- Would the rate of abortion drop dramatically if men were to have children instead of women? Would the general competitive spirit between men cause no fetus to be left behind?
- If perception is reality, and we all have our own perceptions of things, how many realities must there be at any given time? How do they all co-exist? Keeping this in mind, how can we ever expect to really see eye to eye with another person & be in a relationship with him/her? What if we all had to draw a “scene” from mental images only… how many renditions would there be? Can witnesses really be trusted?
- Why is it windier on bridges (than, say, flat lying areas)? I pretty sure there’s a physics theory for this… I just can’t think what.
- If sex is reasonably good the first time you have it with someone, how likely is it to be better the second time, when it may be sans the drunkenness & awkwardness of having to figure out what they don’t like? Should one-night stands like these actually be given 2 or 3 chances to gauge full potential?
- In most situations, and especially health, is it better to know, or not know? Would you rather drop dead of a disease without warning or continue to plod along allowing yourself only half the things you could do previously?
- When is it time to settle for less than the ideal (regardless of the situation)? What is the cost-benefit analysis, and what are the variables that should be considered?
- Given you could have only one in abundance, would you rather have the money or the time?
- Does privilege actually ruin us? When we cease having to use our skills to achieve something, do we tend to become the under-achieving mental/intellectual equivalents of aimless slugs? Is our drive, as a species, to acquire the most material comforts for our offspring potentially causing them more harm than good?
- What do children, being a largely negative NPV (net present value) project really provide for us aside from a well accepted and legitimized channel for our narcissism, and possibly one of the purest forms of selfishness (looking out for our own genes)?
- Given it’s normal for people to be selfish and look out for their own interests almost all the time, what causes people to be heroes? Is it just that they don’t have time to register the selfishness & think things over? Is there a higher, collective level of selfishness that is shared by the human race that supersedes the individual so that the species can not completely disappear? Does that happen in other species?
- Are humans the only species in the food chain without whom the planet could go on perfectly fine? Are we basically just a semi-intelligent virus?
- Who first looked at a pair of knickers, and a pair of stockings, both reasonably comfortable articles of clothing on their own, and sewed them together into the medieval torture contraption that is pantyhose?
- Ever wonder who picks the “feature presentation” movies for long haul flights? Is it a comedian with a macabre sense of humor, a thwarted script writer intent on indirectly torturing the potential audience s/he couldn’t have, a psychoanalyst trying to run a covert experiment to study the hand of media in complete mental breakdown, or just a true sadist (at par, perhaps, only with the inventor of pantyhose)?
- What is the psychology of boredom? Why are some people more easily bored than others? Is it wrong to be intellectually promiscuous (given there is no intent to follow through with a more conventionally understood form of cheating) – after all, can one person ever really completely satisfy another long term in this aspect?
The time has come...
...to admit that make-up would, indeed, help the cause. The following is an account of my recent foray into the land of cosmetic "help":
Those of you that know me well know that I'm not exactly an eager customer. Actually, unless it's food/booze, handbags, shoes or outerwear, I'm just not arsed to spend the time shopping. I can just see myself through the eyes of the person behind a make-up counter:
Me (Napoleon Dynamite-esque, spotting a shiny object/ bottle): "uhhh, what's THAT?"
Immaculately made up lady/ gent behind counter (with expression a mix of condescension and incredulity): "it's our revolutionary product that you merely have to smooth on, and it will foam up on its own, take away all signs of excesses that you have WRIT LARGE on your face. We've been written up in Allure [you know...that shining beacon of a magazine that has pretty much featured every product on the face of the earth if you actually counted or kept track]"
Me (no change in expression): "oh. sweet. umm... do you make chapstick [my standard term for all lip balm... I know, I know... the marketers/ advertisers have won!!]?"
Immaculately made up lady/ gent behind counter (expression changing to horror): "No! We do have a vitamin and minerals enriched gloss that plumps your lips up and rushes color to them due to the naturally stimulating action of *(insert random mineral here)*"
Me (completely uncomprehending): "ok. thanks. bye."
SO... when I decided to venture into the land of eyelash curlers, an "advanced" product, by all accounts, some friends begged and pleaded with me to not blind myself (literally?) to the possible ill-effects my clumsiness could have in this instance. One went as far as to say "You have them now. Given your lack of deftness with anything aside from lip balm, you may be without any in months. Please reconsider this mid-life crisis move".
Long story short, my stubbornness being as resolute as my lack of grace, I plunged ahead and bought an eyelash curler from Nordstrom (from a fancy Japanese brand, having heard this name bandied about at work, from the mouths of marketing ladies who KNOW these things!). Honestly, the thing looks like a torture instrument. The thought of putting it anywhere close to my eyes makes me immensely nervous. But the girl (she WAS quite young... do parents let kids wear make-up that age?) behind the counter was really nice, and resisted the eye-roll and sigh that most places might resort to when they spot you trying to hold the curler like a gun in suicide position (it's highly likely that her other job was as a tutor in a special-ed school). Now the contraption is at home, waiting patiently to be used at my brother's wedding.
Those of you that know me well know that I'm not exactly an eager customer. Actually, unless it's food/booze, handbags, shoes or outerwear, I'm just not arsed to spend the time shopping. I can just see myself through the eyes of the person behind a make-up counter:
Me (Napoleon Dynamite-esque, spotting a shiny object/ bottle): "uhhh, what's THAT?"
Immaculately made up lady/ gent behind counter (with expression a mix of condescension and incredulity): "it's our revolutionary product that you merely have to smooth on, and it will foam up on its own, take away all signs of excesses that you have WRIT LARGE on your face. We've been written up in Allure [you know...that shining beacon of a magazine that has pretty much featured every product on the face of the earth if you actually counted or kept track]"
Me (no change in expression): "oh. sweet. umm... do you make chapstick [my standard term for all lip balm... I know, I know... the marketers/ advertisers have won!!]?"
Immaculately made up lady/ gent behind counter (expression changing to horror): "No! We do have a vitamin and minerals enriched gloss that plumps your lips up and rushes color to them due to the naturally stimulating action of *(insert random mineral here)*"
Me (completely uncomprehending): "ok. thanks. bye."
SO... when I decided to venture into the land of eyelash curlers, an "advanced" product, by all accounts, some friends begged and pleaded with me to not blind myself (literally?) to the possible ill-effects my clumsiness could have in this instance. One went as far as to say "You have them now. Given your lack of deftness with anything aside from lip balm, you may be without any in months. Please reconsider this mid-life crisis move".
Long story short, my stubbornness being as resolute as my lack of grace, I plunged ahead and bought an eyelash curler from Nordstrom (from a fancy Japanese brand, having heard this name bandied about at work, from the mouths of marketing ladies who KNOW these things!). Honestly, the thing looks like a torture instrument. The thought of putting it anywhere close to my eyes makes me immensely nervous. But the girl (she WAS quite young... do parents let kids wear make-up that age?) behind the counter was really nice, and resisted the eye-roll and sigh that most places might resort to when they spot you trying to hold the curler like a gun in suicide position (it's highly likely that her other job was as a tutor in a special-ed school). Now the contraption is at home, waiting patiently to be used at my brother's wedding.
“Oh, I thought YOU wanted to go…”
Saturday was a day of ambitious planning and poor execution. The day started out with a monumental fucking hangover from various intoxicants consumed Friday evening (must replenish milk thistle stock at home!). SU, who is staying with me for a few days (and will kill me for posting this, but what the hell), came into my room mid-morning, as she does every day, to discuss the day’s upcoming activities. In short, this was our conversation (I may have made only groaning sounds):
SU: “good morning”
Me: “hey. What’s up?”
SU: “I’m heading to eat brunch with a friend. Would you like to join us?”
Me: “who is it?”
SU: “so-and-so” (not someone I know)
Me: “no”
SU: “ok. Btw, I have taken stock of the vegetables in the kitchen today & will help you cook them this afternoon, if you want”
Me: “that’ll be nice”
SU: “ok. Let’s commence at 2:30 p.m. Then at 5, I’m meeting a friend for coffee. Bye”
Come 2:30, I’m not at home, as this seemed like a suggestion, not a plan. I am suitably admonished for it. Sweet… it’s as if I am in a relationship & don’t know it :-) I remain unfazed, as my relationship gauge normally works off the exclusivity & frequency of activities other than cooking together.
Around 6 p.m. DA and I decide to head to “opera in the ball park”… free simulcast of Il Trovatore for cultural misfits who’d rather be guzzling beer and thinking that this muzak break is ending & the baseball game starting any minute now. The real deal is on at the opera house with the blue hairs & the modern equivalents of pince-nez spectacles. Grand logistical plans are crafted.
“Let’s bus it till mission & embarcadero & then walk 1.3 miles to AT&T park”
“yeah, let’s do it. There’s a bus in 22 minutes. I’ll be on it, and at your stop 1.5 minutes later”
So we “meet” each other on the bus. A homeless person has been hitting on DA by the time I get on, and he gives her his card. No, really. We discuss buses, creepiness, life. Then the conversation veers towards the weather.
Me: “It’s become cold again today. It’ll be fucking freezing at the ball park, by the water & all. It couldn’t be nice for one more day (whine, whine… usual crap)”
DA: “Yeah, that’s why my friend with the baby bailed, I think”
Me: “Right. So who else are we meeting there?”
DA: “Nobody”
Me: “So it’s just us?”
DA: “yes”
Few seconds’ silence…
DA: “You really want to see this, right? I’m sure it’ll be nice.”
Me: “um.. no. I thought YOU wanted to see it. I only want to spend time with you.”
DA: “Should we do something else?”
Me: “Go back and chill out close to our place?”
DA: “yes”
And that’s what we did. Took the same damn bus back, and made a full circuit with the driver, for the first time in almost 8 years in SF. Lameness personified. The driver’s expression told us he thought so too. At least the evening ended with great conversation.
SU: “good morning”
Me: “hey. What’s up?”
SU: “I’m heading to eat brunch with a friend. Would you like to join us?”
Me: “who is it?”
SU: “so-and-so” (not someone I know)
Me: “no”
SU: “ok. Btw, I have taken stock of the vegetables in the kitchen today & will help you cook them this afternoon, if you want”
Me: “that’ll be nice”
SU: “ok. Let’s commence at 2:30 p.m. Then at 5, I’m meeting a friend for coffee. Bye”
Come 2:30, I’m not at home, as this seemed like a suggestion, not a plan. I am suitably admonished for it. Sweet… it’s as if I am in a relationship & don’t know it :-) I remain unfazed, as my relationship gauge normally works off the exclusivity & frequency of activities other than cooking together.
Around 6 p.m. DA and I decide to head to “opera in the ball park”… free simulcast of Il Trovatore for cultural misfits who’d rather be guzzling beer and thinking that this muzak break is ending & the baseball game starting any minute now. The real deal is on at the opera house with the blue hairs & the modern equivalents of pince-nez spectacles. Grand logistical plans are crafted.
“Let’s bus it till mission & embarcadero & then walk 1.3 miles to AT&T park”
“yeah, let’s do it. There’s a bus in 22 minutes. I’ll be on it, and at your stop 1.5 minutes later”
So we “meet” each other on the bus. A homeless person has been hitting on DA by the time I get on, and he gives her his card. No, really. We discuss buses, creepiness, life. Then the conversation veers towards the weather.
Me: “It’s become cold again today. It’ll be fucking freezing at the ball park, by the water & all. It couldn’t be nice for one more day (whine, whine… usual crap)”
DA: “Yeah, that’s why my friend with the baby bailed, I think”
Me: “Right. So who else are we meeting there?”
DA: “Nobody”
Me: “So it’s just us?”
DA: “yes”
Few seconds’ silence…
DA: “You really want to see this, right? I’m sure it’ll be nice.”
Me: “um.. no. I thought YOU wanted to see it. I only want to spend time with you.”
DA: “Should we do something else?”
Me: “Go back and chill out close to our place?”
DA: “yes”
And that’s what we did. Took the same damn bus back, and made a full circuit with the driver, for the first time in almost 8 years in SF. Lameness personified. The driver’s expression told us he thought so too. At least the evening ended with great conversation.
Bitch, please… (post dedicated to things for which I no longer have any patience)
CROSS THE FUCKING STREET ALREADY
Yes, I realize that it’s a tall task to pick your pants up from around your knees whilst clad in a puffy down jacket in the middle of a 80 degree day, keep them semi-anchored in the vicinity of your rear end with one hand, and yet continue to gesticulate sweet nothings to the homies you’re leaving behind on this side of this immeasurably wide city street. I dare underestimate neither the gravity of this urban form of conduct, nor the fact that you may need to stop halfway through the street (regardless of the color of the traffic light), ponder the state of what-the-fuck-ever, and then proceed at a glacial pace while grinning & wiggling your eyebrows at me. It’s so charming that it almost makes me regret that I have to rush to work to pay taxes that subsidize programs that allow you to do exactly this. So get out of my fucking way in a hurry or this very sequence of events you just subjected me to will be history.
STOP BEING SO RIDICULOUSLY WHOLESOME
You (female): skinny jeans, layered top look (ranging from asymmetrical cutting-edge to granny-chic), appropriately dreamy/wispy hairstyle, beret.
OR
You (male): skinny jeans, layered top look (ranging from asymmetrical cutting-edge to granny-chic), surfer dude hair OR slightly mussed up side-swept longish hair (plastic framed glasses must accompany latter).
Me: grumpy immigrant in her mid 30s with a curiosity or craving for whatever you’re hawking.
Let’s get this show on the road. Understand this basic capitalistic efficiency model: once I’ve pointed to, and asked to be given, something, don’t do a retarded-ass, belated sell attempt on me. It’s a gross waste of time. I don’t CARE that the cacao has been harvested by wood nymphs, packed by unicorns, and fair traded to you & you alone from Narnia so that I may consume this overpriced item. You have goodies. I have the required currency for this exchange to take place. Stop blinking vapidly at my apathy, and give me my change. Reserve your energy for tonight’s “saving the heart of "insert third world country here"” meet where your white guilt can be better articulated over kombucha cocktails & fluttery hand movements.
GET TO THE POINT
It can’t be easy to engage someone in conversation at bar or club. The chances of rejection & ridicule are high. Rate of return on time, effort, and financial investment is low. I get that. So, if you have managed to look past the generally disheveled appearance and stoned vacuous stare, and decided to make a move regardless, I implore you: please make it a pleasant transaction for all involved. Some of us are of a generally awkward social mindset and pretty much only come out to be with friends. This means that opportunities for conversations are likely limited, and should be dealt with efficiently, and in a manner befitting the circumstances. If it’s a place with music, chances are that it’s loud and your sparking personality may not get the air time or appreciation it deserves. So… first, declare your intent. A simple “hi, my name is so-and-so and I’d like to chat you up” should suffice. Honestly, not everyone may understand that you’re not really tapping them on the waist only to squeeze by enroute to a better dancing spot, or you don’t actually want to know if this band is on every Thursday at this location. Some folks just don’t dedicate enough brain power to this stuff. Second, keep it brief. I paid to see the band. They are why I come here almost every Thursday. Either get into this vibe with me, and we can bond, or wait till after they’re done. I can’t hear you OR the band properly while you make lame conversation about your only other Indian friend (seriously, in the bay area?! And, no, I don’t know him. There are a billion of us).
STOP TERRORIZING OTHER FOLKS USING PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION
The phone fairies: Are you the lifeline for a group of retarded chimps playing “who wants to be a millionaire” and the topic is SF streets? Are you keeping cartographer friends who are plotting the streets of SF on some continuum based on how long the bus takes to get from one block to another? Or are you simply demented and like to call out to your phone buddy the name of every single street the bus passes, interspersed with detailed discourses about issues with your ex? At the volume of 11. You are uninteresting & dull. Nothing except turning into Mary Louise Parker can compensate for this. Please keep your lackluster problems to yourself and use the phone only for periodic check ins, etc. Maybe the ex was right after all.
The profuse compliment givers (compilation from more than one object of affection): You know they’re high; they know they’re high. They’re also most likely homeless and smell like the inside of a port-a-potty. Just the sort of person you’d love to get a compliment from.
“you’re beautiful”.
“um…thanks, that’s very kind of you”.
“could you tell that I was looking at you?”.
“yes, the hairs at the back of my neck have been standing up so long they’ve become horns”
“you’re real purty… like the lady on the hair color box” (hopefully not the “before” specimen!!)
"hmm"
“you have lovely toes” (appropriate nervous tic included)
STOP DRIVING. JUST. FUCKING. STOP.
You know who you are. Get off the fucking road. Who gave you a license, for fuck’s sake?!?!?!?! Pick O-N-E lane, and drive in it. Or change fully into another lane and drive in that. This isn’t a country road and you’re not in a goddamn tractor… get a fucking clue.
Yes, I realize that it’s a tall task to pick your pants up from around your knees whilst clad in a puffy down jacket in the middle of a 80 degree day, keep them semi-anchored in the vicinity of your rear end with one hand, and yet continue to gesticulate sweet nothings to the homies you’re leaving behind on this side of this immeasurably wide city street. I dare underestimate neither the gravity of this urban form of conduct, nor the fact that you may need to stop halfway through the street (regardless of the color of the traffic light), ponder the state of what-the-fuck-ever, and then proceed at a glacial pace while grinning & wiggling your eyebrows at me. It’s so charming that it almost makes me regret that I have to rush to work to pay taxes that subsidize programs that allow you to do exactly this. So get out of my fucking way in a hurry or this very sequence of events you just subjected me to will be history.
STOP BEING SO RIDICULOUSLY WHOLESOME
You (female): skinny jeans, layered top look (ranging from asymmetrical cutting-edge to granny-chic), appropriately dreamy/wispy hairstyle, beret.
OR
You (male): skinny jeans, layered top look (ranging from asymmetrical cutting-edge to granny-chic), surfer dude hair OR slightly mussed up side-swept longish hair (plastic framed glasses must accompany latter).
Me: grumpy immigrant in her mid 30s with a curiosity or craving for whatever you’re hawking.
Let’s get this show on the road. Understand this basic capitalistic efficiency model: once I’ve pointed to, and asked to be given, something, don’t do a retarded-ass, belated sell attempt on me. It’s a gross waste of time. I don’t CARE that the cacao has been harvested by wood nymphs, packed by unicorns, and fair traded to you & you alone from Narnia so that I may consume this overpriced item. You have goodies. I have the required currency for this exchange to take place. Stop blinking vapidly at my apathy, and give me my change. Reserve your energy for tonight’s “saving the heart of "insert third world country here"” meet where your white guilt can be better articulated over kombucha cocktails & fluttery hand movements.
GET TO THE POINT
It can’t be easy to engage someone in conversation at bar or club. The chances of rejection & ridicule are high. Rate of return on time, effort, and financial investment is low. I get that. So, if you have managed to look past the generally disheveled appearance and stoned vacuous stare, and decided to make a move regardless, I implore you: please make it a pleasant transaction for all involved. Some of us are of a generally awkward social mindset and pretty much only come out to be with friends. This means that opportunities for conversations are likely limited, and should be dealt with efficiently, and in a manner befitting the circumstances. If it’s a place with music, chances are that it’s loud and your sparking personality may not get the air time or appreciation it deserves. So… first, declare your intent. A simple “hi, my name is so-and-so and I’d like to chat you up” should suffice. Honestly, not everyone may understand that you’re not really tapping them on the waist only to squeeze by enroute to a better dancing spot, or you don’t actually want to know if this band is on every Thursday at this location. Some folks just don’t dedicate enough brain power to this stuff. Second, keep it brief. I paid to see the band. They are why I come here almost every Thursday. Either get into this vibe with me, and we can bond, or wait till after they’re done. I can’t hear you OR the band properly while you make lame conversation about your only other Indian friend (seriously, in the bay area?! And, no, I don’t know him. There are a billion of us).
STOP TERRORIZING OTHER FOLKS USING PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION
The phone fairies: Are you the lifeline for a group of retarded chimps playing “who wants to be a millionaire” and the topic is SF streets? Are you keeping cartographer friends who are plotting the streets of SF on some continuum based on how long the bus takes to get from one block to another? Or are you simply demented and like to call out to your phone buddy the name of every single street the bus passes, interspersed with detailed discourses about issues with your ex? At the volume of 11. You are uninteresting & dull. Nothing except turning into Mary Louise Parker can compensate for this. Please keep your lackluster problems to yourself and use the phone only for periodic check ins, etc. Maybe the ex was right after all.
The profuse compliment givers (compilation from more than one object of affection): You know they’re high; they know they’re high. They’re also most likely homeless and smell like the inside of a port-a-potty. Just the sort of person you’d love to get a compliment from.
“you’re beautiful”.
“um…thanks, that’s very kind of you”.
“could you tell that I was looking at you?”.
“yes, the hairs at the back of my neck have been standing up so long they’ve become horns”
“you’re real purty… like the lady on the hair color box” (hopefully not the “before” specimen!!)
"hmm"
“you have lovely toes” (appropriate nervous tic included)
STOP DRIVING. JUST. FUCKING. STOP.
You know who you are. Get off the fucking road. Who gave you a license, for fuck’s sake?!?!?!?! Pick O-N-E lane, and drive in it. Or change fully into another lane and drive in that. This isn’t a country road and you’re not in a goddamn tractor… get a fucking clue.
Sydney
So I’m back from Australia & it was a stupendously good time. The break was essential to my sanity, and although Australia has not been on the top of list of places to visit, I’m beyond happy that I went!
Here are the key take-away points:
- Sonia & Keith seriously rock as hosts & parents. If I ever have children, that’s the attitude I wish for as a parent. I’d actually prefer to have children who are born as well behaved & lovely as Jyosna, requiring no effort on my part whatsoever, but if that’s not possible, I’ll settle for these two’s parental attitude. I miss the kids. Both of them have totally wormed their way into my heart. Sonia & I are largely convinced that Jannali, at 4 months, has more feminine wiles than the two of us put together. That kid reels you in with her coquettish smiles and, once you’re at arms length, gives you the “what’re you waiting for? Make yourself useful & pick me up, bitch” look. It works every time.
- Callum & Barry should collaborate and write a book called “eating & drinking your way through Sydney”. I had the best time hanging out with them!! Callum, sharing the enviable spot with S & K as my other Sydney host, is my male Adelle (the enormity of this compliment may escape him, though, having never met her, or seen us together). At the end of a couple of evenings together, I felt like a hyper child - overtired but over-stimulated and unable to put myself to sleep. I sleep too little as it is… if we lived in the same city, I would definitely need to alternate him with some duller/calmer friends, or some meditation.
- There’s no matching Keith’s cocktails. They kick ass. Keith is the “barefoot contessa” of mixed drinks (no comparison intended with Ina’s girth)… starting with the best ingredients, etc. etc. The best mixed drinks I’ve ever had in anyone’s home. And better than many bars.
- I did not notice if the water circles the drain clockwise or anti-clockwise.
- I am not as tall as I had previously thought. This has been a rather crushing realization.
- Nobody could explain why the equivalent of café au lait is called a “flat white”. I’d first assumed that it was the equivalent of a latte, but most places seem to do a latte AND a flat white. Weirdness.
- In most other places, one “becomes” pregnant. In Australia, one “falls” pregnant.
- The coffee shop close to work lists 2 items that nobody in the joint knows how to make.
- The dinner at Sepia ranks among the best meals consumed in my entire life. It also holds the distinction of being the only meal of my life that ended with a phone call from my mother announcing a death in the extended family.
- Sydney seems like a pretty safe city. The look & feel is a bit like SF. But the comparisons with SF have to end at the harbor & the temperature during “winter” months. For these things, Sydney kicks SF’s ass. I could probably live there (but not forever, as cocktail options are limited in most places. In fact, the mention of some liqueurs that are standard fare in SF bars could well elicit a completely befuddled look from most bartenders and customers alike). But then I can't really think of anywhere that I could live forever.
- Toasted banana bread with butter is really really good.
- “The seeker” (The Who) has been permanently ruined as a song for me. I will never again be able to listen to it without expecting accompanying plunking sounds from the guitar throughout the song and the crowd booing the band off stage after 2 minutes. Thanks, guitar hero.
- Aboriginal women are not trivial in size (I must include a disclaimer that my sample size was rather small and only consisted of the women in the Bangarra dance troupe).
- Duck tastes divine on a pizza.
- The Sydney office is the company's best office in the whole wide world because Barry’s girlfriend sends baked treats in with him twice a week or so.
- The historic (world’s steepest, supposedly) railway ride at Blue Mountains is a fantastic experience.
- I missed seeing the botanical gardens this time. It’s on my to-do list for next time. So are Melbourne & Hunter Valley.
- Apparently gin can be dry or floral. I have discovered that I prefer the floral variety over the dry. Keith is a master of comparative taste tests.
- The Indian habit of staring openly, unblinkingly, and without reserve has made its way across the seas rather smoothly & without any detriment to intensity, along with the bearers of said stares. Actual eye contact with, or any similar acknowledgment of, the object of regard is still studiously avoided, though. Another Indian heritage lovingly preserved.
- Orange curacao is not a good substitute for triple sec.
Here are the key take-away points:
- Sonia & Keith seriously rock as hosts & parents. If I ever have children, that’s the attitude I wish for as a parent. I’d actually prefer to have children who are born as well behaved & lovely as Jyosna, requiring no effort on my part whatsoever, but if that’s not possible, I’ll settle for these two’s parental attitude. I miss the kids. Both of them have totally wormed their way into my heart. Sonia & I are largely convinced that Jannali, at 4 months, has more feminine wiles than the two of us put together. That kid reels you in with her coquettish smiles and, once you’re at arms length, gives you the “what’re you waiting for? Make yourself useful & pick me up, bitch” look. It works every time.
- Callum & Barry should collaborate and write a book called “eating & drinking your way through Sydney”. I had the best time hanging out with them!! Callum, sharing the enviable spot with S & K as my other Sydney host, is my male Adelle (the enormity of this compliment may escape him, though, having never met her, or seen us together). At the end of a couple of evenings together, I felt like a hyper child - overtired but over-stimulated and unable to put myself to sleep. I sleep too little as it is… if we lived in the same city, I would definitely need to alternate him with some duller/calmer friends, or some meditation.
- There’s no matching Keith’s cocktails. They kick ass. Keith is the “barefoot contessa” of mixed drinks (no comparison intended with Ina’s girth)… starting with the best ingredients, etc. etc. The best mixed drinks I’ve ever had in anyone’s home. And better than many bars.
- I did not notice if the water circles the drain clockwise or anti-clockwise.
- I am not as tall as I had previously thought. This has been a rather crushing realization.
- Nobody could explain why the equivalent of café au lait is called a “flat white”. I’d first assumed that it was the equivalent of a latte, but most places seem to do a latte AND a flat white. Weirdness.
- In most other places, one “becomes” pregnant. In Australia, one “falls” pregnant.
- The coffee shop close to work lists 2 items that nobody in the joint knows how to make.
- The dinner at Sepia ranks among the best meals consumed in my entire life. It also holds the distinction of being the only meal of my life that ended with a phone call from my mother announcing a death in the extended family.
- Sydney seems like a pretty safe city. The look & feel is a bit like SF. But the comparisons with SF have to end at the harbor & the temperature during “winter” months. For these things, Sydney kicks SF’s ass. I could probably live there (but not forever, as cocktail options are limited in most places. In fact, the mention of some liqueurs that are standard fare in SF bars could well elicit a completely befuddled look from most bartenders and customers alike). But then I can't really think of anywhere that I could live forever.
- Toasted banana bread with butter is really really good.
- “The seeker” (The Who) has been permanently ruined as a song for me. I will never again be able to listen to it without expecting accompanying plunking sounds from the guitar throughout the song and the crowd booing the band off stage after 2 minutes. Thanks, guitar hero.
- Aboriginal women are not trivial in size (I must include a disclaimer that my sample size was rather small and only consisted of the women in the Bangarra dance troupe).
- Duck tastes divine on a pizza.
- The Sydney office is the company's best office in the whole wide world because Barry’s girlfriend sends baked treats in with him twice a week or so.
- The historic (world’s steepest, supposedly) railway ride at Blue Mountains is a fantastic experience.
- I missed seeing the botanical gardens this time. It’s on my to-do list for next time. So are Melbourne & Hunter Valley.
- Apparently gin can be dry or floral. I have discovered that I prefer the floral variety over the dry. Keith is a master of comparative taste tests.
- The Indian habit of staring openly, unblinkingly, and without reserve has made its way across the seas rather smoothly & without any detriment to intensity, along with the bearers of said stares. Actual eye contact with, or any similar acknowledgment of, the object of regard is still studiously avoided, though. Another Indian heritage lovingly preserved.
- Orange curacao is not a good substitute for triple sec.
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