That State of Denmark

so yesterday i pulled out my trusty notebook so that i could share, with you, the tale of my recent harrowing flight. i went through the notebook multiple times and came up empty. i mean, i clearly remember writing furiously in the notebook and, at most, was afraid i would not be able to read my scrawl. but now i have empty pages and a lingering fear that my trauma led to hallucinations. let me tell you (and hopefully this typing is no illusion).

it was when i was headed out to california for my run up many mountains. i decided to take a direct flight, so i could kick back, relax and maybe take a long nap. after a series of delays, we set out on our trip and the plane took off. all was well with the world until it hit me. out of nowhere. like a sucker punch to the chin. an awful rotten smell. someone had just farted. i willed myself to get through it, without making it too obvious that i had noticed - everyone has the right to release a little gas every now and then. but then, no sooner had that smell dispersed, than it returned again in full force. and again. and again. i was trying to fan the air around with my magazine, while not being too obvious but it was not helping. those next to me seemed unaffected but no one looked guilty. the stink, oh the stink. i leaned forward and the odor followed me. i whipped my head back and got no clues. i was trapped in the window seat, next to windows that don't open. what to do... what to do?

i toyed with the idea of pushing the call button for a flight attendant, but what was i to tell them? someone is farting around me, i don't know who it is but it's killing me! i considered asking to be moved but the flight was full. i was exhausted - the flight had taken off hours late and so it was getting to my bedtime but i couldn't sleep. heck, i couldn't breathe! once again, i jerked myself upright and scanned those around me. no signs of anything. i started having crazy thoughts related to farting. he who smelt it dealt it - i certainly smelt it but i knew i hadn't dealt it. instead i was the one who had been dealt a cruel hand. maybe that's what the rhyme should be - he who smelt it has been dealt it. then: ooh this is one silent but deadly gas attack. i wondered how this mystery person was able to control their farts so they made no sound. i wondered what they had eaten that disagreed with them this terribly. i was surprised that they were not running for the restroom to get it all out.

i grabbed my travel blanket and tried to bury my nose in it and oscillated between suffocating on the blanket and suffocating on the foul air, all while trying to get a little sleep. i would drift off and then be jerked back to wakefulness by another explosion of funk. it was a six hour flight and at least five were stinky. i started trying to relate this silent stench to the theory of the tree that falls in the forest, and no one is there to hear it. does it make a sound? and if a fart is released in a plane and we are all there but no one hears it, does it make a stink? tragically and traumatically and resoundingly. yes. and creates a fear of flying like no one has ever known. and inspires an overwhelming desire to run off the plane. and brings about note-taking hallucinations.

'Tis the Season To Be...

i doubt anyone would make movies of my family christmases when i was kid, heck, i don't really remember them myself. i have vague memories of laid back days where we hung about doing very little. sometimes we were invited to a christmas party for family friends but we never hosted anything and my parents seemed happy to just not have to go to work (i assume that is why they were happy, since that is why i am happy now on holidays). at some point in this holiday deal, my mother decided to plant a fir tree in a massive flower pot and that there tree remains our family christmas tree to this day. during the most of the year, it hangs out in the yard but, come december, the tree is brought in and decorated with some lights and tinsel. any christmas cards that are received are propped up around and on the tree and there you have it, christmas. we would put little gifts around the tree that we would open on christmas morning. my mom pretty much always bought me a pretty nightie and my dad always gave me a diary with his name printed on it. i still love nighties and am yet to find a diary that i wish to fill as much as those i used to get for christmas.

it doesn't sound like much, does it? yet it really was a perfect family day, even when my grandparents gave me a dress i would only ever wear to make them happy. and it wasn't even a day that i would rave about if anyone asked me how my holidays were. but you know there is a saying about hindsight giving you excellent vision or it's my mother saying, "you'll think about this later," and, well, adage writers and my mom were right.

i have lived in new york for ten years now and, for years i have honed the art of the 'orphan holiday season.' and i am not alone. the the time i have been here, i and my fellow expats who are unable to be home with family for the holiday season, come together to pretend we are not drowning in a heavily marketed christmas. i cook enough food to feed people into an amnesiac trance and we do things like watch a coupling marathon or the matrix trilogy. and then it's time for dessert! the day of big feasting and vegging out was becoming a great time in december. but then, as some party pooper once said - all good things must come to an end.

friends moved on, and some even returned to pat, and i have new family, by way of hidef. and it is wonderful and it is great and at the same time, it is poignant and a little sad. having moved out of the purgatory of denial, i am a part of a new family tradition but it is one that has me thinking of my own family, scattered around too far and wide to join us. perhaps my mission this year is to invent a word for this happy-sad transition from one place to another. something as cool as schadenfreude or marmalade!

Apocalypse When?

so, i'm sitting here, pretty much watching hidef watching american football. he tells me it's a good game, so it's a good game. the fans tell me that it is a most interesting game and that, when i understand it, i shall understand all the starting and stopping and high impact crashes.

then a commercial comes on, and it comes on again and again, because it is sponsored by the football league. guess what the commercial is about... play. yes, play. it is a commercial encouraging children to play. wait. that's not it. it is a commercial stating that it is recommended that a child get at least 60 minutes of play every day in order to stay healthy. i know, i know, a little mind-boggling but there it is. apparently children no longer do what children have done since children were invented. i mean, what are children for if not to play? if not to run around in the dirt while eating a little dirt, then what do they do? why are parents being told that children need to play? what evil lies over the land that children have ceased to play? does someone need to pay the piper?

heck, forget the children; what about the grownups? how are they to remain sane if they are not locking their children out of the house so the kids can tire themselves out and minimise the trouble that they get up to while in the house. i mean, how can you have a child with cabin fever and not lose your mind? perchance this may be why we live in a very medicated and completely nutty world.

so open the doors, tempt the kids outside with, i don't know, candy, and, while they are blinking in the unaccustomed sunlight, jump indoors, lock the door and tell them they need to run around and PLAY until it starts to get dark. Then they better come back indoors, or else...

The Hills Are Alive

Four weeks ago... Wow! It's been four weeks? How time flies but let me not ponder upon the relativity of time. That is a conversation for another day.


Sooo.... four weeks ago on Friday I boarded a plane headed for San Francisco. I was relaxed and happy - I had given myself enough time to stop at the candy store in the airport that sells Cadbury's chocolate and picked up a couple of bags ot stock for my emergency stash. We sat in our seats and watched the safety video as the plane made its way out onto the runway. Then we sat, and sat, and sat. Then an announcement - apparently there was some technical issue that we had to go back to the terminal for. And then we sat a little more and were informed that the issue could not be solved and we were going to switch planes. I was fine with that - once they tell you your plane has technical issues, how comfortable can you really be with it?


We deplaned and sat in the terminal for a half hour. Then another announcement - apparently our problems had been solved and we were getting back onto the plane; the same plane that, just a few minutes earlier, had a problem the could not be solved. Back onto the plane we went and watched the safety video one more time, for luck, I suppose. Then, as we headed back out onto the runway, the pilot came onto the intercom system. I paraphrase - "ladies and gentlemen, let me explain what has been going on. we had a indication light that was on earlier. the engineers said that they fixed it earlier but, when we went out onto the runway and tested it, we received conflicting information that led to us going back to the terminal. the engineers now say they have fixed the situation so, we'll see what happens."
And with that, we set out on our trip. That was an adventure, but more about that later.


I was in San Francisco to run half of the Nike Women's Marathon. I figured that San Francisco's hills were so legendary that a half marathon would feel like a full. Not that I needed any excuses to run 13.1 miles, but I had them just in case. I was travelling solo - my friends had not signed up to run with me and hi def had to work so it was just me and my t-shirt that declared that I "flatten hills". I spent Saturday walking around the hilly city and taking in breathless views from atop some of these hills. It was a wonderfully warm day and there was barely a cloud in the sky. I prepared my gear on Saturday evening and turned in early.


I rose before the sun on Sunday and went downstairs to join the many other mostly women who were milling around the entrance hall of the hotel. I went over to an overpriced coffee shop, whose name rhymes with Barsucks and had to pay over a dollar for one banana! A DOLLAR!!! Nerves and outrage kept me warm as I stepped out into the cold per-dawn and made my way to the start line. The national anthem was sung, I tied my shoelaces again (after triple checking for a potentially hobbling rock in my sock) and then we were off. I had latched on to a pacing group, so I could keep a pace that would help me beat my previous race time without having to think to much about it. All I had to do was keep my eye on the pacing flag that declared that, if I could keep up, I would finish my race in two hours. Yes, yes, according to my "hard training" schedule, I was supposed to run in 2:09 hours but, isn't two such a great round number?

A couple of miles into the race, we hit a hill. I had perused the blogs and asked random strangers at the race's expo and they told me that there really was one hill in the race and it was a short one where I could see the end from the beginning. I looked up and it seemed there was an end in sight so I soldiered on and was relieved that the hills I had heard so much about before I got to San Francisco were far less intimidating in person. It was soon over and I was still running with my pacer. I refused to think about anything else - to do so would be to find pains in my knees and labour in my breath. I carried on.

We hit mile seven and the land began to slope upwards. Our pacer warned, "take it easy up this hill" and I thought, well, that's an odd warning - this hill seems flatter than the last one. We rounded a corner and I expected a downhill. So much for expectations; more uphill ahead. I gritted my teeth, determined to keep going and not let the thought of climbing up a hill kill my spirit. I should have started repeating the mantra I had practiced in previous training sessions - I love hills, I love hills - but the only two things going through my head were - I can't keep up with the pacing group - and - oh man, why am I moving my legs and arms and getting nowhere?

I rounded yet another corner and still, nothing but hill. Was this even possible? How long can a hill be and what human with a heart would have people try to run up it? Through the foam of my earphones, I could hear the heavy breathing of those around me, yet it didn't make me feel better that I was not alone in my suffering. My lesson of the hill - misery does not always love company. I could barely see the flag of my pacing group any more. I promised myself that I would try to catch up with them if the uphill ever ended but for now, I just had to will myself to keep running, even though the running motion didn't seem to help me cover any ground. I tried to take in the amazing views but my mind kept coming back to - it's so hard, when will it end?

Just as I was about to throw in the towel, I passed the man who shouted out - keep going, you are about to reach the crest!
And he was right. I rounded a corner and I got to run downhill. Hallelujah! I enjoyed the moment and my knees did a little dance and cheer.

But I had been traumatised. I knew now that the declarations I had been given that there was only "one little hill" were nothing but lies. So now I was left to wonder how many other slopes were in my future and how much spirit I had left to face them. By the time I got to slope number 3, I was asking myself who I was trying to impress. I had no idea where my pacing group was - I could not see the flag anywhere. I could just give up and walk the rest of the way. And still, there was a little voice - come on, Pandave. You have come all this way; you worked hard, waking up early and running long. You still have something to give - give it. I was past the 11 mile point and so I told myself - this is shorter than your usual short runs. You can do it.

I passed the mile 12 sign and smiled. Just a little further to go and then it would be all over. I ran on, not even feeling too badly about the slight upward slope I had just hit. I had, maybe, half a mile to go now, I estimated. A young cheering volunteered yelled out to me - looking good. just one mile to go!

What? Not one mile? Hadn't I passed the 12 mile mark a while back? Hadn't I covered more than just 0.1 miles since? My mind had to readjust to the new distance - it's crazy how a half mile can feel like ten when one is tired. As my mind was working on this, I came to a bend and then, in front of me, a huge sign that declared "FINISH". Was that my finish line? Or was this a mirage? No time to think, my knees took charge and picked up the pace.

As I channeled all my remaining energy into the final sprint, the master of ceremonies shouted into the PA system: Come on everyone, give the runners a big cheer! They have just run 13 miles. And look at Pandave! She Flattens Hills!!
That was me he was talking about - I had those words printed on my shirt. I started waving and grinning and running even faster. What a moment. I crossed the line, fists pumping the air, to be greeting by a smiling firefighter in a tuxedo. He gave me a lovely silver necklace - a finisher's medal that I can wear every day - and congratulated me.

What for? Not just for finishing but, for finishing in 2:00:36. And really, what's 36 seconds between friends?

Where's My Cape?

so i have been going at a manic pace the last few weeks. i have been taking on more than i can chew and swallowing without bothering to try to chew. i have been constantly exhausted, with a barely functioning brain, and marvelling at how well i am getting the impossible done.

then yesterday my superwoman cape was yanked off my shoulders without ceremony. around lunchtime i started to feel cold... really cold. like cold in my spine cold. i pulled on my sweater and wrapped a scarf around my shoulders. yet, i continued to shiver and shake at my desk (at work) and focused my energy on making it through to the end of the day. i tried tea, but my body still hurt and the cold would not go away.

by the time i got home, my body and face felt hot but my hands were frozen - doesn't it suck that apparently nothing can stop my cold hands from being cold? i crawled onto the couch, under two blankets with a hot mug of honey-water and some vitamin c. hi def came home and took my temperature - 101 F (which apparently confirmed that i had a fever). he forced me to drink even more water and take some ibuprofen for the aches. feeling very sorry for myself, and whining all the way, i dragged my creaking bones into bed and fell asleep. i woke up in the dead of night, soaked in sweat and feeling quite yuck.

this morning, the sun woke me and i stretched. no pain, no creaks! well no more than the usual. i felt human again and ready to face the world. now the challenge is to resist the temptation to reach for the cape.

My Chariot Of Fire

i have long dreamt of becoming a great athlete. apparently, so did my father. i don't know if it was my dream that became his, vice versa or a moment of zeitgeist (or if i just wanted to slip zeitgeist into my every day conversation). it doesn't matter now where it began; all that matters is where we are now and where we are is my deferred dream of athletic greatness. but, let me be clear here, it is not a dream that came from nothing. i am not that lead-footed youth who long dreamt of running with the wind. oh no sir. in my youth, i was the wind. i mean, i barely knew how to walk, i just wanted to get there and get there first. and it wasn't just running - i swam, i jumped, i wielded racquets. the one thing i did not do was climb - but that is a tale for another day.

but then i went to high school where the headmistress declared - ladies don't run. she didn't ask me if i considered myself a runner or a lady. instead she banned me from running. does this mean she believed that all who do not run are ladies? also, i embraced my short attention span, trying everything that appeared on the school calendar, from ballroom dancing to social badminton, from public speaking clubs to organising talent shows. in between trying to grow my nails while playing basketball and learning how to play the piano, how was i to be a great athlete?

also, my spirit had been broken by my body's refusal to grow taller. my two brothers are each 6 feet tall; my sister is 5'10". I am significantly shorter and very bitter about it. what happened? i longed to dunk and waited for a growth spurt that never came. i wanted to be a loping runner, covering distance with the grace and speed of a gazelle. what happened? i have so many reasons to curl up into a ball of defeat.

but not me! i have a dream! to be a great athlete and you know what? if it takes me until I turn 75, i shall persevere. because you know what? my knees may not be anything worth writing home about but, at some point, i shall be the fastest, even if it is only because i am the only one left.

i have long dreamt of being a great athlete and, last time i checked, dreams have no expiration date.

Have Mercy On My Nose!

i have read about it. the wrath of the gods. they send floods and plagues and locusts and, heck, every once in a while slay a first born child or two. but who am i in the greater scheme of things? what do my thoughts or words matter, really? apparently more than i imagined.

there i was, late last week, taking my run in the park while planning the night ahead. i would take a shower and then sit down with my laptop to try to catch up on life a little. the run was a good one. i hit a great pace and, at the end of it all, the voice of tiger woods came up on my ipod, congratulating me on my excellent run. i was stoked. i picked up a bottle of milk from the store, ignoring the stares of those who, apparently, have never seen a sweaty female before, and headed down the block towards my home. then... a sneeze. another. another. and more. what was going on? the sneezing would not stop and my eyes were streaming and my nose would not stop tickling. now people on the street were staring at me for different reasons.

i rushed home and grabbed a box of tissues and blew my nose. no use; the sneezes kept on coming. this was starting to hurt. i warmed up some water and used the neti pot to try to rinse out my sinuses. the sneezes did not cease. i took a shower, sneezing all the way and then dug up my nasal spray. that helped for maybe half an hour and then i started up again. it was horrid. i was now congested on one side of my head and the other side hurt to breathe. why had the gods seen fit to punish me in this way? right then, i might have preferred a couple hundred locusts. instead i felt as though i was breathing in pepper and unable to escape the cloud. several days and many doses of antihistamine later, i was able to clear my head and figure it out.

me? i am ms summer - as soon as the month of june comes around, i am all smiles and positivity. it could be 100 degrees and humid out but i will tell you it's a wonderful day. we get a good three months of summer and i am summer's biggest cheerleader because i remember the misery that is winter. but this year was different. this june was wet and cold and it was all downhill from there. any sunny day was greeted with a bah humbug from a me, bitter because the days were few and far between. any beach day was taken grudgingly by me, as i would complain that tomorrow would probably be cold and wet. i was looking the gift horse in the mouth and counting cavities. and now i want to make amends.

i entreat the gods take mercy upon me and my sinuses. i did try to offer the animal sacrifice but couldn't even find a fly - may the gods forgive me. but i still solemnly swear to change my attitude. i pledge to keep my spirits up, at least until November (after that, as the cold, dark days come upon us, nothing can be promised). i tell ye gods that every morning i shall tell at least one gloomy soul that it is a beautiful day. for each day that i can breathe without sneezing and the itching inside my skull is the best day of my life. i heed the gods.

It's Arriiiived! It's Arriiiived!!!

Many a morning, Oscar Grillo and El Editor have given me a reason to get up and go. So, imagine my excitement when I found out that Oscar had collaborated with William Shakespeare! Well, I could barely contain myself and still in all my imaginings I had no idea it would be as awesome as it ended up being. They said that it would be the end of September before I got anything in the mail and then it came and well, Oscar and William put it best:

Folk around me are confounded when I raise my book to read. It is all - hey that's Shakespeare, but no, is that a graphic novel? And if they ask, I shall glow and tell them - it is all you imagine and more. It will take you on a journey to places you never imagined. It will surprise and delight and expand you. Ah-oooohh!!!
Now, excuse me, I going to try to contain myself so I can actually get some reading done. I become "something rich and strange".

For Prettylyf

I know it's been forever since I was tagged but you know what they say - better late than never (though let it be known that I hate waiting).

1. What time did you get up this morning?
-06:30 But I don't think I was really awake until maybe 9:30/10

2. How do you like your steak?
-medium well

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
-Food Inc. Yes, I need to get out more and yes, I need more comedy in my life.

4. What is your favorite TV show?
- The Wire. Far and away the absolute best show ever. See above comment about need for comedy in my life.

5. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?
-You have the whole world and you want me to pick one place? Nah-uh. I'm working my way around the globe.

6. What did you have for breakfast?
-A bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar, butter and milk. A cup of hot water with honey. A glass of cold water

7. What is your favorite cuisine?
-hmmm - I love Thai, Japanese, Indian, Peruvian and that's just off the top of my head. It really just depends on how I'm feeling. Oh oh oh... I LOVE calamari

8. What foods do you dislike?
-Don't eat mushrooms. I have realised though that sometimes you try something and it's not so bad.

9. Favorite Place to Eat?
-hanging with friends. Is that a place?

10. Favorite dressing?
-not really a dressing person. yep, I'm a nudist.

11.What kind of vehicle do you drive?
-I have a bicycle. I love it.

12. What are your favorite clothes?
- pyjamas. I like it to be comfortable.

14. Cup 1/2 empty or 1/2 full?
-I try to be half full.

15. Where would you want to retire?
-To my world tour.

16. Favorite time of day?
-don't think I have a favourite. I do know that I am not a morning person.

17. Where were you born?
-Zambia

18. What is your favorite sport to watch?
-Today it is tennis. But most of the time it is basketball, I'm thinking

19. Who do you think will not tag you back?
-well I haven't really tagged anyone...

20. Person you expect to tag you back first?
-see above regarding lack of tags.

21. Who are you most curious about their responses to this?
-it is always good to learn new things about folk.

22. Bird watcher?
-Birds? In New York City? Not really.

23. Are you a morning person or a night person?
-Oh, so NOT a morning person. I am legend when it comes to my lack of sunshine in the morning.

24. Do you have any pets?
-A Beta Fish named Gandanga. I also have my plants

25. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share?
-The weekend is nearly here! Did you know that?

26. What did you want to be when you were little?
-a singing and dancing gymnast!

27. What is your best childhood memory?
-Childhood is my best memory. Pretty much every time I think back, whatever I remember makes me smile.

28. Are you a cat or dog person?
-Not really an animal person. I think I am more of a people person. people may not agree.

29. Are you married?
-no

30. Always wear your seat belt?
-When I'm in the front seat I do. In the back seat, not always.

31. Been in a car accident?
-I believe so. Nothing serious, touch wood.

32. Any pet peeves?
-oh, where to begin. Spitting, loud gum chewing, people who don't curb their dogs...

33. Favorite Pizza Toppings?
-I really just like a very good base. Anything else is a bonus but if the base is no good then nothing else matters.

34. Favorite Flower?
- chrysanthemum - my birth flower.

35. Favorite ice cream?
-my favourite ice cream is ice cream. Like chocolate in it, i like caramel, i like fruit, and I love a creamy rich ice cream.

36. Favorite fast food restaurant?
-Don't really do fast food, but, if it counts - IHOP.

37. How many times did you fail your driver's test?
-Twice, once in Zimbabwe and once in the US.

38. From whom did you get your last email?
-HiDef

39. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card?
-Either Amazon.com or a hardware store. Ooooh Strand Bookstore

40. Do anything spontaneous lately?
-Went to an awesome beer hall with more beers than I even knew existed.

41. Like your job?
-As much as one can.

42. Broccoli?
- I really like broccoli

43. What was your favorite vacation?
-There are several - Puerto Rico was fantastic. Hawaii was awesome. Victoria Falls was amazing.

44. Last person(s) you went out to dinner with?
-HiDef

45. What are you listening to right now?
-US Open Tennis match between Federer and Soderling

46. What is your favorite color?
-Black. I just love it. I have also accepted burgundy as my colour. Red is good too.

47. How many tattoos do you have?
- Zero. I have decided to get one when I am 70.

48. How many are you tagging for this quiz?
-I have not tagged.

49. What time did you finish this quiz?
-2034hrs

50. Coffee Drinker?

At most, a cup a day. Is that bad?

Wishing On A Star

Ah Serena, you have won my heart. When I see you I am lost for words. "Wow" and "Lovely" don't quite seem to capture quite what I want to say when I see you play, when I see you.. heck when I just see you. You are something else. I really like your big sister Venus; I always have liked her. When I watch her being your big sister, even when she is playing against you and winning, I imagine that I am as good a big sister as she is. I remember the one time my sister send my dad an email, telling him how I was her best friend and how much she loved me. I try to forget the times she declared, in the middle of an argument or a tantrum, how cruel I was and how she didn't want me to be her sister any more. I watch Venus comfort you when you lose to her and I think to myself - yeah, I would totally do that too.

I am distracted. Back to the heart of this matter. Serena, you rock. You and your incredibly muscled arms, legs and the rest of you rock. It is like you are carved out of rock and then you rock. Is that mind-blowing? It must be for my mind is blown and my heart is captured. You are made of steel and yet your insides are so endearingly human. We have seen you weep, we have watched you vent and we have seen you sulk. As with Achilles, you remind us, that as strong as you are, you have weakness and it is this weakness that makes it possible for us to adore your strength. But, just to make sure we don't get too comfortable, you do not hesitate to flex and leave us breathless.

Over the years, as you have matured and grown more graceful, my admiration of you has grown too. I am at the point where I cannot merely say that "I am a fan." No, I must declare, so there is no doubt, "I am a fanatic." Please, Ms Williams (the Younger) may I squeeze your muscles?

Not Chopped Liver, Chopped Liver WITH Onion

Yeah, I could see the Manhattan Bridge getting into a big sulk over being sidelined by just about everyone. "It's always Brooklyn Bridge this, Brooklyn Bridge that. What am I, chopped liver?"

Well, Manhattan bridge, take heart; I think you're awesome. You are my Cinderella - the beauty no one takes notice of until the fairy godmother brings along a pumpkin and next thing you know a prince is searching for you high and low, armed with a glass slipper. Does that make me a fairy godmother? Who would be the prince? Is this all a very bad analogy? Am I losing my train of thought?



Let me get back to it. There are three bridges that run between Manhattan and Brooklyn - Brooklyn, Manhattan and Williamsburg - but all you ever hear about or see in the movies is the Brooklyn Bridge. You would think that's all there is. Well, I'm here to tell you, there's another way, maybe even a better way (sorry Williamsburg, I can only godmother one at at time). How do I love thee, Manhattan Bridge? Let me count the ways.



Nine times out of ten, maybe even 9.9 times, I get lost trying to get onto the Brooklyn Bridge. One moment you are following signs and the next you are driving under the bridge, towards the East River, on a one-way street, with no clue how to get anywhere. And, once I get over it, I have no idea where I am. Cab drivers probably pay their rent with the extra money that they make through people lost around the Brooklyn Bridge. Manhattan Bridge? Well that is straight off Canal Street, in Manhattan, a hugely popular street and the soul of Chinatown. And it leaves you right on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn, which is straight into downtown. I mean there is no getting lost there. No siree Bob!

Also, let's not forget, the Manhattan Bridge has it all - lanes for cars, subway tracks (for trains taking me straight to work for the last 6 years and counting), and a bikeway. Now that I have a bike and I actually had to ride it from Manhattan to Brooklyn, I have used all three services. The Brooklyn Bridge doesn't do subway, so there.

Still not good enough for ya? Well, just look at it. It's not a bad-looking bridge. And it has decent views. From the Manhattan Bridge, as you ride the subway, you look one way and see the Williamsburg Bridge, and then you look the other way and see the iconic Brooklyn Bridge AND the Statue of Liberty. Now, tell me how you are going to see the Brooklyn Bridge, while on the Brooklyn Bridge? Haha! Got you!

So there you go, Manhattan Bridge, Ugly Duckling no more. You may not be the oldest suspension bridge or the longest of the first steel wire suspension. But you keep me from wandering back streets for hours, unable to get home or to where I was going in the first place. You may not be in the photos on the walls of every place advertising Brooklyn, but you give me a view to enjoy on my way to work, while others have only the dark passages of the underground tunnels to see on their morning commute. You may not be getting respect, but I'm here with a horse-drawn carriage and stunning dress. Tonight, you are going to the ball!

Be home by midnight!

Self-Flagellation

Where have I been, you may wonder? I have been sitting around trying to figure out how to make things right. How could I have done such terrible wrong? I tried to tell myself that I had no idea but, apparently, ignorance is no defence. So I am having to face up to what I have done and try to fix things. Maybe you can help.

So about a week and a half ago, I was reading USAToday and the lead story had this headline "Older White Males Hurt More by this Recession". My first thought is - what a poor headline; that's almost an essay. My second thought was well, this is the top story, let me check it out. And thank goodness I did. I may have carried on in life, clueless about my evil deeds. You, on the other hand might be thinking, well Pandave, you are not an older white male so what is your deal. Well, you keep reading, because I am going to tell you how this all comes together and lands on my doorstep.

The story starts with heartbreaking mini-stories about three men from Columbus, Ohio, who, after working all their lives find themselves, in their 50s and looking for work. These are men who have worked hard, served the community and done nice things for strangers and now they are sitting around wondering what is wrong with them. Life just came up and punched them in the gut. Unemployment for this demographic is at a record high level of 6.5%

And me and my demographic? What do we have to say for ourselves? Well yeah, yeah older black men's jobless rate is 10.5% but it peaked in 1983 at over 11.5%. And black women? 12.2%, is what it is. The untrained eye may look and say, well that's almost twice the rate for older white men but that's because you don't realise that it once was 20%.

And to put it all in a nutshell, let me quote USAToday:
"In other words, this recession has shrunk the racial gap in unempolyment, largely because white men are doing so much worse than usual."
And I ask you, is that right? Is that fair? How can one group do better at the expense of another. Granted, the group doing better is still having a rather sucky time but, it should be accustomed to the bad times and not wish to take the good times away from others. We won't talk payrate discrepancies - those are distractions. What matters is that a bunch of folk are getting a little closer to the rest and that is just not right.

I for one feel just awful. I feel as though I should start calling people up, apologising and maybe offering them my job. You know, to get things back to normal again.

It Only Takes A Spark

So, this is what happened to me today. I got up and my body ached and so I thought - ten more minutes. It felt like all I did was blink but then it was helluva long blink because, the next time I opened my eyes, it was half an hour later. I dragged myself out into the unreal humidity that is a New York phenomenon. Damp and weighed down by the grey skies, I finally parked myself at my desk at work and decided to visit my blog friends to help lift my spirits. My fellow bloggers never cease to amaze, inspire, motivate and fascinate me. And, when the endless rain has soaked my spirit into submission, this is what I need in order to get me going.

I headed over to Oscar's site, where only yesterday he and El Editor had me smiling and bopping at my desk and saw that he had encouraged me to read the lyrics of the wonderful song Marcianita (My Little Martian Girl). I am being very generous when I say that my Spanish language skills are limited, and Oscar suggested I use a translator and so I did. I realised that, in my office, I have coworkers from Puerto Rico, Costa Rica, Peru and that's just on my side of the room. So I asked the lady from Costa Rica if she had a little time for me and a little song. She took the song and enlisted the assistance of yet another coworker and, in no time presented me with translated lyrics. She took the time to type them up! I was touched and impressed.

Well, after all that, I felt I owed her an explanation and so I did, from the beginning, together with illustrations, provided by me clicking on Oscar's site. "Oh, that's really cool," she said and the proceeded to translate the comment "eso de una sola teta....pobre flaco!" that was also left on the site. Then she told me that, before she had kids, she used to love to draw a lot. Having grown up in Orlando, right near Disney, she loved to draw cartoon characters. Those who know me know I can barely draw a line and so I was excited - you draw? Then you must draw.

And draw she did - behold, people, and animaniac! And suddenly my sticky, grey day had meaning. For had I not sought inspiration, would I have ended up here, as happy as Dot, up there? Thanks Oscar!

Fait Accompli!

It has been a while since I embarked on my mission to become an eco-terrorist. A jigsaw puzzle with wildflower seeds embedded in the pieces? What a genius idea! Fuzzy pieces that are so difficult for my eyse to make out? Not so good. I stopped and started; I almost gave up. I rolled up the puzzle and put it away and focused on tryign to make the most of the rare sunny days we have had this summer. But the puzzle drew me, like a magnet. It taunted me - 500 pieces, Pandave. Are you going to be conquered by 500 pieces? There were days when the answer was a resounding - yeah, I just might be. Last week, this is where things stood:

Sunday was a rainy day and my brain was fried from three intense weeks of classes. The yellow puzzle pad sat on my table, taunting me. And I am a sucker for a taunt - challenge me? You want to challenge me? Well... You're on! I positioned the lamp to shine down on the pieces, I pulled the table close to me and got busy. You see the bags under my eyes? The tired and puffy face at work this morning? The less than four hours of sleep I got on Sunday night? Well, HELLO PANDA!!



I am sad about taking this apart but you know what would make it better? Finding people all over who will take in the pieces and spread the wildflowers around the world. Eco-terrorism... Who is with me?

AbraCa-Luv-Ya

This morning I stepped on the train, on my way to work. I noticed behind me, as I stood, some whimpering. I glanced backwards and there she was, a cute little girl, maybe three years old, sitting on her father's lap. I turned back and carried on with my half-asleep-on-my-way-to-work stance. But the volume increased, gradually. Then came the almighty holler and all bets were off. She was full out of control crying. I looked over again and now her face was red, her mouth a cavern, with what looked like a wad of gum, balanced on her tongue. She squirmed in her uncomfortable-looking father's lap, as he whispered to her ineffectually, trying to calm her down.

I looked away - I didn't want to make him feel any worse than he obviously did. He should be concerning himself with what was bothering her, not with the curious staring masses sharing the subway car with him. Then, suddenly, silence. What happened? I looked back and noticed that there was a sister, perhaps a year older, sitting in a stroller. She had reached over and grabbed her little sister's hand and was yanking on it, getting her sister's attention. The formerly crying girl was now sniffing as she stared at her older sister. The older sister, then started stroking the little girl's arm, wiped her tears away and spoke magic words that got the little girl smiling. I too smiled and wondered if I had done the same for my little sister.

I DOUBT IT!

I probably would have leaned over and threatened to pinch her. She would have screamed, "dad! pandave is trying to pinch me!"

my father would have said, "Pandave!" in a threatening tone. I would have protested, "but, but."

"No buts, you're the older sister. Come on."

I would have folded my arms in a big sulk. My sister would have smiled triumphantly.

So, mission accomplished, no more tears...

Right?

Weakend

So on Friday at about 5:30 pm, I decided to call it a week and start my weekend. I was ready for a break. The week had done me in, I felt as though I could sleep for a week. But first, an errand or two to run. So off I went to Bed, Bath and Beyond - I needed a few hangers for me and Hidef could do with some prettyfication of his space. Then it was off home to reorganise my closet a little and move some winter clothes under the bed - maybe if the clothes are hidden, winter will take its time about coming back.

But there was a box under the bed; what was in the box? Papers, tapes and goodness knows what else and, the next thing I knew, it was almost midnight and I was maybe halfway through. But I was tired so I hit the sack.

It felt as though I had barely I closed my eyes than someone rang my doorbell. It was Saturday. Who was uncivilised enough to come a-calling at 8 in the morning. The exterminator, that's who. But what could I do? I was awake now, right? So I pulled on my sneakers and headed out for a short run. I came back, I showered and I dressed comfortably and then I sat in front of my computer. I have signed up for a class, you see, that is supposed to help me get better at my job but has only, thus far, helped me get worse at having free time. It was almost seven, by the time I had made my way through the online turorials and half of my homework, but I couldn't make sense of the sentences floating in front of my eyes any more. So I headed out to a place around the corner for dinner. I took my time - I knew what was waiting for me back home.

Finally, I couldn't put it off any longer. I went home and faced the paper piles again. What needed to be shredded? What could just be trashed? What still had to be stored? Two trashbags were filled and yet there was still stuff under my head. How does that happen? It must be some law of exponential trash - the more you throw away, the more that is left behind.

Once again, it was late and I needed to get some sleep. I took a crossword puzzle into bed, filled in, maybe, two clues, and was dead to the world. It was eight when I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. My legs felt as though they weighed a tonne. each. I wasn't ready. I lay down again, telling myself that it would only be for ten minutes more. Next thing I knew it was half past nine. I got up and went out to Cafe Regular for a latte and amazing muffin, and a read of the Sunday paper. Slightly energised, I headed back home, turned on the computer and started working on the endless homework.

It was just about 1pm when I decided to take a break and head out to the farmer's market to pick up my vegetables for the week. All local and all delicious. I lugged it all back home, put it in the fridge, grabbed my bag and headed out to the subway station. I needed to pop into Manhattan - I needed frames and today was the last day of the 50% off sale. Darn! The train that runs 16th street, just two short blocks away from the store on 18th Street and Fifth Avenue, was not running! So I took the alternative, which left me on 16th and Broadway - two long blocks and two short blocks away from my destination. It was no sweat getting there but then I had to lug my huge frames and smaller bag of extras back to the station, navigate the turnstiles and stairs and lug everything all the way home and up the four flights of stairs to my apartment. I plopped everything down in the hallway, grabbed my backpack and headed downstairs.

I stopped at Hidef's to pick up my bicycle. I got a bicycle after he tired of my always borrowing his, but the wheel is squeaking and scraping against the frame. So the bike is then walked to the subway station, carried down the stairs, navigated through turnstiles and taken to the bicycle store, in Manhattan, via the train. I stand around as they adjust the bicycle and return it to me, good as new. I pull on my helmet, ask for directions back to Brooklyn and start to cycle.

It starts to rain. Lovely.

I almost get hit by a bus and realise that I am supposed to share my bicycle lane with buses. Great.

Did I mention that this is the first time I have ever ridden in Manhattan? And then I hit the Manhattan bridge and a dedicated cycle track so I can admire the view without worrying about traffic. Now I'm starting to have fun, even though I am huffing uphill. I keep hoping that I hit the halfway mark soon. If I have gone up, I must go down, right? Right. Except down only starts about three quarters of the way in. Oh well, I'm cruising now, so I can't complain. I hit the right speed, I barely have to consult my directions and I am on a roll. Wheee!

I get home, park the bicycle and realise that I'm out of milk. It's raining hard now, so I grab and umbrella, some shopping bags and pull on my wellingtons and head out to the grocery store for milk and, of course, pick up a few other things to add to the menu. I get home and it's after 8pm.

I still have homework and it's due before midnight. Did I mention that at a point I did a bunch of homework and my page crashed and I lost it all? Bygones. But I am at it until almost half past ten, pausing only to do a spot of quick cooking and drink some water.

And now? Now the day is almost over. I go back to work tomorrow. And you know how I feel right now? Exhausted. Like I need a weekend to recover from my weekend. I'm weakened. I'm done.

Don't Let It Go To Your Head

So what's my beef with Physics? Even though I only have one side that I can technically get out of, maybe I broke the laws of Physics and was able to get up on the wrong side of the bed? No. Ooh ooh, maybe I really shattered those rules, defied gravity and floated around my apartment like a helium balloon! Nope. It was all about the financial crisis. Financial crisis? Yes, good people. Let's walk and chat a bit.

So, it is generally assumed that the financial bigwigs of this world are economists. Turns out those assumptions became more and more wrong as we entered the late nineties and early noughts. More and more physicists were leaving rocket science to become financial wizards (perhaps being a wizard is cooler than being a scientist, even if you are working with rockets). Turns out Physicists could harness the power of quarks and anti-matter to create mind-boggling formulae that made you money, no matter who you were. Formulae were created that made money even if a person didn't have a job or assets. Heck, things worked even for people who had a proven history of unpaid bills in their past. Backing these formulae were screeds of legalese, books bigger than the bible, taking all responsibility of any failure away from the financial institutions.

These physicists were locked away in rooms probably full of paper and super-computers, where they could work on their massively complicated work. Out in the world were the sales people, selling-selling-selling and answering any questions of those who were taking breaks between counting their mountains of money to actually ask how this could be. Maybe they would refer you to the bigger-than-the-bible volumes or they would mutter: " Not sure how it works. When I try to think about it, it makes so little sense that it makes my head hurts. But it's working, look at that mountain of money behind you. Why give yourself a headache when you can have a party?"

So, I was listening to this talk about these amazing formulae that very few could understand and I thought, what happened to logic? What happened to reason? What happened to proof? How could you run with Quarks and Antimatter when you had no idea what they were? You took beautiful math and pure physics and thought this could apply to people? There is a big rule in economics, the rule that means that you can have a theory for every economist on the planet, and that rule is that human behaviour can throw all logic asunder. For example, you can tell a dude that he can earn 10% interest on his money which will be safe in a high security lockbox that only he can access and he will go ahead and stuff his money in his mattress... in his straw hut... that he built next to a blazing furnace because he "don't trust those bastids with my money."

Oh, but wait. Hold it right there. See what happened? These formulae took mountains of money (matter) and got it together with these bigger-than-the-bible documents (antimatter) and we ended up with nothing. They proved what made me walk out of the Physics class when I was 16. The mind boggles; perhaps in this crisis I shall find the proof of quarks - up, down and sideways! Is it too late to start to believe? Can I sign up for the new religion? Or is it to late for me and physics. Has Physics abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit?

I Don't Even Like Kool Aid!

I was 16 when I took my last Physics class. It was the first time I had a choice about whether or not I wanted to take Physics and I had chosen to take Physics. A subject full of logic and reason and proof. Heard about gravity? See this ball? See this ball drop to the ground? Gravity. That was when I was 15.

Then at 16, in that first class of the year, my Physics teacher started on a spiel. How excited he was. Yes, yes, he had told us, for four years in a row, that protons and electrons were the smallest particles known to man. But wait... there was more! Quarks. Up quarks and down quarks. Wha? You mean like ducks, we wondered? No. QUARKS. Going up and down, apparently. They had never been seen but they were there. We just had to believe. Oh, but he didn't stop there.

Remember how, when you were 15, and you learnt that matter can neither be created nor destroyed? Yeah, well, let's rethink that. There is this thing called antimatter and when antimatter meets antimatter you end up with nothing. Nothing? Yup, he said, nothing. To drive the point home, he said that out there was an Anti-Pandave and if, by chance, we happened to cross paths and bump into each other, even if it is totally by mistake, there will be nothing. No Pandave; no Anti-Pan. Just nothing. Not even a puff of smoke! I mean, really, not even a puff of smoke. What kind of chicanery is that? We just had to believe he said. We would learn and our worlds would expand, and it would be incredible.

He was fired up, my Physics teacher was. He could barely keep his feet on the ground and his arms were flailing about. And I thought - I can't do this. He wants me to accept a new religion. A religion of unseen quarks that go in all directions; a religion of an anti-me I should pray I never meet. That is just unacceptable. To accept would mean to live in fear of becoming nothing while walking around just minding my own business. To accept would mean I could never hug a stranger again - who knows what would happen then?

So, at 16, I left my Physics class and walked into a Latin class. I walked in to speak of love and hate, of victory and defeat, of Catullus and Pliny. For how could I embrace a new religion when it didn't even come with chocolate, popcorn or ice cream?

Food? Ick!!

So, while I was working on developing my body scars, I did a spot of reading. One book I read is called "The Eater's Manifesto", where we are instructed to "eat food. not too much. mostly vegetables." Despite the simplicity of the statement, it was a dense read which was both informative and a little unsettling.

A few days later, I received an email inviting me to a jazz performance by a friend. The invitation included a rebuke to "Monsanto". Recognising the name from the Manifesto, I queried 'What do you have so strongly against Big Food?' In response, the friend sent me a link to a "The World According to Monsanto", a documentary about Monsanto's control over the world's agricultural industry. All I can say is that, it is never a good thing when a chemical company is in charge of your food. After watching the documentary, I was afraid to enter my kitchen. What evil lurked in there? What had allowed into my home - genetically modified, growth-hormoned, maybe even cloned (industry doesn't want to have to label it because they are afraid we might not want it if we knew)?

I needed a break!

I stepped over to the TV and slipped in a DVD of a televised version of my favourite radio show, "This American Life". The theme of the episode was "Pandora's Box" and the crew went to a pig factory (at this point, it can no longer be called a farm). At this factory, the start with a super-ultra-hyper bred pig, give it steroids, disguised as nutrition and, presto!, six months later they have a 300 lb, incredibly nervous hulk of meat. 300 pounds. It sounds like a big number, but let me put it in perspective. One of the many things that my sister does on the farm is raise pigs. So, I gave her a call and asked her all sorts of questions, including, 'how big your pigs get?'
She responds, rather pleased that I am finally really fascinated by her work, 'A good size is about 60 kg." Now, my conversion skills are not the best, but I believe that 60kg is about 140lbs. Let's put those numbers next to each other. 300 pounds. 140 pounds.
And remember - Nervous.
Nervous? Why so, you may wonder. Well, turns out that the massive pigs spend their lives in little pens, being stuffed full of some grower mix that makes them a bit nervouse. Then, one day, six months into their tiny world lives, they are ushered out of their pens to take the longest walk of their lives - to the truck that will take them to slaughter. Though the farmers try to keep them calm, these pigs get worked up pretty easily and, sometimes, this maybe 50 metre walk is too much for the pig. Its muscles seize up and it dies on route to the abattoir.

Yeah, so much for that break.

But, I was on a roll. So, why stop now? I'm no quitter! So, last weekend I watched "Food, Inc." another documentary about Big Food that brought together the flora and fauna of the business. I learnt several things, three of these things being:

• There is corn in everything, even diapers
• Chicken is grown in half the time and to twice the size
• They feed animals the darndest things

Since watching all of this I have flashbacks, like - what? why would anyone use ammonia in the processing of meat? or, How does cookie dough end up with E.coli?

At the end of the day I wonder - why does it take so much effort to make sure that what you eat is actually food?

On My Street Corner

He's been there as long as I have been there.  He was there before I was there.  I assumed.

Every day he works at the store at the end of my block.  Tirelessly, he opens the store, he is there all day and then he closes it.  Sometimes I see him cycling up the street, on his way to work.  For thirty years he has been doing that.  For nine years I have been a witness.

We chatted and one holiday he cried as he told me how he missed his wife, who was no longer alive.  He was not looking forward to going home to an empty house; so we talked a little.  And by we, I mean the neighbourhood.  In the morning as I walked by and wished him a good morning, he would hold my hands and kiss my cheek.  He didn't mind if I was super-sweaty from a run, I was never too gross for him.  Or maybe he was just too polite to say.  Or maybe he just knew how he lifted my spirits and how he made me smile.

Sadly, we lost him on Saturday.  He was in an accident as he cycled on Saturday.  He was a part of my neighbourhood.  He was there before I was there.  He would be there after I was there.  I assumed.

No Dessert for You!

There's been a coup!  In my state.  So why aren't there riots in the street?  Or curfews?  Why are we all calmly going about our lives as though nothing has happened?  There's been a coup!

And yet it all just feels like a bunch of petulant children squabbling at the expense of the state's residents - literally and metaphorically.  People are switching sides while others are claiming that they won't talk to one guy because he spends all his time on his Blackberry.  And then the main players leave us wondering what we were thinking when we voted them in; and by we I mean not me.  One has been accused of slashing his girlfriend's face and another may or may not have stolen campaign funds and may not even live where he says he lives.  My, oh my, it makes you just want to throw your hands up in the air and give up.

But we can't give up because there are bills out there that are due to expire and who knows what happens in the world when bills expire.  The state senate is supposed to make some kind of decision about who controls the schools in the city of New York.  The state is supposed to make a ruling about what our sales tax is going to be.  The senators is supposed to determine how much our rents can go up by.  Everyday, the state is losing money due to some snafus that can only be resolved by the state's senators going back to work.  Instead each side is claiming victory, posturing in front of TV screens while doing absolutely none of the work they were elected to do.

There's been a coup?  Why doesn't it feel revolutionary?

A Dream Deferred?

Several months ago Hidef and I went over to the Whitney Museum to check out an Eggleston retrospetive - which was great, by the way.  On our way out, we stopped over at the Museum store where, among many other things, I spotted a jigsaw puzzle of one of Edward Hopper's pieces on sale and I thought, "Why not?"  I like puzzles, I liked the piece and I had never had to put together a 500 piece puzzle of any kind, so this should be fun and better for my brain the television.  

My friend, Boston, was absolutely correct, the puzzle took over my table.  She wasn't wrong at all when she said I would spend a lot of time away from  home thinking about how best to attack the challenge.  She was right when she said my puzzle was going to become the first thing I went to when I got home from work.  But it was a lot less physically painful than training for a marathon, though there were times when my brain hurt.  

I was so proud of the finished product - yes, finished - that I hunted down some glue and stuck it all together.  Ah the joy, the satisfaction... the empty hole in my life once the glue was dry and my table clear again.  What was I to do next?  Well, Hidef went out to another museum and spotted a Basquiat jigsaw puzzle, and I came across a 1,000 piece Obama one.  I started with the 1,000 pieces and boy did that take a while. The pieces were cut a little loose so if I bumped into my table while working, pieces would fall out of place. Also, there was a lot of blue in the puzzle.  A lot and really sometimes all blues look quite alike.  I plugged away and about two weeks before I went under the knife, I had a huge completed puzzle the declared - Yes We Can.  And I did.  I had been forced to go out and get a little side table because there was no space for anything but my puzzle on my big table.  For this masterpiece, I went all out and mounted the puzzle.  This much work must be remembered somehow.

Soon after Earth Day, I was strolling through a Barnes & Noble and came across something I couldn't leave behind.  It was an "Earth Friendly Jigsaw Puzzle".  A 500 piece picture of a Panda bear, each piece is actually a mini-picture of something else to do with being friendly to the earth.  But that wasn't want caught my interest.  Yes it was on sale but that wasn't quite it either.  What got me?  In this little box was an opportunity for me to indulge in some eco-terrorism.  How, you might wonder.  Well, people, the box declared that each piece of this puzzle is imbedded with wildflower seeds!  So, after I finish this puzzle, I can walk down the street, casually tossing jigsaw puzzle pieces into empty lots and, in a few months, I can walk down the same street and be greeted by beautiful, blooming wildflowers (so much more fun than being greeted as a liberator).  I can send little pieces out in every letter I write and spread the love by way of flowers.  

However, I have hit a minor roadblock.  I am struggling with the puzzle.  The little pictures in each puzzle piece serve to confound and confuse me.  The images are tiny, and in less than full-on bright sunlight, I can barely see them.   My will to terrorise the masses by way of beautiful flowers and nectar for the bees is begin slowly and steadily eroded by my ever-squinting eyes and failing sight.  

The only thing renewing my resolve is the occasional glimpse I have into the future.  As I disappear into the sunset on my bicycle (another project) people will wonder - "who was that masked flower bloomer?"

And others will respond, "I don't know but people around her call her the Masked Padaaave!"

Keep The Nightlight On, Please

There was no sport on the TV this afternoon but I needed a break from NPR's Planet Money so I went channel surfing and happened upon BBCAmerica on Demand.  Hmm, "Super Botox Me".  Well, I did watch Supersize Me and that was interesting so let me see what this is about.  There is a journalist, Kate Spicer, who is talking about how she has decided to enter the world of, I don't know, let's call it 'extreme beauty'.  I'm thinking, it's 4pm on a Thursday, I can't do much worse than this.

First she goes to a celebrity photographer and has him take untouched photos of her, sans makeup.  Post photos, they sit a sixteen year old girl next to Kate and three beauty professionals, who have been sitting in the audience, come forward to answer the journalist's question, "What does she have that I don't?"

Oooh, let me take a stab in the dark and say, well, she is young enough to be your daughter, but apparently that is not it.  I hear talk about necks and lips and small faces, which is odd to me because a lot of celebrities have huge heads (ahem, Larry King).  But, moving on.

Ms Spicer decides then to travel to America, cosmetic surgery Mecca, and makes an appointment with, and I'm not making this up, a "Knife Coach."  People pay this coach $500 to get advice on plastic surgery.  Honestly, she is the plastic surgery of a hair dresser with a bad perm that is falling out - I would not trust her with my face (a thought that recurs throughout the show).  She talks casually about starting off by injecting toxins in ones face.  Toxins?  Do we no longer know what the word toxin means?  I'm horrified because her face doesn't move even though she claims that she's raising her eyebrows.  I'm horrified because she is pleased.  I'm horrified because we are only ten minutes into this programme.

Well, this show is not called Super Botox Me for nothing.  While an allegedly conflicted is chatting happily with a consultant about Botoxing her toes and I am wondering why she doesn't just wear more comfortable shoes, a surgeon slips into the room to talk to her about the wonders Botox can do for her face.  He has a sense of humour and that's all it takes to convince her to have multiple shots of poison in her face.  Holy hell!  People do this willingly?  Just to make the face lifeless. 

Before I can take a calming breath, she is off to meet with the doctor who does Madonna's face.  It's like I'm watching a horror movie - I am terrified yet I can't look away.  The doctor is talking about looking the best he can and he looks scary.  I am not sure I could look him in the face while having a conversation with him.  He doesn't look human and yet he is proudly stating that he does his own face.  

And I can't help thinking through all of this that these doctors are the devil's minions.  They really know how to break a person.  After talking to them, one really needs Dodo's ego pump.  Only one doctor in this whole thing that she is beautiful and still he found lots of things he could do to "improve" her.  So Kate ends up being injected in the face, with poison, over 75 times, having the skin around her eyes lasered off and still not feeling much better yet needing more, more, more.

Finally, with a frozen face, filled out cheekbones and substantially less skin protecting her eyes, she returns to have her photo taken and her ego picked apart.  Did I mention that one of these beauty experts has obviously had a plastic surgeon work on her face.  She is the one to rave about how Kate looks as though she just took a fortnight off at a spa and now looks naturally rested.  The male beauty pro says Kate looks great but feels she went a little overboard with the Botox - her face from the cheeks up just doesn't move anymore.  But plastic-surgeoned expert disagrees vehemently.  "you look natural."  As though she even knows what natural looks like anymore.  Could she know a furrowed brow if it kicked her in her toxined behind?  

I fear soon that none of us will.  

If It Lasts More Than Four Hours...

My mother came to town to take care of me as wonderful mothers do.  My mother loves CNN and live sport.  Therefore, I have been watching a lot of live television.  In my regular life, I live by the creed of the digital video recorder where, if it can be helped, no TV is to be watched live.  The great benefit of delayed television is the ability to fast forward through commercials.  

Instead I have spent the last month learning about how "I should ask my doctor" about all kinds of drugs.  Drugs for depression, mood and skin control via a birth control pill that is not really for birth control but actually to keep your skin clear and your moods light, erectile dysfunction drugs, oh and some medication to grow eyelashes!  Yes, I am supposed to ask my doctor about some medication that will, apparently, give me eyelashes like Brook Shields'.  

So how exactly am I to broach the subjects with my doctor, you know the one with all the medical degrees?  

"Um, Doctor?  Mr M.D.?  I was sitting at home watching my television and I know you are telling me that I'm just fine but I was watching my TeeVee and this guy with an awesome voice told me that I needed to be talking to you about this medication that will make my life awesome.  I see you shaking my head but the voice sent me to a website with amazing coupons, I'll be paying like half price for these drugs and, well Brooke Shields says my eyelashes can be so much more than what you see before you.  Yeah, yeah, okay so the risks are suicidal thoughts, loose stools and maybe death, but the voice sounded so happy as it rushed through these risks and, honestly, they can't be that serious.  If they were serious risks, would this drug be all over television, at at prime time to boot?  I don't think so.  I have learnt a lot when I thought I was just watching a tennis match and I think I know a little more than you give me credit for.  So what?  You have the degrees and the prescription pad but I have CABLE TV!  Don't keep me from the glorious air-brushed me; make me as cool as the people in the ads."

But please give me your personal number, you know, in the "rare case of side effects".

Ode To Mmm... Mmmmm Good

I love lychees.  I love litchis.  I love a fruit that can be spelt in many different ways and still be correct.  Aren't they awesome?  Such delicious little fruits, I don't get why it's near impossible to find them in the grocery store.  Perhaps the grocery store owners think that we'll be put off by their crackly, knobby exteriors.  Oh owners, how little you know!  Such exteriors add to the joy of consumption.  You crackle and peel your way past the knobby skin to the beautiful, fleshy, delicious interior.  Such sweet tanginess.  And a perfect size to pop inside your mouth and work away.  And just when it's getting good, just too keep you interested, you get to the seed. And not just any old seed, let me tell you, but a perfectly smooth round seed that can then be used by children as some kind of pelting toy.  Or a fake marble.  So it is not just great-tasting it also serves multiple purposes.

And yet my opportunities to enjoy this wonder of nature are few and far between.  In fact, I pretty much only ever come across the litchi in the form of a litchi martini which, I know, is not a real martini but tastes so good AND has a litchi (two if I'm lucky) in it.  As I wrote this post, I was at a street fair, sipping on a litchi in sparkling wine.  You see, I'll take my litchis however you choose to give them to me.  Can anything be as fabulous as the litchi?

Oh look, cherries...

Forget The Horses

You know what the great sign of the Apocalypse is?  Autotune.  People out there are going on about war and pollution but I'm telling you this - you know how we can be sure that the end is nigh?  The fact that just about everyone on radio sounds like a computer with laryngitis.

How did this happen?  When did this happen?  And, how have we not all gone catatonic from the assault on our senses?  This is worse than McDonald's and Pizza Hut trying to pass off their fare as gourmet.  yes, McCafe, I'm looking at you.  Adding an accent grave does not high quality food make.  It just serves to deaden the taste buds, apparently.  

Dead ears.  Dead taste buds.  Oh no... wait... Is this it?  Is there no hope left? 

Excuse Me, You're Who From Where?

My attention was caught by the news story on the Air France plane. The TV blared - plane disappears while en route to France. Of course I had to stop. How can a plane go missing? In this day and age and nowhere near the Bermuda Triangle? For all the puzzlement I feel and for all the updates on television since the story first broke, I have no answers. It feels like an episode of the Twilight Zone gone tragically wrong.

Then, last night I tune into CNN and my future best friend, Anderson Cooper, declares - coming up, a plane disappears while flying from Brazil to France, along with all its passengers which included 2 Americans. He proceeded to flash a photo of the, apparently, only two passengers on the plane worth reporting on and I had an Animal Farm moment - All Animals are created equal, but some animals are more equal than others.

Funny how a book I read what feels like several lifetimes ago can pop into my head and make me feel so sad.

Well, one can only hope that the plane, and all it's passengers, might have decided to take a break on an island because the pilot is a huge fan of Lord of the Flies.

Note To Self

Pandave, remember this always - never live in a place where you might be snowed, rained or anything elsed in for days on end. You do not function too well without outside.

It really hit home last night when I made an awesomely bad joke and started laughing. And then I felt as though I would burst into hysterical tears if I didn't stop laughing soon. Yet, the laughter would not stop. Had I not had guests, I might have let go but how do you explain to people that you are okay while crying hysterically at the worst joke you have probably ever told? Well, now that I write it down, crying at a bad joke seems quite reasonable.

I digress. I just want to be out and about and unafraid to skip, hop jump. If this is anything, it is a supreme test in patience. The grey and damp weather doesn't help much either. Maybe if my toes didn't feel like ice blocks, I might not feel so squashed on the inside. But, enough of this nonsense, hidef is coming by to carry my laundry so I can take it to the laundromat. He will also take me to the post office so he can carry my package home for me.

But let me share cool news - my dressing came off and my scar was relieved. My mother said she was not happy but I think it looks really good. Not as intimidating as I might have imagined but it is about 4 inches long which, I would say, is not to be sniffed at should I have to assert some kind of street cred somewhere. Plus, I am standing up straight now, my mother informed me, and the weather forecast is talking sunshine in the near future.

Putting it all in perspective, anything that gets me excited about doing laundry can't be all bad, now can it? That said, I'm not making any plans to move to any extreme weather zone.

What The Doctor Ordered

Today I made it all the way down from the fourth floor of my walk-up and I made it outside into the sunshine.  How glorious that was - my small victory for the day.  Also during this time, I read about a certain young stoat whose life makes this last week seem like a stroll in the park.  I mean, people, when he gets cut up, he doesn't even have anyone to stitch him up again.  I doubt his scars will look anywhere as pretty as mine.

I haven't seen the scar yet - the doctor won't let me take the dressing off - but I do know that it will be rather intimidating should I ever end up in the slammer.  I think I could really grow to love it.  

It is just great to have a clear mind again - no more meds now - I can actually finish a sentence, or few.

They Saw, He'll Saw, I'll Soar!

Well, the doctor was wrong, kinda, but she was also right, kinda.  She was wrong, so she doesn't get the pleasure of cutting me open.  But she was kinda right so another doctor gets the pleasure.  Now he is intent of pushing me to start a new fashion trend - I'll have to learn to love my new scar.  It will be a symbol of strength, surivival and the power of the MRI.  I'm thinking that after all the jabbing and blood-taking and mumbled discussions that I have had to endure, a trend-worthy, don't-mess-with-me-in-prison scar is the least the medical profession can do for me.  The bonus?  I get to take a couple of weeks off work.  So I'm out for a couple of days but then, like a bad Terminator movie - I'll be back.

It Should Be Every Day

Today in New York, is Poem In Your Pocket day.  The 7th annual Poem In Your Pocket day.  And I only just found out.  I mean, I know I have been out of the loop lately, but this is ridiculous.  I have long mourned the demise of poetry, I have often admired those who can string a few words together and create a novel-worthy story.  I live to read a few words that move me to tears, laughter or an ah-ha moment.  And I had no idea!  I am really beginning to believe that I am living under a rock for real.

But, now that I know, I have embraced this day with zeal.  I have produced one really bad poem that I gave to hi-def to carry in his pocket.  I stood in the shower and hoped to come up with something I could share with the world.  I couldn't even come up with a haiku and that's 17 syllables.  

I want to rhyme with reason

In every clime and season

Except, well Winter, I don't know

All I want to do then is go

Huddle under the covers and cry

Until the cold and misery pass by

But forget that, it's now time for sun

And warm rain and nothing but fun

But for longevity I'm thinking maybe a locket

It's not always safe to have a poem in my pocket

Busy, Busy, Aahhhh

I ran away the other day.  I ran away to sand and surf and an ocean that one can frolic in without a wetsuit.  I made just one plan - to take a surfing lesson; and that was it.  Yesterday, I took the lesson in very windy conditions and super-choppy waves.  I fell off my board countless times and came back with half the beach in my swimsuit.  And the biggest smile in the country.  I spent the evening with family and friends, laughing, eating and drinking.  Today I got up at noon and still managed to take a yoga class, sit in a hot tub and take a swim in the pool.  Oh and walk around a bookstore and visit an all you can eat buffet.  Did I mention the sunshine?  Did I mention that I was in no hurry to do anything?  Did you know that even if I had not done any of those things, it wouldn't have mattered because I didn't have to do anything today.  

Oh sunshine - all you have to do is be there and I'm happy.  Yep, I'm super easy to please and you have me over the moon.

Kumbaya

It's earth day today and all I have received in my mail inbox about this is a lot of messages about how I can be greener and friendlier to my planet by buying more stuff. I am sure that, if I thought about it for long enough, it would all make sense. Either that or my brain would explode. I am not taking any chances so I'll just delete the emails and forget all about them.

You know, I could get all cliche about it all and compliment Earth on how great she looks for her age, despite all the abuse she has to put up with. I could try to make her feel better by telling green lies about how we all really care and everyone is doing all they can to make sure that she lasts as long as possible; or rather how everyone is doing all they can to make sure we stick around for ages and ages to celebrate her birthday. I could head over to my email's trash, reclaim said emails and go on a huge shopping spree in her honour. But I don't think she wants to hear all of that - I am guessing that is why she made sure today was so unseasonably cold and damp that my fingers could not work well enough to spend the day writing endless odes in her honour.

Instead, a song got stuck in my head during my morning yoga class (yes, I am still going, and, no, it is not getting any easier to wake up, but, maybe, just maybe I am a friendlier person in the morning than I used to be). And only two lines from said song. So, all day long, as I have gone about my day, celebrating the awesomness that is Earth, if you put a microphone in my head, all you would hear is:
Love, love, love one another
We can remake the world

Yup, and it doesn't even rhyme.

And then just as I started writing this, a word popped into my head - Kumbaya. To which another part of my brain responded - but what does that even mean?

What About a Shoutout for Me?

So, President Hugo Chavez, word on the street is that you have the golden touch and I would like just a little brush up.  Just a touch, sir, please.  First, you were hanging out at the UN and you held up "Hegemony or Survival: America's Quest for Global Dominance" and suddenly Noam Chomsky was the number one bestseller on Amazon.  Bookstores were selling out of the book.  People called it a fluke but now you have shown them.

Just a few days ago you were out and about at The Summit of the Americas, rubbing shoulders with American leaders and you spotted Barack Obama across the room.  All week all kinds of conversations had been going on but you decided that spoken words can be fleeting, they can float away like leaves on a stream.  So you strode across and handed Barack Obama a book - Open Veins of Latin America: Five Centuries of the Pillage of a Continent - and now Eduardo Galeano, the author, is the hottest thing about.  He jumped over 50,000 spots on the Amazon bestseller list to land at number two, and all in just two days!  

So, I'm just asking you to give my book a little shoutout.  Granted, I don't even have a publisher but I know you speaking of me and my work will have them breaking down my door.  Actually, I don't need a publisher, just say my name and mention my manuscript and I'm sure the unpublished pile of pages can sneak into the top 100.  Okay, okay so my book is not directly about politics but, if you think about it long enough, isn't everything political?  Right now I have no scenes set anywhere in Latin America, but I'm willing to work with you - the heroine could take an exciting vacation - I'm a flexible person.

I just ask for a little of your magic dust.  Seriously, sir, you have more book power than Oprah.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!

You know what the biggest con is? No, not Bernard Madoff or Made for TV products. I'll tell you what it is. In visible Solid Anti-Perspirant. Bottle after bottle on the drugstore shelf declares it. INVISIBLE! Black-dress-friendly! We swear it won't leave marks on your clothing. And yet, every day I get dressed and, no matter how carefully I pull my top on, I end up with massive white streaks on my clothes. Then I have to decide: do I go out as is and try to pass the streaks off as a fashion statement or do I clean said streaks off witha wet towel and try to pass the wet patches off as the fashion statement?

I have tried waiting ten mintues for the solid to dry - though one would think a solid would already be pretty dry. Either way, the streaks still prevail. There is no beating them. There is no getting around them. Youc oudl start off with a "clear solid". CLEAR. And still get the streaks. I mean, seriously, scientists, you can invent seedless watermelons, you have Viagra, and I still have streaks on my clothing.

But then again, maybe I'm the sucker here. I am the one who keeps walking into the pharmacy and thinking - oh look, they say this one won't leave marks. I'll try this one, I'm sure they have a better formula now. I'm beginning to think that they have decided that the market is pretty inflexible and so we will buy whatever they throw at us.

Maybe I'll start a grassroots movement for truly invisible anti-perspirant. We'll all stop wearing anything at all and gather around the scientists until they flee the sweaty stench, into their labs. We'll stand outside until they have found something that works. They will not dare emerge and face our stinky selves until they have a solution. Oh yes, I think that's what I'll do.

Look out, scientists, we're coming for you!