Bellyaching

For the past three days, I've been suffering a distinct pain in my abdomen.

Not the sort of pain that comes from ingesting lettuce inhabited by e.coli. No, I know that kind of pain intimately, and could identify it precisely down to the specific ingredient.

No, the kind of pain I have is of a dull, throbbing sort. A somewhat more nether pain, pulsing in the grey matter that exists between my ribs and my hips.

Caused by a ruptured spleen, maybe. Or an abdominal tumour. Or (and I shudder to say it), just excessive overeating. Chronically excessive overeating.

Is it too much to ask, for quality news?

I have a deep and hankering revulsion for CNN's Rick Sanchez, and although I hate for my blog to be a rancorous one, this time I geniunely feel compelled to spill the beans.

And if I were to put it into context, it's not really Rick that I hate. It's what he repesents. Everything about someone like him decries the downfall of true journalism: using twitter as a valid news source; the conversion of fact into melodrama; and most of all, the sheer recklessness of inaccurate information.

Delta and I watched him on live tv, pointing at the Galapagos Islands on a map and calling it Hawaii. A couple weeks later we watched him pull the dogtrick again, this time confusing Madagascar with the Maldives.

I find it absolutely dispiriting that someone like this, with no concept of geography, would be qualified to deliver the news. To have his own daily show on CNN!

I had almost recovered from these heartaches, and would have been happy to leave bygones as bygones, when he pulled another gaff yesterday by criticising the USCIS for something which turned out to be factually wrong. Again. And this irked me instantly - partly because he's just so frequently wrong, but also mostly because he criticised the USCIS. And you know how I hold them so dearly to my heart.

Maybe I'm just ticked off because every time he comes on, I'm compelled to change the channel (don't want his viewer ratings look any higher, even inadvertently). Which means I have to scrounge around for the remote every afternoon when he comes on, which is pain in its own right.

I regard with great sadness the decline of journalism as an industry. Of course there are still great journalists, driving the forefront of true, investigative reporting. But increasingly, the Amanpours of the world are fewer, and further between. But let's face it - more often than not, we're lumped with the Rick's of the media.

Although frankly, this isn't about Rick, as it is about us. What has our world come to, that we find it acceptable to receive news at such levels of incompetence? What does this say about ourselves? It hurts my head that we have resigned ourselves to this standard of ineptitude.

Sometimes the bridesmaid, sometimes the bride

Every year, Delta and I have participated in the Five Boro Bike Ride. It's an organised 45-mile bike ride around New York City, and some 35,000 folks from all over the country particpate each year. Basically, a good ol' bike fest.

Unfortunately this year, we forgot to register by the deadline, and so couldn't paricipate in our beloved ride. Worse yet, we had no one to blame but our own decrepitude, which is of course an inconvenient position to be in.

We'd just started settling comfortably in a morose sulk, when right then we stumbled upon a fun Global Mosaic project hosted by Lens, the photography blog of the New York Times. It was a challenge to people all over the world, to take a picture of wherever they were in the world, at exactly the same moment: 15.00 hrs GMT on Sunday, May 2.

Irony of ironies, that moment in time was exactly in the middle of the Five Boro Bike Ride in NYC. So Delta and I got to participate in the event after all, if not as bikers then at least as photographers.

You know how it goes. Sometimes the bridesmaid, sometimes the bride.

Welcome back, Dee

Yesterday, Delta and I caught up with our dear friend Dee.

Dee is, absolutely and without exception, the most accident prone person I know. I kid you not, and I exaggerate only mildly. As she describes it, at some point or another she's broken pretty much every bone in her body. I'd estimate that about every other time I see her, she has a cast on one of her appendages, as a result of one bodily assault or another she has wreaked upon herself. It's tragic almost to the point of being comic.

Last year, we invited her to join us hiking to Machu Picchu, and she said "good gawd no I would kill myself on a mountain!". At that point I had thought she was being ridiculous. Now I know she was only being realistic.

Yesteday, we saw Dee after six months. Six months during which she has been recuperating from a terrible motorbike accident. It was great to have her back again, looking healthy and happy and mended.

Frankly, it was just great to have her back at all.

We love you, Dee. But please remember, with such infallible aptitude for mishap, motorbikes, boats and kitchen knivees should be considered strictly out of bounds.

Red, White and Blue

Yesterday, I went for my US Citizenship interview. I wasn't sure what to expect really, and despite everyone's assurances that this wasn't rocket science, I worked myself up into a bit of a tizzy anyway. That's just the way it goes with tests of any kind. If you're a product of the Indian education system, you know what I mean.

As has always been my experience with the USCIS, I was interviewed by a very kindly officer. She went through all the details of my application, inspecting each area of my life with a fine-toothed combs, only just barely stopping short of asking about my highschool boyfriends. Not that I minded, frankly it's sometimes cathartic to ramble on about oneself in general.


"Ok, now we have to go through a civics test, you ready?" she asked me.
I nodded. I had studied the material. I was reasonably prepared.
She asked me a few questions and I shot answers back at her, like a rapid-fire quiz.
"Who's the speaker of the house?"
"Pelosi"
"How many members are there in the house of representatives?"
"435"
"When was the Declaration of Independence signed?"
"1776"

And so it went for a while, and I started to feel pretty comfortable with the whole ordeal. And then suddenly, a question that through me for a loop.
"What are the two longest waivers in the US?"
Huh? I blinked. I swallowed. "Pardon?"
"What are the two longest waivers in the US?"
Waivers? I couldn't think of any waivers - let alone long ones. And forget about knowing the longest! Were waivers long? I had no clue.
"Erm, I don't know," I mumbled softly.

But she only smiled. "Can you name any of the waivers in the US?" she asked, encouragingly.
I racked my brain for any mention of any waiver I might have ever heard of, but my mind came up empty. Nada.
"Sorry I don't know any" I said, disappointed.

Crap! Was I going to lose out on citizenship because of a couple of waivers?!
But she wasn't ready to give up on me yet, bless her kindly heart.
"Come on, you must no some waivers."
I shook my head miserably.
"Do you know what a waiver is?"
And suddenly, of course, I wasn't sure anymore. Had I misunderstood what a waiver was, my entire life?
"Not in this context, not really". A mild panic came over me.

She handed me her book where the question was written. "Here, read this," she offered.


And there it was, plainly in print: What are the two longest rivers in the US?


"Oh!" I slapped my forehead. "RIVERS! You mean two longest rivers!" I exclaimed in relief.
She looked at me blankly. "That's what I said. The two longest waivers in the US."

And so, it turned out, it was just an accent thing.


No need for panic folks, it appears after that little false alarm, that I am through.

A Brysonian experience

Last weekend, spring had finally sprung in all it's glory, and Delta and I were itching to get out on the mountains again. So we donned our large backpacks and headed out to spend a couple days at the Delaware Water Gap.

Ever since moving to the US, I'd harboured a secret desire to hike on the Appalachian Trail. Of course my notion of the AT was a romanticised one that is shared only by those who haven't actually been on the AT before. But then I read Bill Bryson's account of the AT, ever my long-time hero, and my secret desire morphed into a semi-obsession. Not entirely dissimilar to the impact that Krakauer's account of Everest had on me - except the AT was slightly more realizable.

So I asked Delta if we couldn't go down to the Gap and spend a couple days hiking the AT, and Delta, who has long-since wanted to get my romanticised notions of AT out of my system, readily agreed.

Let me tell you. The biggest hurdle of hiking the AT does not start with the AT itself. It starts considerably before, when you get out of the car and don the 40lb backpack, and find yourself involuntarily indulging in a purple chortling moment of asphyxiation. And then, almost doubled over under the weight of the pack, you lift your head up and realize the trail only goes upwards. As far as your eye can see, it's ascending ascending ascending. That moment, right there, hunched over and gasping for air, is when the romance of the AT disappears.

But it was impossible to be disheartened for long. Spring had included everything in it's spell, and the entire mountain was in bloom. And there we were, walking on the ridge, with sweeping views of the Kittanies on either side.

A truly glorious sight to behold. Simply spectacular. Well, for the first few miles anyway. Then somewhere around mile five, it rather does lose it's shine. And somewhere around mile 9, you start to hate every stone and shrub in the woods. But finally, we reached our campsite, and cooked ourselves a little meal (freeze-dried chicken gumbo and noodles). We must have been hungry, because about 90 seconds after we took it off the stove, the food was gone.

And I have to confess, when we woke up the next day to a steady downpour, it really was rather disheartening. But there was nought to be done except to struggle on with our backpacks, wincing gingerly at the sore spots from yesterday. Squinting through the rain pouring down our faces, and patting our hands to try and keep them warm. Needless to say, there wasn't a lot of cheery chatter that morning. As a point of scientific interest however, it should be noted that in the haste to escape our misery, we motored back over 10 miles in the mountains with backpacks on our backs, in less than four hours. Not an experience to remember forever, but rather proud to note the ol'body was able to pull that trick out of the bag.

Even Delta, who'd been walking behind me the entire time to make sure I didn't jettison important things along the way just to lessen the load (thought I'd throw out the food and pot, which was a reasonable fear), was suitably impressed.

At least now we can say, it was a truly Brysonian experience (even if only for a few days).

There we were, right on the AT!

Gazing out at the sweeping views.

Our first campsite, where the deers visited at dusk.

The rousings of a letter

Yesterday, I got an email from Organising for America, urging me to write an email to my local newspaper listing my feelings about the healthcare bill.

So I put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard) and started to compose some of my most laudatory prose yet, to the editor of the New York Times. I extolled the virtues of a healthcare bill that makes the system more about actually caring than profitability. I talked about coverage for the less fortunate and protection for the jobless. The words spewed out of me, and for that moment, I felt quite the orator.

When it comes down to it, my email was neither exceptionally eloquent nor spectacularly informed. And yet, for a moment I entertained the fantasy that the editor of the NY Times might take a fancy to my writing and offer me the opportunity to become a newspaper contributor. Maybe even a regular columnist. But of course, I heard nothing. Not even an auto-reply acknowledging that my email had actually reached its' destination after it's cyberspatial journey. Not even an auto-reply.

But as it turns out, the email was not for naught. It reminded me after all, that I've missed writing these past few weeks. And even if my crimson thoughts aren't quite good enough for the NY times, my little blog faithfully beckons the inner ramblings of my mind.

Dear blog, and to think I had almost forsaken you (well for a couple weeks anyway).

Just like catwoman

Last month, I caught a cold. A day later, Queen Jaffa caught a cold.

I remember I had looked at Delta, horrified. "Do you think the cat could have caught the cold from me??!!"
"Don't be silly! Cat's can't catch colds from humans, it doesn't work like that!" And we'd both laughed it off as a silly faux pas.

Until this week - suddenly, I caught a cold again (which I think is highly unfair, but apparently we don't always get what we demand from life).
But get this - Queen Jaffa caught a cold a day later, again.

All my googling suggests that QJ can't catch a cold from me. Now I'm a person of science. And I realise I couldn't have given the cat a human cold. So there can be only one conclusion from this:

I have blatantly somehow acquired the ability to catch cat-colds. Akin to cats, just like CatWoman (but in a rather less glamourous way).

Or, of course, it could just be that QJ has taken to immitating me mockingly, rascal that she is.

Or, I could just be turning into Cat Woman.

Games for a rainy day

This weekend, being as the rain was coming down with aplomb and showing no signs of relenting, we had to concoct new and innovative indoor activities for ourselves. So I sent out an email to the gang.
Anyone fancy going bowling?
Lahsiv, as always, was the first to answer, lout that he is. I'm almost convinced he does no work.
I'll be there. And I'll be laughing at your score, hahaha.
What! That's it. He'd thrown the gauntlet down. There was nought to be done but to rise to the challenge and (try to) put him in his place.

And so we all found ourselves at Bowlmor on that inclement Saturday evening.
Delta, who had up until that point claimed that he'd never gone bowling before, suddenly started hurling the ball down the lane with perfect form and posture. So I assume he must have been lying.

The group all claimed I had a funny dance-like shuffle in my run-up to the lane. I assume they were all collusively lying.

After Ilajna had her second beer, she bowled about 10 gutter balls in a row. Infact with the last couple, I believe she might have even rolled them directly down the gutter right from the start. I'm not lying.

Nevertheless, fun and games aside, it must be conceded that Lahsiv did kick some butt in the first game. And I might have lost all my pride to him on that one evening, except by some odd miracle I managed to pull one from under him in the second game, and eked a squeak of a victory. Mostly because right at the end, at his moment of grand finale, he bowled a couple of gutters and my score scuttled past his by a hair.

The best kind of victories, I say. The gratuitous kind where they fall in your lap through no effort or credit of your own.

An altrec moment

Altrec has started sending me daily "Deal of the Day" emails highlighting discounted items.

Let me rephrase that incase it came off as though altrec is spamming me. I actively signed up to receive altrec's daily "Deal of the day" email.

Yes. My appetite for punishment can only be described as gluttony.

So each morning, I log into my email and go through the agonising decision of:
- Ooh. Today it's knee-length striped yellow-and-red wool socks! Do I need those?
- Erm. No. Says the grinch in my head.
- But they're 40% off!!!
- They're ridiculous.

And each morning, I delete the email, sulking periodically at myself for not being able to buy the socks, until the following morning when I am distracted again by "a fur ski mask at 29% off". For some unfathomable reason, I feel the urge to go through this adventure every single day.

Yes. I'm loathe to admit it, but altrec holds sway over the emotional rollercoaster which is my life.