Don't Let It Go To Your Head

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

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

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

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

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

I Don't Even Like Kool Aid!

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

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

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

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

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

Food? Ick!!

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

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

I needed a break!

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

Yeah, so much for that break.

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

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

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

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

On My Street Corner

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

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

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

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

No Dessert for You!

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

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

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

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

A Dream Deferred?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep The Nightlight On, Please

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I fear soon that none of us will.  

If It Lasts More Than Four Hours...

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

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

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

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

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

Ode To Mmm... Mmmmm Good

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

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

Oh look, cherries...

Forget The Horses

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

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

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

Excuse Me, You're Who From Where?

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

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

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

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

Note To Self

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

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

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

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

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

What The Doctor Ordered

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

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

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

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

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

It Should Be Every Day

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

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

I want to rhyme with reason

In every clime and season

Except, well Winter, I don't know

All I want to do then is go

Huddle under the covers and cry

Until the cold and misery pass by

But forget that, it's now time for sun

And warm rain and nothing but fun

But for longevity I'm thinking maybe a locket

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

Busy, Busy, Aahhhh

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

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

Kumbaya

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

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

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

Yup, and it doesn't even rhyme.

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

What About a Shoutout for Me?

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

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

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

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

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!

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

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

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

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

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

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