A Family Holiday

Delta and I have never been celebrators of Christmas.

Festivus? Yeah, maybe. That's a bit more our kind of thing.

But Christmas? With all the presents and forced family reunions that unearth historical resentments that were hitherto buried for a reason? Slightly more dubious.

But this year, we had a different take on the event. The Gins called us over to spend Christmas with them, their little Peanut, and the rents.

And, although the potato rosti we brought over could have stood for a little less time in the oven (don't think they're meant to brown and tough as pumpernickel?!), the day overall was a wonderful success. Seeing the Gins and their rents was lovely as ever, and little Peanut was in his element.

Every day we're reminded again and again how happy we are to have the Gins as our family around the corner.

 Little Peanut, literally keeling over with excitement at all the presents.

As always, we set up the 'ol tripod and insisted on a group picture. 

A fantasy, and an indulgence

Nikon 17-55mm, F2.8

This lens, right here, is my new guilty fantasy. But at $900 a pop (second hand! $1400 for new), I fear it remains just that - a fantasy.

Danny showed it to us at his home the other day, and we were just floored by it's speed. Finally, something as fast as a prime lens but with a zoom to boot. It's like a dream come true. 

One day, this will be ours.

Separately, but much more achievable, is my new guilty indulgence. Boardwalk Empire.

I don't know where I've been these past couple years, as the rest of the world has been raving about this show. Probably caught up in the likes of Breaking Bad and Homeland, which is hardly anything to complain about. But this is what a bit of extra time on your hands during the holidays can do to you. Hour after hour after hour, it transports me into the magical world of the twenties. Gowns, extravaganzas, gangs and all.

A quiet holiday period

The holidays have traditionally been a busy time of year. Delta and I have either always been travelling, or recuperating from recent travels, or just having a time replete with friends, family and parties.

This year, however, is different. It's quiet. I had a few vacation days to burn before the end of the calendar year, so I've taken time out (I never usually do that unless we actually are travelling somewhere). And yet this year, we had no plans for travels. The flights were all heavily booked, eliminating any possibility of non-rev (free) travel. And far be it from us to actually pay for a ticket.

So here we were, with plenty of days off, and no real plans for things to do with it. Time has started expanding itself with an astonishing elasticity. Delta's sister and her husband came down to visit us for a couple days, but left yesterday. And most of our friends have embarked on travels of their own, leaving us bereft of our normal festivities.

It's an odd feeling, disquieting in its very quietness. It doesn't seem to ruffle Delta in the slightest, but I'm always one for plans and have to concede to feeling a void of some sorts, that I'm not quite sure of how to handle.

Nothing to do, no one to see.
Hunkering down -
Delta, the kitty and me.

A holiday photo project

Last week, in the run-up to the holidays, I decided to take a wander around the city with the ol' camera to capture some of the holiday spirit that seems to be spilling around every corner. And, as always, the city didn't disappoint.

Thank you, NYC, for always being such a wonderful place in the holidays.

 The tree at Bryant Park

 An elusive Empire State Building, glowing through the fog

 All over the city, holiday markets!

 Rounded the corner and suddenly there it was before me, my favouritest building in the whole city!

Wandered round to the grand New York Public library 

 A street kebab guy, winding down after a long day's work

The practically undiscovered tree in the little plaza behind Bloomingdales. Why deal with the crowds of the Rockefeller Centre when you can have a tree all unto yourself.

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.