Long lost twin?

This photo ran in The Mag this week, in a story that was held from the week after Thanksgiving. I've been waiting for it to show up ever since then, because of this conversation on my return from Atlanta.
The Rock to Crislin: So apparently they've decided to hold the story.
Crislin: Oh ok.
The Rock to spacey Me: So that means your picture won't run this week.
Me to The Rock: blank stare
Crislin: Oh yeah, that's true. Well, next week.
Me to Crislin: blank stare
The Rock and Crislin: Hahaha.
Me to both: blank stare
Finally The Rock deigned to explain: We chose a photo with a woman who we all think looks like you to run with the story.
Me: Ohhhh. Ok. (trying to act nonchalant, but secretly dying to see this photo, convinced it's not going to be a flattering resemblance--or worse, someone that I think I look nothing like, but everyone else thinks is a carbon copy.)
The Rock: Of course, everytime someone says you (generic you) look like someone, you always think they look nothing like you.
Me: Yeah, I know. (now nervously) Hehe.
Since then, as soon as the weekly email plopped into my inbox saying that latest issue was in, I'd run to the library to page through the mag to see if the story was there, not even entirely sure what I was looking for--just a photo of someone who might look kinda, sorta like me. But no. Last week, an email came from The Rock with the PDF of the story (it took me a while to figure out which story the photo was running with, but I did, finally). PDF=photo! I immediately opened it, and there it was finally--the photo of my supposed twin, albeit a profile. And to be honest, although I've examined it from every angle, I can't even tell if she looks like me or not. Although, truth be told, I'm not entirely disappointed.
So? Does she? Doesn't she? Shocked at the uncanny resemblance? Or going "what?!?!? How could they even think that?" Or as confused as me?

Kiddie party

Today, we had the kiddie version of our work Christmas party. As I am kiddie-less, I didn't go. But it is impossible to not notice some 20-odd bundles of energy darting about the hallways. I happened upon one of these--stationary this time--near the library. She was standing in the middle of the corridor, about two feet high, her tiny face in a half-frown, half-smile, palms up in a questioning gesture, demanding of the world-at-large: "Where's daddy? Where'd daddy go?" "Hmmm! Where DID daddy go?" I wondered. And, as I watched, the half-frown disappeared, to be replaced by a full grin, as daddy appeared. "There's daddy!"

I went into the kitchen, and stumbled upon another little guy, only slightly older, sitting at the dining table, picking at a piece of pizza, long gone cold, somberly absorbed in the news on TV. Someone came in and asked him where his parents were. He mumbled something shyly, and went back to playing with his food and watching the news. "Hah!" I thought. "A journo in the making!"

And as I walked back to my cubicle, one of The Rock's two daughters, and a boy of unknown parentage, shot past me shouting, "Hide! Hide!" (At first, I thought she was yelling "Hi! Hi!" and I was almost moved to tears that she remembered me.) They rushed into the empty office next to mine, and I tuned out. A few minutes later, my attention was drawn to them again as The Rock and Pendio, a senior reporter, approached the office.

"You know, Pendio here is the BEAR of the whole of The Mag," The Rock informed the kids. Pendio duly growled to show that he was indeed the bear of the office. "Yes, he's the BRAIN of this WHOLE place." Pendio puffed out his chest, and pointed to his head. "So you guys need to be quiet, so he can THINK!"

The kids were clearly unimpressed by Pendio's greatness. "Well, we're leaving now anyway," one of them informed The Rock, duly putting him and all of Pendio's bearness and braininess in place. And, after a little more high-pitched excitement, they did.

Ah, for peace and quiet. Although, I must say, it is fun to have little people around--for a little bit at least-- in such a very grown-up place.

My Christmas pet peeve

This is the season to be kind and giving and forgiving, and generally, I am (I like to think anyway:)If you disagree, SHHHHHH!!!). But one pet peeve that rears its head at this time of year concerns people who whinge about "having" to spend Christmas with their families.

Yes, I understand that families have their problems, and some worse than others. But they're still FAMILY. Unless they've done something horrendous that's scarred you for life, and seeing them is clinically traumatizing, this is the time to put aside your differences and enjoy them. And to be glad that you have them, and that you get to spend time with them. Not to continue to hold grudges and have a bad attitude, and join the throngs that complain about another Christmas at home.

Put these people far far away from their families, where they can't see them or spend time with them. . . and I'm willing to bet the farm* that the majority of them will be singing a different tune.

There! It's out now! My Christmas pet peeve!

Merry Christmas all!!

*I don't actually have a farm. . . but I'm willing to bet Weds instead, if you prefer. And you know he's worth more than any farm to me. . . and to Okia, his real owner--who I'm sure wouldn't appreciate me using her cat as a pawn in my betting!

Unconditional love

By Sam Gross, The New Yorker, Nov. 30, 1998. From cartoonbank.com

Static

Have you ever felt like you're standing in a corner, looking on, while the world whirls on around you? I feel a little bit like that now--I'm static, very much an observer, watching as everyone else's lives change, move forward, on to the next level.

The Bart, Chaps, Lala are all getting married, Jags is legally married already, Oiram is the same, Gio is going to be a daddy, Emsten's starting a new business and trying to become a mommy, and Juff Juff's gotten serious about his relationship. And as I become aware of each development in my friends' lives, I become more and more of an onlooker--a happy one, but an onlooker all the same. Yes, there are changes in my life too (soon, hopefully), but those are more beginning of life changes--new job, moving to new place etc. The others' changes are more, I don't know, "grown-up." Growing up. They're all growing up, and becoming big people, people with families and responsibilities. And I'm still, in some ways, not much different from the 10-, 12-, 17- 23-year-old I was when I met some of them.

It's a strange feeling. Not necessarily a bad one. It's actually fun to see the world, and the lives of people I care about, changing, moving on to the next phase. But it's a strange feeling, nonetheless.

Merry Whatever

Not that I'm on a soapbox or anything. . .


Source: Comics.com

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!

I left the gym in a bad mood today, and fuming and scowling, made my way to the bus stop and back home. As I slipped my key into the keyhole, I heard a strange buzzing noise, coming, fittingly enough, from my apartment. "Ugh, great," I thought. "Just what I needed."

I entered the apartment, and the loud buzzing enveloped me. I promptly burst into tears, and went in search of the source of the annoyance. I found it in a small metal panel, the size of a switch plate, screwed into the wall in the kitchen. I felt the panel. It was warm. "What do I do?" I demanded of myself. I tripped the circuit breaker. Nothing. "Aaargh." And another bout of tears.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I dialed the management office number, then the emergency pager number. I paged, and waited. A few minutes later, as I began dialing the pager number for the second time, the call came. I explained the situation, then repeated it to someone else. I was ordered to trip the circuit breaker again, and did so. Nothing. Then I was told to go down to the garage and do the same again on my apartment's circuit breaker. I dutifully did so. Still nothing.

They said they were sending someone over to investigate, but he was coming from Jersey City and it would take about half an hour. In the meantime, I should call the electricity company to see if they could figure out what the problem was, and what the mysterious panel was. I did as I was told, spoke to someone clueless, who told me to call an electrician "Erm, I don't think it has anything to do with electricity," I informed her. "Yes, I know. That's why you should call an electrician," came the reply. I gave up, hung up, and decided to wait for the guy from the management office.

About 20 minutes later, after a pointless phone call to Nev--an engineer who informed me that he couldn't diagnose a problem from just a buzzing noise--several confused looks from an annoyed Weds, and a splitting headache in the making, I heard a knock on the door. Wondering why he hadn't buzzed the doorbell, I opened the door. He looked at me, looked at the doorbell, looked back at me, pressed the doorbell, and asked "Is this it?" The buzzing noise stopped instantly. Blessed peace.

He started laughing, while I grinned sheepishly, and apologized profusely. A phone call to the management office and more apologies later, the repair man left. And I kicked myself. Why didn't I think of it? The freakin' doorbell of all things. Figures!

Temporary bliss

On Saturday, I decided I was going to clean. My apartment was sufficiently covered in cat hair, my sink was sufficiently full of dirty dishes, and my pile of laundry was sufficienty daunting. So, after much hemming and hawing, I decided to finally whip out the hand vac and broom, the cleaning fluid, my pile of laundry quarters, and get to work.

The good thing though, is that once I get started, I go all out. So it was that, three hours later, I had vacuumed, swept, and scrubbed till every corner of my apartment was clean and shiny, and my laundry was spinning contentedly in the dryer.

I showered, made some spicy chai, helped myself to some frozen Fig Newtons, lit an apple cinnamon candle and the scented oil burner, and sat down to enjoy my newly (albeit temporarily) sparkling home. I popped in a "Law and Order: SVU" DVD (not exactly fitting with the whole bliss theme, but it happened to be next on my Netflix list) and sat down to enjoy the lack of mess. Weds clambered onto a cushion on the other couch, settled himself comfortably, and looked just as ready to do the same.

And enjoy we did--until my first sneeze. Followed by another. And another. Now, believe it or not, I STILL DON'T HAVE HEAT!! As I had been moving around earlier, my body had been sufficiently warm. But, as soon as I sat down, the cold hit. And so it was that at the end of a few hours, I was reduced to a sneezing, sniffling mess, surrounded by tissues and shivering like a leaf under my blanket. I was sure that a good night's sleep would do the trick.

But I woke up yesterday, still freezing, still sneezing and sniffling. And even Weds couldn't hold back a sneeze--and a mighty one at that, for such a wee nose.

I think a lawsuit may be in the making if my heat isn't turned on in the next couple of days.

A blissful Weds

12 days of "holidays?"

Wowie. . . lots of posts today. Here's a column from BusinessWeek magazine in favour of putting the word "Christmas" back into our celebrations this year--albeit from a business perspective. I did see a piece on the news recently that more stores/businesses were greeting customers with "Merry Christmas" again this year.

An Unreasonable Fear of Christmas
Our columnist thinks if advertisers want the huge spike in sales that Christmas provides, they should acknowledge the holiday itself
by Steve McKee

I miss Christmas.

The other night I saw a TV commercial for Lowe's (LOW) that was built on a cute premise. A clumsy young guy approached a female warehouse employee and blurted out, "Would you be my wife?" Startled, the clerk hesitantly began walking the man through the store until she realized that all he wanted was a woman's opinion about the gift he was thinking about buying for the love of his life.

But here's where the spot went south: As the young man role-played with the clerk, turning around and presenting the gift (presumably on Christmas morning), he looked at her and exclaimed, "Happy Holidays!"

Happy holidays? Is that really what a husband would say to his wife? By trying to cover all the bases, the spot ended up feeling forced. It was a departure from reality and a prime example of the unreasonable fear advertisers have these days of saying the word "Christmas."

Where's the Emotion?
It used to be that people wrung their hands about the over-commercialization of Christmas. These days we have almost the opposite problem—Christmas is disappearing entirely. Advertisers still want the huge spike in sales that Christmas provides but they're afraid to acknowledge the holiday itself.

It's almost funny to watch them trip over themselves trying to find politically correct substitutions as they avoid saying the dreaded "C" word. But "happy holidays" and "season's greetings" only go so far. They sound hollow and synthetic, and that kind of approach is no way to build a connection with your target audience.

It seems companies have become so afraid of offending some mythical person out there that they're unwilling to express their true sentiments. After 20 years in the advertising business there's one thing I've learned: Every ad is offensive to someone. Still, I find it a stretch to think that wishing your customers a "Merry Christmas" is going to set somebody off. And if it does, well, there's a word for them: Scrooge.

Don't Lump Them
Ah, you say, but Christmas is a religious holiday—what about people from other faiths? It's true that to millions of people Christmas is the most religious holiday of the year, but to millions of others it's all about Santa Claus and reindeer and stockings hung by the chimney with care.

As the song says, it truly is the most wonderful time of the year, even for many who don't celebrate it as a religious holiday. And there's no reason why the recognition of one holiday precludes the celebration of others. Lumping them together only makes each less special.

Remember A Charlie Brown Christmas? Of course you do, because it's perhaps the most popular Christmas television program of all time. For 41 years this charming (and overtly religious) special has been delighting children of all ages, and it has lost none of its appeal. Why? Because people love Christmas.

The Coca-Cola Claus
And just think of all the warm advertising traditions associated with Christmas, from the Budweiser (BUD) Clydesdales to the Norelco Santa. In fact, not so long ago Norelco (PHG) used to call itself "Noelco" during the holidays, using the tagline "Even our name says Merry Christmas."

Seventy-five years ago Coca-Cola (KO) invented the modern image of Santa Claus, a fact of which—to their credit—they still proudly boast. But even Coke has gotten cold feet; they're featuring Santa on their packaging this year but still won't call it a "Christmas Can" (despite the nice alliteration). Instead, they printed "Holiday Can" at the top. Ugh.

By all means don't be insincere. If you don't want people to have a merry Christmas, don't say so. But if you do, don't be afraid to let your advertising spread a little Christmas cheer. Otherwise, before long we'll all be reduced to humming holiday carols as we open our holiday cards and put holiday presents under our holiday trees. Not to mention dreaming of a white holiday.

To that I say humbug. Merry Christmas!

McKee is president of McKee Wallwork Cleveland Advertising, an ad agency specializing in working with fast-growth companies and businesses whose ad budgets are under $10 million.

Strange Bibles

Here's an interesting story that ran in The Wall Street Journal on Dec. 6 that kind of tickled me. Some food for thought too, I guess.


Heavens, Bibles Are Really Booming
By JOANNE KAUFMAN
December 6, 2006; Page D12

Several weeks ago, Christian book publisher Thomas Nelson Inc. received a curious submission, "sort of an alarmist Bible," recalled Wayne Hastings, a senior vice president of the Nashville, Tenn.-based company. "A lot of it had to do with what recently went on in Israel and Lebanon."

The offering featured headlines that had been snipped from the front pages of USA Today, then pasted below select New Testament verses. Also included was some newspaper boldface about the collapse of the Jessica Simpson-Nick Lachey marriage accompanied by relevant text from Scripture, presumably not Genesis' 2:24 dictum: "a man shall leave his father and his mother and shall cleave unto his wife."


Thomas Nelson, which produces 150 different editions of the Bible each year, arguably more than any other publisher in the world, "gets all sorts of interesting proposals," said Mr. Hastings. Some, like the alarmist Bible and a submission featuring 20 iterations of Scripture woven together -- "It was confusing and overwhelming," he said -- got a thanks but no thanks. The idea of tucking the New Testament between the boldly colored covers of what looked like a teen fashion magazine as a way of appealing to adolescents -- Corinthians and Colossians for the Cosmo girl -- and the notion of a water-resistant Bible, inspired by a leaf of paper sent to Thomas Nelson by a vendor -- well, folks, start the presses.

Always a dependable seller, the Bible is in the midst of a boom. Christian bookstores had a 25% increase in sales of Scriptures from 2003 to 2005, according to statistics gathered by the Phoenix, Ariz.-based Evangelical Christian Publishers Association, a trade group. General-interest bookstores, while declining to give figures, have also seen increasingly strong sales. "Bibles are a growth area for us and we're giving them more space in our stores," said Jane Love, religion buyer for Barnes & Noble. "It's partly because of the way they've evolved over the last three or four years."

Indeed, publishers like Thomas Nelson; Grand Rapids, Mich.-based Zondervan; and Tyndale House in Carol Stream, Ill. -- which together represent an estimated 80% of the Bible market -- have gone far beyond offering the Scriptures between black, burgundy, navy or white covers.

"For a long time the Bible was just the Bible," noted Kevin O'Brien, director of Bibles at Tyndale House. "You put it out there and people bought it. They didn't ask about the options, because there weren't any options. But now, especially in evangelical circles, people are seeing their lives not just in color but high-definition color, and they want the Bible to fit in with that. This is not your mother's Bible."

Thus, following the gospel of Seventh Avenue, publishers are displaying their wares in the season's hot colors. "This year alone I've seen four shades of purple," said Ms. Love, whose stores have also done well with two-tone Bibles. The pink and brown model has been particularly popular. Bibles are also available in the colors of your college, with a fur cover, a flower-patterned cover, and to appeal to young adherents, with a camouflage cover, a metal cover and a duct-tape cover. Next spring Tyndale House will be bringing out a paperback Bible in a plastic case that looks like a flattened Nalgene bottle.

But Bibles are becoming as much personal statements as fashion statements. "What people are saying is 'I want to find a Bible that is really me," noted Rodney Hatfield, a vice president of marketing at Thomas Nelson. "It's no different than with anything else in our culture."

Responding to such desires, publishers offer compact Old and New Testaments like Thomas Nelson's so-called checkbook Bible and Zondervan's Bible in a Bag, as well as myriad themed Bibles, among them archaeology, leadership and sports. "Sometimes what you have to work with seems quite inadequate," begins one section of the basketball edition. "Consider the plight of Rollie Massimino, the coach of the Villanova Wildcats...Villanova was ranked, well nowhere...Several thousand years earlier there was another underdog group that didn't have much to work with. They were called the Israelites."

There are PDA Bibles; audio versions like James Earl Jones reading the New Testament and Zondervan's just released "Bible Experience" with the voices of such African-American stars as Angela Bassett, Denzel Washington and Cuba Gooding Jr. Coming soon from Thomas Nelson: Johnny Cash reading the New Testament. There are Bibles aimed at children and teens, Bibles aimed at women. There's that water-resistant version of the New Testament -- "Immerse," from Thomas Nelson -- for camping trips, days at the beach, and perhaps baptisms. "We had a customer test it by keeping it in a bucket overnight and it was fine," said Mr. Hastings. Prices range from $1 to almost $200 for a 2,400-page study Bible hand bound in calfskin.

Fortunately for Bible publishers, consumers seem to think that if one copy of the Good Book is good, two or more are even better. "Forty percent of my customers own three to 10 Bibles," said Mr. Hastings. "It's sort of like me and golf. I have Tiger Woods's book and Ernie Els's book. I want all those different approaches to how to play golf. It's the same with Bibles."

The expansion of outlets -- Wal-Mart, Costco, Sam's Club -- partly explains the uptick in Bible sales, believes Paul Caminiti, a vice president at Zondervan. "Our company has seen a 20% growth in the last 10 years because of that," he said. The large array of translations has also played a role, according to Mark Kuyper, president and CEO of the Evangelical Christian Publishers Association. "It means there's more opportunity for them to appeal to groups with different theological perspectives," he said.

In some instances, spiritual leaders are embracing myriad translations and their flocks are following suit. "You go back 20 years and the pastor would stand in the pulpit and say 'you need to have this Bible, this translation. Go to the store and buy it,'" said Thomas Nelson's Mr. Hatfield. "But now pastors are reaching out and grabbing the translation that best suits their point for a particular sermon."

The parlous times are also a big motivator for people to open their wallets. "Part of what we see," said Mr. Kuyper, "is that when there is incredible unrest people are asking themselves existential questions and they're drawn to search Scripture. We saw a huge jump in sales after 9/11. We're not in that environment today, but we're certainly in an unsettled environment."

However interested they are in broadening their customer base, publishers say there is a very distinct line between the sacred and the profane. And don't even get them started on the "Jesus Loves Porn Stars" Bible that was distributed this past summer at an erotica convention in Los Angeles. "We're not going to do anything that is overtly seductive," said Mr. Hastings. "And we are not going to get into centuries-old arguments about denominational preferences between Catholics and Protestants. We're not going to do something to stir the pot. We'd turn down anything offensive to either side, that was either heretical or controversial."

"The question is always how do we create Bibles that people will pick up and use but that will not be too gimmicky," said Tyndale House's Mr. O'Brien. "If you get too trendy you've turned the Bible into a widget."

Ms. Kaufman writes about the arts and culture for the Journal.
URL for this article:
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB116536078510241660.html

Six months at The Mag

As of this past Tuesday, I've been at The Mag for six months. SIX MONTHS! These same six months last year seemed to drag on forever. Time indeed passes quickly when you're having fun. And fun it has been. When I've worked at huge companies and publications in the past, I've often felt lost and confused, more superfluous than anything else, like an unwanted pet that has to be taken care of, and that care given grudgingly.

When I started at The Mag, that was what I feared--no, was sure--would happen. The tight deadlines, the layoffs which had happened a few months earlier, and the fact that it's part of a huge corporation, all made me sure that I would be no more than a pain amidst the hustle and bustle of life here, and that busy editors would see me as more of a hindrance than help. And I fretted and worried.

But I've been proved so wrong. I've been taken seriously, given daily responsibilities, stories to work on, and encouraged to develop my own ideas, even outside of my assigned section. I've pitched stories to editors, who have painstakingly worked with me to develop and shape them into comprehensive stories. When my job offers were being rescinded, editors joined together to ensure that I had enough work to keep me on while I figured out my next move. When I've helped reporters on stories outside of my section, I've had more than one editor say, "If they don't give you a byline for that story, let me know, and I'll deal with it." I've felt depended on, useful, and anything but unwanted.

These have been a strange six months. But this job has been a haven, and I believe, in God's own way, the withdrawal of the other job offers was a good thing after all.

NOTE: I try to stay away from work-related entries, but since I am at my six-month point, thought I would be justified in making an exception.

Forgiveness

At church this Sunday, the worship leader sang this song by Hillsong United. I used to go to Hillsong church in London, so have a soft spot for all things Hillsong. But this song, in particular, struck a chord. I've been irked by my tendency to go on "sinning binges" and trying to find a balance between questioning the nature of my relationship with God, finding excuses for my actions, and wondering if I take my salvation through Christ for granted.

And even as I contemplated this, this song reminded me of God's unfailing love and His grace through Christ, and that, even if we don't, He does indeed forgive "seventy times seven."

All for love, a Father gave
For only love could make a way
All for love, the heavens cried
For love was crucified

Oh, how many times have I broken Your heart
But still You forgive if only I ask
And how many times have You heard me pray
Draw near to me

Everything I need is You
My beginning, my forever
Everything I need is You

Let me sing all for love
I will join the angel song
Ever holy is the Lord
King of glory, King of all

Oh, how many times have I broken Your heart
But still You forgive if only I ask
And how many times have You heard me pray
Draw near to me

Everything I need is You My beginning, my forever
Everything I need is You

All for love a Savior prayed
Abba Father, have Your way
Though they know not what they do
Let the cross draw man to You, to You, to You

Writer's block, and a bad novel

Lack of motivation, writer's block and brainfreeze brought on by the sudden onslaught of winter are deadly in combination. Particularly when you write for a living, and have a huge story--which you've been (supposedly) working on for the past 1.5 months--to start, er, I mean, finish.

All I want to do is curl up in bed and read a novel--no, not the one I've been reading for the past three months, and refuse to give up on because I want to start my book review blog (yes, yes it's still on its way) reviewing what might be the most unsuspenseful suspense novel ever written. And I hardly ever read novels, except as treats. I know, I know. I couldn't write one to save my life. But then, I don't claim to be a writer of suspense novels, do I? I'm just a deadly dull journo with writer's block.

But I may, in the spirit of Christmas, extend some grace to the author, and be a little less mean when I review it. If I finish it before Christmas, that is. And if I actually review it. Or I might extend him some more grace, and stop reading it altogether. I'm sure he'd be hugely relieved.

Big foot problems

Note to self: Do not buy shoes smaller than your abnormally gigantic feet--even if they are only half a size. Especially if they are the high-heeled, pointy-toed ones. Because, that would mean not only limping around the office, drawing curious stares, but also sitting in your apartment in your PJs, wearing two pairs of thick workout socks, with your feet stuffed into your too-small shoes, fruitlessly attempting to stretch them.

Just accept that you have big feet. That would solve a lot of problems.

Weds' Thanksgiving

All though Thanksgiving weekend in Atlanta, I kept telling Nev, "I hope the cat is alive when I get back," and "If he's alive, I hope the cat hasn't trashed my apartment."

I had good reason to be worried. I'd poured him enough water to last, I hoped, the four days I'd be away. But he'd splashed half of it out before I even left, and I was having nightmares that I'd return to find him flat on the floor, parched and panting, at best. And if that hadn't happened, he usually tore apart anything he laid his paws on when I was home. I couldn't imagine what he might do left to his own devices for days.

So it was with a fair bit of apprehension that I opened the door to my apartment yesterday. "Wednesday," I called out. No answer, and no excited cat came bounding up. That was unusual. A feeling of dread came over me. "Wednesday," I called again, as I walked in, my suitcase forgotten outside. I made my way through the apartment, peering under the couch, looking on top of the fridge, peeking into his little tent--all his favorite hiding places. But no cat.

Then I heard mewing, pitiful and scared. "Wednesday?"

The mewing grew louder, and I realized it was coming from inside. . . my bedroom.

My heart froze. I rushed to my bedroom and flung the door open. Weds sprinted past me. I stared at him in shock, and at the mess covering the floor. The items from the top of my dresser and nighstands were on the floor, the trash can's contents spilled, and drawers stood open. The curtain covering my window had collapsed, and bits of cat puke were on the bed and floor.

"How did you get in here?" I demanded of Weds. He mewed back, and rubbed himself against my legs. In my utter confusion, one thing was clear--I vividly remembered shutting the bedroom door, and seeing Weds in the living room as I left the apartment. And he had used his litterbox--so he couldn't have been locked inside my bedroom the entire time.

Then I thought, "Someone broke in and locked Weds in the room." This was too much. The confusion, the thought of someone else in my home, and the mess in my bedroom overcame me, and I collapsed in tears. I recovered after a few mintues, and looked through all the drawers, but nothing seemed to be missing.

I sighed, went back out to retrieve my suitcase, and set about cleaning up the mess. I was still confused, but Weds seemed completely untraumatised, and I managed to calm down.

As the day went on, my confusion lifted. I kept shutting the bedroom door only to find it open a few minutes later, and the industrious little feline sitting serenely inside. I examined the doorknob, and the answer dawned on me. I had hung a couple of bags on the doorknob before I left, and realized that when I turned it to open the door, the weight of the bags kept it that way. So, when I shut the door, the doorknob didn't turn back to secure the door, which allowed Weds to push it open. I realized that, once inside, he must have playfully pushed the door shut, and was then unable to get out.

The mystery was solved, and I thought no more of it. Until today, when I told The Rock the short version of the story--the cat somehow locked himself into my bedroom. "Wow," The Rock responded. "That must have stunk like crazy."

"Actually, no," I told him. "I think he may only have been inside for a couple of days."

"A couple of days is enough," he replied, laughing.

"Hmmm," I said. That was true. If he'd been inside for any length of time, the damage would have been much worse. So I guess he let himself in, or at least locked himself in, the previous night. Thank God for small mercies.

David Blaine: latest antics

David Blaine is, as of now, suspended 40 feet above Times Square in a three-ringed gyroscope, spinning constantly. His challenge (sponsored by Target): To free himself by 6 a.m. on Nov. 24. If he succeeds, he will take 100 children chosen by the Salvation Army shopping for free at Target on Black Friday.

Here are pictures I shot of him on my way back from work. He looked like he had freed one arm. We may have a Houdini in the making :)

I am thankful. . .

. . .for the long Thanksgiving weekend. SO thankful. Because it means a respite from the mountains of paper spread out all over my desk and the numbers and graphs floating in front of my feverish, head-achy eyes. Because, if, after today, I have to look at another company's SEC filings, I will poke my eyes out and run around the building screaming. You just wait and see!

My name is Ini and I love Lucky Charms

Is it wierd that I am almost 26 years old, and my favourite cereal is Lucky Charms?

I was standing in the kitchen at work today, pouring some milk into my cereal, when a colleague walked in. "Is that Lucky Charms?" he asked me.

"Yes," I told him. "But shhhh! Don't tell anyone."

"It's ok," he went on. "Although. . . we only let our kids eat Lucky Charms on special occasions."

"Well," I said, defensively. "I only let myself eat them on special occasions." Really, I do. I just happen to have lots of special occasions. And of course, if you open a box, you have to finish it. The fact that I buy the huge, ginormous boxes of Lucky Charms, and the puny little boxes of other cereals--you know, the ones that finish in three days--doesn't count. And anyway, Lucky Charms have way less fat than even "healthy" cereals like granola. Check the nutrition information on the box--just don't read all the way down to the sugar content.

But anyway, back to our conversation. "Oh, it's ok," he said. "I love Frosted Flakes. It's just one of those things that you get used to as a kid and then continue to like as an adult."

Silence.

"Did you have them as a kid?"

"Ummm, no."

"Oh."

Awkward silence, and an abrupt end to our conversation.

I believe I am now the wierd adult in the office who eats kids cereals.

Cozy Sundays. . .

I've been hunting for cozy little coffee shops--you know, the ones with the comfy chairs (ok, space, and hence huge sofas, are a rarity in New York City, so that might be asking too much), and frothy cappucinos in the humungous cups. With the weather turning crisp, I've started looking forward to spending Sundays curled up with a hot cup of coffee with the paper or a good book. Here are my finds. Please feel free to add suggestions (or to join me:)).

Blind Tiger
281 Bleecker St (Cross Street: Between 7th Avenue & Jones)
New York, NY 10014
(212) 462-4682
"Once you walk into the place, you wouldn't want to leave. Luckly enough, they have FREE wi-fi and friendly staffs who don't mind you staying there forever."

71 Irving Place
71 Irving Pl (Cross Street: E 18th Street)
New York, NY 10003-2220View Map
(888) 710-3844
Cozy little neighborhood cafe.

Full City Coffee
409 Grand St (Cross Street: Clinton Street)
New York 10002
Phone: 212-260-2363
Cute little cafe, great coffee, has sofas, tables, music & books.

Gotham Coffee House
1298 2nd Ave, (At 68th St)
New York 10012
Phone: 212-717-0457
A cozy, indie feel, great for studying, reading the paper, or catching up with old friends.

Ceci-Cela
55 Spring St (Cross Street: Between Lafayette Street and Mulberry Street)
New York, NY 10012-5727View Map
(212) 274-9179
Oversized coffee mugs! But some complaints about service.

Caffe Reggio
119 Macdougal St
New York, NY 10012-1202
(212) 475-9557
Reviews say it has a real "Italian cafe" kind of feel, but the chairs aren't very comfy.

Hungarian Pastry Shop
1030 Amsterdam Ave (Cross Street: 111th Street)
New York, NY 10025-1724
(212) 866-4230
"Old style campus coffee shop; delicious desserts"

Broken Cup Cafe LLC
342 E 22ND St
New York, NY 10010-5732
(212) 473-5002
Reviewers say it's a "diamond in the rough," but a bit cramped.

'sNice
45 8th Ave (Cross Street: W 4th Street)
New York, NY 10014-5117
(212) 645-0310
Laid back place with wifi, and vegan friendly

Housing Works Used Book Cafe
126 Crosby St (Cross Street: Houston Street)
New York, NY 10012-3326View Map
(212) 334-3324
Cozy, used book store with cafe, proceeds go to charity Housing Works.

Black butterfly

little black butterfly
with a few white spots
flying, searching
for a flower to sit on
every one she sees
turns away from her
until finally she finds
a beautiful flower
smiling up
the stem strong
the petals inviting
the scent caressing
carefully she sits
the flower rocks gently
in the summer breeze
sounds of laughter
cheery voices
a shadow falls over
a hand approaches
the butterfly flutters
as the flower is picked
and taken away
the butterfly cries
and one more white spot
slowly turns black

by Eadwine Rose

My not-so-safe haven

I became aware of a very disturbing fact today--all that stands between my sanctuary and the big bad world is a very-easily-opened-from-outside window.

I was doing my errands as usual this morning, and decided to run out to the corner shop for some paper towels and cereal. As I walked back home, I reached into my bag--and realized I had left my keys in my apartment.

Now, I don't live in a typical apartment building. There are two two-storey buildings, between which is an open walkway, onto which about five doors open from each building. In my unit, the outer door opens up to a flight of stairs, at the top of which are two apartments, and to the left of which is the door to the downstairs apartment--mine.

I buzzed and woke up my neighbours--whom I've never met--and managed to convince them that I actually did live in the apartment downstairs. I tried the doorknob to my apartment, hoping that I might have left it unlocked, and cursed my obsessive door-locking. I felt bad disturbing my neighbours again, so I went back outside, to see if I could find someone who knew where the building superintendent lived, hoping he might have a spare key. As was to be expected on a Saturday morning, the place was pretty sparsely populated, but I did manage to accost a couple of people--no one knew.

In between startling people I'd never spoken to before, I fiddled with my living room window, which looks onto the walkway. I removed the screen covering one side, trying to pry the window, prepared to sacrifice my fingernails. Nothing. I had no idea what to do--my phone, along with my spare keys, was inside, and I didn't know where the super lived.

I walked around for a bit, lost. Deciding to give the window one last shot, I leaned up against the glass while pushing it to the side, convinced that it wouldn't budge. To my shock, it slid open smoothly. I pushed the curtain aside, revealing a startled Weds and my keys sitting in plain site on the coffee table. "This is SOOO not good," I told myself. I reached in, grabbed my spare set of keys from the book shelf next to the window, and let myself in--all the while thinking, "OMG, OMG, this is not good. This is not good at all." Good thing I don't have much of value, but still.

I think I need to consider renters insurance. And a window lock.

Aaaargh!!!

To whoever or whatever you are/it is that enjoys banging away on whatever-it-is-you-bang-on every night above my bedroom: You need to STOP!!!! Because it is in your own best interest that I don't turn into a RAVING maniac and climb out of the window in the middle of my sleep-deprived night and come hunt you down. . . coz, I can assure you, that WON'T be a pretty picture!

Ugh!

Gah! I'm having a royal foot-in-mouth week, characterized by bouts of verbal diarrhoea and head-slapping gaffes at the most inopportune moments, punctuated by panic attacks about the meaning of life (well, my life mostly) and occasional bursts of worry that Weds might indeed be the one I'm meant to spend the rest of my life with (although Okia, my old roommate and his rightful owner, might have a slightly different take on that).

Sigh! I guess some things just have to run their course.

On mistakes and realizations. . .

I've spent the weekend catching up on reading about someone else's mistakes, which, incidentally, were being made at the same time I was busy making my own--methinks I could have gained some perspective, had I discovered this wealth of wisdom some time ago. But oh well. I guess each person has to make his/her own mistakes. No amount of someone else's experiences, no matter how "relatable-to" can really help. But this binge reading, among other things, has me somewhat depressed.

And on a wholly unrelated note. . . I'm wondering if I have an inflated view of myself, i.e. think that I am better, and deserve better, than I am actually am/do. And, hand in hand with that, if I am entirely too judgemental, and too shallowly judgemental at that, when it comes to other people's failings. Both are quite possible, I'm afraid. And, I have also discovered, to quote a line from Grey's Anatomy: "There is a land called passive-aggressiva, and I am their queen."

Sigh. I wonder what other unpleasant realizations await me this week.

A gmail message

I have relatively rare bursts of productivity and ambition, during which I do and plan things that I never follow up on. One of these things is signing up for listservs and news alerts that I never read once the drive wears out--which happens pretty soon after. Usually, I confine these alerts to a psuedo-junk email address, and occasionally glance through them, opening them only if the subject line hints at some sort of earth-shattering news. But, as a loyal subscriber to The Wall Street Journal, I thought it only fitting that the emails from this particular paper should be sent to my second-tier email address--not my sacrosanct personal one, but one step above my pseudo-junk email; the one in which I receive Columbia, job-related and other fairly serious emails.

But of course, my level of motivation when it comes to reading these is no higher than it is for reading my other pseudo-junk mail; with the result being that my second-tier Gmail inbox is now at 201 (I know, Caveboy, horror of horrors). Because, being the packrat that I am, I can't throw anything away; which in the virtual world translates into not deleting anything, at least until I've opened it.

So I was quite surprised--tickled, actually--when my Gmail account decided to take matters into its own hands and start designating my precious WSJ emails to the spam folder. I discovered two in the spam folder today. And I've no doubt more are headed that way. I believe the Gmail gods are sending me a message. Start reading your WSJ alerts, or we will throw them away.

Now I just wish someone would do the same thing to the weeks' worth of newspapers littering my apartment.

How much longer?

Yesterday, my ed, the Rock, asked me to show the reporter who just came back from maternity leave (for whom I was supposedly subbing, thus extending my internship) how to do a weekly newsletter that has been my domain for the past 4.5 months (OMG, I've been here 4.5 months--there should be a law stating that if you've been at a workplace for over three months, and no one's asked you to leave, you become a permanent employee, with all the honors, rights, privileges and responsibilities appertaining thereto).

But I digress. I believe I'm being phased out. Yes, indeed I am. And the Rock, who is too nice to kick me out on my butt when I have no other prospects, may be hoping that I will be magnanimous enough to spare him the awkwardness and offer to leave of my own volition. I, on the other hand, have planted my flag and am still here--with my books in the overhead cabinets, my lunchboxes littering my desk, and my notebooks and papers scattered all over my cubicle--hoping that the powers that be won't notice my lingering presence. Then again, maybe they've just chosen to remain "unaware" of the fact that I'm still here--after all, if they kick me out, they'll have to evict my mess first. And who dares do that?!?!?

Update: We just had a wine and cheese tasting extravaganza. SEE?!?! THIS why they just might have to drag me out kicking and screaming.

Bare necessities

Predictability, simplicity and good ol' peace and quiet are highly underrated. 'Coz when you think about it, all you really need to be happy in your earthly life is a home to come back to at the end of the day (a kitten whose day is made the minute you walk in the door is a plus for some); to do something you love for a living; to enjoy decent health, the occasional cold notwithstanding (health insurance would be nice, I suppose); to have just enough money to meet your daily needs, and a bit more for occasional treats; and a handful of people in your life whom you love, and who love you (for many, God doesn't fall into this category; for me, He does). That, and knowing--for the most part--what the next minute, hour, day, week, month will bring. Almost everything else is superfluous. It's so simple, really. Maybe that's why we take these basic things so much for granted--until, that is, we face the threat of losing them.

Life is so unfair

I settled down in front of the TV on Thursday night and flicked through my cable-less channels. Nothing caught my fancy. I finally settled on the The Biggest Loser*--hoping to get a few pointers for myself, maybe.

The participants were preparing for one of their tasks. They two teams, red and blue, were instructed to get onto an escalator going downhill and climb. The winning team--the one with the last person still climbing--would get $10,000 to divide equally between the team members.

The team members took their places on two escalators, one for each team. The clock started ticking, and the five members of each team started climbing. The first two on each team didn't even seem to try. The first gave up in a little over a minute, and before two minutes were up, the second two also let the escalators carry them down. The third from each team tried harder, but also stopped soon after. The last two continued, trudging up, step by step, sweat pouring off them, huffing and puffing. The second-to-last member of the red team even came close to giving up but forced herself to keep going. Finally, it was down to the last person from each team. Neither would give up. Finally, the blue team's remaining member, a teacher desperate for the money, panted out his apology and stopped climbing. The remaining woman from the red team finally collapsed, and had to be dragged off the escalator when it reached the bottom.

The red team was ecstatic, no doubt about the money they would get to split between them. It seemed so unfair. Two of them didn't even try, and got to walk away with $2,000 each, thanks to the efforts of their other team members. Sure there's no "I" in team and they cheered the rest of the team on, but come on! I guess, in a way, that team was representative of all groups -- there are the slackers, the ones who do just enough and the ones who do their share plus the slackers' share. But it bothered me. The money should have been divided in proportion to the amount of time they spent on the escalator. At least that way, everyone would have been motivated to do their best instead of some of them leaving it up to the rest of team to do all the work.

Ah well, not much in life is fair, is it? And it's not like anyone's giving me $2,000 for climbing an escalator!

*The Biggest Loser is a show in which people who are significantly overweight compete to lose the weight. The winner is decided (I think) based on which team loses the most weight and one member of the team that loses less weight each week is voted off.

Confession

For the past few weeks, I've strayed. I took a conscious step off the narrow path towards God, and chose the wide, free road, away from Him. Not that I did anything drastic or acted any differently. But on the inside, something changed. I told Him, "Goodbye God. I don't need you. You go your way, I'll go mine."

I did it because I wanted--demanded--results, changes in my life. And He wasn't giving me any. So one day, I decided I'd had enough. I stormed into my apartment, took down crucifixes, packed up Bibles and dumped them into a box inside my closet. I deleted the part about my being a Christian from my blog profile. I stopped going to church. The elimination was quick and systematic.

And it was easy. Boy, was it easy. In the past few weeks, I've felt no guilt, no worry that I was hurting Him, no pang that I would have felt before when I was lazy about talking to Him, reading His word, or doing anything I knew was against His will. I realized that the further I got from Him, the easier it became to ignore Him, and to do my own thing.

But I also felt a sense of emptiness. Even during my self-imposed isolation, I caught myself a couple of times, telling Him: "Jesus, I miss you." But I was captivated with the ease of life without God, without accountability to Him, without the need or desire to do Someone else's will.

Until the emptiness overcame me this week -- just like that. Nothing happened. It just occurred to me that, no matter what, my life wasn't much without Him. So, I'm slowly retracing my steps. It's tough going, back uphill to the narrow road. Knowing that I won't be able to brush off straying as easily as I have over the past few weeks. But I also know that, while I was on my own on the wide and easy road, Someone will go with me on the narrow one.

I prayed last night for the first time in weeks. It wasn't terribly heartfelt or eloquent. I was sitting on the bus home, looking out the window, and quietly said I was sorry and asked him to come back to me. It wasn't a desperate longing -- yet. That will come. What I felt was the first hazy rays of what I know will become a much stronger need.

So the "Christian" part of my profile is back up, and the crucifixes and Bibles come out tonight. Pray for me.

Update

I've updated my poor, sad serious blog, which is suffering from very low self-esteem as a result of much neglect. Please pay him a visit.

And the new book review blog is still in the works, and will be up shortly.

Paid torture

On Saturday morning, I woke up bright and early (relatively, anyway), showered, changed and took myself off to Jackson Heights for a session of torture. Cost: $8 plus tip.

I walked in and took a seat against the wall, opened up my newspaper and prepared to wait my turn. It was unusually busy -- usually, I never have to wait. People are developing a taste for torture, apparently.

I settled myself in the leather chair when my number came up, and leaned my head back. The woman, armed with her weapon, approached. As the thread, one end attached to her fingers, and the other held ominously between her bared teeth closed in on my upper lip, I squeezed my eyes shut, clutched the arm of the chair, and braced myself.

She did her thing with the thread, and a few minutes, several tears and many deep breaths later, the first torture session was over. The result--a clean, bare upper lip. After a few seconds of respite--during which she took in the state of my eyebrows, shook her head disapprovingly and muttered, "Tsk. You haven't come in for a long time"--she attacked the area above my eyes.

More tears, many gulps of air, and much intense pain, and the ordeal was finally over. I paid, got my loyalty card dutifully stamped, and left, my eyebrows and upperlip still red and smarting.

Until my next torture session, that is, which comes with a free upperlip thread. Yaay!

Funny how life evolves--pulling out bodily hair used to be a form of torture. Now, we travel halfway across the city, wait patiently, and gladly dish out money for it. What is the world coming to?

A long time coming

So have you been wondering why I haven't done anything stupid in awhile -- 'coz, you know, I have. Until Thursday, that is.

I had an invitation to a luncheon on microfinance, part of the Clinton Global Initiative conference. The luncheon was scheduled to be from 12:45 to 2:00 on Thursday. I was excited to go -- albeit slightly nervous -- and was hoping to get some story ideas out of it. More bylines are always good, right?

The day before the luncheon, I received an email from the PR rep, saying that the time had been changed from 12:45 to 2:45. And on Thursday, I received a voicemail from the PR confirming the time change -- from 12:45 to 2:45.

So about 15 minutes before the appointed time, I checked my make-up, picked up my notebook and sauntered the few blocks to the Sheraton. I walked in and was confronted by groups of people wearing nametags, and purposefully networking. I was directed to the press room to get my credentials. And after a long procedure that involved the taking of a very bad photo, I made it through security and into the press area for the conference.

I walked past a row of rooms lined with desks and laptops, with reporters scattered through them watching a series of screens showing various conference events. It didn't look like anyone was having lunch. And anyway, I had passed the restaurant where the luncheon was supposed to be, and there were just a few stragglers sitting at tables -- certainly nothing that looked like a "luncheon" and certainly no Mohammed Yunnus or Vinod Khosla. Confused, I approached a woman who looked like she was in charge.

"Do you know where the microfinance luncheon is?" I asked her.

Blank stare.

"You know, there's a session on microfinance, that's part of this conference?"

"Ummm, I'm not sure." She consulted the list of conference sessions, and shook her head. "Do you know who's in it?"

I told her.

"Well, it says here they were in a session, but it's over," she informed me.

After a short back and forth and a confused phone call to the PR firm handling one of the panelists, I thanked the woman and walked back to the office, resigning myself to the fact that the luncheon was indeed over.

And it made sense. I had wondered about it, but hadn't given it too much thought. I mean, I had to wonder, right? Why would anyone would start a luncheon so late?

'Coz, you see, when the PR rep said the time had been changed from 12:45 to 2:45, I thought it had been changed TO 2:45. So that's when I went -- at 2:45.

Goodbye serious blog. . . and hello, yet another one

Ini has made a decision.

Sadly, my "serious" blog seems to have fallen flat on its face, and there is about as little interest in the world in reading it as I seem to have in writing it. So I've decided to swallow my pride, accept my shortcomings, and give up on writing about topics and issues that many many people write about, and do so better than I do or ever could.

Instead I've decided to turn my pen -- or keyboard -- to the world of books, and start . . . a BOOK REVIEW BLOG! I've scrolled through good ol' Technorati, and there don't seem to be too many blogs dedicated solely to books -- so I've decided to take the plunge.

I plan to start with one review every week to week-and-a-half, and build up to about two a week. I just scrounged through the free books and manuscripts at the mag, sent by hopeful publicists trying to get a review and sadly abandoned, and have decided to start off reviewing a few of them, and see how it goes.

This is an experiment for now, and I'm doing it just to see how it goes, and to make myself read books. (This journalism thing has meant that I devour newspapers and magazines, at the expense of my beloved books). It might also flop, but I'll never know until I try, right? So send me your suggestions on books on any subject -- I only ask that it's relatively new. Or, send me your own books -- again, relatively new, or not yet published! And I'll review away!

The blog address will be decided shortly.

Oooh. This is like sixth grade all over again!

Nothing to write about

I haven't got a thought in my head . . . not a whit. Which translates into: I have nothing to blog about. Well, I do, sort of, but it's about jobs and what will happen after Oct. 13, when what has become my pseudo-internship ends, and whom I can beg or bribe to keep me on the magazine. But you don't want to read about all that.

Oh, here's another thought. A conversation with Mr. Bill Clinton may be in the works. MAY BE! Of course, I'm sure I've jinxed it by broadcastingi it to the world. But oh well. If it happens, I'll tell you the story!

New plans!

It's funny how things work themselves out -- or not so much work themselves out as turn around from one of the worst things that's happened to one of the best. A couple of weeks ago, I was told that my job offer from the wire service was rescinded. Last week, that was confirmed. I was very upset -- as it was obvious from my last post. It would have been one thing if I hadn't gotten it in the first place -- but the fall from the elation of being about to start the perfect job to losing it before I even got there was hard.

But, as I scrambled to find other options, at the back of my mind, a question lingered: what would I do with myself for four months next year, between when my current visa expires, and my next one will (hopefully) start. I voiced this concern to Caveboy, whose response was "Do what I did. Go to Guatemala. Learn Spanish. . . or Arabic!"

And I realized that of course I could! I've gotten so used to the idea of not being able to leave that it didn't occur to me that next summer, I will be able to. I could go anywhere! Do anything! The world would be my oyster! I've been kicking myself for not traveling more when I was in London, and complaining that I can't go anywhere now. And four months with nothing to do would be the perfect opportunity to do so! So I've been thinking and planning and researching and have come up with a tentative plan:

Here it is: a month in Beirut, taking intensive Arabic classes, and traveling around the country and Middle East on weekends(specific destinations to be decided based on situation at that time). Another month in Cairo, on a more advanced Arabic class with weekend trips to other parts of Egypt, and Algeria, Tunisia and Morocco. Then the third month in France -- not Paris, although it will include a visit there -- taking intensive French classes, and traveling around Europe. Then a week in London, before returning to Sri Lanka before coming back (hopefully) to the U.S.

And throughout this time, I'll write freelance stories and sell them to publications. And write a book!

Yes yes. I know, I'm dreaming -- there's visas to be gotten and budgets to be made, and money to be saved. But I've always told myself that when it comes to spending on myself, traveling and education are the two things I won't scrimp on. So I'll dream away for now, and hope that it will all happen. After all, when will I ever have four months to myself again?

Mediocrity

Warning: pessimistic post follows. . .

When asked what would be the one thing they would not want people to define them as, people say various things -- some say boring, others say ordinary, yet others say stupid or ugly. After much thought, I decided, relatively recently, that my undesirable quality of choice is mediocrity.

I've never been the smartest in my peer group, but not the dumbest either. I haven't been the best-looking, but not the worst either. And I haven't been the life of a party, but I haven't been the wallflower either. Under these circumstances, the tendency to slip into mediocrity has been ever-present, ready to drop at any minute.

And I've tried to battle it tooth and nail. Particularly career-wise, I've tried to stave off mediocrity by praying as hard as I could, working just as hard, and by taking chances that held the promise pf results that would remove me as far as possibile from any chance of slipping into mediocrity.

Now, moving away from mediocrity doesn't mean making millions or becoming famous or even being the absolute best in what you do -- at least not by my definition. Rather, it is living a life that makes a significant difference in the lives of others. And translating that into my chosen career, it means being a reporter who seeks the truth in areas I'm most passionate about, and exposing the way the less fortunate parts of the world live to the more privileged ones.

But lately, the question of whether it is possible to escape the mediocrity that has been hanging over you your whole life has been weighing on my mind. And with the latest blow that has succeeded in almost crushing me, my faith and my quest, I am almost convinced that one's own efforts are not enough to escape mediocrity. You can work harder than you've ever worked. You can force yourself out of your element, your comfort zone, into strange and confusing worlds. And you can endure all kinds of heartache in your quest.

But, despite your best efforts, I am almost convinced that the way your life turns out is beyond your control. At the end of the day, what matters is not always how hard you work (although it does make a difference when combined with other favorable factors) the career path you've chosen, the qualities you already possess -- a brilliant mind, for example -- and, ultimately, the colour of your passport.

The quintessential shop assistant

Do I look like everybody's idea of a shop assistant?

I know most people, at some point in their life, have been approached while browsing in a shop by someone and asked if they work there. To most it's happened, once, maybe twice, rarely three times. Less than the fingers on one hand for sure. But to me, IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME!!! I can count them on one hand -- about four times over!

Just in the past two weeks, I've been approached by two people in two different stores, and asked if I work there -- and both times, it was in stores that even have uniforms. Ok, so I was wearing a blue top the second time, the same colour as the uniform. But it was a distinctly different shade of blue, and a different kind of top!

Now I know I'm not the sharpest dresser out there, and I don't always look like the elegant, sophisticated journo that I am. But still. . . that's no excuse! If you see someone wearing a handbag, clutching a box of cat food, and seriously contemplating the choice of cereals in the food section of a drug store, you DO NOT go up to them and ask if they work there!

Now I don't mean any disrespect to sales assistants, though I have my own beef with many of them; at least those in the unfriendly New York City anyway. But, if I'm unsure of whether or not someone works at a store where I'm shopping, I at least surreptitiously observe them for a few minutes before approaching them cautiously. When I get to within speaking distance, I usually stand there, staring at them, to see if they respond. If they don't, or if they look at me suspiciously and hold their shopping and their money closer, I slink away.

Why doesn't everyone do that? Surely it beats barging into someone's serious shopping experience and demanding that they help you instead!

A morning toe ritual

Weds and I have a little ritual we perform every morning. (I don't let him sleep in my room at night, for fear that I'll wake up the next morning minus parts of my feet, which he has a penchant for nibbling on).

I get out of bed, walk to the door, and stick my toes out through the half-inch space between the door and the floor. He sleeps just outside the door, so I know he's there. I wait only about a second before I feel a gentle furry nudge, as it dawns on him -- every day -- that the seemingly disjointed toes are actually a part of my anatomy. He excitedly prods at my toes for a bit, enjoying this unexpected diversion, before starting to nibble on them.

Some days, the ritual is slightly different. If I'm moving around in my room, it's not very long before a little white paw sneaks in under the door. I often respond by placing my foot on top of the paw, at which point, a second paw shoots out from under the door, ecstatic at having received a response to his seeking. I play footsie with the two bodiless paws for a bit, before giving in and opening the door.

In either scenario, what follows next is always the same -- the little guy is lying by the door stretched out contentedly, enjoying this game -- and he seems just as excited by it each morning, as if playing it for the first time every time. As soon as I open the door, he gets up, and trots in, rubbing himself against my legs and purring in contented glee.

And I invariably start my day in a good mood, smiling widely, always amazed by how little it takes to make the little guy happy.

A bed. . . and a job offer!

So, after weeks of sleeping on a mattress and on the futon in the living room when the bedroom got too messy, I finally assembled my bed over the weekend.

It shouldn't have taken me 6 weeks to do it. But the person I bought it from had unassembled it, and in doing so, had made the holes the screws went into much larger. And when I tried to put them back, they just wouldn't stay in. So, I had to redrill the holes -- and my drill died about five times in the middle, and the drill bits were too small for the screws. AND, although I had about 20 different Philips and straight screw driver bits, the screws had square heads -- as in, the hole on the screw that the screwdriver head fits into was square. Who does that?!?!? So trying to put square headed screws into holes that were too small with Philips-head screw drivers turned out to be much more difficult that I'd anticipated.

But in the end, I did it! And I managed to lift the extremely heavy flat pieces of wood that the mattress rests on and put them on the frame without doing any permanent damage -- I think anyway. So, I'm just the teensiest, weensiest bit proud of myself. And I'm convinced that I'll be fine if I end up single. Geez, who needs a man when you can build your own furniture!

And, yes, the second part of that title. I got a job offer, but it's a trade magazine, and I'm about to turn it down. Coz I'm a snob, and I don't want to work at a trade magazine -- because that's what I was doing pre-Columbia, and what's the point of this past year if I just go back to doing what I was doing before? So, still no job. And still waiting for a decision from that wire I really wanted. So, everyone who's promised to cross anything, continue to keep 'em crossed!

Eerily quiet day

I am working in ghost town today - for a week, starting today, in fact. It is the first day of "dead week," the second week after a double issue, when there's no magazine to put out for the following week. Everybody -- including my boss, my boss' boss, my psuedo-bosses (when you're at the bottom of the food chain, EVERYBODY's your boss or pseudo-boss) have all left.

Or are trying to, at any rate. This morning's bomb threats have turned the long-awaited holidays of many here into airport nightmares. My editor, always attached to the office by an invisible umbilical cord, called me this morning from the airport, to make sure everything was ok. Everything's fine, I reassured him. He wasn't so fine. He was stuck at the airport, trying to get to the south.

It's something between a lazy and a productive day. It's been pretty quiet, and, with no deadlines, I haven't been too motivated to work. But I have actually been somewhat productive - even if it's not a work-related productive. I've updated my serious blog which I'm learning is a lot of work. And I've been reading, and actually concentrating, without the usual jumble of voices around me.

Plus it's the official good bye cocktail day for the interns -- only it looks like the interns will be the only ones around. I am not leaving, so the good byes don't apply to me. But I plan to go anyway. To have some human company for the first time today. Of course, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the free drinks!

Return of the Internet

Dear sweet Internet. How I've missed you!And now that you've arrived, I feel as if a part of me that I'd lost has returned to me!

And so, dear reader, I've created a new blog -- mostly because I want to write more seriously and on topics of more gravity than I have been in this one. Not that I will necessarily succeed, but I want to at least try.

I created this blog because I wanted to make myself read and think and form opinions. I take in what I read, but I find that unless I make myself, I don't always think about them or form opinions. The latter especially, I find especially difficult to do.

I feel like I have not particularly succeeded in my aim with this one. And since it has taken a different direction altogether, I thought it might be easier to start again, rather than try to change course now. So my new blog, The Musings ofNichola is an attempt to awaken my brain. And, while I'm aware that I am probably not the most informed or knowledgable person on most topics, I do hope that some good will come of it, somewhere, somehow.

What about this blog, I hear you ask, betraying the sinking feeling of losing something you absolutely cannot do without:P Fear not, dear reader, this blog will still continue, as the place where I vent, where I mutter and muse (???) about my own life. So, please continue to visit. . .

Job news jitters

If it’s not the aftermath of a mediocre date, it’s the aftermath of a mediocre job interview. The staring-at-the-phone-willing-it-to-ring scenario takes on many forms these days. The date says, “I’ll call you,” and you sit and wait, biting your fingernails, wondering if your phone has developed an aversion to ringing for some unfathomable reason. The job interviewer says “I’ll call you,” and it’s the post-mediocre-date scenario all over again.

In the past few weeks – the past many weeks actually – I’ve been waiting for my phone to ring – from a prospective employer, not a prospective love of my life – though the former might morph into the latter, given the way things are going with me. It is a financial news wire, and I want the job for several reasons – because I want to work for a wire, because I want to work on daily, or even hourly, deadlines, to better understand financial news, to work for an international news organization and one that sponsors foreign employees.

Things haven’t gone as smoothly as I expected. I had a trial and a second interview exactly a month ago tomorrow. As I thanked the interviewer after a very intense three days, I was told that they would contact me in a week. Remembering that it took them longer than that to get back to me after my first interview, I took this information with a pinch of salt.

So when the first week came and went with no news, I didn’t so much as bat an eyelid. As the second week inched to its close, though, I started to worry. The earnings season was starting, and they had warned me that it would be a busy time. I knew there would be no news for a long time after. So I called. I called the editor, her assistant, left messages and emailed both. I heard not a peep.

And then the first earnings week arrived and my faith started to ebb. I waited till the end of the week, and called again. This time I got the editor. Had they made a decision yet? Sort of. Apparently, my test had been “on the fence,” not good enough to make me a shoo-in, but not bad enough to send me off into the newswire netherworld either. “Call back in a week,” she said.

And so I did. This morning. “I’ll call you back this afternoon,” she said.

So, here I am, back to the staring-at-the-phone-willing-it-to-ring scenario all over again.

More to come soon!

Oh my poor neglected blog! Yes, I am aware that I have not blogged in a long time. But I will get Internet connection in my apartment on Saturday, and it will write lots after that!

And, I'm starting a new blog! More on that to come later! Watch this space! :)

Bloggers v. journos

While doing some research for a story, I came across some references to the time when Wal-Mart sent out "blog releases" written in the informal language of blogs, to bloggers. Some bloggers posted these releases on their blogs without attributing them to Wal-Mart.

In the ensuing drama (it is Wal-Mart, after all), those supporting what the bloggers did said they did nothing wrong, as they had no duty to reveal their sources, just like journalists don't have to reveal their sources. And my first reaction was "What?!?!?"

Who said journalists don't have to reveal their sources? And even if journalists can hide sources, who said they don't have to reveal the sources of press releases?!?!?

We see a lot of anonymous sources used in stories, but at most publications worth their salt, journalists have to make every attempt to get something on the record, and can use anonymous sources if all else fails, i.e. 1. when the information they are getting is a fact, not opinion 2. when nobody in the know is willing to speak on the record and 3. when it can be verified by a number of (at least 3) other reliable anonymous sources.

If a journalist is sent a press release from a company, there is ABSOLUTELY NO WAY he/she can use it without saying where it came from. In most publications, a journalist cannot even use a release word for word, unless he/she makes it clear it is a direct quote and attributes the quote. And definitely not without getting other, maybe opposing, voices into the story.

The bloggers in the Wal-Mart case were simply propogating Wal-Mart's side and hiding the fact that they were doing so. They had no reason to withhold the source of the information, but they did, in the process misleading their readers. But, the thing is, bloggers have minimal responsibilities and standards, unless they are self-imposed, so they can get away with doing so. Journalists can never do the same thing that these bloggers did, unless they work for a complete rag. So to compare these bloggers to journalists who use anonymous sources is farfetched and misleading.

Overwhelmed :(

With everything that's been happening over the past few days, I've been feeling a bit overwhelmed.

For one, I didn't get a fall internship I applied for. Which is fine, because I didn't really want it in the first place. But now, I'm panicing about the other job I've applied for, which I really want, and which I was counting on when I signed a one-year lease for my apartment. And just about the general fact that I don't have a job when I finish my internship in a month, and what I will do about my apartment if I don't find something in the New York area (I know, it was a stroke of genius to move without a job lined up).

The move itself has been really draining, and this weekend, I went back to my storage unit to pick up the rest of my things. Now I have six huge boxes sitting in my living room that I have neither the energy or the inclination to unpack, mostly because I don't know what to do with the stuff in it. So I just sit there, staring at them, trying to figure out how I managed to accumulate so much in less than a year.

My finances are a complete mess, mostly because of the huge fiasco of a move that ended up costing me a lot more than I'd anticipated. And in typical Ini fashion, I haven't managed to get up the nerve to deal with it.

I picked up Wednesday yesterday and brought him home, but he's in a bit of a mess, because he did the big job on the way to my place in his pet carrier, and I need to clean him up. But for one he won't stay put long enough for me to do so, and two, I'm not really sure how to go about doing it. And I'm worried that he hasn't yet discovered his litter box, and that I'll go back home to discover. . . I won't spell it out (how WILL I deal with having kids?!?!?!)

I have a host of DIY projects piling up that I haven't dared to attempt, so I have bits and pieces of furniture in various stages of impending collapse sitting around my apartment.

And for some reason, my new address seems non-existent, and I haven't gotten any mail (except for good ol' Netflix) since I moved, despite the fact that I've changed my address both with all the credit card etc. companies and the post office. So, I'm worried that I have bad credit piling up somewhere that I'm blissfully unaware of.

And, in general, New Jersey seems a world away from my few friends, and it's lonely out there:( And, without internet access at home, I feel even more cut off from the world.

These are all silly, shallow concerns, especially in light of what's happening in the world right now. But please forgive my self-absorbedness, at least this once. Next time, you can tell me to suck it up and deal with it.

An incident

As I was standing at the corner of 23rd Street and I Avenue, waiting for my movers to arrive last Friday, I witnessed something that horrified and shocked me -- although, knowing this city, it should have done neither.

I half saw a little old man in a wheelchair that was crisscrossed with shopping bags on the back, slowly wheeling himself along the pavement. I looked away, and, when I looked back, one of the bags, a paper one, had split under the weight of a gallon can of water. The can lay open on the ground, water splattered across the sidewalk, and the bottom of the bag gaped precariously open, ready to spill its remaining contents.

I watched him for a bit, unsure of whether to approach him and offer my help, or to pretend not to have seen him. My good side finally took over, and I inched towards him.

“Do you need help?” I asked him, stopping a few feet away.

“No, no,” he replied gruffly, looking at me suspiciously. “I don’t need help.”

He seemed so averse to the idea of anyone lending a hand that I backed off, although I continued watching him from the corner of my eye.

He painstakingly took the bag down, placed it on the pavement, and slowly proceeded to make space in his other bags for its contents. He was standing partially hidden by a telephone booth to anyone approaching from the opposite direction, but the torn brown bag was further off to his left, closer to the center of the pavement.

As I watched, a young man, probably a teenager, wearing an insolent, purposeful look on his face, walked down the sidewalk towards the man and the bag. In one swift motion, he kicked the bag, scattering its contents – a mini-TV, some crossword puzzles, various bits and pieces. The TV rolled down the pavement and came to a rest a few feet away, still within reach of his feet. He kicked it hard again, and it rolled away again.

The old man looked up at him with a blank face, almost as though he was unsurprised by what was happening. I, perhaps more naïve than the old man, who had clearly learned a lot from a harsh life in this city, gaped after the youth, my jaw hanging, too shocked to even say anything. Even if I hadn’t been so stunned, I’d probably have been too afraid to confront him, for fear that he might pull a gun on me.

The TV finally landed outside his reach, and he continued walking without so much as breaking his stride. The TV lay near me, so I picked it up and walked up to the old man, and handed it to him. “Thank you,” he said. “Maybe I do need help.”

As I tried to gather his things, another woman, wheeling a little cart, stopped. “You need another bag,” she informed the man.

“No, no,” he insisted. “I’ve plenty of bags. I’m fine.”

She fished out a bag from her cart anyway and held it out to him, but he adamantly refused to take it.

She put it back and bent down to help gather his things.

“Please, just leave me alone. I can handle it. I’m fine,” the old man insisted.

We left his few belongings in a pile and stepped away. And, as I continued watching him, and saw him slowly finish reorganizing his belongings, sit back in the wheelchair and move away, I thought back to the look on the face of the man who had so purposefully done such a small but hateful act – how uncaring it was, how hard and cold and dark. And I wondered what would make someone’s heart so black – that, in walking by, he could have either stopped to offer to help the old man, or he could have done what he did. What made him choose to do what he did?

In the large scheme of things, this is not a life-changing act, and maybe he was just having a bad day. But, his face seemed to say otherwise – he had the cold, cruel face of someone who enjoyed inflicting pain. And the person who kicks over a vulnerable person’s few possessions today might go on to take a life tomorrow. And then what?

A nightmare move!

Hello Dear Reader,
No, I have not fallen off the planet, although I feel like I have, thanks to my lack of internet access. And coming online today after a long time, and seeing updated blogs and unread emails, I felt even more like the earth has continued spinning, leaving me alone in a far away corner. Such is our dependance on this lovely thing we call the Internet!

This week has been a crazy one. I hope this is not a sign of things to come in my new apartment.

Yes, that's right. . . I have moved into a new apartment in the (un)lovely Garden State of New Jersey. And, surprise, surprise, it was the move from hell.

I woke up ready to get out of the hole and into my relatively nicer apartment. I had unpacked very little when I moved into the hole, so I didn't have much to repack. So, when 2:00 arrived -- the time my movers were supposed to arrive -- I was all ready to go. I had made arrangements to pick up a few pieces of furniture from some people on the way, and everything was spic and span and ready to go.

Doesn't sound like me, does it? No, I didn't think so either. I was ABSOLUTELY sure that something was bound to go wrong. So, when the movers hadn't arrived at 2:02, I panicked -- this was what was to go wrong. I called the number I'd called to book them, and there was no answer. Between 2:02 and 2:15, I called four times, and got the voicemail each time.

Maybe they're coming at 2:30, I thought. 2:30 came and went, and no sign of the movers. Maybe 3:00? Nope. A few dozen more calls yielded no response.

I gave myself the luxury of sitting down and having a good cry, holding my head in my hands, alternating between "What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" praying furiously, and cursing the movers to the depths of hell.

Soon, I realized that that wasn't going to get me anywhere. I sat up, then started furiously trawling through the internet trying to find movers who'd be available at the last minute. I called about 30, and nobody was available. They all thought I was crazy, asking them to come that afternoon. "It's the end of the month," they informed me in disbelief. "You think you're going to find someone NOW?"

I persevered. Finally, the blessed words I wanted to hear. One was available. But, he said, it would take a maximum of two hours to get to Manhattan. Fine, I said, not bothering to ask where he was coming from.

I set about calling the people whom I was supposed to pick up the furniture from and telling them about my plight. One was having the same trouble, and was going to be around much later than expected. The other two had people who could let me in.

I'd told the movers to meet me at one of the places from which I was to pick up some furniture, so I headed out there early, in case the movers arrived early. Naive Ini.

At 5:00, I called the mover. Yes, I'll be there soon. When? In an hour. I sighed. OK.

6:00 -- Yes, yes, I'll be there in an hour. There's a lot of traffic.

7:00 -- Yes, yes, I'm on my way. Half an hour. I'm coming from the Hamptons. The Hamptons!?!?!? I'd thought Queens, maybe Long Island!

At 7:30, I was still naively believing that they would show up at any minute.
Yes, yes. Half an hour.

At 8:00: Almost there.

At 8:30, they finally showed up, just as the first drops of rain were starting to fall.

I looked up at the sky and had a serious word with God. "You and I, we're finished," I informed him. (Spoken in frustration, of course. We're nowhere near finished, poor God!)

We rushed in, picked up the furniture, and proceeded on our way. At the second place, the roommate of the person we were picking it up from was still there, and let us in.

As we were heading to my storage unit, the phone rang. The people at the third pick-up location were ready to leave and couldn't wait anymore. Ten minutes, I promised then. We cancelled our storage unit plan and headed back downtown to cross over from east to west. We finally reached half an hour later, but the seller had mercifully left the furniture outside and gone. Picked it up, put it in the truck and headed up to my apartment. It was too late to go to the storage unit.

Picked up my stuff, tersely cut short a fight between the two movers, engaged in some spy tactics to leave the keys to the hole for its next inhabitant who hadn't shown up yet, and headed off to Jersey.

So far so good. On our way to Jersey, predictably, we got lost. This, after the mover spent half an hour intensely meditating on Mapquest directions. After driving for at least two hours -- by this time, my utter exhaustion had made me lose all concept of time -- we finally arrived at the apartment.

In my daze, as we were bumping along the NJ Turnpike, I remember one thought that occured to me: that the perfect hell would be eternal moving. Imagine dying and going to hell, and being told that you're going to spend forever moving. It's enough to make anyone behave themselves!

A bit of wrestling to get the sofa in through the window, and dumping all the other stuff in the apartment, and the movers were gone.

I stood in the middle of the clutter, smiled -- a little deliriously -- and told myself, "Welcome home, Ini. You are NEVER moving again. You will DIE in this apartment!"

And so I will, even if it kills me!

First press briefing!

I went to my first press briefing today as a bonafide member of the New York press corps. It was a relatively laidback event, and not even something we would do a story on. I knew what it was about, but I took it pretty lightly, and sauntered over to the place which was just a few blocks from where I work.

I reached there and made it up to the room where the briefing was. Standing in the elevator, I realized there was another reporter in the elevator with me. As we introduced ourselves and said which magazines we were from, a wave of panic hit me. "OMG," I thought. "That magazine has sent a real reporter, and my magazine sent ME? The Rock should have come! What was he thinking!?!?!?"

I calmed down somewhat, but as each real reporter walked in, I sank just a little more in my chair. Then another wave of panic. "OMG, I have to ask questions at the end. I have to establish that I'm a serious journalist. The whole reputation of my magazine is at stake here. If I don't ask questions, they'll all think of my magazine as the one that sent that stupid intern who didn't know anything and didn't ask any questions."

I was convinced that I wouldn't even be able to follow the presentation, and in an attempt to avert such tragedy, I kept my eyes glued to the presenter, taking them off only to jot down notes, as if by boring my eyes into her, I could absorb what she was thinking and saying by sheer osmosis, if by nothing else. She finished her presentation, and I realized that I had understood most of what she'd been talking about -- maybe not to confidently write a story about it, if I had to, but in my mind her message was clear. I didn't ask questions, but neither did some of the other reporters there, so I felt a load lift -- if I wasn't the only one that didn't ask questions, then they wouldn't remember just me, I convinced myself.

Then came the dreaded socializing. I was tempted to just leave under the pretext of moving apartments in a couple of days and needed to pack, but forced myself to stay, telling myself sternly that I needed to make contacts. And I was hungry. So I helped myself to some food and drink and moved out onto the rooftop.

And I was pleasantly surprised to find the whole small talk thing much easier than I did about two years ago when I endured multiple excruciating social events, sometimes for days when I was covering conferences, feeling like a complete wallflower and wishing almost without exception that I could disappear. I am still not very good in group situations, but I realized that I wasn't questioning myself a dozen times before making a simple comment or contributing to the general flow of the conversation. I even stayed longer than I'd intended to!

So, my first press briefing went pretty well. And I realized that, while in moments of panic, I might question my decision to leave a mediocre job in London, where I was, nevertheless, happy and move to New York, doing so did give me opportunities I'd never have had -- because now, I am a very tiny fish in a huge pond, nay, in an ocean, but better that than to be a big fish, even the ONLY fish, in a tiny pond. Because a big fish in a tiny pond isn't going anywhere unless it leaves the pond, but a tiny fish in an ocean has plenty of room to grow.

Anonymity. . .

It's absolutely shocking what a little anonymity can do to people. It brings out the little devils inside them full force and unleashes them in all their fury. And the result. . . people turn nasty and horrible and racist and nationalist, just because they cannot be held to account for what they say.

Part of the scut work of my otherwise fabulous internship -- actually, I don't mind it so much, since it gives me some insight into humanity and also allows me to get an idea of what our stories are without reading each one everyday -- is to go through the magazine's web site and approve (or not, as the case may be) readers' comments in response to the stories we publish online. And boy can people be nasty. Because we don't ask them to give us their real identities or email addresses before they can appear on the site, people are absolutely horrible. Some swear, some call each other names, some call the people of certain countries incompetent, lazy, and worse names.

When I see these venomous comments, I just sigh and shake my head and think, "This could very well be some corporate executive sitting in a plush corner office somewhere, spouting poison, just because it can't come back to him." And how awful is that? If you have a point of view, fine. Say it. But why hide behind the anonymity of the internet to let loose all your pent up anger and hatred? Why do you have so much hatred in the first place?

It reminds me of another incident. I had a friend, an Uzbek journalist, who was in my master's program. She was covering the Andijan massacre last May before coming here, and was shot at. She survived because she had a book in her pocket that stopped the bullet from hitting her (I know, sounds like a movie, but absolutely true). She has been banned from entering Uzbekistan, because of her courageous reporting of the massacre, and she wrote an article criticizing the government and the massacre that was posted on a site. The article was, in turn, picked up by a pro-government forum -- and she was critisized and abused by many on the forum for her views. They are absolutely entitled to their views. But these are people who would probably not have been able to even have an intelligent discussion about the massacre with her. But, they had no problem spewing filth on her, safely hiding beyond the anonymity afforded by the internet. Anyone who supported her were also subjected to the same verbal abuse.

I sit in front of my computer, at work reporting a story, and wonder many times how we survived before the Internet came about. But sometimes, I wonder how the world manages to survive and function with it.

It's my genes' fault!

Today's New York Times had an article titled "That Wild Streak? Maybe It Runs in the Family". It was about. . . you guessed it. If you have urges to go climb mountains. . . or to smoke cigarettes. . . or throw yourself off a cliff, it's because of your genes.

As I read it, I found myself shaking my head. Because, while I'm sure there's some truth to it, it just seemed to me a way of science giving us naturally lazy humans an excuse to continue our bad habits guilt-free. If I'm overweight, it's because of my genes, and so I don't need to feel bad about it. If I drink too much, it's my parents' fault. If I can't quit smoking, it's because my parents, and their parents, and their parents, were smokers too.

It might not even stop with those aspects that could be affected by genes. The excuse-making could spill over to every part of our lives -- I can't get a good job because of my genes, I make other people's lives miserable because of my genes, I don't wash the dishes or clean my apartment because it's in my genes.

There's a flip side to this as well -- we start to think that we can't take credit for our success -- because we were genetically programmed to succeed, our achievements have nothing to do with our own efforts or accomplishments.

What a sad world it would be if these tests were commercially available -- the lazy ones blaming their DNA for their failings and the hard working ones letting their genes take the credit for their hard work.


Note: This post is somewhat tongue-in-cheek -- because I do realize that, for some people, no matter how hard they work towards a certain goal, e.g. quit smoking, it's much more difficult than for others, because of their genetic make-up.

The September song. . . or just plain knuckles?

I was reading This Fish's post today, in which she writes that she has to sing the September days song to remember how many days each month has. And I realized that my way of figuring out how many days each month has is slightly different. And I'm not sure if it's something that most people are familiar with -- or if it's just a quirky thing that we do in my village or in Sri Lanka or South Asia.

I make a fist with my hand, and assign the bone of my index finger to January. Then the pit beside the bone is February. Then back up to the bone of the middle finger. That's March. . . and so on. When you get to the bone of the little finger, you return to the index finger and continue. All the months for the raised bones have 31 days, and all the months in the pits have 30 days (except for February, of course, but if you need a method to figure that out, you've got other problems). Anyway, you do it this way, and lo and behold, you get 31 days for both July and August, the only two consecutive months that have 31 days. Because of this, when I was little, I used to think that people who decided the days and months and all did it using their knuckles, and that's why they let July and August have 31 days -- because when you get to the last raised bone, you have to come back to the first raised one! It just made sense.

PS: I am annoyed -- I just called Nev to see if this is actually quite a common practice and I'm making a hoopla about something that everybody knows about. I asked him how he figures out how many days there are in each month, and he said he uses the September song. Then I asked him if he knew the other way, and he vehemently said no.

So I started trying to explain it to him, but every time I started talking, he'd interrupt me with a very abrupt "I don't know what you're talking about," the way he does when he thinks I'm being a "FOB" (that's "fresh off the boat" to anyone who doesn't know desi-talk, as in people who aren't cool or westernized enough).

Finally, exasperated, I said, "Well, that's why I'm trying to explain it to you."

To which, he replied, "Well, I know what it is."

"Then why did you keep saying that you didn't know what I was talking about?" I retorted.

"Well, I know what it is, but I use the September song," he said.

I hung up.