Fait Accompli!

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

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



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

AbraCa-Luv-Ya

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

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

I DOUBT IT!

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

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

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

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

So, mission accomplished, no more tears...

Right?

Weakend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It starts to rain. Lovely.

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

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

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

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

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

Don't Let It Go To Your Head

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

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

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

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

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

I Don't Even Like Kool Aid!

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

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

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

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

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

Food? Ick!!

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

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

I needed a break!

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

Yeah, so much for that break.

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

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

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

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

On My Street Corner

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

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

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

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

No Dessert for You!

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

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

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

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

A Dream Deferred?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep The Nightlight On, Please

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I fear soon that none of us will.  

If It Lasts More Than Four Hours...

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

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

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

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

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

Ode To Mmm... Mmmmm Good

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

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

Oh look, cherries...

Forget The Horses

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

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

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

Excuse Me, You're Who From Where?

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

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

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

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

Note To Self

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

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

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

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

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

What The Doctor Ordered

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

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

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

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

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

It Should Be Every Day

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

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

I want to rhyme with reason

In every clime and season

Except, well Winter, I don't know

All I want to do then is go

Huddle under the covers and cry

Until the cold and misery pass by

But forget that, it's now time for sun

And warm rain and nothing but fun

But for longevity I'm thinking maybe a locket

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

Busy, Busy, Aahhhh

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

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

Kumbaya

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

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

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

Yup, and it doesn't even rhyme.

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