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.
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.
Pet Peeve #2: The power of one?
Now and again, I am confronted by a situation that is seemingly benign and ordinary, but irritates the living daylights out of me. Maybe I'm alone in feeling this, but I think not. Situation? Being single at a gathering full of couples or one half of a couple. We all know how this goes... the following questions/comments are inevitable:
- "is that (being single) a relatively new development?": W-H-Y do people ask this fucking question? Is being single the new cancer -- are they trying to ascertain how long I have left?
- "what are you looking for?": Do people really (I mean, REALLY) expect an answer to this? By the time the answer leaves your mouth, it may as well be a high pitched keening sound, for all the attention that'll be paid to it. This is largely because most people only ask that question in order to set the stage for the next statement. They're already on a mission... this is the social equivalent of the "how're you doing?" while walking away at a rapid pace, popular in the American workplace.
- "I have just the right person for you": Don't let the conversation get to this stage. You've been warned. Without fail, by the time this one is uttered, it's too late to issue the "I'm really not looking for anyone". This is the biggest lie of all, at least about 99.9% of the time, if not more. Through enough data points, I have gathered that if you fall for this one, the disaster will be two-fold:
-- you will find out what this "friend" actually thinks of you, to have set you up with an insanely boring slug. You will find it impossible to think affectionately about said friend ever again.
-- Insanely boring slugs are supremely difficult to rid oneself of. Or maybe it just seems like a lifetime.
If one is single, and comfortable with the status for the most part, it is absolutely critical that any attempt to discuss ANYTHING leading to a fix-up is nipped in the bud. Immediately, if not sooner. Examples of such topics include: discussions around potential change in housing situation (rent v. buy), holidays, families, flex hours at work, 4 door sedans, crime stats in your neighborhood, your preference for a 2 bedroom place, your age, etc. Obviously, it's not possible to avoid any and all topics...for instance: the last time I went to see a dentist, I was invited to a singles party by the dentist, even though I'm pretty sure I made only gurgling noises throughout our interaction...go figure.
On a more curious note, what is it about being single that attracts this immeasurable altruism in people one may have only just met? Isn't it ok to just be by yourself? Is it absolutely necessary to be validated in the eyes of the generalissimo by the fact that someone is in a relationship with you? And why the fuck should one have to endure random/clumsy passes simply due to being single (or risk being sulked at for ages) -- is this some sort of civic duty that I haven't heard about...an extra tax levied on the unattached? This is a (not so) mild form of harassment -- make it stop!!
- "is that (being single) a relatively new development?": W-H-Y do people ask this fucking question? Is being single the new cancer -- are they trying to ascertain how long I have left?
- "what are you looking for?": Do people really (I mean, REALLY) expect an answer to this? By the time the answer leaves your mouth, it may as well be a high pitched keening sound, for all the attention that'll be paid to it. This is largely because most people only ask that question in order to set the stage for the next statement. They're already on a mission... this is the social equivalent of the "how're you doing?" while walking away at a rapid pace, popular in the American workplace.
- "I have just the right person for you": Don't let the conversation get to this stage. You've been warned. Without fail, by the time this one is uttered, it's too late to issue the "I'm really not looking for anyone". This is the biggest lie of all, at least about 99.9% of the time, if not more. Through enough data points, I have gathered that if you fall for this one, the disaster will be two-fold:
-- you will find out what this "friend" actually thinks of you, to have set you up with an insanely boring slug. You will find it impossible to think affectionately about said friend ever again.
-- Insanely boring slugs are supremely difficult to rid oneself of. Or maybe it just seems like a lifetime.
If one is single, and comfortable with the status for the most part, it is absolutely critical that any attempt to discuss ANYTHING leading to a fix-up is nipped in the bud. Immediately, if not sooner. Examples of such topics include: discussions around potential change in housing situation (rent v. buy), holidays, families, flex hours at work, 4 door sedans, crime stats in your neighborhood, your preference for a 2 bedroom place, your age, etc. Obviously, it's not possible to avoid any and all topics...for instance: the last time I went to see a dentist, I was invited to a singles party by the dentist, even though I'm pretty sure I made only gurgling noises throughout our interaction...go figure.
On a more curious note, what is it about being single that attracts this immeasurable altruism in people one may have only just met? Isn't it ok to just be by yourself? Is it absolutely necessary to be validated in the eyes of the generalissimo by the fact that someone is in a relationship with you? And why the fuck should one have to endure random/clumsy passes simply due to being single (or risk being sulked at for ages) -- is this some sort of civic duty that I haven't heard about...an extra tax levied on the unattached? This is a (not so) mild form of harassment -- make it stop!!
Pet Peeve #1 (observations somewhat particular to my adopted country...US)
Yes, I know I haven't updated this since Jan...there's no reason for you to continue your friendly reminders, thank you. The problem is that there is too much to write, and too little. While I collect my thoughts and post what I think is communicable via the written word and my limited abilities, I will leave you with a post about a pet peeve that I just had to get out of my system.
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Girls/ Guys nights out
Americans are often seen excitedly planning such endeavors. However, to some, this is a concept about as confounding as the mating lives of sex-changing insects. Although it may seem that simply being chromosomically pre-disposed may qualify one for such an event, don’t be fooled… as with most other things in life, Americans like to complicate the logistics to the point of generating stress (an American favorite, as states of mind go. One just hasn’t arrived in life until one is stressed enough to beat it with yoga and transcendental meditation and thereafter pontificate about it). Much is made of whom to invite (as the pressure to ensure harmony in group dynamics are an important contribution to the stress that must be beat), and where to go. As most people living in North America will have been to one of these, or are likely to be invited at least once (or, God forbid, asked to arrange them), here are some pointers:
- Dinner is expected to be at a place a bit more upper echelon than any of the attendees would normally frequent, so as to trumpet one’s success through the ability to waste money on mediocre food and snobby service (this will later be referred to as being “an authentic Paris experience” or the like). A “risqué” touch, like cross-dressing waiters would pretty much immortalize the experience well into the set-in of Alzheimer’s.
- One is expected to dress well. As in: you can’t go as you normally would, with your normal set of friends. Girls nights out require showing some skin; guys are expected to play it cool, “hipster”, or sharp depending on the neighborhood & other attendees. Yes, deodorant is a must.
- The venue for après-food alcohol-induced obliteration cannot be the dive bar with 124 beers on tap where they know your name & preference. It has to be a glitzy spot (the newer the better, so the group can subsequently announce themselves as trendsetters) where one can be guaranteed that >60% of the population is not there for the music or the award-winning selection of alcohol, and that you will not escape without irreversible damage to your hearing.
More often than not, the ostensible point of a night out is to catch up with your friends (perplexingly, often people that you see every other week anyway), but don't let that side-track you. Very little conversation actually happens, as one is already deaf, and required to be constantly scanning the room for potential d/m-ating material. One might argue that attendees are normally individuals who already have a partner (“significant other” (SO), as Americans like to put it), possibly out on a similar night out, and cheating is one of the taboo things that today’s society seems somewhat agreed on, but the point is not that of an actual hook-up… the point is to treat the experience like a zoo visit as opposed to the wilderness. After the viewing hours are over, most will return home having felt the pleasing ego-stroke of validated hotness. Or a renewed appreciation for the snoring oaf in bed. Please note that should a member of the group be engaged by an unassociated party, one is required to stand there by their side to “support” them through the episode to the bitter end. Yawning, or attempting to bring an end to the conversation by bringing up the futility of this exchange because of current SO is an absolute no-no.
When invited to such an event, one must immediately feign extreme interest and express thanks for the invite with much enthusiasm. Follow all pointers, and at a later hour, agree with other members of the group that a particularly scruffy musician or unctuous waiter that you’d bet hadn’t showered in decades is the epitome of hotness.
For women, subsequent benefits of acquaintances acquired at such events include not being left alone at times of breakups or homesickness (blessing for some; curse for others), high attendance at bridal & baby showers (and expensive gifts to out-do each other), and potential entertainment from watching generally amusing behavior in random social settings.
Men may well acquire new wingmen, and potential helpers for the next move involving furniture.
******************
Girls/ Guys nights out
Americans are often seen excitedly planning such endeavors. However, to some, this is a concept about as confounding as the mating lives of sex-changing insects. Although it may seem that simply being chromosomically pre-disposed may qualify one for such an event, don’t be fooled… as with most other things in life, Americans like to complicate the logistics to the point of generating stress (an American favorite, as states of mind go. One just hasn’t arrived in life until one is stressed enough to beat it with yoga and transcendental meditation and thereafter pontificate about it). Much is made of whom to invite (as the pressure to ensure harmony in group dynamics are an important contribution to the stress that must be beat), and where to go. As most people living in North America will have been to one of these, or are likely to be invited at least once (or, God forbid, asked to arrange them), here are some pointers:
- Dinner is expected to be at a place a bit more upper echelon than any of the attendees would normally frequent, so as to trumpet one’s success through the ability to waste money on mediocre food and snobby service (this will later be referred to as being “an authentic Paris experience” or the like). A “risqué” touch, like cross-dressing waiters would pretty much immortalize the experience well into the set-in of Alzheimer’s.
- One is expected to dress well. As in: you can’t go as you normally would, with your normal set of friends. Girls nights out require showing some skin; guys are expected to play it cool, “hipster”, or sharp depending on the neighborhood & other attendees. Yes, deodorant is a must.
- The venue for après-food alcohol-induced obliteration cannot be the dive bar with 124 beers on tap where they know your name & preference. It has to be a glitzy spot (the newer the better, so the group can subsequently announce themselves as trendsetters) where one can be guaranteed that >60% of the population is not there for the music or the award-winning selection of alcohol, and that you will not escape without irreversible damage to your hearing.
More often than not, the ostensible point of a
When invited to such an event, one must immediately feign extreme interest and express thanks for the invite with much enthusiasm. Follow all pointers, and at a later hour, agree with other members of the group that a particularly scruffy musician or unctuous waiter that you’d bet hadn’t showered in decades is the epitome of hotness.
For women, subsequent benefits of acquaintances acquired at such events include not being left alone at times of breakups or homesickness (blessing for some; curse for others), high attendance at bridal & baby showers (and expensive gifts to out-do each other), and potential entertainment from watching generally amusing behavior in random social settings.
Men may well acquire new wingmen, and potential helpers for the next move involving furniture.
Updating this blog
So... as I mentioned in a previous post, there were some snide comments directed towards yours truly recently regarding this blog...such as whether the blog was ever going to be updated again or it was "so 2007...". In my defense, I only just got back from Ireland (after a month) in the beginning of Jan, having eaten like a sumo wrestler readying herself for a famine during the Christmas season. By the time I digested all that food, something more punishing was around the corner: the last week and a half has been consumed by "hosting" the folks in town for our annual kickoff...these poor, mis-guided souls had to be escorted and steered away from the soul-sucking tourist traps, and who better for that daunting task than someone with such a strong sense of community and self-sacrifice? It was a job I took on with a legendary sense of responsibility, and my liver has since imploded. The economy, however, has been given a boost of unprecedented proportions, with hoards of Europeans tearing through shops, play money in hand (US$ for those subsisting in middle earth), buying everything in sight. The other evening, DB asked me if this indeed was my job or I actually did something for the company aside from this... har har...he's just the quintessence of Irish wit sometimes, that boy.
Truth be told, I'd been a bit of a wallowing-in-self-pity, moany bitch lately, what with the job situation and all. Then I caught up with a good friend recently with whom I hadn't exchanged 15 full sentences since I left for my Ireland assignment. His infant daughter (less than a year) has a tumor in her eye and is undergoing chemotherapy for the same. I can't even begin to imagine what this family is going through...now I feel like an over-privileged brat who has the luxury to complain about being granted one less company-paid perk and doesn't realize how lucky she is (and I'm the worst, really, because I often like to think I am far more evolved in these matters than I am :-) ). Hopefully, most of you reading this blog will take the time to do the same: appreciate our good fortune (till our parents stop sending the checks, anyway), and our health (and especially, by god, our industrial strength livers).
Right then...stay warm, and I'll update the blog with some recent happenings soon.
Truth be told, I'd been a bit of a wallowing-in-self-pity, moany bitch lately, what with the job situation and all. Then I caught up with a good friend recently with whom I hadn't exchanged 15 full sentences since I left for my Ireland assignment. His infant daughter (less than a year) has a tumor in her eye and is undergoing chemotherapy for the same. I can't even begin to imagine what this family is going through...now I feel like an over-privileged brat who has the luxury to complain about being granted one less company-paid perk and doesn't realize how lucky she is (and I'm the worst, really, because I often like to think I am far more evolved in these matters than I am :-) ). Hopefully, most of you reading this blog will take the time to do the same: appreciate our good fortune (till our parents stop sending the checks, anyway), and our health (and especially, by god, our industrial strength livers).
Right then...stay warm, and I'll update the blog with some recent happenings soon.
December 2007 - III
Christmas eve & Christmas
DB called over on Christmas eve with gifts (“so I wouldn’t feel left out over Christmas”), which was such an incredibly thoughtful thing to do that I was confused regarding his gender for a few seconds (didn’t last long, thankfully for us). What’s even better is the fact that these were all gifts that I just LOVED. We all know how it is with Christmas gifts… I mean, which one of us is really going to put that porcelain cat to use, hmm?... well, these have been used a lot since being received – the best gauge, in my opinion, for how much they are liked/ appreciated. Dinner was at TG’s place with a couple of his friends…Indian food (the preparation of which almost killed them with coughing fits… brave lot, these Irish, for being willing to ingest that very same food after that).
For Christmas, I guilted TG into inviting me to his family home for dinner and revelries with the family (I swear, CB has noted that I have acquired the guilt-inducing skills of a jewish mother (she’d know)). He is one of seven siblings, which in itself is stupefying to me. That they were all going to be there with families in tow was an epic event I could simply not have missed. As TG put it, “there’s always place for one more… noone’ll even notice you’re there”. The day started out with gifts being unwrapped by TG’s daughter, amid excited squeals and giggles. After a breakfast of eggs florentine whipped up by TG (this is the LIFE!), the young’un & I were bundled into the car and transported to the family home. After we had each consumed enough food for a small nation, we said our goodbyes, and off we went. It was an incredibly fun time, and I was invited back “anytime” (an invitation I totally intend to take them up on, little do they know!).
DB called over on Christmas eve with gifts (“so I wouldn’t feel left out over Christmas”), which was such an incredibly thoughtful thing to do that I was confused regarding his gender for a few seconds (didn’t last long, thankfully for us). What’s even better is the fact that these were all gifts that I just LOVED. We all know how it is with Christmas gifts… I mean, which one of us is really going to put that porcelain cat to use, hmm?... well, these have been used a lot since being received – the best gauge, in my opinion, for how much they are liked/ appreciated. Dinner was at TG’s place with a couple of his friends…Indian food (the preparation of which almost killed them with coughing fits… brave lot, these Irish, for being willing to ingest that very same food after that).
For Christmas, I guilted TG into inviting me to his family home for dinner and revelries with the family (I swear, CB has noted that I have acquired the guilt-inducing skills of a jewish mother (she’d know)). He is one of seven siblings, which in itself is stupefying to me. That they were all going to be there with families in tow was an epic event I could simply not have missed. As TG put it, “there’s always place for one more… noone’ll even notice you’re there”. The day started out with gifts being unwrapped by TG’s daughter, amid excited squeals and giggles. After a breakfast of eggs florentine whipped up by TG (this is the LIFE!), the young’un & I were bundled into the car and transported to the family home. After we had each consumed enough food for a small nation, we said our goodbyes, and off we went. It was an incredibly fun time, and I was invited back “anytime” (an invitation I totally intend to take them up on, little do they know!).
December 2007 - II
Business meeting in Germany
So off I go in Dec for a meeting in the back arse of nowhere in Germany. No, I mean it… this was no Berlin or Frankfurt. A fine time, nonetheless, because of the folks I was out to meet… they were great company, and I was brought around to a local winery (bought 12 bottles of good riesling… more on that later), the Mannheim Christmas market for what is possibly one of my favorite Christmas related things: gluhwein (mulled wine), a sumptuous meal in a non-tourist spot and loads of strong German beer.
But the excitement only begins after I crash face-down in the hotel. OF COURSE I don’t wake up when I intended to, because the alarm was set for 7 PM instead of AM. So there was a general rush to catch the train to get back to Frankfurt to catch the flight to Dublin. Now bear in mind that while I traveled very light TO Germany (1 small bag & 1 laptop), I now have an additional 12 bottles of wine (weighing 18 kgs) to take back. Basically, from now, pretty much every step, every stair, and every mini-sprint has that weight in addition to everything else and my own tubby self. And also keep in mind my fitness level (pathetic). In my haste, I get on the wrong train – this was not the fast ICE train that takes only 30 mins… this was the slow-ass local one that stops at EVERY damn podunk town on the way to Frankfurt. The ticket collector comes by and informs me that I am on the wrong train… this is not the ICE. Umm… no shit, Sherlock… I could've guessed that from the fact that the cows are keeping pace with us, for god’s sake. I ask him if I can make it in for my flight, which leaves in about 2 hours, and the man just freaks. He launches into a hysterical lecture of some sort in German, glancing at his watch repeatedly and gesturing in a rather maniacal fashion (all this makes him seem like the energizer bunny, but powered by stress instead of Ni-Cd or whatever... there was head clutching and hand wringing involved... truthfully, I hadn't thought Germans capable of such drama. Live and learn, eh?). Anyway, I gather from the hysterics that the answer is “no”. I imagine that in true German style, he simply cannot fathom how I'm not already at the airport, all checked hours in advance. By now he has managed to give me a panic attack as well… (normally not an easy feat when it comes to me & travel related matters)...I am having visions of spending days on this train as we go from village to village before getting to Frankfurt and having to eat my handbag with sauerkraut for meals, washing it down with lukewarm riesling. In the midst of this, I reckon he realizes that my blank stare could mean that I don’t speak German. He races off into the next compartment… at this time, I figure I’ll get there when I get there, and what’s the point in getting frown lines over this? But lo and behold, he’s back with a young lady in tow. She doesn’t speak very good English, but definitely enough to explain to me that I am screwed. He hands me off to her after explaining all my options to her. No, I won’t get to Frankfurt airport in time (1 hr in advance)… in fact, I won’t even get to Frankfurt city by then. Oh, and I have to change trains to get to the airport. Great.
This girl then proceeds to:
- sit with me throughout the journey in case I have any questions
- offer me the use of her phone to change tickets (Expedia is called and they mention it’s too late to change tickets if the flight is in less than 2 hours… I should do this at the airport…also keep this trivia in mind for later)
- give me her contact information in case I ever need help when I am in the area again!!!
- make me get off at the same stop as her, carries half my stuff, and deposits me on the right platform to catch the train to the airport. She asks another girl at the stop to make sure I make it to the airport, and the other girl agrees (!), picks up half my stuff as instructed by girl#1 and prods me to get off at the right stop.
This is just astounding to me… simply AMAZING… I am humbled by such genuine helpfulness!! Several other people offer to help carry things, but I am simply too embarrassed by now to put any more people through any trouble. I manage to run/walk/crawl to the Aer Lingus counter (miraculously, 30 mins before the flight) and choke out my destination. Imagine my surprise when the lady behind the counter says “you’re not on the 10:30 a.m. flight…you’re booked on the 8 p.m. flight. No, we don’t do standby, sorry. Next!” (HOW could Expedia not have told me this earlier??) So now I have half a day to hang around. I go to the company’s Frankfurt office to get some work done, or browse the internet. At the office, I meet some more interesting people… such as the IT manager, a super sweet guy who also happens to be an uber-geek. The following are the highlights of the interaction with him:
Him: please can I take a look at your laptop for a minute?
Me (thinking I had accidentally brought in a virus in or something) yes, of course
He simply looks at it and asked which one it is. I tell him the model number.
Him: "ah... you are a manager position? In the US?"
Me (thoroughly perplexed): "um.. yes"
Him: "I see"
He then goes on to tell me that they have different laptops for different position levels in that office!!!
He and I then have this awkward little chat about computers and why he thinks that IBM laptops suck now that Lenovo has bought them, etc – to the point of insisting that “ze plastic is not even feeling that good". That I was boggled by this attention to work laptop details would be an understatement. I felt inadequate that I had nothing to add to feed this passion… I could only manage to squeak out something about bad battery life… it seemed to work, and he went on to tell me AT LENGTH how to deal with it (including taking me to his office to show me a program used to manage battery power). Then he stopped by a bit later and said, "also you could change the battery". I could only blink vapidly in response, once again surprised at the fact that someone would actually care a whit about my petty woes. Friendly lot in that office...I may go back for a visit after all.
So off I go in Dec for a meeting in the back arse of nowhere in Germany. No, I mean it… this was no Berlin or Frankfurt. A fine time, nonetheless, because of the folks I was out to meet… they were great company, and I was brought around to a local winery (bought 12 bottles of good riesling… more on that later), the Mannheim Christmas market for what is possibly one of my favorite Christmas related things: gluhwein (mulled wine), a sumptuous meal in a non-tourist spot and loads of strong German beer.
But the excitement only begins after I crash face-down in the hotel. OF COURSE I don’t wake up when I intended to, because the alarm was set for 7 PM instead of AM. So there was a general rush to catch the train to get back to Frankfurt to catch the flight to Dublin. Now bear in mind that while I traveled very light TO Germany (1 small bag & 1 laptop), I now have an additional 12 bottles of wine (weighing 18 kgs) to take back. Basically, from now, pretty much every step, every stair, and every mini-sprint has that weight in addition to everything else and my own tubby self. And also keep in mind my fitness level (pathetic). In my haste, I get on the wrong train – this was not the fast ICE train that takes only 30 mins… this was the slow-ass local one that stops at EVERY damn podunk town on the way to Frankfurt. The ticket collector comes by and informs me that I am on the wrong train… this is not the ICE. Umm… no shit, Sherlock… I could've guessed that from the fact that the cows are keeping pace with us, for god’s sake. I ask him if I can make it in for my flight, which leaves in about 2 hours, and the man just freaks. He launches into a hysterical lecture of some sort in German, glancing at his watch repeatedly and gesturing in a rather maniacal fashion (all this makes him seem like the energizer bunny, but powered by stress instead of Ni-Cd or whatever... there was head clutching and hand wringing involved... truthfully, I hadn't thought Germans capable of such drama. Live and learn, eh?). Anyway, I gather from the hysterics that the answer is “no”. I imagine that in true German style, he simply cannot fathom how I'm not already at the airport, all checked hours in advance. By now he has managed to give me a panic attack as well… (normally not an easy feat when it comes to me & travel related matters)...I am having visions of spending days on this train as we go from village to village before getting to Frankfurt and having to eat my handbag with sauerkraut for meals, washing it down with lukewarm riesling. In the midst of this, I reckon he realizes that my blank stare could mean that I don’t speak German. He races off into the next compartment… at this time, I figure I’ll get there when I get there, and what’s the point in getting frown lines over this? But lo and behold, he’s back with a young lady in tow. She doesn’t speak very good English, but definitely enough to explain to me that I am screwed. He hands me off to her after explaining all my options to her. No, I won’t get to Frankfurt airport in time (1 hr in advance)… in fact, I won’t even get to Frankfurt city by then. Oh, and I have to change trains to get to the airport. Great.
This girl then proceeds to:
- sit with me throughout the journey in case I have any questions
- offer me the use of her phone to change tickets (Expedia is called and they mention it’s too late to change tickets if the flight is in less than 2 hours… I should do this at the airport…also keep this trivia in mind for later)
- give me her contact information in case I ever need help when I am in the area again!!!
- make me get off at the same stop as her, carries half my stuff, and deposits me on the right platform to catch the train to the airport. She asks another girl at the stop to make sure I make it to the airport, and the other girl agrees (!), picks up half my stuff as instructed by girl#1 and prods me to get off at the right stop.
This is just astounding to me… simply AMAZING… I am humbled by such genuine helpfulness!! Several other people offer to help carry things, but I am simply too embarrassed by now to put any more people through any trouble. I manage to run/walk/crawl to the Aer Lingus counter (miraculously, 30 mins before the flight) and choke out my destination. Imagine my surprise when the lady behind the counter says “you’re not on the 10:30 a.m. flight…you’re booked on the 8 p.m. flight. No, we don’t do standby, sorry. Next!” (HOW could Expedia not have told me this earlier??) So now I have half a day to hang around. I go to the company’s Frankfurt office to get some work done, or browse the internet. At the office, I meet some more interesting people… such as the IT manager, a super sweet guy who also happens to be an uber-geek. The following are the highlights of the interaction with him:
Him: please can I take a look at your laptop for a minute?
Me (thinking I had accidentally brought in a virus in or something) yes, of course
He simply looks at it and asked which one it is. I tell him the model number.
Him: "ah... you are a manager position? In the US?"
Me (thoroughly perplexed): "um.. yes"
Him: "I see"
He then goes on to tell me that they have different laptops for different position levels in that office!!!
He and I then have this awkward little chat about computers and why he thinks that IBM laptops suck now that Lenovo has bought them, etc – to the point of insisting that “ze plastic is not even feeling that good". That I was boggled by this attention to work laptop details would be an understatement. I felt inadequate that I had nothing to add to feed this passion… I could only manage to squeak out something about bad battery life… it seemed to work, and he went on to tell me AT LENGTH how to deal with it (including taking me to his office to show me a program used to manage battery power). Then he stopped by a bit later and said, "also you could change the battery". I could only blink vapidly in response, once again surprised at the fact that someone would actually care a whit about my petty woes. Friendly lot in that office...I may go back for a visit after all.
December 2007 - I
The complete omission of all December 2007 events from this blog has been noticed by certain observant readers (the sanctimonious little twits that they are) and I have been pulled up on this. As such, the next few posts (including this) will be addressing that concern…
Company Christmas party in Ireland
Venue: Ramada Inn, Co. Carlow
This was an absolute smashing hit, in my humble opinion. Not that I EVER had doubts that this would be the right thing to do (the other option was to bore myself to tears at the company Christmas party in the US), however I still must reiterate that this was a great ol’ time – very well planned and attended. There was a copious amount of alcohol (the great social lubricant), and a good time was had by all, nolens volens. The air guitars were out in full force, and our lads were second to none when it came to partner-toe-crushing action. Needless to say there was singing involved…some mighty fine singing voices in the group, although the other end of the spectrum was also, sadly, well represented.
Company Christmas party in Ireland
Venue: Ramada Inn, Co. Carlow
This was an absolute smashing hit, in my humble opinion. Not that I EVER had doubts that this would be the right thing to do (the other option was to bore myself to tears at the company Christmas party in the US), however I still must reiterate that this was a great ol’ time – very well planned and attended. There was a copious amount of alcohol (the great social lubricant), and a good time was had by all, nolens volens. The air guitars were out in full force, and our lads were second to none when it came to partner-toe-crushing action. Needless to say there was singing involved…some mighty fine singing voices in the group, although the other end of the spectrum was also, sadly, well represented.
Temple Bar
Went to a drinking establishment called "Temple Bar" last night (no stag (bachelor) or hen (bachelorette) parties in sight), in an only mildly objectionable area of town. Struck up a conversation with the bartender, who was a 40-ish woman, and it turns out that she's from Galway, and it was her birthday the next day. We also proceeded to talk at length about what's possibly the most discussed topic in her homeland: the weather. Now generally speaking, Americans tend to talk about the weather when they are uncomfortable, want to break the ice, or have nothing else to say, etc. In Ireland, the weather seems a totally legitimate topic of conversation between individuals who have known each other for months or years. A good chunk of conversations can center around current weather conditions, and comparisons with the last few month/years. I've tried to explain this to my friends in SF, but:
- Several of them are spoilt from only having lived in California after moving to the US, mostly from other warm climates. No upstate NY with chances of a snow-in till mid-May for this lot! A whole week without the sun is an unthinkable thing.
- I really think this obsession cannot be appreciated until one has lived in Ireland for a bit, and been hugely surprised by a fantastic day in October, or crushingly disappointed by a much-promised summer that never quite arrived.
Anyway, Temple Bar was followed by Indian/Pakistani food at a hole in the wall place around the corner. Hadn't been there in months... thankfully, not much had changed. Everything was still guaranteed to be completely non-organic, hyper-fattening, instantaneously food coma-inducing, and swimming in as much oil as the containers would allow. Oh, and did I mention social-interaction-inhibiting odors that refuse to part company with one's skin, hair or clothes? Good times! Ate like a pig starved for generations (a skill perfected by yours truly from travels to Spain).
- Several of them are spoilt from only having lived in California after moving to the US, mostly from other warm climates. No upstate NY with chances of a snow-in till mid-May for this lot! A whole week without the sun is an unthinkable thing.
- I really think this obsession cannot be appreciated until one has lived in Ireland for a bit, and been hugely surprised by a fantastic day in October, or crushingly disappointed by a much-promised summer that never quite arrived.
Anyway, Temple Bar was followed by Indian/Pakistani food at a hole in the wall place around the corner. Hadn't been there in months... thankfully, not much had changed. Everything was still guaranteed to be completely non-organic, hyper-fattening, instantaneously food coma-inducing, and swimming in as much oil as the containers would allow. Oh, and did I mention social-interaction-inhibiting odors that refuse to part company with one's skin, hair or clothes? Good times! Ate like a pig starved for generations (a skill perfected by yours truly from travels to Spain).
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