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  Actually, I don't need a publisher, just say my name and mention my manuscript and I'm sure the unpublished pile of pages can sneak into the top 100.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.