Monday, December 29, 2008

Let me tell you about my Grandfather

On the brink of his 102nd birthday, hands began to mean a lot to my grandfather. You see for the first time in his life he found himself stuck in a hospital. Not because he was suffering from a heart attack or a stroke or cancer. Nothing so mundane or unhealthy for Gramps. Instead he was doing hard time in a hospital bed, ICU to be precise because he was the object of a hit and run incident.

Mind you, this was a man who walked 10 miles at the very least on a daily basis. It was on such a walk that he was struck by a van! no less and left to fend for himself. Days later our family found him admitted to a Washington hospital admitted at John Doe. Thus his 102nd birthday found him battered, weak but alive.

There are some people you never imagine growing oled, even when they are. He's one of them. Even as my parents age before my eyes, even as I see my grandfather walk slower and listen harder. Even as I feel my joints aching for no reason or small print harder to read. Even as all these things occur do I contemplate my Gramps' mortality. Not until I saw him in the ICU ward of the hospital.

The hospital has to be the most ironic of places. It's supposed to epitomize healing in western civilization and yet, it's the most depressing, unhealthiest place on earth. Only there did I believe his mortality. In a hospital bed with pesky tubes infiltrating arms and chestal cavities, lungs and throat. The things the body does without being asked is quite astonishing. And yet, when tallied up, there's aren't enough machines on the planet that could duplicate the symphony of it's capabilities.

With Gramps encumbered by life sustaining tube his range of motion was severely restricted. Therefore hands became his focus, his primary means of communication. Hands, first of all since his were injury-free. He held ours as we visited, using them to convey voice and emotions as his were restricted. Even though he sustained considerable injuries to his back, internal organs, head and legs, his hands were in pristine condition. I couldn't help but think how beautifully shaped his nails were. Or how limber and gnarl-free his joints.

At first I talked but stopped when I sensed his distress at not being able to reciprocate. So I massaged his hands, encouraging circulation as gently as possible. He squeezed back, not quite content with this small physical act. He touched my watch, fingering the face, the dials, the links. At first I thought he wanted to wear it, but he shook his head when I offered it. Then I realized he was pointing to time in the symbolic sense. Was he trying to tell me it was running out? I feared this to be the case.

But that was 2 months ago. Gramps celebrated his 102nd birthday in the hospital and is now in a recovery unit. He's walking again, slowly but walking indeed. I can't wait to see him again and hold his hand.

Thursday, December 04, 2008

The Biker and the Baby

I had not seen him for years. At least a decade. He was caught up in his life, hunting down his passion for freedom, speed and community. I knew him as Praveen, younger cousin. Shy, giving and slyly funny.

He died in a motorcycle crash at the age of 41. He told friends if he should ever get into another crash (yes, there had already been one) then he wanted the plug pulled. Not to live an undignified life in a decaying body without the hope of ever straddling a bike or feeling the power of a couple hundred horses at your fingertips. Luckily no one had to make the decision. While his brain was already 90% dead his body followed 2 days later.

His friends knew him as Bean. Friends I never met nor ever knew in association with him. But these friends, a biker association known as the Tradesmen gave him an honor he would have appreciated. Some 50 motorcycles escorting his body as it was given to the earth on a cold Maryland November.

Odd how life finds a way to balance itself in every act. While i was still assimilating my cousin's loss Thanksgiving rolled around. Food, movies, food and more food. Cousins, my most memorable childhood playmates and now, most precious companions fill every hour of the holiday. Then in perfect sychronicity, I see my new neice and Goddaughter, Sophia. A mere 5 months old and impossibly beautiful. She gladly climbs into my arms, unknown to her except for a few hours after birth while her mother regained strength enough to carry her tiny body.

She is sassy and charmingly grumpy. The things a baby can get away with! She has gray eyes. GRAY EYES! And she is fresh and decidedly unconcerned about the economy, or the state of the Yen or Ruble or Rupee.

As one of us passes to his next life another steps into our world, taking her place in the family strata. It is heart breaking, yet fitting. The family moves on.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Presidential Pardons

With 2 months to go in his catastrope of a presidency, Dubya took a swat at one of his final acts in authority; presidential pardons. He granted clemency to 14, the most egregious of whom was Leslie Owen Collier found guilty of unlawfully killing three bald eagles, and using pesticide in hamburger meat to kill coyotes and other animals, including the bald eagle! This guy sounds like Sarah Palin's high school boyfriend. But disregard for the sanctity of animal life isn't the only thing Dubya advocates. (Warning if you click on this link as it depicts the aerial slaughter of wolves condoned by Alaskan Governor Sarah Palin). In addition to pardoning acts commited against wildlife, Bush also pardoned drug offenders, embezzlers and tax offenders.

The drug offenders were of particular interest. Or as Wonkette says: "Everybody else who got pardoned or released from prison was some kind of coke dealer who Bush knew “back in the day.”

And this from a Christian president. Riiiighht.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Shaking Your Fist at God

A former Theology professor used to expound the necessity for humans to engage with God in anger. Now, raging against divinity isn't advised, just ask the ashy remnants of Soddom and Gommorah. However, to the professor's point, reaching out to God - even in anger - constitutes the seminal core of Judeo-Christian dogma; relationship with the divine.

Taking this to heart I found myself shaking my fist to the cloudless heavens last night. Pray tell why you ask? For the substantial decrease in my retirement fund at the demise of Lehman Brothers. For health issues rendering me battered and despondent. For financial instability stemming from dwindling career options. For an upcoming landmark birthday that I would be spending in the Northeast and not on a tropical beach, roasting my toes whilst sipping a Margarita. For all these dirges I voiced my displeasure at the heavens. And shook my fist. I actually shook my fist, which must have looked completely silly to my neighbors. What IS that girl doing?

Remarkably I wasn't reduced to a pile of ashes from my rantings. Which befuddled me until my friend Lourdes shared her philosophy on this topic, as she shakes her fist at God on quite a frequent basis. (And no, she's never been singed into ash, so I'm guessing she hasn't pushed them too far yet). She conjectures the Gods need folks like us. Not to target practice their lightning bolts upon, but for a far more interesting purpose. She thinks, (and I devoutly endorse) that the universe needs us for pure amusement. Imagine their glee upon seeing flesh and blood mortals, asking for (or even worse) demanding our way. Isn't she cute? They must say in galatic-speak. Won't she hurt herself if she keeps yelling?

So next time you're driven to celestial ranting, remember the role you just might be playing; amusement for the Gods. And that, quite likely will elevate your mood. BUT, if you're struck down by lightning, take it up with the big guys. Don't blame me.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

Now What?

So America finally, and successfully voted an Agent of Change, aka Barack Obama. Errr, now what? The man, for indeed that's all he is, inherits the US presidency when America herself has hit an all time low in terms of: financial stability, environmental fitness, foreign policy, public perception - domestic & global.

So what's a change agent to do, albeit a charismatic Leo who clings to the audacity of hope? One who shatters low expectations the previous presidency established concerning matters as mundane as literacy. One proactive forum charges the President Elect to FixThisBarack.com. The website offers policies for Obama to attack, refreshingly absent of Big Oil, National Security & Pharmaceuticals. Examples include: Repeal the Patriot Act, Legalize Gay Marriage, Recall Troops From Iraq, Fund Stem Cell Research. Make your own suggestions.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

The Kitchen Nazis

My friend Lourdes gave me this oddly flattering moniker; the kitchen nazi. When she first used it I found myself appalled. The word kitchen conveys warm images of whislting tea kettles, heat emanating from oven & stove and best of all, companions, be they wee little doggies or wine-sipping friends who cluster about the coziness in the most important room of the house. Contrasted with the gut-searing connotations of the word nazi, there doesn't appear to be any connection. Regardless, I came to understand what she meant.

She means the kitchen is such an important location to me, I tend to exert my considerable power to maintain and sustain it. Take for example my recent kitchen renovation. I could have opted for a simple, inexpensive overhaul of the cabinets, new counters appliances and left it at that. But no. I needed, nay, demanded the demolition of a few non load-bearing walls. I demanded the removal of perfectly decent, albeit ugly, green subway tile popular to say, the late 1950s. And I had to have the walls painted the perfect warm yellow that I painted them not once, but twice.

Still I thought kitchen nazi was a bit of an overkill. Until my parents came to visit. I might be known to my friends as a woman who loves to cook. But I happen to know for a fact that my mother spends 95% of her time in the freaking kitchen. Not sipping wine or chatting on the phone while relaxing on a plush chair. She spends every moment of her kitchen time COOKING. So when she and Dad arrived for a visit her first activity was to unload their Cambry of the 3, count em, 3 coolers of food she made for her visit.

Now I'm not only NOT a bad cook, Dad actually prefers some of my cooking to Mom's. So they both know I'm perfectly capable of their care and feeding. However, Mom felt compelled to cook 2 weeks' worth of food in preparation for their visit to me. While she unloaded her basket of goodies she managed to shattered a personal record of hers. She broke a major kitchen component within 30 minutes of arriving to my brand new renovated kitchen. 30 minutes is all it took to dismember my fat, adorable soap dispenser. Did I mention it was part of an expensive faucet set that can't be replaced without uprooting the entire undermounted faucet set?

But that was just the beginning. My Le Creuset pot in a fabulous sunset orange has been used only 3 times since I bought it last year. Mostly because it weighs a freaking ton and can not be easily lifted or cleaned without the use of a backhoe. But Mom found a way to lug the darn thing and cook all sorts of goodies in the stew pot. Instead of appreciating her appreciation of my cookware I grew sullen and jealous. This is MY cookware and I should be enjoying it.

That's when I began to understand the notion of kitchen nazi at a deeper level. I want to control all aspects of my kitchen. Some might say, even of my home. I recall the incident in which I was given the nickname Kitchen Nazi. My friends were sharing a brunch and everyone brought some item. I brought vegetable lasagne in a bechamel source and happily it popped it in the oven to heat. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a vase filled with flowers. They were lovely but had been taken directly out of the plastic sheeting and into the vase. The stems needed shearing, stray fronds needed to be clipped, and the flowers needed to be arranged in a complementary color scheme. Do I did this. To the laughter of the entire group. They didn't even attempt to arrange the flowers they informed me since they knew I would do so anyway.

Hence the emergence of the Kitchen Nazi. But control is one of the characteristics that is not tolerated well by the universe. So I found out during my parents' latest visit. My kitchen soon began to smell like my Mom's; which means the scent of curry permeated every nook of the kitchen. My spa bathroom, chic and comfortable smelled like combination of sandalwood & Avon Skin So Soft bathoil. Finally, my bedroom, fitted with sexy bedding & lush pillows began to reek of Ben Gay.

Good thing I'm not a bedroom Nazi.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

My New Crush


I've got a new crush. And it's not on a silly boy band member or a member of the Heroes cast.

This guy is crush-worthy in the same way MacGyver was. He might not build a bomb with tube socks and a squirt of toothpaste, but he does save the day. William McDonough is an architect, designer and professor practicing ecologically, socially, and economically intelligent architecture and planning in the U.S. and abroad. What does that mean? What does he do? His book Cradle to Cradle, Remaking the Way We Make Things, is a "manifesto calling for the transformation of human industry through ecologically intelligent design". Experience for yourself the elegance of his ecological vision.

"Though human industry in the past 150 years has resorted to brute force rather than elegant design, the making and trading of goods can still be a wellspring of creativity, productivity, and pleasure. Think of the thriving marketplaces that have enlivened the world's great cities, the cherished objects and materials that transform shelter into soulful dwelling. These need not be sacrificed to protect our forests, rivers, soil and air.

"Indeed, human industry and habitations can be designed to celebrate interdependence with other living systems, transforming the making and consumption of things into a regenerative force. Design can perform and preserve the extravagant gesture -- in the marketplace, in the human community, and in the natural world."

- William McDonough and Michael Braungart, *Cradle to Cradle: Remaking the Way We Make Things*

You can offer your thoughts in the Cradle to Cradle forum.

My hero. Sigh. Excuse me while I swoon in eco-utopian-anti-industrial-save-my-planet geek love.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Masters of the Universe

I used to date a Bond trader who called New York the 'center of the universe'. And it felt like it - 10, 5 even 2 years ago. However that universe collapsed upon itself this weekend, on the eve of the wine full moon. The giants of Wall Street - Bear Stearns, Merrill Lynch, Lehman Brothers toppled in dizzying succession. In the past 2 weeks the government took over Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. Tuesday past, the Federal Reserve announced it would loan $85 billion to my employer (so far) AIG, giving the government a 79% governing share in the stock.

What the hell's going on? Says Daniel Altman of the Herald Tribune:

These are big, significant changes. Though they may be signs of trouble in the short term, they have to be healthy in the long term. The financial industry, as we have learned in the past year or so, had some very deeply ingrained bad habits. A cleansing was in order.

Interestingly enough, many finance pundits while staggered by the events of a cataclysmic September predict the same future: It's time for change. Roger Cohen, professor and financial expert offered this insight in his article The King is Dead.

So that's what "financial killing" really means. No better illustration exists of a culture where private gain has eclipsed the public good, public service, even public decency, and where the cult of the individual has caused the commonwealth to wither. That's the culture we've lived with. It's over now. Some new American beginning is needed.

The spiritual community has it's own take on the economic events. Andrew Harvey, founder of Sacred Activism (loosely defined as grounded spiritual vision is married to a practical and pragmatic drive), offered this in an interview with Grace Cathedral, an Episcopalian Church in San Francisco:

Given the current economy and state of world affairs, many people feel they're undergoing some sort of dark night.

See, the power that is doing this to us is coming towards us simultaneously with terrifying destruction and extreme grace and prosperity. The destruction is, in fact, a form of that extreme grace. It's quite clear that humanity is now terminally ill, and can only be transfigured by a totally shocking revelation of its shadow side. And this is what we're living through, these shadow sides exploding in every direction because we have done nothing but betray the sacred in us.

We have lacerated the sacred in others. We have betrayed the sacred in an orgy of fundamentalism. We have brutalized the sacred in nature. We are now terminally destructive.

So only an almost terminal destruction that reveals to us the full extent of our responsibility in this destruction can wake us up. And that is what is happening, and it will get worse. It's bound to get worse. But it is only being done to us for our own redemption.

I'll try to remember that as I review my Lehman Brothers and AIG stock shares and contemplate a postponed retirement. Or recalculate my financial investments as Jon Stewart so adroitly recommends:

For anybody out there who’s been living in a cave: congratulations. You’ve apparently made the soundest real estate investment possible. (9/23/08)

Friday, September 12, 2008

Throwaway Summer

August was a throw away month. My house existed in a constant state of chaos: a kitchen renovation estimated to take 2 months dragged on for 4. My house was never devoid of visitors, ergo never bereft of slamming doors, smoked cigarettes tossed in planters or the withering and unmown lawn, the blare of video games, deliveries of kitchen appliances, chairs, sofas, or just plain yapping gums in the already mentioned unfinished kitchen. I confirmed a universally held belief with painful lucidity this summer: the kitchen is the heart of a home.

One day when all my guests had left I sat in my newly renovated kitchen. It looked exactly as I envisioned it. Spacious, rustic yet dramatic, gorgeously lit in sunlight and in candlelight. Equipped with stainless steel appliances that somehow maintain a homespun ambiance. And most importantly, pretty. And yet, yet it felt oddly cold. The melted butter-hued walls captured the exact mood I desired: the sun setting on a Tuscan kitchen. The paintings and mahogany framed mirrors hung to my specifications, rooster-themed trivets and jugs propped strategically for maximum color and textural impact.

Still my kitchen felt oddly alien. Matter of fact my entire house felt foreign and intrusive, like a man I was sleeping with and suddenly didn't know. I walked listlessly through the house, dreading for the first time much sought after silence. I took solace playing music that fit my mood: Sarah Maclachlan, Alison Krauss, anything by the Judds. I found particular comfort in A Home by the Dixie Chicks.

The state of self perceived alienation continued for a long week, lonely despite visitations from dependable and supportive friends. Unable to bear the distressed expression on my dog's face I took remedial measures. No I didn't burn candles or smudge my house with a burning sage stick while playing Basia. (Ok, ok, I might have some a bit of this...) I went for a more direct and pragmatic approach, which in itself is a remarkable accomplishment for a woman with Pisces rising AND Pisces moon. I spent one entire weekend assessing the state of the why-does-this-feel-like-a-house-not-a-home residence. As usual, logic could not be confounded. Matter of fact, it won out in aces.

Case in point, I own a gorgeous, comfy, energetically sympatico house. So the lawn might be shaggy from lack of mowing. And yes, the rose bushes need trimming, as do the Lilac and Rose of Sharon shrubs. The bedroom needs to be repainted and the tile laid around the jacuzzi.

But the house is still MY house as much, if not more than it's ever been. Difference being the absence of a human body. But given my extensive family and prelidiction for throwing dinner parties it will not be a party of two for any period of time. It will certainly be filled with new energy, new memories and yes, men.

Ah, the men.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Seasons of Upper Greenwood Lake


Wrote this piece a while ago but never posted. If you can think of pubs interested in this type of nature commentary, let me know.

Summer on Upper Greenwood Lake and my beloved takes me to his parents’ summer home in Northern New Jersey. Night cloaks the pink and warm blue air. BBQ for breakfast. We dock the power boat and take wild rides on the jet ski. The dog hunts chipmunks and dresses himself in the stench of anything dead and decaying. Finger sized bats dark through the lowest tier of tree branches guided by the murmur of late bees and mosquitoes fat from a days suckling. The lake warms to a temperature that ducks, dogs and women find enjoyable. All find reason to dawdle in the late day water, unmarred by the chop and whirl and whine of electric motors. At night fireworks ascend the sky in bursts of white, red and blue for no other reason than to give the stars a break from illuminating the sky.

It’s Fall - herons, gulls, geese gorge on the seaweed and algae in preparation for their long migrations. The sky is so blue it hurts your eyes. The water of the lake becomes so deep and still you can see fish surfacing, causing softly undulating waves. Solitary ducks float languidly by the dock, honking hello to kayakers and fisherman in silent hydrafoil cruisers. I help plant fruit trees - one cherry, one sugar pear. We scavenge local nurseries for late perennial bargains of clematis, creepers and spring bulbs. We pick wild purple salvia from the sides of the road.

Winter and the lake freezes in time for Christmas. Stumps of old trees breech the surface giving the appearance of an antler graveyard. Shorn of protective foliage the trees expose homes that huddle on small hills, trying to shield themselves from the wail of wind and bluster of cold. Fishermen trek on the ice, drilling 7 inch holes wide enough to pull out striped bass and trout. Smoke escapes chimneys. We gather by the fireplace to grill nuts and roast toes. The pine cones hiss and crackle as gas pockets escape from the tiny dried pyramids. We pore over seed catalogs - planning floral spectacles for the next year. The neighbor builds a magnificent snowman 3 balls high and 5 feel tall. To accompany the snowdude he fashions a snow dog after his Shi Tsu - Petey. The snow dogs looks so lifelike my dog trots over for a sniff and adds a shot of yellow to the snow dog's leg. The wood ducks wear black oily coats from lack of sun and water.

Spring - crusty ice begins to melt. Daffodils spring between alpine creepers like Mountain Laurel and Dew Drops. Early ducks scout prime real estate – a large boulder, a swath of raspy grasses, an alcove within easy reach of the lapping waves - staking claims that will last the year. The surface of the lake, devoid of human and animal life begins to show signs of rebirth. Fisherman edge carefully over the thinning ice, reluctant to succumb their sport to frozen water. Streams of melted ice trickle from the highland cliffs, carrying earth and spore that will nourish the petite lake ecosystem. Forsythias poke golden flames of petal, despite the wind and chill. Bears forage at night to feed their resuscitated bellies and offspring. Eagles soar high in the sky, keen to any movement. They mistake your little dog for a rabbit and you have to drag the little guy indoors before piercing talons attempt to hoist him skyward as an avian meal. You leave the lake reluctantly, deriving solace only in the knowledge that you will return soon.

© April 2005

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

This is the summer I've endured so far


The demolition of my kitchen.
Dining al fresco everyday, morning, noon and night.
Dog sitters unaccustomed to my tough Irish kid.
Hiring a landscaper since I haven't been able to garden for the first time in my life.
Delightful Polish visitors.
Not cooking for 60 consecutive days.
A flooded kitchen not once, but twice in the same weekend. On brand new hardwood floor.
The anguished face of your dog as you entertain a man that is not his father.
Adorable visiting lesbians from Australia.
Not one but two eclipses in Leo.
Plant sitting for friends as they depart for a month's stay in Italy.
A white old refrigerator sitting in my living room for 3 months.
Power tools strewn about my house; on the makeshift tables, in buckets piled high with assorted construction gadgets, on the dogs sofa (and yes he has one!)
Learning what meine Liebe means.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Death of a Tiny Blue Dragonfly

Emotional is not a word I'm afraid of. Matter of fact the emotional realm is my playground, in which I wallow from morbid melancholy to celestial joy. When time and energy are stolen from me due to personal and career commitments, my capacity for emotional yoyoing settles at zero. When I have not refueled my stocks of beauty, pleasure or solitude the sentimental scale wavers at despondent and nothing more.

That was me yesterday, enjoying the breezes from my garden, but not really. They were cool and unusual for August with a hint of moisture befitting the month. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the flicker of blue and metal. A tiny blue dragonfly flitted around my head. He was so stunning and fearless I watched his flight for long minutes (remember the need to restock my reservoirs?).

The next morning I emptied out the garbage can after a heavy nights storm. Floating in a puddle of water in the garbage lid was the dragonfly! I cupped him in my hand and could feel the hum of his weak wings. Knowing the forecast called for a heavy downpour I knew I couldn't leave him to die the most Hemmingwayesque of deaths: To die, alone, in the rain. So I placed him on a shelf, under the patio table that protects my shears and gardening gloves from raindrops.

I forgot about the little guy till the next day when I looked for his body. It was gone. Perhaps he resuscitated and flew off. Perhaps a neighborhood cat walked by and took him for a snack. Or, perhaps he flew off to the place that dragonflies go. Ah see? The optimism's back.

Monday, July 14, 2008

Alicia's Bachelorette Party

Some of you might have heard me refer to my friend Alicia before. As Thomas' baby cousin I often refer to her as 'the kid'. Not to be demeaning, but because when she lived with us she was literally just a kid. My friends and colleagues took great glee in us, a childless couple suddenly becoming the stand-in parents for a fully grown girl.

Despite the age difference (and no, I'm not going to expound on it. Suffice it to say I am indeed old enough to be her mother) we became fast friends. So when she sprang the news of her impending nuptials I jumped at the chance to throw her a bachelorette party.

Now Alicia has a thing for men in uniforms. Case in point, her husband to be, Bryan is an Iraqi-war veteran. Knowing this I desperately sought a 'man in uniform' to provide entertainment for our festivities. Unfortunately, my kitchen is under renovation. which means my entire house is in temporary chaos until the kitchen is completed. For example, the butcher block knife set sits on a chair in the living room. More disturbing, the refrigerator taking up precious real estate next to my chaise and between my bookshelves.

Even more appalling is the fact that there's no real seating space. The only available spot is on Duke's couch. Yes Duke has a couch, get over it. He needs space to stretch his legs. And roll and wiggle on his back so his loose hairs can fall off, which they do in alarming frequency and quantity. Can you imagine the, ahem COP sitting his buff, oiled ass on Duke's couch?

I had to fall back on Plan B - a male revue. Now for some reason the only shows happened to fall on a Friday night. My party was being thrown on a Saturday night which meant, you guessed it, no meaty male parts for the bride.

However I'm nothing if not creative so I planned a series of fun, female-oriented activities. One of which was a visit to the Pleasure Palace Video on Rt 46. And let me tell you, those thoughtful folks sell a heck of a lot more than just videos. Lingerie, games like Sex Monopoly (I kid you not), party favors (penis-shaped Skittles, penis straws, larger than life blow-up schlongs), a fascinating array of lubricants, penis accoutrements and fetish props. Although I must admit the sex swing was a bit much...

The best part of that expedition was taking the bride's mother along. What a trooper, although I must admit she didn't listen one whit when we sternly told her, now don't look anywhere but straight ahead!

No stripper but we did cram in bar-hopping (Tequila shots to kickoff the night), gift opening which compromised of lingerie, perfumes and kick-ass body glitter, snacks and more cocktails, a limo to escort us to our nightclub driven by the glummest limo driver I've even met (too bad we spilled orange juice and champagne!), and finally dancing all night long.

From the looks of the pix we had a pretty dandy time. the bride was radiant and glowed. The girl actually glows! And we, the party of escorting women were tipsily enjoying the rite of female passage.

Disclaimer: no I'm not drunk, my eyes just happened to blink at the exact moment the flash went off. Seriously. Just ask the glum limo driver.

Monday, July 07, 2008

Nadal Wins Wimbledon

Raphael Nadal triumphed over Roger Feder in a 5 set thriller upsetting the Swiss's domination of the grass championship and ending his 5 consecutive win steak. Bjorn Borg's record has been tied, not broken. Nadal has proven himself as not only a clay wizard but also an astute student of grass, and of of tennis overall. And the kid's only 22!

Felicitaciones Rafa.

Nuff said.

Sunday, July 06, 2008

Tree-age

Ever notice how trees are like army veterans? I know you're waiting breathlessly for that one. It occurred to me one day as I was lounging in the sanctuary of my garden. The pansies had died out, the portulacas were blooming as the temperature neared dessert-like heat, and my 50 plus year-old Cherry tree was bearing splendid cherries. Stop Woody Allen or anyone else from telling you otherwise, bugs are notorious tree killers. Other branches extended majestically into the neighbors yard. But what caught my disturbed eye was a stunted tree, limbs puckered into a rounded wound.

I know you've seen them before, vets, homeless people, beggars. India has them in profusion, and they wave their stumps to alarming effect. That was precisely the image the Cherry tree evoked. Some branch, useless or diseased had to be amputated by a handsaw, or worse, chainsaw. And like a human limb the injured appendage had to heal. Months, years of bark and sap and the alpine nervous system finally closed the wound until all the remained was a puckered stump.

In a Tolkienesque moment I imagined myself chatting with the weathered Oak in Mr. Garcia's yard. Or with the 100 foot+ pine across the street. But then I remembered that I don't speak tree and settled for fancifully imagining that their leaves whispered and murmured a language long forgotten by men. At least I can hug them, eh?

Wednesday, July 02, 2008

When a Woman Wants a Baby


This is not a gentle, warm hearted story of a miracle baby birth. It’s a tale about the power of desire. This is a story of femininity unleashed in all its aspects: ability to create, to destroy, to heal, to love.

My cousin Radha is the focal point of this entry, and a more befitting name could not exist. In Hindu divinity, the relationship of Radha and Krishna is the embodiment of love, passion and devotion. Radha's passion for Krishna symbolizes the soul's intense longing and willingness for the ultimate unification with God. Fitting I say for my cousin is a woman of unnerving beauty and a hunger that won't be denied. Sometimes that passion finds its focal point in the love for family, for a man. At other times it seeks all things dark and forbidden. And no, she’s not a Scorpio, that’s for another entry.

At the time of her 40th birthday last year she had embarked on a divorce. Wornout after 5 years with a man who gave up pretence of a normal life and descended into his own dark journey, she devolved into the phrase I most loathe: the woman she thought she should be. So she treated herself to a getaway weekend with big cousin Rake on the outskirts of NY. We smoked a lot and drank even more. We ate dim sum, fabulous Mexican finger foods and talked our tongues raw. Came 3:00 am Saturday night - the witching hour. Fatted and still not purged of our thoughts we sat in my garden sanctuary, burned an outdoor fire and sipped far too young Chardonnay.

"Read cards for me," she asked. When the birthday girl asks I comply. So I read, quite a lovely spread for it promised love, wealth and progeny. "You know" she said, "all I want right now is a child. I don’t want a husband, I don’t even want a boyfriend. All I want is to be a mother."

Now this is where the cautionary part comes to play. I don’t care if you’re not burning an outdoor fire in a charming garden. I don’t care if you’re not sipping wine or reading a deck of Tarot. What I will say is this: when you proclaim to the stars, to the universe, to your God a statement of such longing and unadulterated desire, the forces that be listen.

They listened to Radha which is why Monday, June 30 at 5:23 pm I was holding her hand while her baby girl Sophia was born. The child is so perfectly beautiful it’s almost a shame. I almost feel bad for spotty, pointy headed babies who squall and flail their bald heads uselessly. Sophia has a rosebud mouth - dark pink, pouty already accustomed to the perfect moue. Her bottom lip quivers when she cries, which she does often to showcase her robust lungs. In direct contrast to her tiny, barely 6 pound body. But a perfect 6 pounds. I remember a friend who upon birthing a premature baby told me how tiny her wee one was. “I feel like I had a cat,” she confessed. Sophia in no way resembles a cat, except for the fact that she adores sleeping. The warm crook of an arm, a snuggly bosom and she’s snoozing with her impossibly teeny fingers curled about her binkie. Territorial, that one.

One thing I will always remember about her birth. When the doctors slashed open her mother, jostled and dragged her out. And forced her to breathe her first breath of cold, human air. When she was only minutes old after being wiped clean of chalky, sticky, bloody amniotic fluid by a kind but rough nurse. Careful I wanted to scream, that's an INFANT as the nurse balanced her in one open palm while typing data into the computer with another. When she was placed in my terrified arms (Don’t trip Rekha, don’t trip was my mantra) and I held her close to her mother, she opened her gray-green eyes and looked directly at her mom. As the Bard would have said: "tis a consumation devoutly to be wished for."

You know the old dictum - be careful what you wish for? Rubbish I say. Rejoice, cajol, demand your desires. For this life is for no one else but yourself. Discover your deepest wish and tell the stars, the mailman, your husband from dawn til midnight. I don’t care if you’re 4 or 40, unearth that which is your ultimate love and seek it.

You might not birth a perfect child but I’m guessing it will be perfect - for you.

Sunday, June 08, 2008

Transitions

It happens so fast. One minute you're grieving the loss of an 8 year relationship, the security of knowing he can handle any disaster; a flooded basement, a dead possum, the wireless Internet connection. One minute you miss his warm body next to you in bed then before you know it you're contemplating who will occupy that empty space.

As if to mock the state of desolation your garden thrives as if it were located in the lush rain forests of the tropics rather than Northern New Jersey. The Joseph's Coat roses, named for their glorious show of petals that start out orange, merge into salmon then fade into a vicious pink, clamber over the fence as enthusiastically as if it were deep summer rather than just late spring. The peonies bloomed so early you had only 1 week to enjoy their fragrant wispy blooms the size of large grapefruits. And the mint! Good lord the mint has already grown to nipple height, increasing their sensual, beguiling allure. But I don't have to tell that to my friends or the dog. He tramples through the mint bed to cool his smelly, popcorn scented feet. My friends embrace the cool, herby stalks for Mojitos or chutney. Or like my friend Barbara, to writhe upon in ecstatic frenzy, like a person with human catnip.

Books you start reading: how to cook for 1. Emails you begin paying attention to: eHarmony and Chemistry.com. You begin to wonder if Facebook could be a good thing...

Friday, June 06, 2008

Top 10 songs to Karaoke before you die

Been spending a bit of time doing something I never contemplated. Singing in karaoke bars. Odd development considering my not too shabby musical lineage. My mother is a classical Indian singer. My cousin Tom Prasada-Rao is a multiple Kerrville songwriter of the year winner and possibly the best male vocalist I've ever heard. My other cousin Rekha (we ran out of names, ok?!) is a jazz singer/pianist. I did the occassional stint as backup and studio singer on top of the 10 years I sang in the choir. You heard me, choir. Chorale music performed before a live audience, mostly in church. 4 part harmony (sometimes 5 if a 2nd soprano was called for). I sang alto and sometimes tenor if Laurie Yost wasn't around to carry the tenor line with the 3 shy boys lassoed in from band.

I really loved it. Skye Sweetnam might think music is her boyfriend. It was my escape. My rendezvous with forbidden freedom, even if I was singing to sweater-wearing, blue hair rinsed old ladies cradling well worn Bibles. Even if I was harmonizing about the Old Testament prophet Moses and his bad ass serpent-transfiguring staff. But when one doesn't sing, the vocal chords normally accustomed to high Gs, breath control and generally emitting sounds acceptable to human ears atrophy. Badly.

So I discovered when my colleague Ping invited me to a karaoke evening with promises of happy hour Cosmopolitans. Why not give it a whirl, I've only sung for a quarter of my life. Apparently a quarter does not suffice. This new generation, and by that I mean the devilish kids who grew up with media channels like uTube, Myspace and reality television to showcase their nebulous but nonetheless unique talents. Did you forget James Hung already?

Luckily Ping's vocal talents are neither nebulous nor disturbingly unique. The boy can sing, really well. The Killers, 3 Doors Down, and best of all - Creep by Radiohead. Holy shit! what an epiphany to hear a hometown guy (via the Asian Karaoke belt) bellow Creep in a tiny 4 seater karaoke room with a disco ball glinting jewel colored lights against the dingy walls.

My singing fared less well. Years of rusty car singing to Classic Rock stations or JACK simply could not fabricate a confident, much less digestible voice. So I crackled and popped through some gruesome renditions of contemporary pop. No I'm not going to name them so you can giggle.

But I perservered at Ping's drawn eyebrowed request and guess what? I'm getting my chops back baby! So in honor of this newly acquired skill I'm paying homage to the mistakenly silly ritual of karaoke by listing 10 songs you MUST sing karaoke-style before you die.

10. New York State of Mind - dedicated to the formerly from San Francisco but now a bona fide New Yorker Ms. Sheila Shea.
9. Santeria - Sublime. Come ON.
8. Any song by the Carpenters
7. Killing me softly - Fugees version
6. Battle Flag - Lo Fidelity Allstars
5. Anything NOT by Bobby Vinton
4. Teen Spirit - Nirvana
3. Rappers Delight, with 3 participants otherwise forget it!
2. Lady Mamalade - either version
1. Total Eclipse of the Heart - Bonnie Tyler. The gravelly-voiced Tyler was reputedly a sword swallower and had the boys in my high school all misty eyed whenever it played. And yes, I've karaoked it.

For my amusement add your fave picks for songs to karaoke in any old order you please.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Can Oprah Sell Spirituality as Self Help?

Imagine my delighted shock upon reading Dr. Brian Weiss as Oprah's guest last week. You might remember him from the landmark book Many Lives Many Masters . The 1980s book that made past life regression oh so chic, and redemptive. The story goes that Weiss, a practicing psychiatrist used hypnosis with a female patient called Catherine. (The man has none of the dramatic flair of Jung and didn't use a name as primal as say... Eve or Electra). During the hypnotherapy Catherine regressed so far back, she transcended this lifetime and revisted another one, a long time ago, in a country far, far away.

So began Weiss's landmark work in past life regression healing. Not sure how Oprah connected with him. Perhaps Gayle sought his counseling, or perhaps a close celebrity friend made the gushing recommendation. I'm not knocking it, I'm just jealous that I haven't had a session with the guy. He's incredibly nurturing from what I've read in his books, and even more so in person from the regression segments played on Oprah. Yes, Oprah actually ran a tape of a regression.

Now, I'm an enthusiast of Ms. Winfrey's grab-life-by-the-cajones philosophy. I love her one woman at a time motto. And I particularly applaud her brilliance at making what used to be considered esoteric accessible to the masses. What used to be mulled over in dark living rooms filled with smoking incense by people sipping jasmine tea is now being presented to housewives in Sheboygan Falls, Wisconsin. I mean, look what she did for Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love. Gilbert's bordering on chick lit book did well for the female segment but ripped apart the NYT's bestseller list after her appearance on Oprah. And the book is essentially one long 300 page soliloquy of self discovery.

And the list goes on. Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth - Awakening to Your Life's Purpose. Marianne Williamson's venerable yet invaluable A Course in Miracles, turning a new generation on to the power of the self (and sporting a slamming new hairdo to boot!) Oprah's not limiting herself to television alone. Each week on her XM radio show - Soul Series - she interacts with the leading spiritual leaders and thinkers, capturing her share of the radio audience.

So can Oprah sell spirituality? Time will tell. And to those folks in Sheboygan Falls, listen up.

Monday, May 19, 2008

Fatima's Last Bath

Delta's onflight magazine, SKY recently held a short story contest with a green theme. Below is my entry titled: Fatima's last bath, a futuristic tale of man's descent into the annhilation of nature ala Phillip Dick and Anne McCaffrey.

Fatima's Last Bath
When Greenland lost more than 63% of it’s iceshelf, the stars really began to fall. The day showers weren’t so noticeable as we still sustained watery sunlight. But the nights were a treat. White, green, blue missiles whizzed through the sky illuminating the night since the moon was permanently shrouded in gaseous clouds. Children asked their parents, is this what moonlight looks like? Only to be told, no no. The moon was even bigger and brighter than those specks of silver frosting the skies.

My grandmother remembers the olden days when Hawaii was a chain of luxuriant islands and not just the largest dive site in the IndoPac ocean. When Nevada wasn’t a peninsula and deep sea diving wasn’t a mandatory requirement for anyone over the age of 15. Those were days when Kangaroos used to hop across Australasia and flightless birds called Penguins used to thrive in the formerly sub zero Antarctic. Cars, the bane of politicians and oil companies used to tear across highways and roads filling the air with fumes and the unidentified gas called Plastane – the sole culprit of Nexadeath – the plague responsible for exterminating one-fifth of earth’s population.

Transworld president Enda Wodehouse-Hewson, grandson of former rockstar Sir Bono was due to sign a global edict called the Cheney-Bush Lupus Retraction to reverse the extinction of wolves in the remaining 38 United States. The former world leaders passed a bill condoning the aerial slaughter of wolves via helicopter. While the bill pacified a minority of farmers and landowners plagued by the canines in the 21st century, the absence of the canine forefather left many of the northern states poised for even larger predators, such as carnivorous bears. With the depletion of walruses, seals and whales, the Polar bear dropped its shaggy white coat and migrated south, decimating livestock all the way from Yukon to Texico. The Bush-Cheney Lupus Retraction was a desperate attempt to level the playing field and reintroduce stealthy wolf packs in order to bring balance to the over abundance of bears. It was either that or legalize hunting which had been obliterated by the mid century mark.

Signing of the Retraction coincided with the birthday of Fatima, the last surviving elephant on the planet. The poor dear was almost 37 years old and despite noble attempts to clone her, the planet finally gave up hope to resuscitate her ancient species. Colonel Archibald Giggleswick, the 21st century hunter renowned for dispatching more than hundreds of elephants in the name of masculine sport was known to have said “I truly regret the demise of this creature. Nowhere else have I seen its equal for might or majesty.” Regret didn’t prevent him from displaying the polished ivory tusks – mementos of his quarries – in his 50 bedroom estate in the Euro Kingdom.

So earth resigned itself to lavishing the great beast with attention befitting her stature and the sentimental burden she carried. Elephants are social beings and these days Fatima would spend most of her time with a herd of buffalo. Of course they weren’t real buffalo, those were long extinct. These were an ancient Scottish breed of long-haired bovines, mild tempered and prone to emitting gas. Since gas emissions were long banned, it seemed an amusing joke to pair the now extinct Fatima with these snorting hairy beasts. Sometimes a group of conservationists would congregate and don an elephant suit in hopes of providing companionship to the sole elephant. Fatima wouldn’t fall for the charade but being the sweet natured gal she is would trumpet playfully and whack the imposter Pachyderm with wide butt swings. Her version of the popular ‘70s Disco dance, the Bump.

An entire day of events were scheduled for Fatima’s birthday. The old girl couldn’t walk very far so the party would be brought to her enclosure at the Steve Irwin Retirement Center for Aged Mammals. First she would be serenaded the Birthday Song by the New Test Tube Babies on the Block. Next a troupe of Chinese acrobats would cavort, gyrate and generally contort themselves into amazing positions. The idea of using gymnasts came about from historical films of ‘Circuses’ common during the 20th and 21st centuries in which animals, namely elephants, would assume human-like positions to entertain human customers. The notion of entertaining Fatima by humans performers seemed fittingly righteous. This would be followed by a moving tribute by the chairman of Geo Justice who was purported to read the list of 70 new creatures emerging on the extinction list. The entire event would be broadcast on Palmvision, the format that replaced TV and reduced energy consumption to less than 17 watts per city. A birthday cake was ruled out since Fatima was not allowed sugar and since the candles on such a cake would emit more smoke than the city was allowed in one week.

The highlight of the day would culminate in Fatima’s bath. Political bigwigs from all four continents would dowse her with cool water from recycled rubber hoses. This might appear an odd finale to such a momentous event. But Fatima loved nothing more than frolicking in water, jets cooling her enormous body and if strong enough, scratching itches on her thick hide. After which she would be led to her enclosure to dine on juicy shrubs and grasses, especially grown and gathered for the event by Farmers for the Future.

The celebration went off without a hitch. The singers sang, the dancers danced. All which seemed to amuse Fatima greatly. She was draped with garlands of white jasmine and fushia orchids. An act that angered some horticulturists and brides alike since the use of flowers in any occasion other than funerals was forbidden. She trumpeted playfully when being bathed, even reciprocating by showering Nelson Mandela IV with water. Her caretaker accompanied Fatima into her 5 acre enclosure to furious applause and considerable weeping. The wife and mistress of the Mayor cried openly, extending bamboo handkerchiefs to each other. Fatima sashayed her impeccably clean hide into her favorite nook, the trunk of a cloned redwood tree. She gave a mighty sigh and swept her eyelashes closed, eliciting an ‘Awwww’ from onlookers. Two white doves were released above her head, which promptly disappeared into the upper branches of the cloned tree.

The next day Palmvision reported that Fatima enjoyed a healthy and happy birthday celebration. One feed speculated that she would survive long enough for the scientologists to discover a means to preserve her species. Another projected that she would endure in health and live for another birthday celebration. Animal Planet hoped there would be a Fatima Jr. one day.

Somehow, I doubt it.

Copyright 2008, Rekha Chedalavada

Friday, April 25, 2008

Penguin Wetsuit

I've been called a tree-hugger. I've been called a namby-pamby, puppy-loving, kitten-coddling wuss. Ask me if I give a hoot. Nature, and creatures great and small thrill me to my toes. So see if this doesn't tickle you.

Balding is not limited to humans. Apparently it's an affliction known to strike even birds, particularly a Jackass Penguin named Pierre (no I'm not calling him names, the species is called that due to the donkey-like sounds they produce). Pierre, aged 25 (!) suffered from the chilly condition of a bald behind. The wee bird refused to play in the water since his hair-less exposed his pink ass to the frigid water. Apparently, penguins (which are NOT almost chicken) do not have a coat of blubber and depend on feathers to protect them from the elements. Holy shit! Those must be some feathers covering the bodies of the penguins in the Antarctic.

Little Pierre would sit on the sidelines when his companions would frolic in the pool. What's an Aquatic Biologist to do? Apparently Pam Schaller of the California Academy of Sciences did do something. She had a wetsuit created for Pierre, figuring if the gear protected divers from frigid waters, they could do the same for Pierre.

Oceanic Worldwide created the wetsuit enthusiastically. Said Teo Tertel, company marketing specialist "We were really excited to do it. We heard most of these penguins only live to 20, and our little buddy there was already 25. Anything we could do to help them, we were all for it." Teo Tertel, whoever you are, I love you man.

Schaller's not too bad herself. "I would walk behind him and look at where there were any gaps, and cut and refit and cut and refit until it looked like it was extremely streamlined," she said.

Pierre was outfitted with the suit about six weeks ago. Since then, he has gained weight, grown back feathers on his hind parts and is again acting like his feisty, alpha-male self, reports Newsweek.

Now all we need to do is hook Pierre up with a hot penguin chick. Can't you just see the classified? Wanted: beta female with white and black plumage attracted to experienced males. Must love water, fish and dressing up in a wetsuit.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

When Ladies Lunch



It's a business day lunch. 4 ladies of well repute dine in a busy suited outpost. One good woman, the Bahama Mama will be departing the next day for her homeland. Festive wishes pass around the table.

While ordering lunch, I am reminded of a scene from Airplane! the movie. (Hey, I don't ask where these non sequitar thoughts emerge, I just live this life!) Where the two men of African descent (how's that for PC?) are speaking jive. Hence my all time favorite line from that movie, which is saying a lot since there are so many zingers.

Passenger 1 to Passenger 2: Lay 'em down and smack 'em jack 'em.

This memory causes one of the ladies, shall we call her Carmen? to fondly recall her favorite scene from a Cheech and Chong movie. You won't be surprised to hear it's Up in Smoke

This reminds me of a recent ad recently run by the kind folks at Comedy Central Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay.

Al the fun talk has gotten one of the ladies all riled up. She, let's call her Scorpia, regales us with a tale of weekend exploits at the Pink Pussycat. For those not in the know, it's a fine store in the NYC West Village that sells a vast (and largely pink) plethora of articles de pleasir. Sex toys. Scorpia weighs in on dilgoes, exercise balls (no these are not large and inflatable) and the much acclaimed Rabbit. From Scorpia's gushing retelling, the Rabbit appears to be the winner. Apparently there IS a rabbit you can pull outta a hat...

While we're lunching, and talking and giggling, a parade of waiters scurry around our table. For the record, we ordered very tame fare; sodas and water for libations, salads for entrees. A waiter's dream. Matter of fact, we were apparently quite the waiter's dream for men kept flocking to our table. Of course we were asking these fine gents for assistance.

Oh yohoo. Would you mind taking our picture?

Could we get a refill?

Would you mind bringing 4 spoons?

It's an interesting phenomenon. Regena Thomasauer contends that men want a job. They want to DO things for women. The ladies a-lunching can attest to this truth. Perhaps it was the glint in Carmen's eye. Or the blissed out look on Scorpia face. Or the rejuvenated smile Bahama Mama wore.

Whatever the case, ladies lunch was a hoot!

Friday, April 11, 2008

Farewell Moses


I don't have the heart to tell my parents Moses died. And by Moses of course I mean Charlton Heston. Easter wasn't exactly a festive affair in my childhood. As Protestants we weren't subjected to the self denying ritual of Lent. Matter of fact I doubt my family even knew of Lent, or else they would have gladly embraced the practice of publicly renouncing a worldly pleasure for the designated 40 days.

My family LIVED for self denial. New car? No no. We can do with that 2nd hand 1968 Chevy just fine. Mom actually denied herself food Friday nights in hopes of inducing a pious, penitant state for Sabbath the following day. I think all it induced was fatigue and hunger so rampant that she sat in a dazed hypnotic trance all through Church. When lunchtime arrived Mom would finally eat, and then collapse into the sofa while we did 'sabbath like things'. Such as listen to talk radio, play nature card games or take long naps.

All which explain my rampant hunger for all things wicked and pagan. Self denial, moi? Forsooth. Which is why I snack on teeny dense dark chocolate brownies for breakfast. Why I sip a glass of Kali Hart Chardonnay (or three) while I cook lunch, or dinner, or vacuum for that matter.

Monday, March 31, 2008

Artistic Elephant


Those of you who know me well know I have a thing for elephants. Love them for their complex martriarchal social structure. For their emotional capacity (they mourn still births). For their memory capacity (bones of long dead elephants evoke memories). For the symbolism they evoke in history and in ancient religions.

I rode an elephant in an Indian zoo when I was a wee little lass. Sadly, that is the closest I've been to one in my life. More's the pity as elegant creatures could teach us a good deal about motherhood, parenting, complex societies, and now art! That's right, an amazing video surfaced on uTube of an elephant painting a self portrait.

Yes, I am a sap for dogs and penguins and the occasional Tasmanian Devil. But these creatures are remarkable in their temperament, social skills, and dare I say it, in their humanity as this video vividly demonstrates. You can purchase an elephant painting at Exotic World Gifts

Friday, March 28, 2008

Earth Hour

Lights out time is approaching. That's right, earth hour strikes at 8:00 pm 3/29/08. Earth Hour blog reminds us of the partner cities (only 4 in the US). Check out Ideas of reducing carbon footprints at home, business and at school. Of course the World Wildlife Fund, originators of the movement offer way's to get involved.

Monday, March 24, 2008

Mexico


Whoa Mexico
It sounds so simple I just got to go
The sun's so hot I forgot to go home
I guess I'll have to go now - James Taylor


Of course I've been there many times. Cancun, Acapulco, Taxco, Cozumel. But this winter's been brutally cold, indoors and out, with no comfort in either. So I took meself south of the border way with a travel worthy friend. The resort hosted mostly Europeans (thankfully!) who were friendly and, hailing from colder climes like Poland and Germany, so damn grateful for the hot Mexican sun. And while I did indulge in a day trip or two. How could I pass up the ancient Mayan pyramids in Chichen Itza during the Spring Equinox when a serpent is supposed to slither down the 91 steps where (history tells us) blood used to flow from the virgin sacrifices?

I do admit feeling a twinge of Bourdainian cynicism at one of the daytrip sponsored lunches. I'm sure the boys and girls of that Mayan village dress in colorfully embroidered Guayabaras and blouses. And come on! I'm sure they sometimes dance with half filled bottles of Corona on their heads. And so what if we ate in a buffet-style restaurant that sold Coke Lite. And so what if the chicken dish was too lustily dowsed in crema? The heat from the deep red chili sauce warranted a little milding down, right? Right?

My travel-worthy companion, Damarys had a penchant for water. I don't just mean lounging around in salty aquamarine beaches with a margarita decorating your hand. Snorkling! Diving! Kayaking! I figured snorkling was the safest bet as I could remain on the hobiecat AND indulge in my napping pasttime while the rest of the ocean hungry gang dumped overboard. The crew consisted of 3 men. El Capitan, a non verbal man with skin the color of polished Brazilian cherry. Joel, a Mayan descendant who served as our tour guide for 5 hours and spoke English peppered with jokes appreciated by jocks, Americans and misogynists. Last and most importantly came Cesar the dive/snorkle master, a stern man with hair cropped as short as a marines.

For 2 decades I've tried to snorkle. First in Cancun, then in Jamaica, and Miami. Italian snorkling ended almost as badly as the relationship I took to Italy. The most successful snorkling I did in Bahamas was at Atlantis in the 360 underwater aquarium, watching fish from INside the tank. You see I have this thing about water. Love to drink it, cold and refreshing. Love the hues of it as it sweeps against beaches and rocks. Azure, turquoise, muddy green, black blue. Love to frolic on the shore, ride sweels on a bogie board amid pounding waves. Those waves have taught me a lesson or two - all of them terrifying. There was the time I was playing in the water and a dead body washed shore by my feet. Another time my brother and I got dragged out hundreds of feet by a rip tide. We'd both have been goners if not for a passing surfer who yelled, "Hey there's a really bad rip out here. Need help?"

The thing about snorkling, about the ocean, about anything so majestic and powerful is that you can't fight it. Once you concede and admit, mighty ocean thou art more fearsome than a pride of lions loosed at a 6 Flags theme park. That's when respect surfaces and fear begins to recede. You see I had never done this. I had boasted to anyone who would listen, yeah that water's mighty wet. Or wailed about my past lives in which I had tragically drowned - either accidently or intentionally as a witch. What is it about the pursecution of witches? Those poor gals bought it either burned at the stake in raging flames or drowned in water. Couldn't they just be banished to the forest and live in isolation with nature which is probably what they really wanted?

When I tried snorkling this time around, just like in the past I floundered and flailed like, well...like me. The rest of the gang had moved toward the reef with Cesar. It didn't help that this was the second largest reef on the planet next to the Great Barrier. Nor did it help that after viewing my gasping and inefficient swimming motions (oddly resembling Don Knotts impersonating a Ninja) Cesar beckoned his 2nd mate to drag me through the water with a bright red life saver. The only other person incapable of navigating the reef was an older woman, quite heavy and admittedly "not such a good swimmer." So Betty and I got the snorkling loser treatment.

The second site we visited was much calmer. Joel informed us we had free time to do as we please. Some prefered to sun onboard, others like my travel-worthy companion dove immediately into the water only to be surrounded by hosts of striped blue and yellow damsons nibbling at her arms and fingers. The water was languid and the hobiecat bouyantly drifted over coral and schools of fish. I felt hot under the sun and thought a dip would do me good so in I splashed, flippers, goggles and breathing tube. Since I didn't have anywhere to go I paddled in circles around the boat, safe in the security of my flourescent orange lifevest.

In moments of fear and confusion, stillness is the only guide. For only after you stop whining and blubbering like a little girl who's broken her Jonas Brothers CD can you hear the answer. In this case the answer was to listen to the whooshing sound of my breathing. Not the waves sloshing over me or the occasional shriek of a diver. So I listened, breath in... breath out. Simple and so not threatening. Matter of fact, it was relaxing and rather idyllic. For as soon as I stopped struggling I began to see what was around me. Fish - Damsons, Pampanos, Butterfly fish and velvety black Tangs. One Damson flitted by at eye level. Such a darling! so I gently rubbed his side with a finger. He turned around and bared his teeth at me. So un-Nemo-like! I drifted over a huge earthen pot, intentionally dropped into the water to serve as a home for the sealife. I glided over coral with lavender arms and bright yellow buds at the flimsy tips. Nobody bothered me, nor I them. I was snorkling!

Say what you will about past lives. About phobias and deeply embedded fears. After this recent trip to Mexico I believe that nothing can't be overcome with a little respect, courage and silence.

Monday, March 03, 2008

Wombats R Us

While the writers strike ran its course, last year's guilty TV pleasure - Ugly Betty - has been conspicuously missing. Lucky for me a high definition channel called Equator HD offers entertainment in the form on my new fave show: Wildlife Nannies.

As the name would indicate, it does feature wildlife caretakers. And yes, the baby animals under their care. The surrogate caretakers take on the parental responsibilities when the offspring is abandoned, when the parent rejects offspring or when a parent dies.

Claudia feeds sardines to baby killer whale Skyla and trains her using enthusiastic hand signals and vocal encouragement. Nanny Peter - a big cat surrogate doesn't let the fact that he looks like Captain Von Trapp in drag prevent his duties to Alvin, a lion cub.

John, Wombat nanny and friend to Tasmanian Devils shares a few secrets from down under in the care and feeding of the pudgy rodent-like creature. For instance to soothe a raging wombat simply blow on it's nose and it will doze off faster than you can say Waltzing Matilda.

Scoff all you want, but there's nothing like a few episodes of Wildlife Nannies to take the edge off the winter day and woo me into a state of goodwill, if not somnolence.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Now that's a Spice shop

You might remember the book by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni about a decade ago. I didn't even realize it became a movie till I discovered the DVD nestled between Mischief and Monty Python's Personal Best. A movie it did become starring none other than the impossibly gorgeous Aiswarya Rai as the mystical Mistress and Dylan McDermott as the object of her affection.

Critics panned the movie when it debuted in 2005. Rotten Tomatoes said: "Imagine Like Water for Chocolate without the passion" and "It's acted with the artificiality of an After School special". Desi reviewers such as Lotus Reads , a Canadian book-hound blogger are likewise underwhelmed.

"...this movie is as bland as milk"


In truth, all true with the exception of one aspect of the film - the set of the spice shop. Chili garlands hanging off hooks, obligatory mounds of crimson, yellow and green condiments, sheafs of herbs, incense sticks smoldering in every corner, clear bottles stuffed with dried and fresh spices. Holy cow, I wanna shop there. The movie might lack fire despite the casting of Mrs. Bachchan and Dylan, but the set made my mouth water.

As I'm fond of saying - don't forget to use condiments!

Monday, February 11, 2008

After all, the Grammys are about music not shiny lights

Given the crack-smoking press of late, I was more interested in whether Amy Winehouse would MAKE it to the Grammys then whether she would win for her richly deserved album - Back to Black. I was already aggravated by the US Embassy denying the beehived songstress a visa to attend the 50th Annual Grammy awards. (If you're feeling plucky, ask me about my thoughts on the US tendency to deny passports or threatened deportation to innocent non terrorists). Then Kanye West's self puffery goaded me even further.

I will say his Blue Man Group inspired performance of "Stronger" was fun. And the anticipated tribute to his angelic mother was touching. Mr. West's self aggrandizement wears thin in the company of Tony Bennett, Stevie Wonder, Aretha Franklin and Ringo Starr. Vince Gill adminstered the most appropriate bitch slap to Kanye's pouty face when accepting his Grammy from Ringo. "I just got a Grammy from a Beatle. Can you say that Kanye?"

But annoying little rappers were worth it in the end. Around 10:30 pm EST (4:30 am in London) Amy Winehouse performed both I'm No Good and Rehab. Looking a bit demure in front of a tiny club she cranked out that amazing voice that doesn't apologize for being an imperfect woman in love, in trouble and unabashedly talented. Shortly after she received the Grammy for Record of the Year and Song of the Year.

I never got a chance to see Dinah Washington, Chet Baker or Billie Holiday sing live. Like Winehouse they were gifted vocalists/musicans who shared their talents and addictions with the public. Winehouse is poised to address both. Will she dive the swampy depths of overwhelmed emotions into a dreamy deadly haze or share her gift with clarity and self compassion?

The world waits.

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

Super Tuesday Eclipse

My pricking thumbs this morning knew something was in the air, and it wasn't the Giants victory parade. As voters in 24 states (New Jersey included) head to the polls on behalf of both parties, certainly a big event but only when I consulted the calendar did I realize the enormity of today. Mardi Gras. Fat Tuesday, on which Catholics and New Orlean natives gorge in excess before the penitent rite of Ash Wednesday.

Not only is the morrow Ash Wednesday and might predict the future of the USA politically, but it heralds the first Eclipse of 2008, in which the new moon and Chiron converge in Aquarius.

Simone Butler of Mooncircles says:
Chiron lances personal, social and political wounds, releasing whatever has been repressed. We can see this at work in the fight between the front-running Democratic presidential candidates. How perfectly Aquarian is it that two “underdogs” — a white Scorpio woman and a black Leo man — would square off against each other in 22 key primaries on February 5, just hours before the New Moon/Chiron convergence in Aquarius? Mudslinging notwithstanding, it shows how far our society has come.

Indeed. Even in the last election I never would have dreamed a female AND a person of African descent as the front-runners for president. Unfortunately to many, this pairing seems to cross each out, implying that both candidates are both equally, negatively handicapped.

However, as this eclipse reminds us that we are all one, perhaps unity might pervade. And dare I predict a dream ticket will emerge heralding the first female president with the first black vice president?

It's all in the dreaming.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Nightstand

Sometimes it works out that way. You reconnect with something lost or misplaced. Caroline Casey's book
Making the Gods Work for You
wasn't lost, it was just lounging on someone else's bookshelf. In this case my friend and wine aficionado - Karen's bookcase.

I had purchased it 10 years ago at the suggestion of an astrologer friend who highly recommended Casey's humorous yet deeply symbolic book. Since I had not read it in over 5 years I dove into the pages, remembering why I admired it greatly a decade ago. You might also want to check out her radio program - The Visionary Activist Show. which is called "the wedding of spiritual magic and compassionate social activism".

Friday, January 25, 2008

Finally luck fails the annoying Swiss

Take a look at the new face, and body of tennis. Novak Djokovic of Serbia took down Roger Federer in the semi finals of the Australian Open. That's right, Fed Express didn't even make it to the grand slam final. You might remember the 20 year-old from the US Open final, in which everyone cherished hopes that he would topple Roger in the final. Well it didn't happen then, but it did yesterday.

Don't get me wrong, I totally appreciate Roger for racket command, court dexterity and perfectionism. I'm just surprised so many talented players like Nadal, Blake, Ferrer or Safin haven't mastered his game yet. Perhaps they will now that the chink has been hammered by the Serbian. The French Open could be really interesting. Either Rog will raise his game to overcome Raphael Nadal for the first time or Nadal will continue his dominance on clay.

Exciting tennis year ahead and the young Serb is sure to play a huge role. In case you didn't catch him at the US Open, here's a vid of him hamming it up as Maria Sharapova. How can you not like the kid?

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

An Indian in Louisanna

January 14, 2008 Bobby Jindal became the first Indian American to hold the office of Governor in the United States. He was elected to Congress as the first non white Governor since the Civil War.

The guy is only 36 years old and uses modern media to his benefit. Evidenced by his formal website in which he posts videos, links to blogs, lists friends on Myspace and Facebook.

Despite the fact that he's a Republican, I gotta be proud. And I'll watch his journey closely for he represents the idealism that many of my family members sought in America before the gross mis-management of the Bush administration.

Should be interesting to watch Piyush (Bobby is the name he grabbed from Bobby Brady while watching an episode of Brady Bunch) as he traverses Congress, Republicanism and the post Bush era.

But then that's something we're all waiting for isn't it?

Thursday, January 17, 2008

The Truth about Suri?



I've been having a bit of fun at the expensive of L. Ron Hubbard and Tom Cruise. Recently wild allegations have arisen in the media surrounding Morton's latest book Tom Cruise: An Unauthorised Biography. In it Morton alleges two fascinating claims. Firstly, that Tom Cruise is the 2nd in command in the church of Scientology. According to Insider, this is TRUE. Cool! If you've listened to Cruise in the media in the past week you'll discover bootleg videos of him rhapsodizing about his beliefs. Check out the video.

Secondly, even more fascinating is Morton's allegation that Suri Cruise, daughter of Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise was conceived using frozen sperm from Scientology founder - L. Ron who died in 1986. Hmmm. You be the judge

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Score one for the Cougars (and I don't mean mountain lions)

Only last year did I become aware of the meaning of the word Cougar, used in dating circles. For those not up with the hunting/dating jargon, a Cougar is an older woman who chases and dates younger men. E! recently premiered the 25 Hottest Hollywood Cougar Tales in which babes such as Goldie Hawn, Madonna, Susan Sarandon and Hallie Berry scored as cougars.

Just today I received an email promoting a cougar event titled: Natural Selection Speed Date II. Apparently I was a big hit! Here's the promo blurb by Pocket Change:

Paying tribute to the women who publicly declare they have the means and they have the needs. Symbiosis has allowed ugly rich men to attract young gorgeous money-hungry women for centuries; it is now the women’s turn. For all of the leopard-print attire and decades of alimony you have amassed in your divorces, we know that there is still a void within you that even an unattractive David Yurman necklace can not fulfill. Flocks of young attractive men are anxious to replace the tired, overworked, undersexed, population of unsatisfying middle-aged single men that are not wealthy enough to date women their kid’s age. Pocket Change simply continues where Susan B. Anthony left off.

So check this out, the criteria to qualify as a female participant in the event is:
- Must be older than 35
- Must make 500k or more
- Liquid assets 4 million +
- Divorce settlement 4 million +

For a guy to qualify you must meet this criteria:
- Must be younger than 35
- Must submit 5 photos of self

and that's it!

Now I know what you're thinking. Rekha, why did you receive a summons for speed-dating cougars? I DON'T KNOW. Honestly. I belong on Pocket Change's mailing list but I swear I never signed up for any such event. I swear (again).

Anyway, I don't make more than $500k, so I can't go anyway...

I'll say it for you'all. Shucks.

Friday, January 04, 2008

John117


I'm not a gamer nor have I ever claimed to be. So when Halo 3 launched this fall I viewed its debut with much the same enthusiasm as I would say, the latest Russell Crowe flick. But Thomas is a big Halo fan so it made a great Christmas present. He didn't get a chance to play it until New Years day, at which time he did what he always does with video games - played it till he beat it. What is up with guys and their voracity to play till the end, eh?

The other day he mentioned getting very little sleep the night before due to his disturbance over the Halo ending. Aha! I thought, for I had already heard the ending to Halo 3, [SPOILER ALERT] which results in the demise of the Master Chief. Matter of fact, my friend Lourdes told me she cried at the death of the Masterchief. Now there's attachment for you!

Thomas losing sleep is a very rare occurance so I decided to do a little digging. I found that Master Chief's real name is John117. Being a former Bible-toting girl the name evoked thoughts of the New Testament book of John, Chapter 1 verse 17. This is what it says:

"And when I saw him, I fell at his feet as dead. And he laid his right hand upon me, saying unto me, Fear not; I am the first and the last."

Now I am a big fan of omniscent statements scattered throughout the Bible. Matter of fact my first website, now defunct was titled Alpha and Omega in a Day. Giving the old carpe diem a slight twist. So I was delighted by the Master Chief's association with the book of John. But I thought back to Thomas' sleepless night and remembered that he commented on the AI Cube, muttering, 'who thought it would turn like that?' and 'can't trust artifical intelligence.'

Yes well that poses an interesting question. Could AI really kill John117? Apparently not for I've been informed that during the closing credits to Halo, the Master Chief escapes and places himself into self-imposed cyronic sleep saying: Wake me when you need me.

Something tells me he'll be needed in, oh, 2 years for Halo 4.

Tuesday, January 01, 2008

2008 Wishes


The usual rounds of new year wishes circulated this week, however 2 stood out in my mind. Thought I'd share them with you. First an anonymous blessing for 2008:

May peace break into your house and may thieves come to steal your debts. May the pockets of your jeans become a magnet of $100 bills. May love stick to your face like Vaseline and may laughter assault your lips! May your clothes smell of success like smoking tires! May happiness slap you across the face and may your tears be that of joy. May the problems you had forget your home address! In simple words ...May 2008 be the best year of your life! (so far)

Here's another from cousin Rekha Ohal, writer and musician:

In 2008 you will blossom even further into your witchiest, juiciest, most magical goddess self. You will refine the art of driving the bus of your life and successfully navigate any or all obstacles in your path, realizing that they are not stopping points but rather launchpads. You will laugh everyday and sometimes milk will come out of your nose! You will sing at the top of your lungs and savor every note! You will dance boldly and if you fall down, you will not skin your knee but rather shed another skin! You will become even more adept at this game you are playing, that we are ALL playing, the one where we all, as divine beings, choose to be born into human spacesuits in order to revel in this wonderland we call Earth.

To make this an even richer year I'm including a pix of Lord Ganesha, remover of obstacles and bringer of luck.