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.