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!

Cease & Desist

Dear Weather:

I have long understood your power and acknowledge that you are way stronger than I could ever hope to be. You can break the will of entire nations, what hope does little old me have? I believe that I give you the deference you deserve but, if you feel I disrespect you, I apologise. I do try.

I am therefore writing to respectfully ask you to cease and desist your current actions. It was a punch to the stomach when I turned to the window, during yoga class, and saw snow but yesterday was out of order. I mean, it was the 8th of April. We are well into spring and I am trying to deal with the fact that it is still too cold to put away my winter coat. Getting out of bed in the morning to come to work has been difficult enough under grey skies. I have tried to be zen about the splashes of sunlight and decent weather followed by day upon endless day of rain, cold and gloom. I have tried to remain upbeat about it all, and I have tried to convince myself that this is just the normal path to the warmth of the summer months.

But yesterday was clearly a malicious act that not even the weather people had the heart to warn us about (or maybe their crystal balls are defective). We came to work, sans coats and umbrellas and some had even uncovered their pools. And then... SNOW. Weather, how could you. SNOW? You drive us to the edge of sanity. I'm about to fall over the edge. I want to stop talking about you; I want us to live in harmony.

Right now, all I am is demoralised. I have no morals left.

Yours sincerely,
Pandave

Do You Dare Look?

i always have too much and for that i blame my mother. i can say that because i also speak of how organised my mother is and wonder i inherited absolutely none of that. but yeah, i always have too much. my mom, she can never throw anything away - she is always convinced that you can squeeze a little more out of anything. i have a pot in the house that barely has a bottom. i mean, seriously, what can one do with a bottomless cooking pot? and yet it is still in my house. so, i can't throw stuff away and, in glorious addition tot hat, i am the queen of just-in-case. to show you, let's take a trip through my handbag.

• I have a small magic wallet that holds my driver's licence, metro card (for the subway), bank cards and a little bit of cash for small things like a snack, water and gum.
• I have a large wallet, in which I keep my health insurance card, my doctors' business cards, receipts, change (magic wallet only holds bills), cheque book, extra cash, just in case I run out of cash in my magic wallet, my New York Roadrunners membership card, my dental benefits card and my eyecare benefits card.
• I have two ChicoBags. One is blue and the other is purple. This is just in case I stop some place for some groceries. Then I can tell them - No plastic bags, thanks, I brought my own.
• I have a litte mini note pad. Just in case I need to write a little mini note.
• I have a mini tub of Vaseline, a lip tube of Vaseline and several lip glosses. Apparently I have a subconcious fear of dry lips.
• I have a mini pouch that I originally got for my change. But that was before I got my current large wallet. Now this pouch holds my AAA membership card (even though I don't have a car), my airline miles club cards and my Prospect Park membership card. Oh and a piece of stone that broke off a necklace about two years ago.
• Sunglasses - just in case it gets sunny.
• Hand cream, for when my hands get dry
• Several different typs of pens and a pencil - for taking notes, and doing puzzles while I travel.
• My Ipod for listenign to music and podcasts
• Allergy pills and eyedrops and a nasal spray. To keep the allergies in check. I almost never use the eyedrops because I hate waiting to be able to see again after I have put the drops in.
• Tissues - just in case I need to blow my nose or offer tissues to a kid with a runny nose on the subway.
• I mini-case holding my business cards. Whenever I go to a meeting at work when I actually need to give someone my business cards, I leave my handbag behind in my office. So this case is quite full and unused.
• A case that has clear pockets that holds my Zipcard for when I rent a Zipcar. The zipcar has these awesome cards that unlock the doors just by holding the card up to the sensor on the windscreen. This case also has a tip table, more airline membership cards, and an expired Costco membership card.
• A clock/calculator that Time Magazine sent me. It is rather unwieldy but sometimes I need a calculator or maybe just to know the time in Moscow.
• A book of matches - I have no idea why that is in my bag.
• Rice paper - apparently for when my face gets shiny. My face gets shiny every day and yet I use the rice paper, maybe, once every three months.
• My work ID - the one that gives me first access to the building, before I start entering pass codes et al.
• My very super old cellphone that works only half the time.
• Sore joint rub, compliments of medicine of the people. It is my Navajo approach to the pain in my knees.
• Nail files for smoothing and shaping my nails - whenever they aren't just breaking.
• A mini torch, aka flashlight, just in case the lights go out.
• Herbal tea bags.
• A book to read (I try to listen to a podcast on my way to work and read on my way home)
• EMERGENCY CHOCOLATE.

So, I don't have a makeup bag because I have not figured out where to find the space without breaking my shoulders. But I do have my other bag for lunch, sports gear (if I'm going to the gym), extra shoes for work (even though I already have about six pairs under my desk, that I sometimes cycle during the day if my feet get sore), a sweater - just in case it gets cold, and any other extras I need to take in to the office.

I also have a drawer at work where I keep an umbrella, just in case it starts raining while I'm at work, another sweater, a spare charger for my barely working phone, more tea, dental floss and brown sugar.

Now, on the weekend, I try to stop and unpack the bag and seriously ask myself - Pandave, do you really need this? And the answer is always - well, just in case.

Want Ad?

i was persuing the paper the other day and came across a story about a woman who had allegedly bartered her two kids to a couple, in exchange for an exotic bird and $175. The couple that owned the bird and the $175 were a couple who had been trying to have a child - they went so far as to have fertility treatments - but were unsuccessful and also now no longer had much money. But they had a bird and a little under $200 and out there there was a woman who wanted a bird and cash with which to buy birdseed, it looks like. And so of course, it all begs the question - how did that deal all come about?

Apparently the woman made this deal after responding to an ad on a flier that she saw. Now, I spent a train ride trying to come up with possible wording for that flier:

For Sale Exotic Bird. Will take Cash or Children

Great Parents Seek Children. We have nothing but Love to Give. Oh and a Bird

Your Kids Too Much For You? How About a Bird? So much Less maintenance. Let's Swop.


And then, how did the conversation at the house go?
"I thought the bird would fill the void, but it's just not working. You are so lucky to have those kids."
"Oh no, you're the lucky ones; that's one beautiful bird you have. Hey, you know what? Give me the bird and $200 and I'll give you the kids. I think we'll be just about even."
"Well, we only h ave $175."
"You guys drive a hard bargain but, you know, that is one gorgeous bird. It's a deal."

Oh to be a fly on that wall.

Call Me Crotchety Grandma

There are many newfangled things that I don't understand. I don't get how it is now fashionable for women to wear a leotard sans any kind of bottom (skirt, pants, shorts, anything) and consider that an outfit - I'm looking at you Madonna and Beyonce. I'm still trying to wrap my head around Twitter - I thought tweeting was a thing only little birds did. So, yeah, I'm not the model of modern life and I do get that things change but I hope the world changes its mind about putting the word QUICK out to pasture. How can the English language survive without it? I mean it goes beyond, the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog or a rhyming word for candlestick (as in jack be nimble, jack be quick). It just brings a little colour to a conversation. Fast this, fast that - can't we be quick every once in a while?

And you can do so much with quick - you can be quick, or run quickly; you can quicken your pace lest you sink in quicksand. And, well it just seems like a word full of speed. Maybe I have a bias. Maybe I'm just using the demise of quick as a way to block the painful-like-nails-on-a-blackboard rampant use of the word "good" as an adverb. I mean, people, well is just as short as good - is it too difficult a word to learn?

And for all this grumpy old-lady grumbling, I blame my high school English and Latin teachers for brainwashing me with the rules. I shake my fist at you, Mrs Davidson, you did bad!

Oh March, Why So Literal?

Okay so I get that the word on the street is that you are "in like a lion and out like a lamb", but you know people don't really expect you to take that seriously. And, even if you did, we would be quite okay with you being "in like a lion CUB"; being that a lamb is a baby sheep and all, I think that would make sense. Even if you forgot and just gamoled like a lamb all the way through, we would also be okay with that.

But no, you had to send us the worst storm of the season, coupled with bitingly cold high winds and frigid temperatures. I mean, there is a point where numbers on a thermometer cease to matter and I'm thinking that point is when it's so cold it feels as though there is an ice drill working it's way into your skull, via your exposed forehead. As I trudged down the street to catch the train to work, I wondered if I was walking too slowly and carefully. That question was promptly answered by the sight of a woman who had just rushed past me slipping and falling to the icy pavement. I battled the elements in to the office, only to find that a snow day had been called. Oh well, since I was out anyway, I went over to the Apple store to take a class on using my MacBook (yes, I have finally made the switch and it is way more awesome than I imagined!)

I digress, March. I'm here on a mission. To implore you to try to be less literal about things. By the time we get to you, we are tired of winter. We are mentally at our limit - we can't do snow, cold or general dark weather anymore. We are ready for spring blossoms, lighter coats and we are so ready to smile up at the sunny sky (while avoiding poop, of course). So feel free to create a new cliche, like maybe "hope after a bleak winter" or "spring starts here" or "April, Schmapril". But, you can wait until next year - just to be sure, let's close out the cliche, please. We really need some lamby weather.

But Why Where I Walk?

I come across a lot of poop in my life.  Now, if I lived on the farm with my mother and my sister, that would make a lot of sense; in fact, it might even be a given.  But I don't.  I don't even, to the best of my knowledge, live near a farm.  I actually live in a city of many, many people and many bathrooms.  And yet I come across a lot of poop.  

I believe that the bulk of it is dog poop.  There are a lot of pets in my neighbourhood.  It fascinates me because New York apartments tend to be slightly larger than a walk-in closet and I have barely enough room for me, but some people find space for dogs that are the size of small ponies.  But, I say, if they are both happy, that is great.  However, if I have to come across your pooch's poop as I go about my life, then I am not happy and that is not good.  There are signs all over the place telling people to "Curb your dog" and threatening fines of $250 for those who break the law.  Now, curbing a dog means that a dog is supposed to do all its business in the in the gutter, off the pavement, so that the general public is not playing a game of avoid-the-animal-waste and those who live in ground floor apartments don't feel as though they live in a long-drop loo.  This is the law and yet everyday I see owners whistling away as their dogs go where they please and we end up feeling lucky when the owner takes time to scoop the poop (always leaving smudged remains on the pavement).  Let me also take time to state here, I have never seen anyone fined for not curbing their dog.  I mean, who do you report them to?  How are they identified?  I know the crazy lady next door (who lives on the ground floor) sits outside her building at times, yelling abuse at those who bring their dogs by to pee on the trees outsider her apartment.  She complains that she spends all kinds of money trying to remove the odours emanating from her garden and the dog-owners look at her as though she is wicked witch of the west.  To which she responds, "If you don't think it's a big deal, why don't you let them go outside your home?"

Let me add that I can't put all the blame on the dogs and their owners.  For, one night I dashed out to pick up something from the corner store and as I walked back home, I heard a sound to my left.  I looked over and found myself looking into the eyes of a man squatting, between two parked cards, with his pants around his ankles, holding a toilet roll.  I quickly looked away, stared ahead and hurried to my apartment.  I had two thoughts - if he tries to chase me, I have a head-start while he pulls up his pants and, hopefully, wipes his bum; and at least he curbed himself.  

So, when I walk through, I'm sure, my very scenic neighbourhood, I cannot take time to smell the roses - they tend to smell rather foul - I can't look around and take in the sights - for fear of stepping into an uncurbed surprise - and I can't walk as I please - I have to step around dogs doing their business.  I feel badly for the pets, as they are just trying to let it all out after being indoors for hours at a time, and now passersby are giving them dirty looks like it is their fault their owners are not disciplined and responsible.  But not badly enough.  I shouldn't have to negotiate an obstacle course every time I leave my home.

Yes, everybody poops, but do they have to do it everywhere?

Is There Hope?

We have already established that I am not a morning person.  But I think I have been backsliding lately.  Last week, I decided to try out 6:30 am yoga classes.  Not only is this rather ambitious, it is also very challenging, in terms of time.  The class is a 90 minute class and, therefore, ends at 8am.  I start work at 9am and I work about a 40 minute subway trip from home and I have to fit a shower in.  Now that I am typing it all out, it seem a tad insane but thinking it through, it made complete sense.  

So to make this work takes planning.  I have to decide what I am going to wear and pack it in my sports bag the night before.  I must pack my shower gear and lay out the yoga wear as well.  Nothing must be left to do in the morning, except feed my fish, Gandanga.  

I wake up at 6am and head to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth.  I change into the yoga gear, pull a coat on, grab the bags (I leave them near the door the night before) and I walk briskly to the studio.  About 100 minutes later, I am hitting the shower and changing into my work gear.  I make a brief stop at home to drop off the sweaty gear and feed Gandanga and then it is a fast walk to the subway station and off to work.  I am perfecting the art but that is the plan.

Now, to try to keep my body from being traumatised by ever-changing wake-up calls, I have resolved to wake up at 6am every day.  The thinking is that I'll get time in the morning to catch up on life.  Well, last week on Thursday, I woke up at 6am.  God only knows what I did with the time but I found myself rushing out of the house after 8am, with nothing to show for my wasted two hours but sleepiness.  Where did the time go?  What was I doing?

This morning I got some idea.  I think I applied Vaseline to my lips about 3 times.  I forgot stuff maybe twice and I misplaced my mittens and spent a good five minutes looking for them.  Sometimes I spill water while taking my iron and I have to mop up some.  I spend time getting my lunch together - I really should do that the night before.  Sometimes I sit down and find myself drifting off and thinking about how tired I am.  Next thing I know, it's five or ten minutes later.  I have been known to decide to iron some clothes because I think I have extra time.  And all is done in a daze.  

And all the time I wonder - how do people do it?  How do I get to the oiled-machine-get-up-and-go mode.  Most people take about 30 minutes to get ready in the morning - I'd be happy at 45.

Less Is... Less

The other day, Oscar brought some things back to the forefront of your mind.  Sometimes when things take effort, we push them to the back of our consciousness.  Why think about the effects of our actions when doing that may lead to having to do something about it?

A few weeks ago there was a man in the news.  Why, you may wonder?  Well, he was in the news for not throwing away any trash.  For a year.  He kept a record of the year and talked about the things he did in order to reduce waste in his life.  What most people did was read about him in the news, maybe talk about him next to the water cooler and then forget about him while taking out the daily trash.  Because there is a lot of trash generated in these United States and it is almost as though it is the right of the nation, nay, its duty, to create as much trash as possible.  Oh, and consume.

Just last week, I was listening to the radio and heard about how maybe this year or next China will over take the United States as the primary consumer of motor vehicles.  The population of the United States is 300 million, give or take.  The population of China is 1.3 billion - 4 times as much.  Oh, and the population of India is 1.1 billion - still over three times as much.  I throw that in because I remember listening to a show on radio where people were outraged because more Indians were buying cars.  The logic was - well we have had cars for so long so we can't live without them (and God forbid we have to give up our SUVs) and so India must sacrifice for the sake of the environment.  They don't deserve our wasteful luxuries.  I just think it's crazy that with so many people out there, the United States leads the way with the vehicles.

Instead we'll turn up the A/C as we drive our 10 miles to the gallon massive car - a car so huge it is practically scraping the sides of the buildings on either side of the street as it hulks on by - and we will marvel at this man who managed to accumulate only 8 yoghurt tubs with tops in 365 days.  All this enviro-babble; isn't it all up for debate still?  I mean, one could read the tips he lists for reducing the amount of waste created by day to day living but isn't it so much more fun to chat about it for fifteen minutes and then carry on with life as usual?

Hot Moo!

I'm a meat eater.  Those who have seen me at a barbeque might tell you that I eat more than my share of meat.  I might tell you that I could eat another steak.  However, no one would term me anything close to vegetarian.  I also have spent a lot of my life learning about holes in the ozone layer and the green house effect.  So, imagine my despair when I started hearing about how livestock causes more global warming damage than a lot of industry - perhaps all of industry.  It's all - yeah a field of cattle create more pollution than an oil refinery (or something).  And I wonder.  How?

What is that livestock doing that other wild beasts are not?  Farting, apparently.  And I know that a fart can smell bad.  I mean, you can be on a train and think you are going to die because a fart is that  stinky, but destroying the world?  Causing global warming?  And why just livestock?  Why not other vegetarian animals roaming the land?  Why can a giraffe be gassy to its heart's content, but a cow's gas can kill the world?  What is livestock eating?  Why is no one doing anything about it?  Are the world's cattle being fed baked beans?  

Are we going to have to start slipping gas-x into their food?

  

Awful Camouflage, If You Ask Me

There is a fashion trend sweeping the city that is just a bit beyond me.  Fur.  I try to figure out what the aim is and I just don't get it.  All it does is trigger questions from me.

Without us even going into the issues of how people come about this fur and what animals have to go through.  We live in a world where people pluck and electrocute and laser pretty much all the hair off our bodies so we can steal the hair of another beast's back. 

First of all, if you are caught in a rain or snow storm and your fur coat gets wet, do you smell like wet dog?

And then, um, why?  I am seriously freaked out by the whole beast fur - you know where someone makes a scarf out of, say, a dead fox and the mouth is biting on the tail.  How is this attractive?  And who decided on a for versus your favourite deceased cat or dog?

Oh... and the coats.  Are they supposed to be some kind of camouflage?  So that when the vampires come hunting for the humans, they see massive expanses of fur and think, well what huge ferrets, they kinda look like they have human heads but they must just be mutants.  Let us seek humans elsewhere.  

I don't know.  All that fur around my face would just tickle my nose and get me sneezing all the time.  

Maybe One Can Know Too Much

I have been listening to a podcast called "Stuff You Should Know". I think I subscribed because the title was almost a taunt - I mean, look at me - I'm no spring chicken and though I probably don't know how to learn a lesson, I think there is quite a bit I do know. Any show about stuff I should know would probably be full of stuff I really already know. I would spend the 20 minutes or so of the show rolling my eyes and wondering at the incredible ignorance of the world, while, of course, feeling completely superior and wise.

So much for that.

I found out the best places to get shot. I would have picked the little bit of hair just above my left ear but apparently it is the hands and feet. Some also suggested that being shot through the buttocks ( as in through the left cheek and out the right, or vice versa) is not so bad. Another suggestion was through the cheeks of the open mouth, making sure to not touch the tongue - one would be left with some dimples, but those are cute, right? That said, I am hoping that this is stuff I really never have to know.

Last week, I did find out something I should know. I did know about a huge island of trash, twice the size of Texas, floating in the Pacific Ocean. Scarier are the minute pieces of toxic plastic that are ingested by sea animals. What I did not know though is that there are levels in the realm of plastic recycling. It is an amazing thing and makes me wonder - why didn't I know this? Turns out that on the bottom of pretty much every plastic product is the recycling triangle with a number in it. This magic number basically tells you how recyclable the plastic is. The numbers range from 1 to 7 and the little triangle has us thinking that it is all recyclable. Rinse it out and throw it in a see-through plastic bag and it will not clog up a land fill or add towards the girth of garbage island. But no. Only 1 and 2 are really recyclable. The rest are basically just there to make us feel better about our trash. That's a lot of numbers of uselessness, if you ask me. And all of this so we can sit around telling ourselves that we are good people and saving the world, and meanwhile, back at the ranch, we are contributing to mountains of trash somewhere over the horizon.

Now, because of Stuff I Should Know, I am a shopper with OCD, not only checking to see if the food is something I want to eat but also if the packaging is something I want to throw away!

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?

Ho Ho No!!

I was walking past my local drugstore, on my way to the Post Office. It is a route I take often. Since I joined Netflix, it is a route I take more often. As I walked past the drugstore - which I love, not only because it is open 24 hours a day but because the people who work there are so friendly and you can find almost anything there - something caught my eye and made me pause. I took a couple of steps back and then moved closer to the window. I couldn't believe my eyes you see. The new must-have Christmas gift in the window?



Oh... and he had a friend



And the label on the box? "Gangsta Babies". Gangsta written like graffiti and babies was like building blocks. Now... why would this be a great gift for a kid?
First, those are some scary looking babies.
Second, gangsta?
Third, babies?
Fourth - together?

Oh but that wasn't all. How could it be? A couple of days later, I am rushing to work, past the drugstore, so that I can drop off mail before heading into the office, and I see that a label has been added above the Gangsta Baby.

"Pookie"

It's the most wonderful time of the year!!

I wish you a holiday season full of wonder!
lots of love and happiness too.

Are We Really Surprised?

In the state of California is the town of Rough and Ready, population 1,500. It is actually named after the 12th president of the United States. I know what you're going to say - Pandave, I have never heard of President Rough and Ready. Well, that's only because his campaign manager said the name might not be so good on a campaign poster so he went with the more run of the mill Zachary Taylor.

However, despite being named for a President, the town of Rough and Ready decided, in early 1950 (a little more than a year after becoming a town,) that it wanted to have nothing more to do with the United States of America. Instead the residents of this town, surrounded by the United States of America, decided they wanted their own nation - The Republic of Rough and Ready.

People were excited, articles of secession were drawn up and a huge celebration party was planned. Oh it was going to be grand but then the party planners hit a brick wall. Alcoholic beverages were to be ordered from the neighbouring state of Nevada but Nevada beverage sellers declared that they would not sell drinks to non-Americans.

The Republic of Rough and Ready faced a very difficult decision - alcohol or freedom.
The members of the Town of Rough and Ready made a decision, by popular vote, before secession papers even reached the capital.

Priorities.

Duck, Duck... Shoe!

So George Dubya Bush went to bid farewell to Iraq over the weekend. All was going really well, there were smiles and waves and friendly handshakes. Finally, there was a press conference where papers were ceremoniously signed and more handshakes were exchanged. Then Dubya and Al-Maliki stood at a podium to exchange compliments. Suddenly a young journalist, probably feeling that the event was too serious, jumped up and started up a game of, I'm thinking, dodgeball. He yanked his shoe off, shouting farewell to Dubya and some other words that might be considered insults if this were not a game (you know you have to trash-talk the competition in a game). He took aim and threw the shoe. Dubya must have been a dodgeball champion in school because he ducked and the shoe whizzed by him without even clipping a hair. Ah but most shoes come in pairs. The journalist had a second chance. More trash talk ensued as he pulled at the second shoe and hurled it. Al-Maliki, feeling a little left out of the game, tried to intercept the shoe. Perhaps he thought he had a better chance of hitting Dubya with it from close range - we'll never know as he could not catch it. But dodgeball Dubya deftly ducked and avoided the second shoe as well. And then, from behind, a Secret Service Agent, mistaking the dodgeball for American football, tackled the journalist, bringing the game to a quick end before Dubya could pick up the shoes and try to see if his aim was better than the journalist. Ah but it was fun while it lasted. I wonder what they'll play in Afghanistan? Pin the tail on the donkey?

It's Alive! It's Alive!!

today is a windy day. really windy. they say 40 miles per hour winds which means nothing to me since i grew up on kilometres and it was never really that windy where i lived. but this is what i do know - tall buildings sway in the wind. like trees. and i now work on the 28th floor of one such tall building. in the corner. so i get to hear thw walls creaking while i drink ginger tea for motion sickness.

who thought this was a good idea?

Universally!

You know when you come across something that just makes you smile? Makes you wanna sing? Makes you want to just dance? Fills you with hope?



And such true words, the world over.

A Day In The Life

at the beginning of last year, i wasn't feeling too well and so i went to see my doctor. she told me that there wasn't too much to worry about and gave me a shot to make me feel better or, at the very least, not feel any worse. but i got worse, quite a bit worse. so i called her office and her nurse told me to be patient, it would pass. instead i reached a point where i contemplated jumping out of my 8th floor office's window. so, i called and insisted on seeing the doctor. she apologised for the nurse, gave me some pills and another shot. but nothing seemed to be working. i was miserable, i was listless and i was confused. if i was feeling worse every day and the doctor said she could see nothing, what did that mean? i spoke with a friend of mine and she recommended that i see her doctor. this doctor, my friend said, was excellent. what did i have to lose? even though this doctor did not accept my insurance, i made the appointment. i was desperate.

one morning in early july, i went to see the new doctor. after writing a cheque for an obscene amount of money, i had my vitals checked and then sat down to wait for the doctor. she came in, sat down and asked me what was wrong.
and i burst into tears.
she had a box of tissues on her desk - i'm guessing that i am not the first to weep in that there room. and she was so patient and understanding. and she told me that, just from what i said, my doctor was probably wrong about my not having to worry about anything. we then went into an exam room where she poked and prodded me and said yes, houston, we have a problem. or something to that effect. but just to be sure i went over into another room for an ultrasound. then it was back to the doctor's office.

i needed surgery, she said. my symptoms would only get worse until this happened. "but you don't take my insurance," was the first thing i said. she said something about a payment plan but i wasn't buying it. i remembered how expensive having my wisdom teeth taken out, years ago, had been. i couldn't imagine how 3 days in hospital could be manageable without insurance. now i had two things to stress about - my health and not being able to pay for it. i left my new doctor's office, went back to work, packed my things and went straight home. i crawled into bed and slept.
it was all a bit much for me.
then my good friend, rifa, called me and asked me to go and watch a show at Prospect Park in brooklyn. bobby blue bland was performing and it was going to be great. i hadn't seen rifa in ages and so we made plans for friday evening. we got there to discover that bobby blue bland was ill and, instead, odetta, also referred to as "the voice of the civil rights movement", would perform. and what a performance. by the end of the evening, i was smiling and no longer wanted to curl up and sleep until it all went away. odetta was amazing and i was so glad i had decided to come out and watch her.

and, as they say, all's well that ends well. providence worked in my favour - my company changed to an insurance plan that was accepted by my new doctor - and three month's later i went under the knife.

but last wednesday, i heard the sad news that the incredible odetta had passed away. she had hoped to sing at barack obama's inauguration but, sadly, her heart did not hold out. i feel very honoured that she did hold on long enough to shine her powerful light on my life.

Looking Back

today is 1 december, world aids day. you wouldn't think it to look around here. we have just come off a turkey and ham binge, followed by a post-turkey comatose state. in addition to that, we had people waking up before the sun to save dollars on holiday gifts. some of those people managed to trample a poor man, killing him, and two men, apparently arguing over a bratz doll (or something) shot each other. while some were shopping and some were eating, tragedies were unfolding around the world. it just seems like a bit much to have to remember that it has been over twenty years and people are still dying - quite unnecessarily in a lot of cases now. children are being orphaned - which is great for those on the third-world-child-as-accessory market but kinda sucks for pretty much everyone else. on the other hand, people are still working hard to find a cure and bring an end to this.

imagine - the day this will be like small pox; something we read about in the books.

in the meantime, wear a red ribbon, spread some love and some knowledge and Hopey World Aids Day!

Milestones

so this is apparently my 301st post! WOO HOO!!

but that was off the subject. it was my birthday on saturday. and it wasn't thanksgiving weekend so people were actually able to make it to the celebration. so i really had a birthday party on my birthday. with cake and ice cream and i'll tell you this - cake and ice cream never get old and are never overrated. it reminded me of another birthday party i had many many moons ago, i must have been about 9 or 10 and my little sister was 5 or 6. we were so excited and could barely sleep for the week before.

at that time in my youth, my sister and i had dreams of becoming famous musicians in our future. my father had us taking recorder lessons and we didn't watch enough tv to realise that recorders have not been mainstream pop instruments for a while now. and we spent lots of time singing along to all kinds of songs - sometimes even harmonising!

we decided that it was time to show the world - at least the part that was coming to the birthday party - that we were poised for greatness. we would write and sing a birthday song:

the sun is shining
the sky is blue
we're here to welcome
a girl who's new
'cause it's her birthday
bum-bum bah-bum-bum bum-bum
yes, her birthday
bum-bum bah-bum-bum bum-bum

we practised and we were psyched. until saturday when we woke up to seriously overcast skies. what now? well, if we were going to be stars, nothing could stand in our way. we regrouped and came up with contingency lyrics:

the sun ain't shining
the sky is grey
but it's okay
it's still a wonderful day
'cause it's her birthday
bum-bum bah-bum-bum bum-bum
yes, her birthday
bum-bum bah-bum-bum bum-bum

i can't remember how the song was received but i do know that my sister and i still share music - even though she always insists that i am flat. but that's okay:
'cause it's my birthday
bum-bum bah-bum-bum bum-bum
yes, my birthday
bum-bum bah-bum-bum bum-bum

If Loving You Is Right, Please Let Me Be Wrong!

I am not what one would call a fashionista - I break out in a cold sweat at the thought of browsing a clothing store. I will postpone a shopping outing until the day of the event I need clothing for but I will say this: I think that clothing should make sense.



And, well, open-toed boots do not even begin to make sense. For all the things boots are supposed to have been invented for - warmth, protection against the elements and even just looking cute - the open toed boots just fail. I can't wear those in the rain, snow or just plain old bitter cold! And anyone who tells me I look good in them just needs a new pair of glasses. Sadly those boots are not alone. There are several items that boggle the brain:



The sleeveless turtleneck! Because if my neck is cold, chances are my arms are too. In a related category is the sleeveless poufy coat. My friend who drives says it's handy when driving because then your arms are free to drive but your body is warm and you can jump in and out of your car and run errands without getting too cold. I love her dearly but it still doesn't make sense to me.

Thong underwear. I mean, who invented it? Was it a bully who wanted to spread the suffering on a global scale in one fell swoop. Oh, oh, I've got it. It was someone who was bullied in their youth. Their revenge was convincing the world that the "cool crowd", who tend to be former bullies, could only become more awesome by subjecting themselves to walking around all day long with a wedgie. Seriously, a wedgie? Very little is less uncomfortable.

Wearing tights as trousers. That is just not a good look. They are called tights and sold with hosiery for a reason. I'm just saying.

I know some will call me an outdated old fart and tell me to get with the times. "It's cutting edge," they'll say. And I shall wonder? Cutting the edge of what? Sanity?

The Finish Line!

And was I ever ready for it. This is what it felt like: there was an election in 2004 that left me, quite frankly, stunned. George W Bush? Again? Really? Where had I been living? Apparently in some insluated bubble. Then, it seemed as though the day after the election, 200 people crawled out of the woodwork and declared their intention to run for the next president of the United States of America!

Bah Humbug, I thought. A little bitter yes, but this is because, despite the world leader tendencies that some have accused me of having, because I was born in a country my parents were not from, I cannot be a president anywhere. At least not anywhere I know of (I am very open to moving to a private island in order to serve as the great leader). But I digress.

They say the election season was about two years long but it feels a heck of a lot longer for me. This time around I had a stake. After tiring of people making decisions that I had absolutely no say in (real or perceived) I was finally able to become a citizen and thus exercise my right to vote. I could lie to you and tell you that I was very blase and uncaring about the whole deal, but I am a terrible liar. I tried to resist. I didn't want to be disappointed as I had been in 2004, but I found myself being sucked in.

It is not such a bad thing though. I mean, isn't it better to vote knowing what is being promised? I mean, how else are you going to hold the president's feet to the fire? However, with an election season way longer than any human's attention span, I had to take many many breaks. This year, however, has been mostly elections, most of the time. I admit I got worked up, I was tempted to throw things at the TV, I shouted at it a lot, even though it never answered me back. And finally, the day arrived.

Let me explain. I left home just after I turned 18, in order to go to college in the US. I went back to Zimbabwe after graduation but had just missed an election. One of the first things I did was register to vote but I moved back to the US two months before the next round of elections. And went through 2 presidential elections where I was not able to vote, as I was not a citizen. Which brings me back to this point - my first presidential vote.

I walked over to the voting center (aka School) and joined the line that was coming out of the building. After being confused several times, I joined the line for my electoral district and just happened to end up in line right behind a guy in my building. Three people joined the line and they live the next block over. We share a courtyard (that none of us have access to). So we bonded by complaining about the dreadfully unmusical windchimes that one of our neighbours has and promised to throw a block party where we would reunite. It took nearly two hours before I was at the booth but the time was spent surrounded by patient and relaxed people.

I stepped behind the curtain to come face to face with what must be the oldest voting machine in the country. I wouldn't be surprised if it was rusty. It was a huge hunk of metal with a big red lever at the bottom and a bunch of knobs on it's face. The instructions were to pull the lever to the right, turn the knobs next to the names you wanted and then to pull the lever to the left. Of course I had a moment of panic - was I sure which way was left or right? Had I turned the knobs all the way? Had I missed anything? Finally I inhaled, pulled the lever to the left and stepped out of the booth. Some poeple get stickers declaring that they have exercised their right. I got a thumbs up from my neighbours and that was good too.

I headed out to work, stopping only to get my free coffee from Starbucks. I then spent a rather unproductive day, wondering how the voting was going around the country. I dashed out of the office to head to the subway. They were setting up an election center at Rockefeller Center and I paused to watch and take photos. I also picked up a map on which to tally the results as they came out, along with a red marker and a blue marker. I then went over to Ben & Jerry's for my free ice cream and headed out to a local bar to meet with friends to follow the results while wining and dining. Mostly wining took place. And me marking off the map, during which I was called both cool and a geek - and you know, cool geek ain't half bad.

The bar was packed, standing room only, with a rowdy crowd that reacted vociferously to any results that came out. The minutes ticked by and some felt the election had been determined as soon as Pennsylvania had been called. I would not be satisfied until it was called for real. I had lived through 2000 where an election was called for one candidate, then the other and then we lived in limbo for weeks. I was not making any assumptions.

Eleven pm rolled around and 30 seconds later the election was called for Barack Obama. The room roared, people wept and those behind the bar popped bottles of champagne that they sprayed all over us. I figured then that I wasn't the only one who had been sucked into the election. HiDef and I then rushed home so that we could actually hear the speeches made by the candidates.

And before I start getting all thoughtful and deep and meaningful about the future, I'll share some photos I took on election day while I try to find out if anyone else is giving away ice cream or cake... just because.

Now I Just Smell Drunk

Sterile dirt. Why would I feel clean just because apparently now the dirt on my hand is sterile? I don't buy it. And when I tell people that, they just look confused. I am not sure how.

From as far back as I can remember - and though I can barely remember what I did yesterday, my youth is quite vivid - I have been taught one way to be clean. Wash. After romping around in the garden, climbing trees and sabotaging anteaters' traps, the first thing we were ordered to do was wash up. After using the bathroom, the first question would always be, "Did you wash your hands?" And, thus, I have been completely brainwashed. When feeling dirty, wash your hands and washing includes water.

Now, however, a lot of those around me are all about the anti-bacterial gels and at times I am sucked into this realm. When my mom came to visit me last year, I was concerned about the germs that she might pick up, having to hold onto stair rails because of her bad knees. So I handed her a bottle of anti bacterial gel to carry in her bag. She looked at me like I had lost my mind and went to wash her hands. And I don't even know why I suggested it because my hands never feel clean after I have used the gel. And people tell me that the germs are dead. Maybe, but the dirt is still on my hands.

And so, I won't even go on about how there are fears that all these anti-bacterial products will make us a little like the boy in the bubble; unable to fight against any bacterial diseases. I won't talk about how it seems to be a huge selling point - even dishwashing soap contains anti-bacterial hand wash. All me Old School, but all I shall say to you is that, even after using the anti-bacterial gel, when I wash my hands, do you know what comes off as I rinse? DIRT. And you know how my hands feel after I have washed off the dirt with water? CLEAN.

New Knees Please!!!

Looking good, huh? Looking like it doesn't hurt one bit, right? That's me at mile 26.1 and that's called acting (and adrenaline). But I'm getting ahead of myself. It all started early on Sunday morning. The alarm went off at 5:30 am but I am not sure I really slept all night. I hopped out of bed and started using the Bodyglide - all the better to reduce chaffing. It was then on with the clothes that had been laid out the night before and collecting all the gear. After my usual 15 minute stretch I drove out to the start line with DC and HiDef. DC dropped us off and HiDef told me lies to calm me down:
"Don't worry, it won't get hot until after 2pm"
"Knees, Shnees. They won't hurt one bit."
"Who? That woman who won the gold medal at the Olympics? Of course you'll leave her in the dust."

I wasn't afraid to be dead nervous - my mom told me that the adrenalin would carry me through the long miles. I found the pace maker that had been recommended, based on my training times and my lack of marathon experience, and settled into the 4:45 team. I turned on my Ipod and we were off. I was feeling good and I was determined to stick with my group, which meant pushing around people on the crowded streets in order to keep them within sight. And of course, as soon as we set off, I needed to use the bathroom.

Pretty much all I could think about through mile 10 was how I needed to use the bathroom. I hoped that i would dehydrate until I didn't need to go or that my thoughts would be occupied by other pains and I would forget that I needed to go. All this was not helped by the bathroom signs every mile and the rows of guys on the sides of the street, easily and happily going. Afraid that I would skimp on much needed hydration out of fear of peeing on myself, I gave in at mile 10. Fortunately, very few people needed to go at that mile and so I was delayed only briefly and the short stop actually gave my knees a little relief.

And then I was off again. It took two miles to catch up with my pace team but at least my mind was clear. I trundled along, trying to take in the scenery. We ran through many neighbourhoods, and past several schools and through a park or two. I knew that I would not be interested in walking after the race so I tried to take it in when I wasn't making my way around other runners or trying to keep my eye on the pacer.

I had my name on my shirt and, can I tell you, hearing my name being shouted enthusiastically by amazing supporters was like a shot of energy. I gleefully thanked them and had a smile on my face for at least half a mile after their encouragement. I gave some high fives to people lining the sides of the street. Regardless of the pain, this was going to be a good time. And it was. good and painful. I passed the halfway mark and said to myself - yup, a half marathon is definitely doable. I got to mile 15 and thought - wow, this marathon is really long. It didn't help me one bit, after 16 miles, to be told that I had a little over two hours to go. It all seemed so far away. But I could do this. I spent my Saturday mornings running around in circles, around the park, for hours on end. I could do this.

At mile 18 I started talking to myself inside my head, telling myself that I did 8 mile runs, no problem. That is all I had to do now. An 8 mile run. At mile 20, my mind started drifting on the regular. I would be with my pace team and then it would be like I blinked and they were suddenly far ahead and I had to speed up to catch up. At times I felt as though my brain and my legs were not connected. My brain was telling my legs to do one thing but my legs were on their own trip.

Did I mention that I started feeling hot? I made an effort to have a little to drink every mile. I ran through water from fire hydrants that had been opened on the route. I ran past supporters who sprayed water on us. But I told myself it was not so bad - HiDef had told me it wouldn't get hot until later, and he wouldn't lie to me, now would he? Then I ran past a bank. On the display above it I read "98". It was then that I knew that I had lost my mind and I must trust nothing. I must just focus on drinking water and finishing the race.

Just before mile 26 a woman running next to me grabbed her calf and dropped to the ground. Thankfully there were people in the crowd to help her. I say thankfully because I was sure then that I was running purely on fumes. If I stopped moving I might not start again. So I kept on going. UP HILL. I mean seriously, were they trying to break my spirit? Why are you going to put an up hill at mile 26? I was trying to decide whether or not I had the energy to get mad about this when I rounded the corner and saw the finish line.

My legs found new life. All pain and hallucinations were forgotten. I spotted HiDef and called out his name. I waved as he took a couple of photos. Then I focused on the finish and powered through the line!

And stopped dead. Yep, me and everyone else around me. It is like you have enough for 26.2 and that's it. No running for 26.3. no siree. We're done at 26.2. They tempted us to walk forward slowly with free beer. I grabbed my beer and took a great gulp. And thought - hmmm, is beer a good idea when super thirsty after a long run with nothing in the stomach?
And I took another gulp of beer and tucked a bottle under my arm - for psychological support.

Of course I got lost on my way to the tent to get my stuff. But there HiDef was there to pick me up, get me booked for a massage and give me the congratulatory kiss. And the marathon folk were there to give me a medal (which I am still carrying around in my handbag, like an amulet with secret powers). HiDef also confessed to all the pre-race lies he had told me. Especially the weather one. I was running in 85 degree weather.

And, for all the pain and hallucinations, I loved it. I loved the support and I loved the challenge. I have a new respect for marathoners. An awe for those who do it on the regular. I have my magic medal in my bag. And my next race will be a half marathon.

And for all the

Remember Me?

Hey there!
Remember the bear?

so yeah, a year and a week ago there was some resetting that needed to be done. but now we are back on track and like the bionic man, i am better than i was before: better, stronger, faster. okay okay, maybe not faster, but inspired and focused to run further and that ought to count for something. i have also been waking up at 5am, getting up and running, and for the epitome of the not-a-morning-person that i am, that amazes even me. can the bionic man claim that, huh? i mean, okay so you can see things miles away and lift a car with one hand but how does that compare to being proud of the pieces of you that are rubbed raw during a long run? okay so you would finish the marathon in less than ten minutes but can you take an ice bath, 6 million dollar man? well you think about that as i go from the encouragement my mother gave me for walking all the way from the kitchen to the front door of my new york apartment (which can probably fit in the living room of a regular living space) to crossing the finish line after making it 26.2 miles around Chicago. yeah, you really think about and ask yourself - is bionic all they talked it up to be?

The Numbers Game

a short while back, i was watching television with hi-def and the news channels were going on about how it was only 60 days until election day. and i said, wow, that means my marathon is even sooner. and hi-def says, yeah about a month sooner. well, i have been following my training schedule, taking it one week at a time but never really thinking too much about how many days left of training i have or how many other numbers are involved in all of this so:

20 - number of miles of my longest run, which i completed last weekend when i had 3 weeks left to go before the marathon. 20 miles is also the furthest i have ever run in my entire life. it is also a shorter distance than the marathon.
19 - the average age of a soldier in the vietnam war. it's a number that is stuck in my head, thanks to paul hardcastle
14 - number of days left until the marathon. that is also 2 weeks. that is also 8 training runs and 4 cross-training sessions.
7 - number of months i shall have spent training when the marathon comes around.
5 - pairs of shoes i have gone through since i began training.
3 - ice baths that i have taken after a long run. yes, that's me, a bath and enough ice to cover my legs, for 20 minutes.
2 - number of feet that are completely shot and as ugly as sin, due to the thorough beating they have taken over the last 6 and a half months. my apologies to them. 2 is also the number of knees that have miraculously supported me thus far. my greatest gratitude to them.

26.2 - miles that i am to run in chicago, in order to complete the marathon.
42.195 - for the metric, kilometres that i am to run in chicago. my mother's farm is 20 km out of town and i used to be able to take a nap when we drove from the farm into town - that is less than half the distance of the marathon. just so my mom

1 - post race speech i wish i could give, so i could thank the many many people who have supported and encouraged me. so i could thank the random strangers in the park and at the running track who gave me the thumbs up, wished me well and urged me to "keep going, you're looking good" when i was about to give up. to my aunt who was impressed even when i ran just 3 miles. to hi-def who complimented me endlessly, calling me a "beast" and a "machine" and, seriously, what more could a girl ask for? to my mom who told me i could do it and i know she's not lying to be kind because she has always laughed at my art. oh i could go on but i am pretty sure they are going to give that speech time to the marathon winners.

but, you know, i could always sneak up, tackle the news guy and grab the mic. i'm sure i'll get at least a thank you or two out before they catch me.