A coolness radar

One of my colleagues, Nick, happened to mention a couple months ago that he performs in an improv comedy group in the city. Instantly, my ears pricked up.

Improv comedy? My radar for coolness was instantly on high alert. 


Because that's now it works, for non-creative folks like me. For people who think in bullet points and spreadsheets. You don't develop your own coolness (because really, you can't), but rather a finely tuned radar for coolness in others, that you can then follow along in their glow.

"When are you next performing?!" I asked him.
Turned out, it was this Friday past.
"Can we come?"
"Of course".

And so we did. This Friday, Delta, I, Bobbis and Kate headed down to watch Nick and his friends perform in their improv comedy troupe. And laughed non-stop for the entire 60 minutes of their performance. What an incrediby, incredibly talented group of comedians, and we couldn't recommend them enough. If you life in NYC, check out Lead McEnroe, who perform at the Magnet Theater.  Great evening, great idea for a date, great laughs and great people.

A Mad Men party

The idea of a Mad Men party was disingenuously introduced into the conversation by me several months ago, when I happened to buy a new dress and I couldn't think of a more suitable occasion to wear it than a Mad Men party. And it wasn't like we were getting invited to Mad Men parties all over the place, so it fell on Delta and me to host one ourselves.

So Delta and I sent out an email to the gang, inviting them for a Mad Men night last weekend. Have you ever thrown a Mad Men party? Certainly a somewhat more complicated endeavour than we'd originally anticipated, especially with Delta and I being novices at the nuanced complexities of cocktails (who knew where to get aromatic bitters and simple syrup?!).

But it was also undeniably exciting. Google, that all-knowing wizard, pointed us to Mad Men cocktail sites all over the interweb. The morning before the party was filled with martini glasses and muddlers and mint and olives and cherries. And perhaps we even had a practice cocktail (or two) in the afternoon before the guests arrived. We weren't quite sure about hairstyles, but discovered there wasn't quite any problem that a bit of Brylcreem couldn't solve.

We'd asked our friends to dress to theme, but I'm not quite sure what we expected. A bit of effort towards suits and dresses, maybe? A few references to our favourite characters?  But how we had underestimated our posse.

They had taken the theme to heart, and had leapt into the spirit of the evening with both feet. In the week running up to our party, they had engaged in a furious amount of googling and website-link-exchanging, to drum up ideas and costumes.


Sometime during the middle of the party, I paused and removed myself to glance around and take in the scene. I was bursting with pride and adoration at our friends for embracing the spirit with such enthusiasm. Couldn't have asked for anything more to make the party feel just perfect. 


And also, while I'm thinking of it, a big thank you to our neighbours who have borne with us for all these years, and politely refrained from complaining about our inane parties. Who could ask for more. 

A July 4th celebration come early

Yesterday afternoon, Doobie and I were wandering aimlessly through Central Park, when we found ourselves passing by the SummerStage rotunda. We could hear a singer in there, warming up for her evening performance. The husky, sensuous voice was characteristic. “That sounds like Norah Jones,” I mentioned casually to Doobie.

Immediately, Doobie, who has how become the world’s most avid googler ever since she bought her first iPhone, started googling SummerStage singers. And wouldn’t you know it. I was right! Norah Jones was scheduled to perform at SummerStage later that evening! I’ve never, ever been able to identify a singer or group before. It’s just not in my repertoire of expertise, such as that is. Someone could play the Rolling Stones to me, even one of their greatest hits, and if I had to guess the singers, I’d still probably say, “ummm, Beatles? Bon Jovi?”. Yes, that’s how horrifically musically disinclined I am.

So when I pulled the Norah Jones guess out of my hat, I have to say, I was more than just a little bit chuffed. I might have even affected a strut for a few minutes there.

“I really wanted to go to see Norah Jones,” Doobie said wistfully, “but the tickets were all sold out when I looked.” So we listened to her warming up for a while instead, our own private concert before the real thing.

And then strolled onwards, enjoying the warm summer’s day in the park. 

Shortly, I’d all but forgotten about Norah Jones, and we were about to head back homewards, when a tall man approached us. “Hey. You want tickets for Norah Jones tonight?” he asked. Whaddaya know. A scalper. Doobie and I looked at each other. We hadn’t really planned on going to the concert, but now here were the tickets, being thrown in our faces!

“How much are they for?”

“How much you willing to pay?”

I’m terrible at such kind of negotiations and always end up overpaying because I’m too embarrassed to low-ball someone, so Doobie deftly took the lead in the conversation. She can play hardball when she gets going. Mere seconds later we’d agreed to two tickets for $35 each.

“It’s even less than the face value of the ticket!” The scalper told us, pointing to the face value listed as $50. “But I’ll give this to you ladies, because of her beautiful smile,” he accepted, indicating Doobie.

Right then and there we should have known there was something dodgy in the air. If the scalper himself wasn’t enough, at least the below face-value price, and the distracting flattery should have given us a hint. But the truth is, Doobie and I were so beside ourselves with excitement about the tickets, (and though we hate to admit it, equally elated by the compliment), that we didn’t allow ourselves to consider that the tickets might actually be fake. I mean, that happens to other people all the time. But to us??! No way. Besides, they looked similar to the tickets everyone else in line was brandishing, so they must be real.

So we skipped over to the line and took our spots excitedly at the end.  They had already started allowing people in, so the line, though freakishly long, actually moved along fairly quickly. And before we knew it we’d reached the ticket checkers already.

“Tickets, please.”
We handed over our tickets, wide grins of anticipation plastered across our faces.  He held them below the scanner. But instead of the normal beeeeeep, it made a  strange staccato sound, as though it was angry. Beep-beep-BEEP-beep-beeeep!! Immediately he called his supervisor, and we knew we were done for.

“These tickets are fake,” the man told us sternly. “Where’d you get them from?”

“Craig’s list,” Doobie jumped in.  That girl truly can be glib when the situation calls for it. “Why what’s wrong with them?”

“They’re fake tickets,” the official said. “I’m afraid we can’t let you in with these.”

I threw in a “what?!” of feigned surprise, just for good measure, lest he think we’re the type of girls who would buy tickets from scalpers round the corner.

“I’m sorry girls, you’re going to leave, I can’t let you in with these,” he repeated firmly. 

There was a long line of impatient entrants behind us, so Doobie and I knew we couldn’t hold up the queue any longer. We were crushed.  Couldn’t believe we’d fallen for that age-old fake ticket ploy. And that beautiful smile line. Ha!

But just as we were about to ask him where we should exit from, there was another “Beep-beep-BEEP-beep-beeeep!!” at a neighbouring ticket counter, and the supervisor headed off to address the same issue with another entrant. Doobie and I glanced around, wondering what we were supposed to do. The ticket checkers were busy checking other customers. The supervisor was busy dealing with the new person he had found. Just for that moment, everyone had forgotten about us.

And there Doobie and I were standing, past the ticket check counters, actually inside the arena. And nobody was looking for tickets anymore. And nobody was paying attention to us anymore. And gradually, just standing there, we’d started blending into the crowd heading to the stage.

We stood there for a few moments, when another concert official came up to us. We thought she’d ask us to leave, but instead she said, “you can’t just stand there, you have to keep moving. The stage is that way,” and she guided us towards the stage. And before we knew it, there we were, drifting with the rest of the crowds towards the bleachers.

I still don’t think it had sunk in yet, when we bought our drinks, and grabbed our seats. We kept expecting someone to come by and say, “Hey you! With the fake tickets! You have to leave.” But nobody did. Nobody cared. I don’t know whether that supervisor who checked our tickets had decided to deliberately turn a blind eye, or whether he got truly distracted. But whatever it was, I thank him kindly.

And so there we were. Despite not having planned to attend the concert in the first place. Despite stumbling upon it purely by coincidence. Despite being duped into fake tickets. Somehow, fortuitously, there we were.

Needless to say, it was a great evening. We watched the sun set over the crowds, as Norah Jones’ strong and melodic voice carried her distinctive music through the evening air.

A challenge of rather high magnitude

My colleague Jezebel, one of the nicest, funnest colleagues I could ask for, has an odd tick that's been niggling me lately. Whenever anyone cracks a joke, or does something funny, instead of laughing, she'll just exclaim, "that's so funny!"

Doesn't sound that odd right now, but I mean, it adds up after a while. If something is so funny (and I know she truly thinks it is!), then shouldn't you laugh? Or giggle or something? Instead of just telling us it's funny.

I've been trying to test her threshold at which she'll break down and actually laugh. Been trying to crack jokes all week, and well, even if  have to say so myself, I've been pretty darn funny.

This afternoon I pulled out some of the best from my repertoire. A cackle-inducing, thigh-slapping, hysteria-causing one-liner. Everyone was laughing. But yet, Jezebel just beamed at me, and said excitedly, "Gosh Ficali that's so funny!"

Imagine the teenage summer horror movies, fifteen teenagers stuck in a deserted summer cottage and they all start getting killed, one at a time. And then one girl is walking alone in the middle of the night, and something suddenly pounces out at her in the dark. But instead of shrieking in terror, she just exclaims, "I'm so scared!"

You see? It doesn't work like that.  Life simply demands more theatre and drama than that. An extra laugh or a scream or never killed anyone (except in those teenage horror movies when eventually they all die, no matter what kind of scream).

I'm sure Jezebel has her breaking point. I'm sure I'll get her to laugh yet. The gauntlet is down, may the competition begin!

Everyday, raising the bar

After being on a business trip for three days last week, I was glad to finally get home. It had been a few days of overly indulgent hotel dinners, lack of exercise, and just general grumpiness about being away from home. The previous night's dinner still hadn't settled well in my stomach. I can only assume it was e-coli in the food, because surely it could have nothing to do with the appalling nature of my own gustatory habbits.

I started feeling somewhat queasy on the flight home, always a dubious sign at the best of times. And the Bourne-Identity-style taxi ride from La Guardia into the city did nothing to quell the nausea welling in my stomach.

By the time I skulked into the apartment, I have to confess, I was a bit of a mess, a volcano waiting to erupt, the Mt. Etna of the Upper East Side.

"Hi, Ficali!" Delta exclaimed, getting up to give me a warm welcome hug. Poor chap had no clue.

But I held up my hand signalling for him to stand back. Dumped my bags in the middle of the living room. And rushed past a dumbfounded Delta into the bathroom, green in the gills, one hand covering my mouth. Hanging my head over the toilet, I proceeded to heave my stomach contents of the last three days into the toilet. Kept going. And kept going. And kept going.

I realize this makes for quite unappealing reading. This wasn't what you signed up for when you started reading this post. But wait - don't stop - you haven't even gotten to the most amazing part yet.

The truth is, I set a new record. This time, my body truly rose to dizzying new heights. When I was done being sick, I leaned weakly against the sink, trying to catch my breath. But something still wasn't quite right. I couldn't breath straight. So gabbing a tissue, I blew my nose, long and hard.  And what do you know, out popped a sliver of tomato. Out my nose. That's right. You heard me correct. I had thrown up so long, and so hard, that I actually caused a tomato to blow out of my nose.

Is that even possible? That's ridiculous. Not even sure how that works, biologically. Say it ain't so.

But alas, it is. The retching had built up so much pressure in my body,  that I blew a freaking sliver of tomato right out of my nose. Beat that if you can.

Goodbye, sugar, my dear friend

I'm not yet sure where I stand on Mike Bloomberg's stance re: the government's right to prohibit the sale of sugary drinks.

But I know this: I absolutely agree with the spirit of his argument. Obesity is a problem. For the entire society, not just the individuals themselves. Our collective addiction to sugary food poses a huge risk to the country. And inactivity is not an option.

This is not a political issue, we all need to come together do something to change the trajectory of the demise of our own making.

And for this reason, today I take a stance. It's time to cut out desserts after dinner each evening. Yes, even the Pepperidge Farm Soft Baked Dark Chocolate Chip cookies. Even those, my last bastion of sinful pleasure. (Oh, Tummy, I hope you will enjoy the dried figs with equal levels of passion and daily commitment.)

Whichever way this policy ends up going, MB, I want to thank you for bringing this discussion to the forefront of the conversation.

Kauai: an entirely different world

Our vacation Kauai didn't start out quite as idyllic as I'd imagined it in my mind. In fact, after a couple of last minute flight changes thrown our way by our friend the standby system, we arrived in Kauai late on a Friday evening. It was already dark, and we still had to shop for supplies in the local Walmart and drive 2 hours up into the Canyon where we were planning to camp. So all we had time for by way of food was to gulp down a  barely edible sponge-like burger from the McDonalds right in the Walmart. 

There you have it. Our first meal in paradise was scarfed down in the McDonalds in the Walmart in Kauai. It makes me cringe to type it as much as we cringed to actually eat it. 

But when you start a vacation like that, the only place to go is up, right?

Wrong. 

We drove cautiously, with a snail-like hesitance, for 2 hours to our campgroupd, up the narrow, twisting canyon road enshrouded in fog which afforded us really no visibility at all.  Made it there, set up tent and pretty much collapsed into our sleeping bags immediately, exhausted by the preceding 12 hours of flying. 

And woke up the next morning in the midst of a rain storm. A deluge. A huge big unfiltered gush of water as far as the eye could see. Still. Hardy campers that we are, we didn't think much of it at first. But when, after a while, it didn't show any signs of letting up, and the thunder and lightning were rather increasing in frequency, we asked a kindly person at the neighbouring lodge what the weather forecast was like. Turned out there was a huge unseasonal weather system hovering ("stuck", as describe by the weather service), over the island of Kauai. They didn't expect it to change for a few days. 

Our hearts sank. We had had our minds set on hiking in the canyon, we had flown 12 hrs to get here, only to be stuck in an unseasonal weather system. Not even a passing storm. A weather system. Definitely no way to hike the treacherously steep canyon slopes. So there was little else to do but jump back into our car and head down off the mountains, towards the beaches. 

Through the dense cloud cover spread across the island, we could see glimpses of sun breaking through near the southern tip, so we headed down to Po'ipu on the southern coast. Here we explored the Makewehi lithified cliffs, built over hundreds of thousands of years from fossilized sand dunes. Here, a narrow trail tracked the coast for miles along the cliffs, offering stunning views of the coastline. We'd been walking for about an hour, when Delta suddenly grabbed my arm and stopped me in my tracks. 

"What's that?!!!" he gasped, pointing out to sea. 

Far out in the ocean, almost to the horizon, there was a disturbance in the water. Spraying, splashing, flailing. It was there for a second, a big old hubbub out in the ocean, and then suddenly it was gone. As if it'd never been there at all. A boat in trouble? A trick of the eyes? We continued to stare at that spot in the ocean with concentration, to see if anything more was to transpire. Nothing. And just as we were about to conclude we had imagined it after all, there it was again! A huge splash, followed by another, followed by a couple sprays of water. Whales!! And just as we realized it, there appeared a magnificent arch of the distinctive tail, just to reconfirm our realization. All around us, in the ocean, were hundreds of whales. It turned out it was breeding season in the Hawaiian waters, and the whales continued to be our faithful oceanside companions for the rest of our vacation. 

The next morning, when we woke up to a second day of storms and downpour up in the mountains, we decided to call it quits and packed up our tents and checked into a hotel. Our clothes were all wet, nothing was drying, everything was starting to smell, our lovely Hawaiian adventure was beginning to turn unejoyable.

As it turned out, a day in the hotel waiting out the storms was exactly what we needed. It was like chicken soup for the soul. A hot shower, a clean bed, a beachside bar, a lovely pizza dinner, a leisurely buffet breakfast, and Delta and I were good as new. Like two shiny new pennies, ready to take on the world once again. The sun started breaking through the clouds, all indications were that the storm had passed, and we shook out our tent and headed towards the beach campgrounds on the north. 

A view of Kilauea lighthouse. 

 Everywhere we turned, we were greeted by stunning views of the countryside around us.

The campsite was right on the beach. Just what we needed after a couple of cold nights up in the stormy weather in the mountains. 

With the weather having turned for the better, Delta and I decided to spend a day walking the famous Kalalau trail. The storm had thwarted our hopes of backpacking the entire trail, so instead we decided to go in as far as we could before time constraints forced us to turn back.

At every turn, every corner, it was easy to see why the trail is one of the most famous in Hawaii. And in the distance, in their own merry, splashy way, the whales kept us company as we trudged the cliffsides.

Kauai was one of the most beautiful places we had ever seen. The beaches, the reefs, the cliffs, the rainforests - all of it, out of an entirely different world.  The untamable nature, drawing us in, and yet always warning us of it's absolute power. The thunderous storms, filling the sky with flashes of brilliant lightning. The fiercely ominous waves, curling over us as they broke, pummeling us into the sand: the blue oceans welcoming, inviting, irresistable; and yet, signs everywhere warning that raging currents frequently take human lives each year. The giant tidepools, seemingly benign, and then suddenly gushing with ferocious bursts of ocean tide that threaten to pull you out to sea. And, of course, the whales. Always, the whales. 

Ready for the new job

It occurred to me the other day that I don't really have an attire suitable for the corporate world, lulled as I have been for the last six years into a sartorial sinkhole of jeans and sneakers.

Actually, I lie. It didn't occur to me. And it probably would not have occured to me at all. It was pointed out to me by a gently chiding Delta: "I want to point out, that you don't really have clothes to wear in your new job."
I blinked in panic. Holy crap, he was right.
I ran over to the closet and looked at my sweaters. Yup. Confirmed. Only two that were acceptable to wear anywhere outside of an IT firm.

As $ signs skimmed in a blur of motion past the glazed panes of my eyes, I tried to do a quick mental calc on what I'd need to buy before starting my new job. New sweaters. At least a couple pairs of trousers. Socks that were not in all the bright shades of the rainbow. Shoes. Blacks, browns, colours, boots, pumps, flats. A lot of shoes.

If you must do an extreme makeover of your wardrobe, there's no better time to do it than during the post-Christmas sales. Although be warned: If you do take advantage of those post-christmas sales, be prepared for a wardrobe bejewelled in red spangles. As I learnt.

Which brings me to where I am today. A few new sweaters ("at least have enough clothes for two weeks," Doobie had urged, and Doobie is my Official Advisor on All Things Corporate), a couple new trousers, several new pairs of shoes, a book about project management and a book about M&A.

Bring on the new year!

The turn of the year

I'm ready for a few changes in my life. And what better time to usher them in than at the turn of the year.

Early in the new year, I start my new job.

Yes. After more than 6 years at my beloved Avanade, I'm ready to forge a new beginning. Avanade's been home to me since I moved to New York. It's been the place I grew up, and graduallly metamorphosed from general HR comic relief to professional(ish) HR bod. It's been years of good friendships and technicolour memories.

But now, at long last, like a baby turtle plunging into the ocean and hoping it can swim, it's time for me to see if I can survive in the world beyond this little tidal pool of Avanade.

The change has, of course, caused me no small amount of consternation. I'm not the most adept at change (as evidenced from Delta and my 'Friay night is Sushi night' - always the same restaurant, always the same sushi). For instance, in my new job, I'll no longer be able to just roll out of bed and turn on my laptop still in my pyjamas. To think I'll actually have to do something as revolutionary as getting dressed and turning up at an office everyday. Imagine! The horror. My life to date has ill-prepared me for such kind of extreme early-morning activity. But all the same. It was inevitable that I had to try something new at some point, and all of a sudden, that point is upon me.

But that new job is still a few weeks out, like a distant light at the end of a long tunnel. And  you know what it's like in this crazy world of Family McDelta; a few weeks can be an eternity. Before I even get to that new job, I still have more pressing and dear events to look forward to: an evening at the comedy club tonight, trying desperately to blend in with the furniture and avoid the comic's beady eye; a Christmas brunch with Dr G, her hubby and their little peanut; a New Years party (at ours, as always, because we're too scared to leave the building on New Years and face the inebriated youths outside) and most importantly - a week of camping and hiking out in Kauai. Kauai! Adventure abounds.

The clock ticks on. A year draws to it's end, and a new one grabs the baton and plunges onwards. Needless to say, regardless of the passive role I continually strive to play in my life, the story continues to unfold around me, sweeping me with it. And just as I did on the rollercoasters as a young whippersnapper, I don a brave smile and hang on for the ride.

Honey number 2

When we returned from our camping trip in Minnesota, we had to dive headfirst into a flurry of cleaning and washing. Delta and I stood side by side, trying to sort through our packing.

"Here, why don't  you take this, unzip the sleeping bags, and load the laundry," Delta told me distractedly, handing me an armful of stuff to sort through.

And then in the next moment, he turned to Queen Jaffa as she strutted past, and his tone melted instantly.

"Hi, honey," he said, his voice caressingly loving, "how's my sweetie pie doing?".

To the cat. I pouted.

"Hey. When did Queen Jaffa become honey, and I'm just the person who helps you with the laundry?!" I demanded, hands on my hips.

Delta gave me the toothy grin of a kid caught with his hands in the cookie jar.

"Oh don't worry, she's just Honey number 2," he tried to reassure me. "You're the real Honey number 1."

"Hmmmph." I was not convinced.

I with a jealous pout as Delta gently picked up Queen Jaffa, gave her a cuddle, and scratched her behind her ear. QJ for her part preened, stretched and yawned, proffering Delta her belly to get tickled. As she rolled over, I caught a glint in her eye.

Yeah, right, she seemed to say. Wouldn't you want to be Honey number 2 like me.