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.

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.

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?

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.

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...

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.

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.

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

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.

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!