So this is Marbella

On retrospect, I will view my time in Spain as Godsend. Exhaustion sets in from crazy work hours assisting in the divestiture of businesses for a company I will not name (for fear of being attacked). Top that off with the death of my grandfather at the ripe age of 102, I was beat! So a week in the Costa Del Sol was a welcome diversion.

Marbella, south of Spain. Oddly fascinating juxtaposition of cultures, languages and personalities. My hostess for the trip is Cecilia, a statuesque Swede with white blond hair and a glorious pink-gold tan. She's magnificent and adorable by turns. She lives in the highest building perched on the highest point in Marbella. She finds space in her minuscule but sophisticated apartment to accommodate not one but two finicky females. There's three of us, the Tres Amigas; the athletic Swede Cecilia, Julie an exotic Asian/Swede and me - Indian but taken for everything from Brazilian to Moroccan.

Situated on the east coast of Spain, Marbellan weather is reminiscent of the Bay Area. Smokey, sultry, chilly mornings that the stinging sun burns away by noon. Though watery at times the sun doesn't forget it's atomic origins and singes skin, hair and unprotected toes in its path. Days are spent sunning at the beach, on the terrace, at the Puento Romano resort that's hosting the Andalucia Women's Tennis Invitational. Red clay courts (my favorite!), talented girls slugging it out amidst polite applause. The one day we miss Serena Williams gets eliminated in the first round.

Day trips are a must and we visit Gibraltar, hugely amused by the Apes, the size of small dogs, hair bleached blond by the sun. Sweet, sorrowful faces as wrinkled as a 90 year-old's. They eat fruits and vegetables and invite themselves into cars, on your shoulders and head. They find Cecilia's hair fascinating. The feeling is not reciprocated. While fascinating from a historical perspective Gibraltar today has a dingy overcrowded vibe, packed with Brits, North Africans and Spaniards. While the view of Morocco over the strait is stunning, the coastline has declined into an industrial glut of tankers and cranes. Apparently The Rock is not adequate to house all the eager inhabitants therefore land is being manufactured on the ocean, a la Dubai. It's a shame really, for such an ancient harbor to be overwhelmed by industry, not it's historical significance.

While Gibraltar is the bottom-most tip of Europe, Mijas is further north easterly. The drive offers unparallelled views of the Mediterranean, reminding me of the Amalfi Coast, my favorite place on earth. Perhaps due to the promixity to Good Friday that we see not one but 6 aerial crosses in the sky. Ethereal trails lefts by planes that transform heaven into a cathedral.

The roundabouts - rondels - instead of traffic lights in Fuengirola. Each a spectacular display of gardening delight. Red, orange, lavender Bougainvillea. Symphonies of geraniums, Banzai trees, and eerily lifelike sculptures of elephants at the Holiday Inn mage resort.

Each restaurant or cafe is cuter than the next. We're starving but when we stop for a bite we're informed it's siesta time till 7:00. Three ravenous girls can NOT wait till 7:00 so we pacify our hunger with cheese, olives, bread and wine. A friendly little dog we dub Mr. Happy trots by and politely asks for a snack. Indeed he gets one. The shopping can't be beat. Jewelry, tchachkis, souvenirs, clothing. Oh my!

In the midst of the charming towns we come across a Tibetan temple. Even more fascinating is the Good Friday montage playing out the crucifixion of Christ on the hillside next to the temple. The bone white temple is modern yet pure with spirituality. I am moved to tears, sensing the dieties that blessed this temple. We purchase momentos from an outgoing clerk with piercing blue eyes that somehow manages to steal a kiss from each of us. The sound of Tibetan chanting is our soundtrack as we traverse from town to town.

Each day we return home exhausted, dusty and happy. We sip wine, have a Nat Sherman as we dress for dinner. Birds sing till nightfall, which is 9:00 pm in this part of the world. Once the birds fall silent, the dogs take up the symphony, yapping and chattering from dusk till the wee hours. And as we get closer to sleep a few dogs relent to the night and howl their sorrows as only a dog can.

Requiem for a Grandfather

The thing I will always remember about my grandfather's funeral will not be the thousands of people who showed up from all corners of the earth. It will not be his seven children or 18 grandchildren or 11 great grandchildren exhausted after keeping vigil by his side after 4 months in the hospital. It won't be the century-old buddies or the former employees, students or colleagues that paid tribute.

It will be the way his culture bid him farewell. Aged men gazing on their crony with deep sadness and a surge of disbelief. For here lay the man who cheated old age for more than a century. The way the women cradled his stone cold head in their hands, blessing his forehead with the love only a woman can bestow. The way my cousins Polly and Patty's voices broke when they sang a medley of Amazing Grace. So much so that the audience picked up the melody so the girls' voices, thickened by grief could rest. The way my cousin Yvonne sobbed at the closing of his casket and told the congregation, I cry not for him but myself for he is no longer here to guide me. I have to find someway to find the answers inside me now. The music performed by my cousins Rekha and Tommy which gave eerie beauty to such a somber ceremony.

Most of all I will remember the rain pouring down during the funeral service but the clouds blowing away as we drove to the cemetery. The sunlight as it bathed us and the casket as we tossed roses upon it.

Most of all, the sense of closure as the most important familial chapter of my life ended with the casket was lowering into the earth.

Veeraiah B. Chedalavada. January 13, 1907 – March 29, 2009

Luposlipaphobia

Imagine a psychic poet writing about an ironic comedian. That's what Rob Breszny did when he mentioned Gary Larson in last week's FreeWill newsletter. He wrote:

Cartoonist Gary Larson defines luposlipaphobia as the fear of being pursued by timber wolves around a kitchen table while wearing socks on a newly-waxed floor.

If being chased by timber wolves isn't funny enough, throw in the kitchen table and a newly waxed floor and I'm in stitches. The fact the Urban Dictionary lists this phobia along with an excerpt from the original cartoon thrills me to no end.

But then that's what it takes to move me, or even amuse me these days.

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.

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.

Is There a Traditional Thanksgiving?

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.

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.

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.

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.