Sigh... Not Again

it seems my doctor thinks one scar is not enough for me. she wants me to go under the knife again. maybe she feels i need to gain more symmetry through two scars. i might be wrong, maybe she wants to make my current scar bigger. you know, just in case i REALLY have to prove how tough i am. i can be all - you don't scare me, look at my scar! and no one will say, what? that little thing?

funny thing is though that, after a couple of hours in the office, i still have no idea whether or not they are going to cut me open. she pushed, i resisted and we compromised with more tests. so the standoff continues...

Get It Right!

i don't ask for much, generally as a rule. on most days, if i am warm and the sun is out, i'm good. a lot of the time, people mangle my name. i mean, mangle it so much that sometimes i wonder if perhaps i am saying my name incorrectly. however, i have decided culture has something to do with it - depending on where i am people tend to destroy my name in the same way.

sometimes i think they have it right but then they send me a note and i see that, yeah, they're still off. Sometimes they go phonetic to the extreme and I get notes on my desk addressed to the likes of PahNdahVe. Or maybe to PawNdaVee (because that is how they heard it, apparently). And you know it's fine because it could be worse. My brother used to get notes addressed to Josie, which is a girl's name and sounds nothing like his name. So, yeah, I'm getting the better deal.

However, what I find absolutely unforgivable, what really gets my goat, is when people spell my name wrong when responding to emails from me! So you see my name in the address line that tells you who the email from. Then, you see my name when I sign off, probably sending you all kinds of terms of endearment. And then you click reply and proceed to decide how you feel I should spell my name. And not only do you do that, nine times out of ten you spell it in a way I have hated since I was 8. So what? You think I don't know how to spell my name, the one thing I remember since the first grade? Or maybe you think the way you do it is better. You go in and add letters and syllables and it makes me wonder if you really read my email. You can't even blame spell check because what you did, spell check won't even accept.

All I am saying is that if Eureka can tell me "It's pronounced Erica, the U is silent," and I can give her that, because that is her name, how difficult is Pandave?
If you feel you just can't type it, feel free to cut and paste.

Day One

A sea of people. That is what it was. Each one of us was a drop, an excited, happy, inspired drop. Standing in it was one thing, looking up at the screen to see that it was larger than we could imagine was a moment of wonder.
There was a woman who has lived in Northern Virginia for over 20 years and yet this was the first inauguration that she was attending. After experiencing the smaller crowds on Sunday, she considered staying home and watching the festivities on television. However, when she woke up on Tuesday, she realised that there was no way she could stay home. She set out, boarded the subway and sat behind me. She gave us priceless information on how to best get a good spot when we got to the inauguration.

There was the man standing next to me on the crowded train. He was smiling with everyone else, and encouraging others to squeeze into the train car with us. He looked down at me and my coat, which was adorned with buttons I had collected during the presidential campaign. "Can I have a button, you have so many?" I hesitated - each had a story. "I'll pay you a dollar, no a dollar fifty for it." I looked down at my coat and took one off. "You can have this." "You want something for it?" "No, not at all. Enjoy it." He smiled at me, looked away and shouted "Obama button! Five dollar!!" Of course he was kidding. But I was happy - my button now had a new story.

There was the young lady standing behind us at the National Mall who kept bending down, as though she had dropped something. It was really crowded and I was worried that perhaps she was not feeling well. "Are you okay?" "I forgot to wear my socks today." I looked down and saw that she was wearing cute moccasins and, indeed, no socks. "My feet are really cold and so I am trying to cover them with my hat and keep them a little warm." "I have a foot warmer." It was true. I started out with two - I put one in my boot and felt hobbled so I put the second one, unopened, in my coat pocket. Hidef also had one and so she ended up with two foot warmers and I hope it helped. She stopped bending over to adjust her hat over her feet.

There were the many around us with whom we shared this incredible moment. We cheered as dignitaries came out onto the Capitol. Yes, some booed as our former president came out but they soon bit their tongues - there really wasn't any need anymore. It was past. Why hold on to that? We just move on. Hopefully, unlike me, the rest of the world learns from its mistakes. We smiled at the cuteness of Malia and Sasha. We roared when President Elect Barack Obama came out onto the stage. Then we were silent as first Joe Biden took his Vice Presidential oath and then Barack Obama took his Presidential oath. The elation at the reality that we now had a new President was like nothing I have ever seen before. There were tears, there was singing, there were hugs and kisses and words of relief. Then a hush as the new President made his speech.

There were so many of us, we could barely move but that was okay. We struck up conversations and made jokes as old friends do. When the announcer instructed people to stand and sit, we the people, with barely enough room to move, let alone sit, shouted back "Well, if you insist! If we must. If that's what makes you happy." When a woman standing by us was moved to make proclamations "Yes! It's time, it's time! I'm so tired. Lawd bring him in." We laughed and nodded in agreement. When we someone unable to wait any longer, squeezed by us on their way to a porta-potty, we squashed ourselves closer to strangers without complaint. And as we travelled through a wonderful rainbow of emotion, it still felt like an awesome dream.

There was the most helpful Metro man who had to stand in the frigid cold, with no bodies close to keep him warm, as he herded us into trains to set us on our way. There were the police and army men who were smiling, helpful and amazingly polite as they tried to help us as we walked in amazing masses around the capital. It's amazing how much order a little goodwill can bring.

And this morning I woke up, turned on my radio and heard reference to "President Barack Obama" and it really started to hit me - it really is a new day today.

Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

I was reading the paper the other day and I saw that a 22-year old woman is auctioning off her virginity. The latest bid was $3.6 million. That's US dollars. The knee-jerk reaction is "What is wrong with people?" But I am not going to be all knee-jerky. I am going to take an objective view. Yes, I am.

Perhaps virginity is a sacred thing of great value. In fact, one might say it is priceless. Can a value even be placed on it? Isn't $3.6 million a huge bargain? Perhaps... No.

This is pure economics - supply and demand. Virginity is scarce, almost impossible to find, like a diamond or a unicorn. So it only makes sense that it would come at a high price. So if we follow the laws of economics we can... No.

Okay, Okay. So, Ms Dylan (the virgin in question) says she was inspired by her sister who paid for college by working as a prostitute. She decided that the smarter thing to do would be a one shot deal of a lifetime and, it seems she will be able to go to college for a mighty long time on those funds. Ms Dylan plans on going to college to study Family and Marriage Therapy. So this is like pre-emptive research - we are living in a pre-emptive strike world, after all. Because auctioning off her virginity to someone with a few million dollars hanging about and the desire to spend it on something special is a great study in human... No.

Maybe virginity is the cornerstone of Family and Marriage and with it we wouldn't need therapy... No.

I can't help it, I just keep coming back to "What's wrong with people?"

But you know what? If Ms Dylan's virginity can go for 3.6 million and she's only 22, what of the 107-year old Chinese virgin, Wang Guiying, who has decided that it is time for her to meet Mr. Right and get married. I mean, that is like antique virginity. Like an original Da Vinci or something. Oooh no, maybe even like relics from a Pyramid. We might be talking $700 billion virginity here. I can't believe she's not even trying to auction her virginity. Hey Ms Guiying! It's never too late to go back to college and you know it's not getting any cheaper!!

Free, Free, Set them Free!

Anyone who engages me in conversation lately will discover, very quickly, that I have become a huge fan of National Public Radio. When I get to work in the morning I click it on, just in time for the BBC news hour and that is followed by several shows. I also listen to various podcasts of other shows. There is just so much interesting stuff going on out there and I get to listen while I work which, in the office I work in, is apparently more acceptable than whistling while I work.

So I was listening to a show about Zoos, or rather about how animals operate depending on their environment. A scientist performed an experiment where they put monkeys under three living conditions: one group lived in concrete cages, one group lived in luxury - a large living area with trees and toys and all kinds of wonder, and a third group that was "middle class" - it lived in a reasonably sized area, with fewer toys et al. The brain functions of these monkeys was measured and, to cut a long story short, the middle class monkeys had brain activity of 25-40% (or some big number) greater than the concrete caged monkeys. The difference between the middle and luxury was not as great. Apparently it was negligible. Similar studies were performed with birds in capitivity versus birds living in the wild and the same results were found.

That got me thinking - am I living in a concrete cage? I mean, my apartment is small enough to qualify as on the level of cage. Am I in auto pilot - going to and from work, doing the same things every day and letting my brain atrophy? What am I doing to make sure that I keep my brain working? Wait a minute... why do I assume that my brain is even working?

I Promise To Tell The Truth... Kinda.

When I was in primary school, I went to the library every Friday, at least. The library helped in this plan by making sure that library books were due every two weeks. It was pretty much a social event; a thing we did every Friday. We would hop on our bicycles after school, ride over to the library and hang out a little after picking out our books. The library was near the local public swimming pool, and near a mini-shopping centre. There was no shortage of things for aimless youths to get up to, and of course, one could always sit in the library and read.

One such Friday, when I was about eleven years old, I was hanging out at the library when one of my friends suggested we go over to a women's clothing store to look at bras. So we checked out our books and headed over, despite the fact that maybe, at a stretch, only one of my friends had a chest worth supporting. But we knew it was coming and we wanted to be ready to wear the lacy contraptions we had spotted in our mothers' laundry. We giggled and gasped and the saleslady was very patient with us but we were soon bored and headed out of the store.
"Pandave, where is your bicycle," one of my friends asked me.
"I must have left it at the library, let's just walk over and get it."
"Didn't you bring it over here?"
"I couldn't have because it's not here, is it?" I fully confident my bicycle would be standing outside the library once we went around the corner.

But it wasn't. It was gone. We walked the block about ten times before I would admit it to myself and someone called the police. A few days later, my father took me in to the police station to give a statement and he sat with me as I gave it. The policeman looked up at me and asked, "So what were you doing when your bicycle was stolen?"
"Um, I had been at the library and then my friends and I went to a women's clothing store."
"What were you doing in the women's store, and how long were you there?"
I glanced over at my father, dead nervous. I talked to my father about many many things, but we had never had a conversation about my boobs and I wasn't about to start now, not in front of this stranger. But, what could I do? The man had asked me a question and was looking at me, expectantly.
"Ummm, looking at dresses."
Yes, I lied. I lied about what I was doing in that store and I could barely sleep that night. I kept imagining the police going into the store and asking about the young girls who were looking at dresses and the saleslady looking surprised. "Dresses? They were not here looking at dresses, they were looking at bras. That little lady is a liar. Prosecute her for perjury."

Oh I worried for months. I worried when they found the man who stole my bicycle and called me in to court, in case I had to take the stand. I wondered what I would do. I wanted to take it back and say I was looking at bras but I couldn't figure out how to do so and not look like some kind of criminal. How could I have lied to the police. The bench was huge, and I sat alone, waiting to be arrested once it came out that I had lied. I worried until the court clerk came out and let me know that my testimony would not be needed and I could go home. I breathed a sigh of relief. For a second I wondered if I had been deemed a bad witness, due to my lies about accessories for my non-existent chest. Then I realised that I was not going to jail. Not that day, anyway.

I have never been so happy to go to school.

You Are Here ---->

So when I was in high school I faced a big choice when it came to what exams I was going to take for my GCSE - History or Geography. Well, my father and I both thought it was a no brainer but the big decision came because we did not agree. I was looking forward to History; my father felt my future would be better served by Geography. "My dear, what kind of job are you going to get with History?"
"Umm, but Mom has a degree in History and she is working. Plus, I enjoy History."
Apparently he had forgotten but it was too late, "Well, you know what I mean."
My mom gave him a look that probably meant, we'll discuss this when the kids aren't here and made no comment.
He tried to explain to me how practical Geography is and how scandalised he was by my lack of knowledge when it came to various cities in Zimbabwe are. What could I do? He tried to make me happy in life and it was the least I could do. So we came to compromise. I took History in school and took a correspondence course in Geography. I wrote both exams.

Yesterday I was coming out of the gym, which I have been going to for several weeks now, with a co-worker. I took the escalator, took a turn and headed towards the office, chatting away. Then from a distance I heard, "Errr, the office is this way."

Apparently it goes beyond cities in Zimbabwe. It seems I don't know where anything is. I am pretty handy at reading maps though. Once I figure out where I am.

Why A Typewriter, Mom??

so sometimes at work, i need a break. to blink, to breath, to be. but what to do?
see, i share an office with my boss and as soon as he hears the click clacking of my keyboard speed up, he asks me what i am up to. apparently, not even i can work as quickly as what he can hear. my dilemma.

you see, i learnt to touch type many years ago. my mom decided that being able to type was very important and she sent me to a woman who thought that "ladies don't chew gum" (but i ain't no lady) and she used a typewriter. an old, manual one. so my lessons involved learning how to bang very hard on a keyboard in order to get anything back. and so now that is how i type. nothing makes it better. i have tried so-called quiet keyboards,but they are still noisy. i have tried typing slowly but my mind tends to move rather quickly when i think sometimes and my rewind button is rather sticky. i have tried wearing gloves when i type but then i hit the wrong characters on the keyboard.

help!

my eyeballs are dry, i am turning blue and i fear i may turn into a pillar of salt if stifled.

Strolling Down the Lane

welcome to 2009! and let me tell you, this is the best 2009 yet! you better get in on it, it will be gone soon.

let me share. i found a diary on my bookshelf. it was my diary. from 1990. i was surprised to find it. i was sure my mother had pretty much all my old stuff. i was rather surprised by this diary. for one thing, i thought i was much happier in 1990. i mean, when i talk about years in my life i could have done without 1990 has never featured. i do know that i declared 1991 my best year ever for at least 7 years. looking at my diary i am thinking that perhaps 1991 was so awesome because 1990 sucked so hard. if that is true then it just goes to prove that the lows are essential. how else would you know that you were on an upswing? but i digress.

back to the diary.

• i crossed off every day as it passed. up until october 20th.
  
• my father was my emergency contact.
  
• i got my driver's licence in 1990. it was a very exciting day for me. that is one thing i certainly do remember. i remember the tester, even though he is not mentioned in my diary. i think i decided writing about him and his negativity would defile my diary.
• i wanted to get a second set of holes in my ears in 1990. of course my mother said no. i had to wait until i got to college.
  
• on january 17, 1990 i wrote the following: "Gargled with Listerine. I think my mouth is dead," proving that i really never learn some things.
• every time i went out somewhere, i would come home and list everyone i had seen that day. now i can barely remember my own name when i get home on some days. so, some things do change.

and i made absolutely no resolutions. hmmmm... now, is that something i need to change?