mine, named 'Jet Blue' as opposed to my 'Blue Lightning'. Yes, the name is half the battle.) So Delta, Jeet and I hit the road this past weekend. On to the bike path on the East side, all the way down to the bottom of the island, up the bike path along the west side, all the way up to 125th street, and then back. Close to the 30 mile mark, I reckon.

I have to concede, I wasn't in good shape when we got back. Thumping heart ricocheting around in my chest. Legs gone, and in their absence were two pillars of jelly. Hair plastered to a classic Helmet Head. Smile replaced by a semi-pout.

"I.. I think it's a bit tougher than I'd anticipated," I conceded, as I sank onto a bench, and we both laughed at the mess I was in.

But at least I knew I'd done it. There. Now I knew I could pull it off and survive it. And it certainly helped to be doing this in support of a cause.

My sincere thanks to those of you who contributed, by the way.

Who woulda thunk

You may remember, a couple of months ago I gave up my office chair, opting instead to sit instead on an exercise ball. I know it doesn't seem very professional, but sometimes, in a technology firm, it feels like one can get away with murder. The way I thought of it, if I could just sit on a ball all day at work, I didn't need to go to a gym. Ever. And I didn't need to feel guilty about it. I mean, doesn't even chocolate have less calories when eaten on a ball?

"What's that you got there?" Richie Rich had eyed me dubiously when I first brought it into the office.
"Huh, what? Oh, the ball?" I'd asked innocently, "You don't mind, do you?"

Sigh. "No, I suppose not," he'd paused. "Besides, somebody's got to be on the ball in this office anyway," he had grinned, thrilled by his own witticism. In this way Richie Rich and I are alike, each of us tickled pink by our own humour.

And so started the 'On-the-ball' phase of my life. A couple of miscalculated spills (but no permanent bodily damage), a couple of snickering colleagues (but nothing particularly new there anyway), a couple of back pains (but no sign of hardening abs) and I had successfully transitioned my world from office to playhouse.

Then one day, without my realising, the ball mysteriously developed a tiny leak. Day by day, it kept losing a little air, so gradually in fact that it was almost imperceptible. At any cost, I have to confess I didn't notice it - and nor did anyone else, actually, while each day the ball surreptitiously sagged by a further inch.

Then one evening, a couple of days ago, Richie Rich was striding past my office door when he suddenly stopped short.

"You're sitting on a bean bag!" he observed. I looked down in surprise. And so, apparently, unknowingly, I was.

"It's got a leak in it!" I realised in dismay. But how do you identify a microscopic leak in a bean-bag-sized ball? I picked it up and put my ear against it, listening for a hiss of escaping air. Nothing. I squeezed the ball, trying to force the air out. Still nothing. My mouth turned downwards in utter disappointment.

"Here, gimme that," said Richie Rich impatiently, reaching out for the ball. Engineer by breeding, he wasn't about to be beaten by this simple conundrum in physics. He shook it, he squeezed it, he examined it visually, he tried to bounce it, but all in vain - we just could not discern the leak. But his failure only made him more determined (a trait which, in the right circumstances, is a primary reason for his success. In the right circumstances.)

"I know what we'll do!" his eyes lit up. "Let's go out and buy a can of purple air, like those sprays you get for parties and stuff, then we'll pump this into the ball, and then when the air starts escaping we'll be ablet o see where from!!!"

He'd got it. Sheer genius.

"Erm, then your office will be full of purple air," I pointed out.

He deliberated my point, decidedly unimpressed with this possibility, and especially unimpressed with my having popped a hole in his bubble (no pun intended). But he conceded my astuteness and drops the idea. And so it comes to be, that the leaking-ball mystery was never resolved. So it comes to be, that I now have a bean bag in my office.

Girl trauma

Tuffsy burst into my room. "OMG OMG I'm going to DIE!"
Sigh. "What happened?"
"You're not going to believe it. I'm going to DIE."

I was worried. Predisposed though she be towards the occasional histrionic meltdown, this was out of character for even Tuffsy.
"Sit down and tell me what happened."
"So you remember that guy I was dating, before everything fell apart last week?"
Sigh. So it was about a man. I should have figured. "Yeah....?"
"Well, and you know how we work in the same company, right?"
"Yeah, I can't possibly imagine anything more awkward than that."

But as usual, I had spoken too soon.

"Well, so I decided to spill my heart and write him a long note telling him how I felt and how he had hurt me."
I balked. "Not through company email I hope?" HR bod first, friend second.
"No, I wrote it in a real letter, handwritten, not an email."
"And?" I was sufficiently mortified by the situation already.
"And I put it in the internal company mail, because that was the fastest way to get it to him."
"The internal mail??! A love letter?!" I was horrified for Tuffsy.
"Wait, it gets worse," she looked miserable.

I couldn't really think of anything worse. I looked up apprehensively.

"So I addressed the letter to him and put it in the mail," Tuffsy continued, "and the post man mistakenly gave it to another guy with the same name."

There was a stunned silence.

Then I tried to add some clarity to my incomprehension. "So your love letter, declaring all your feelings for this guy, went to another colleague with the same name?" I tried tentatively.
She nodded miserably.
"So what happened then?!"
"When I finally tracked it down and got it back, the envelope was open. That means he read it! Ficali! A random stranger who works in the same company read my love letter full of woe and tragedy! As though it was addressed to him!"
I was silenced by the pathos of the situation.

"Do you think they'll fire me?" she whispered.
"Nah, but he might have scanned your letter and passed it around to friends sitting around him."
Her eyes widened in horror.
"OMG OMG OMG I'm going to die."
"Wait a minute, Tuffs. What if it was fate? I mean, what if the letter was meant to go to this guy, and may be he's the real one you're supposed to be with."
"Please! That's ridiculous!"
But isn't it funny how peopel can cling on to the tiniest hope.
"I'm dead serious," I told her. "I mean, how many times has your internal mail ever been mid-delivered before? Never, right? Doesn't that prove that this must be fate?"

Tuffsy wasn't prepared to believe this very easily. But isn't it funny how we can make ourselves believe anything if we want to believe it badly enough?
"You really think so?" she asked.
"Sure! It seems obvious to me. You should track this guy down and try and meet him. He seems like your man. And he already knows how sensitive and devoted you can be, after having read that letter."
She didn't say anything then. Not for a while, as she silently internalised this turn of events.

Then, she looked up with a smile. "I wonder what this new guy is like," she said, dreamily.

Where have my instincts gone?

The other day I was sitting with a friend having lunch in a cafe. We had the window seat, so I was naturally preoccupied gazing through the glass at passersby outside. Have you ever noticed how people-watching has the the same hypnotic effect as a TV? That was me, tuning out my friend, focusing on the strangers yonder.


A couple strolled by arm in arm, gazing into each other's eyes in (nauseatingly?) dreamy ecstasy. My eyes trailed them down the block, until at the other end they suddenly split apart and broke into vehement and bitter argument.

Then came a man, talking alound to himself, and gesturing agitatedly at the imaginary person in his head. I thought he was schizophrenic. So, apparently, did the woman passing by him, who nearly jumped out of her skin when he suddenly spun around and exclaimed something in her direction. Turned out he was talking to someone on a cellphone, using a bluetooth device. Yeesh, what is it with those clowns?!

This was followed by a young mother, pushing before her a young baby in a pram. Just as she passed the cafe where we were seated, she bumped into someone she knew, and paushed to chat in the sidewalk. Distractedly, she parked the pram to the side, so that the baby was directly facing me.

A big, golden, cherub of a baby, complete with twinkling eyes and dimpled knees. Gurgling away to itself in self-contentment. Through the window, I waved and smiled at it; less than a foot away from me (but on the other side of the glass), it let out a gleeful chuckle. I waved some more; I wiggled my fingers and scrunched my nose; the baby shrieked with delight. It's face glowed with a beatific (albeit toothless) smile.

I felt a trill of primeval, instinctual memory surge through my body. A stirring in my heart and stomach, and I thought - I have a real connection with this baby. This is my maternal instinct, finally kicking in!

I made another series of faces at the baby - some of which, I have to concede, had no dignity in them whatsoever. There was a lot of tongue, eye, ear and finger contortion I am now embarrassed to relate in any additional detail. My friend rolled his eyes in mockery. "You look ridiculous," he pointed out. But such comments didn't faze me, this was, after all, my moment of epiphany. Finally, a baby who liked me!

More faces. More giggling and clapping (from the baby, not me).
More faces. More giggling.
More faces.
But then the mum wheeled the baby away, and it was a heart-breaking farewell, between two long-lost soulmates.

When we had finished up lunch and as we exited the restaurant, I turned on the sidewalk for a last glance at where the baby had been. And suddenly I looked in horror. From outside, the window was mirrored. The baby had been smiling at itself, not me. It couldn't even see me!!

I was mortified. My friend smirked.

Sigh. Oh well, I guess there's still a ways to go before those maternal instincts kick in after all, eh.

Free Sleep

What with the 'rents in town and staying with Rohinton this past month, I've been doing a lot of to-and-fro shuffling between Hoboken and Manhattan on the PATH train. Relatively early on Sunday morning I got on to the train heading out to Jersey, and was just about to bury my nose in my book, when I noticed that everyone else around me in the carriage was asleep.

And I mean everyone.

There were people returning home from a big night out in the city. Workers returning home after a long night shift. Others who probably slept all night but still decided to continue their naps in the train. Maybe a narcoleptic or two. It was eerily bizarre.

So I decided to convert the subway ride into my own personal laboratory for observation of human sleep behaviours.

The guy next to me had sleep-induced-jello-neck. Each time the train swayed (and sometimes even without this), his head would swing wildly from side to side. Unfortunately, one side was my shoulder. Kind of weird, having a strange guy's head periodically bop on your shoulder. But having slept on many stranger's shoulders before in the past, I knew this was just my time to contribute back to the shoulder-support community.

Then there was the person opposite me, who was suffering from sleep-induced slackjaw. With lower mandible hanging to his chest and mouth agape invitingly to nearby hovering flies, he was releasing a continuum of resounding snores. I was intrigued by how one might be able to snore without any detectable movement of the buccal area. I have to confess, I've made many attempts since to do the same, just to see verify that it's humanly possible, but with no success.

And then there was a woman two seats down from me, who, and I promise this is true, whistled while she slept. When I was a young child, there was a boy called Conrad who sat next to me in one of my classes. One day, Conrad's dentist had drilled a hole in his front tooth, not up towards the root, but rather front-to-back like a tunnel into his mouth. It took a week, until his next dental appointment, before the hole was filled up again. During that week, Conrad's be-holed tooth betrayed him by making a whistling sound every time he breathed. Sitting next to him in class, I could hear him clear as day.
Breathe in, tweet (breathe out).
Breathe in, tweet (breathe out).
Breathe in, tweet (breathe out).
And me, caught in that in-between stage of life with an adolescent recognition of 'uncoolness' and a child's unforgiving sense of humour, had found the whole situation to be incredibly hilarious.

And that's what this woman was like, sleeping next to me. Socially victimised by her dentist into whistling while she breathed. Ha.

I thought about how embarrassing we all must be while we slept, and vowed never to let myself sleep in public again. And then I thought about it some more, and realised that sleep is probably the only time when we're entirely free with ourselves. There's something to be said for head-bopping, slack-jawing, snoring and breathe-whistling in public, with a sense of reckless abandon.

And the more I rolled the thought around in my mind, the more it appealed to me. So free, so undisturbed, so at peace with oneself. Now that I think about it, I can't wait for my next public sojourn with the land of Z's!

Luck

I hate to say it louder than a mere whisper, but I think I'm pretty lucky.

I've been a bit disgruntled since I discovered, two weeks ago, after my trip to Chicago, that I coudn't find my camera. I couldn't have possibly lost it again, I thought to myself, but indeed, the sad truth is it appeared I had. When it comes to cameras, I have a historical track record of retention failure. So I've been berating and chastising myself with regard to yet another loss.

So when I woke up yesterday, already in a grump, and discovered the pounding rain (which I had to trudge through to make it to work), I was decidedly unimpressed with my state of being. And, unsurprisingly, the situation showed no improvement when I realised my raincoat couldn't be found. So in a bit of a huff, I grabbed my umbrella and headed out the door.

And got instantly soaked.

I considered stopping on the way to procure myself a pair of wellies, but then remembered I didn't have a spare pair of socks (the ones I was wearing were soaked), so what was the point.

Ten minutes later, and here was Ficali: sans camera. Sans raincoat. Shoes bucketed with water. Umbrella inside out. Stomping. Soaking. Shivering. Fair to say, pretty miserable.

So I got in to work, and suddenly remembered there's a little bag under my desk where I keep a spare pair of sandals. You know, just for the occasion when I might need to change my shoes upon reaching work. Reached under my desk to pull out the bag, and what did I find?
- A pair of dry sandals
- A pair of socks (!!)
- A camera

Yes, that's right. A camera. In my sandals bag. And just at that moment, while I was sitting there thinking how I'd found a treasure, my phone rang. It was Delta.
"Hello?"
"Hey, you. You forgot your raincoat in my apartment, just thought I better let you know."

So just like that, I found the coat too.

Really, I can't think of another explanation. I just must be lucky.