Please enter your PIN:

As we’re on about ‘software sentries’, allow me to introduce my latest anti-passion: security barriers to accessing everything from ex-spouse to bank accounts, credit cards, ATMs, websites, blogsites, mobile phones, toilets…

I have around 35 assorted PINs, of which I only know what one of them is for; 2784 passwords to IM services I hardly ever use because I keep misplacing my password and have to start a new account because none of my answers to those “secret personal questions” match up. Because I refuse to give out my email address and so I have a yahoo mail account and an msn account and a hotmail account and I never use any of them, but they all give you passwords. So I write them down on post-its and promptly lose them.

And anyway, what’s the point?

None of this stuff is secure, no matter what they tell you. The moment it’s out there, well, it’s out there. Someone can pick it up. Most likely a brilliant 14 year old geek in Romania. And then it’s all over.

I resolutely refuse to get involved in ANYTHING that requires a password or a PIN any longer.

Did you know what a PUK was? Nor did I, till my mobile locked me out (which it will do if you’re sloppy about recharging till the battery dies, and then you have to “enter your PIN”, and if you get it wrong 3 times, which I manage to do quite easily, it then locks you out FOREVER, or till you enter your PUK. My PUK? Ughh, that sounds like the start of something you do when you’re feeling airsick with the E gone missing and anyway I don’t HAVE a PUK! Do I? And where should I be looking for it??

To get back to the ubiquitous PIN, I tried paying a couple of overdue bills with my ATM card today. It let me go through the whole spiel, till it came to hitting “pay full amount”, and then it spat out my card. “You got your PIN wrong on 3 tries and that’s it for the day, go home now.” HUH??? I just got my new card, and I used the new PIN, which I'd scribbled onto a post-it and slipped into my wallet with the card, which is EXACTLY what they tell you NOT to do, in case you lose your wallet. Because whoever took it/found it will most likely be morally challenged, and will think nothing of cleaning out your account without a thought as to how you will feed your cats and anyway, I still have my wallet and wait a sec., now WHERE is that damn post-it?!?

How to kick-start a moribund blog

Well, this did it for me:

1 Comments:
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By Anonymous, at 8:46 PM

Thank you for your concern, and yes, I am indeed interested in advancing my life a bit...a lot.

However, it grieves me that you found my literacy levels wanting. It causes me even greater anguish that your assessment is that I should go right back and work my way up from a Bachelors all over again. I am examphobic, and nothing would ever induce me to put myself back into the educational system.

But since we are talking education, I wonder if I might interest you in a cherished family heirloom, the Encyclopaedia Brittanica, all 55,983 volumes? It has been in the family nearly 4 centuries, so not all the volumes are intact, you understand, but this only makes them look all the more authentic.

For you, I will make a good price. The best price. Please indicate how much you would be willing to pay for this handsome relic of our colonial past. As soon as we agree on the price, I shall have them despatched to you via camel caravan.

I await your generous bid, for which I, my family and all future generations will bless you.

Sheep’s Eyes and OctoPodia?!?

Exotic foods are a veritable minefield, I’ve learned the hard way. First, the definition of the word “exotic” is often misleading. For some reason, people tend to immediately connect it with the Orient, or tropical islands, or the Third World, and not necessarily in that order.

It never strikes them that us “designated exotic” types might find them equally so. For example, I’m from India and I live in Indonesia. This, I have found, makes me double-whammy-exotic to, for instance, a Scandinavian. To me, swallowing live eels is exotic. (I know they do that someplace, don’t they?!) And I don’t mean in a fun, haha kind of way either. Something live, slithering down your oesophagus?!? ackkkk! ( See what I mean?)

“Exotic” simply means “from another land; not native to the place where found”. It comes from the Greek “exo”, meaning “there”. And “there” as we all know, is definitely not “here”.

"There" is foreign, alien and unfamiliar and sometimes downright scary. Also intriguingly different, possibly mysterious and often exciting. And yes, “strange” and “odd” often have walk-on parts somewhere in the overall picture.

I’d like to believe I’m adventurous enough to try (nearly!) anything once…as long as it doesn’t move, look me in the eye or talk back to me. But the persona that believes this, generally manages to go missing when, say, a plate of sheep’s eyes is plunked on the table. Or a baby octopus with all its little suckers on display, attached to all 8 podia, attached to the head.

I have a whole bunch of "exotic" bad food stories, but there are still a lot of countries on my “tovisitsometimesoon” list so naturally, I would not like to go into too much detail here. Who knows who I might offend, and I certainly don't want to be denied a visa. So those stories will just have to wait until I’ve beenthere, donethat!

chokesputtergasp!!!

Oh dear. Now, this is NOT a personal, caffeine-powered assault on my Fellow BloGGee, though it might come out sounding that way in bits. Fact is, one of the several million words BANISHED from my lexicon practically since the day I learnt to speak, is Decaf. Banished for the next 10 millenia at LEAST.

I am passionate about many things, some of them entirely incomprehensible even to me. Snails, for example. Coffee. My collection of trolls. Coffee. My chin hairs. Coffee. (...shhhh...I'm trying to be subtle here and just slip the coffee in subliminally so nobody notices.)

Any form of Java abuse (and you must know Decaf is the most heinous of the lot), raises my hackles and causes me to take refuge in Righteous Indignation.

Of course, everyone has a right to choose Decaf over Java. But conceptually, I don't get it. I mean, coffee is about caffeine. Take the caffeine away, and what are you left with? You get my drift, right? It's like taking the cocoa out of chocolate. The fat out of butter. The fibre out of bran. The chicken out of the soup. The brain out of a head. I mean, I could go on.

I've heard stories from World War II (no, I was NOT around then) about ersatz milk, made from flour and leftover bits of shoelace. Ersatz eggs, made from extruded corn and earthworms. Ersatz chocolate, made from old brown shoes. And yes, ersatz coffee, made from roasted almond shells.

Okay so I might have got some of the ingredients mixed up, but the important thing is that all this stuff was trying to be other stuff, which it just intrinsically wasn't. I suppose you could call it impostering.

Those days, during the war years, they had good reason to make stuff that looked like stuff that it really wasn't because nobody could get hold of the real thing but everybody lusted after it anyway. Those were times of serious deprivation, pretty much the way life continues to be for millions in the "Third World" (which, coincidentally, I originate from) ...

So anyway, back then, they were probably getting rather tired of extruded corn and such, and one fine day decided to call the whole goopy mess "scrambled eggs." Similarly, somebody must have looked at a pile of almond shells after the almonds had been roasted, and thought "aha, extension-of-use chocolate substitute possibility!"

Now, when you raise gustatory expectations to such elevated levels, the mind will get fooled into believing anything. Call it auto-suggestion, mass hypnosis, whatever. Evidently, it worked.

In fact, it worked so well that even the kids and the soldiers at the front were fooled. And we know how discriminating that lot can be. But, "by golly! they even TASTE kindoflikeeggs/chocolate/whatever it's masquerading as!!!" was the standard refrain. They actually ATE the stuff, instead of pretending they had a stomach-ache and needed to go to the loo.

To get back to my original point, which I seem to have briefly lost along the way: Decaf is NOT coffee. It is un-coffee, piggybacking on the whole coffee-as-legend appeal of "the real thing". So trying to retain even a nebulous connection by tracing back lineage to the noble coffee bean is just a low-down trick. Everybody realizes this. As a result, people have finally stopped ordering Decaf Coffee. Today, they just say, "Make mine Decaf." I guess it's a "More-Aligned-to-the-Truth" kind of thang.

So now you see my point?? It seems the Decaf is finally out of the coffee and will go down in history as just another aspiring wannabe. In some countries, they SHOOT aspiring wannabees.

Be right back, I need my gun.

Cross Dresser?!?

Okay, we’re talking clothes. I guess I must be a cross dresser. I have my reasons, foremost of which is I wake up like a bear with a sore head, usually around midday. I am lethal till the caffeine kicks in and the nicotine pumps up the cardio, which could take from an hour to a couple of years on a bad day.

As you can imagine, this is never a good time for decisions. Unfortunately, I have a meeting in a couple of hours, and I still need to print out the presentation I stayed up all night doing. So deciding what I want to wear is just about the last thing I am thinking about.

I need to insta-grow 3 heads, 10 arms and six pairs of feet trying to multi-task: coffee, cig, underwear, printer’s out of paper, WHAT is this error message, can’t find printer??? It’s right HERE! See? Damn, the cat pulled the wires loose. Uh oh, phone ringing. Client says can we prepone the meeting? Clothes. Shower. Whattowearwhattowear? Pull out the entire closet. Then spot the same thing I wore for the last meeting. For about 8 or 10 last meetings. Damn. Nothing to wear. Catttttt! GET out of my coffeeeeeeee! Never mind, just wear it one more time. Ok, let’s go. GOGOGO!

Ok, so mornings are bad. I already told you that. I just get progressively more grumpy. So yes, I’m a cross dresser. Now if all this happened backwards, and we had to dress at the END of the day instead of the beginning, I can bet I wouldn’t be half as cross. No, really!

Chocoholics Unanimous

I sat here this morning, reading this utterly foodcentric, chocolate-infested bloGG and suddenly suffered a massive insulin surge, which sent me into InstantChocolateOverdrive. I made a dash for the fridge, which took me all of 3 secs., my best personal time ever. The fridge yielded one of those monstrous half-kilo slabs of some new Swiss uber-milk chocolate layered with cream and biscuit (I know, it sounds ultrayuck&bleaagh, but believe me...it is to DIEIEIE for), which I had actually kept safe (from myself) for friends' kids who sometimes come to visit.

Considering I am usually rather fastidious in my choco-consumption habits… Lindt Extra-dark Ultra-thins get top billing...this milk-choco phenomenon is a radical departure from the norm. I contemplate the packaging at length. Since I’m working on my will power, I resist the temptation to rip the choco-wrapper open immediately. 10 seconds later, I give up the unequal fight and enter into the sacred ritual of ripping open the box-pack. Then I attempt to sensibly tear open the foil pack, so I can fold the foil neatly over the remainder of the slab before putting it away. Instead, the struggle is so intense, I end up with a mangled mass of melted chocolate (body heat from hot, grasping hands will do that), with bits of foil embedded in it.

They make high-tech packaging these days: tamper-proof, nuke-proof and insect-proof, which of course also happens to make it human-proof. (At this point, I bodily attack and consume a quarter-slab of aforementioned hapless chocolate. Just like that. Gone!)

If you persist in ripping ANY kind of modern-day food packs open with bare hands, as I usually do, for no reason other than rooting around for a switchblade or a heavy duty meat cleaver (I don't do scissors) would simply deflect me from my immediate purpose... well then you know exactly how this little saga plays out. (By now of course, I have devoured half of the half-kilo slab of choc in question. But shhhh...)

First, you need to rip open the external packaging, generally a box or carton of some sort. And no, it’s not that simple. Any and all food/drink/snacks these days come either tetra-packed, or vacuum-sealed, or hermetically deranged, and all of them wear chastity belts. Some stuff comes boxed in cartons that are reinforced with plastic fused onto them or into them. Plastic, as you know, is indestructible and resistant to barehanded tearing. (I know ALL about this; I’ve dismembered about 98,753 varieties of packaging to research this piece. All in the last one week. Burp.) I think this is the packaging industry's subtle way of keeping us away from junk food. Either that, or they're in cahoots with the household cleaning-liquid manufacturers.(Ahh, only two squares left, not much point saving them for later...)

While all this fancy-schmancy packaging material might keep things hygenic, fresh and safe to consume, it just makes it pretty damn impossible to rip packs open without spraying/spilling/slopping approximately 3/4ths of the contents into your lap/onto the rug/all over the bed. (Messy, messy. Now GO clean that up!) Ahh, but we consumers are wise to this little trick by now, which is why we buy 6 bags of crisps and 10 bags of cornflakes and etc. etc. a week. So no matter how much of it lands on the floor, there's always another bag to to rip open. (You know why more cornflakes get deposited on the floor than any other food group? People are still SLEEPY when they do breakfast!) ZzZzZzZz...

And, hey!!! Who finished my chocolate??!

Sorry about the roses, would chrysanthemums do?

.

© Priya Tuli

Pass the whine please, somebody?

Wine. Whine. What a difference an ‘h’ makes. Though it could be a natural progression. If you’d indulged in too much of the first, say, you could end up armpit-deep in the second. No? Hmmm…

Well anyway, as the saying goes, there is wine and there is wine. And while I probably couldn’t tell my Chablis from my Chardonnay, Oi knows wot Oi loiks and it woiks fer moi! For instance, did you know that Cyprus produces a great white (no, not shark, doofus, WINE!) called KEO Hock, which is wonderful chilled, on a hot summer afternoon as you pick at a big platter of nifty nibbles, whiling away the time when you should actually be Doing Something Productive? Or that Yugoslav reds are a darn sight more finessed than your average, over-rated French table wine, 'apellation controllee' be hanged, and a whole lot cheaper, too? Or that South Africa produces some kick-ass wines, and I didn’t even know you could grow grapes there?

Apart from the whole Romance of Wine thing, though, which is big business I might inform you, there’s all that other kerfuffle to deal with. The cobweb-festooned cellars with bottles dating back to the Neolithic Age, and the whole fuss and foobabble about uncorking it and letting it breathe (what??? all this pollution will RUIN the bouquet!) and then ceremoniously pouring 3 drops into an enormous glass and sniffing at it (atchoooo!) for ten minutes, making polite little society noises all the while...well hell, I’d just as easily just drink it straight off the bottle, and often do. Which is probably why my last 3 applications for French citizenship have been consecutively turned down. Hic.

Now, I was thinking, if I could somehow convince the Italians that having me on board might boost the anti-French-wine lobby, and considering I haven’t said a nasty WORD yet about Chianti, they would probably reward me in the customarily generous Mediterranean way. I could then buy an island in Greece, nothing too opulent, mind you, just a villa or two with the Elgin Marbles strategically placed amidst the topiary, and a sweeping expanse or two of private beach, a schooner with a gorgeous captain and a Learjet with a hunky pilot standing by, for quick weekend visits to nearby islands or even the Hebrides, if the mood should suddenly take me...hic...ahh yes...

But no, to get back to reality, what I do find more than a little upsetting is my latest discovery. I was absolutely aghast to find that some pretty damned GOOD bottled wines now come with a PLASTIC cork. Here, let me say that again. PLASTIC CORK. It doesn't even make sense. A cork is a cork, right? Wrong, it isn't, not any more! Soon they'll be selling wine in plastic jerrycans, and let me tell you, that will pretty much be the end of THAT.

And then you have Aussie wine, which comes in bladders made of aluminium foil with a plastic tap attached! Well of COURSE you don't get to see the bladder because it's disguised...cleverly encased in a fancy cardboard 'cask', butbutbut foil?!? Doesn't that change the specific gravity of stuff and mess with the molecular composition and cause horrid green warts in places I dare not even mention?!? No? Well, it SHOULD!!!

SO as I was saying, about the wine. Hic. And did you know that in Greece, it’s called krassi: kokkino (red) and aspro (white) and isn’t that a SILLY name for a headache pill?!? Hic. ANd in a Greek taverna, you don't order wine by the jug or carafe, they'd think you were daft. You order it by the KILO. How macho is that?!? Or if you're a lily-livered coward, by the half-kilo, or even the glass. Be warned, however, that if your metric system is congenitally defective like mine is, it could cause you the beejeezus of a hangover next day.

So anyway, no matter what they say about wine being good for you/not good for you/good for you/not good for you, the sad fact of the matter is that it actually gives a lot of people severe heartburn... myself included. This is a documented scientific fact, by the way. Hic. Apparently, it rips into your stomach, causing it to unreasonably squirt hydrochloric acid at every shadow that passes by your window. It does all sorts of damage to your GI (as in Gastro-Intestinal) tract, including murdering the villi (go on, look it up in the dictionary you lazy sod) and insulting the transverse colon. It also causes you to giggle hysterically once you've crossed the one-kilo mark, but who's counting. Hic. And does any of this stop us from imbibing it? No way, Jose! Which is probably why whine is spelled the way it is. Hic.
Oh ughh...pleeeease pass the Alka Seltzer?

"W-all dente"...

One last WallStory, and I'm done. Or rather, the spaghetti is. You know, of course, how to check if your spaghetti is done 'al dente'...toss some at the nearest wall. If it sticks, it's perfect; if it slithers down like an eel on steroids, it needs more doing; if it wraps itself tightly around your neck, you need an exorcist and don't forget to hang some garlic out by the front door to confuse the vampires.

So way back when I was in my extended PleasePassTheParmigianoWithEverything phase, it was pasta whenever I had friends over to dinner. For three good reasons: 1. Everybody loves pasta; 2. It's the easiest thing to do; and 3. If you organize it right, you also get wall-art for free.

The last point evolved slowly, from a stray al-dente test that went public one evening, to a full-fledged tradition that typically consumed a whole pot of this-is-for-the-wall pasta at least once a month.

It all began one Friday evening after work, when some friends stopped by for a drink, and stayed on for dinner. I was checking to see if the pasta was done, when one of them walked into the kitchen and loudly asked why I was flinging the dinner at the wall. And if I was doing it, he wanted to do it too. Suddenly, everybody is in the kitchen, the noise has woken the neighbour's dogs who are barking their heads off, and steaming hot spaghetti is flailing through the air leaving contrails, slapping into faces and splatting onto everything in sight.

Dinner, of course, was by then incidental. But we had established a pasta-flinging tradition which continued for several years, albeit with a minor adjustment.

Since the kitchen was miniscule, the wall behind the dining table became the designated 'W-all dente'. As time went by, I learnt that hunger puts an edge on the appetite AND the wall art. Since dinner was rarely served before midnight, several guests would have customarily dozed off, standing straight up. The rest, having imbibed enough 85 proof alcohol to render their pasta-throwing techniques wildly inspirational, would set upon the hapless mass of steaming spaghetti and toss it at said wall with gay abandon and greater gusto.

Tossing styles varied, with everyone intent on perfecting their personal flick-of-the-wrist technique. This made for intricate slither-trails, with overdone strands melded to the wall at the point of contact, ends curling in disdain as they dried. Regular dinnertime returnees would closely inspect the wall to see if their last pasta throw was still up, with their signatures, or had been replaced by newer, more artistic tosses...with other signatures.

While it's all jolly good fun while it's actually happening, I must say here that pasta art is at its best when it's fresh. It is not the sort of thing you want to wake up to on a Saturday morning and contemplate for any length of time. Besides which, dried-on-the-wall pasta is difficult to remove, and sometimes annexes bits of plaster and wall when you try and rip it off.

By now, the 'W-all Dente' was looking positively leprous, despite all my attempts at patching it up with putty and giving it a lick of fresh paint once every few months.

And then, the disaster of the dried-on spaghetti neapolitan. This was never the plan, mind you, but pasta artists six sails to the wind do not take kindly to "NO sauce!" rules. One night, an entire plateful of pasta- sauce, fork and all- found itself hurled at the Wall. I assure you, right then it was a whole lot funnier than it sounds. Abject apologies from the inebriated pasta-thrower in question, coupled with his inept attempts at a clean-up, provoked me into throwing several pods of garlic at him in quick succession.

By next morning, I began to see that the Universe was trying to tell me something. I was fresh out of 'al dente' wallspace. The lease was up in 2 weeks and the landlord, an ogre, wanted a rent increase I couldn't afford. Last night's spaghetti was still leering at me off the Wall, with bits of tomato adhering to it, looking like I don't even want to SAY what...and the neighbours had deposited a pile of dog poo at my gate. Maybe it was time to move house?

Talking of walls, I been climbing them for years...

No, not the kind of stuff kids do these days, you know, shnoofling up the sides of 59,000 storey buildings in the city? I don't do that, it messes with the balance and gives you vertigo, you know, like I just NEED more imbalance in my life?

I meant the kind of stuff one does out of frustration. At least, in my day, it was an expression that meant you were, well, frustrated as heck and it was finally getting to you. So you began to climb the walls. Metaphorically, of course. I also perfected the art of walking across the ceiling, once I got up that wall. All in a manner of speaking, you understand.

Funny, though, how these throw-away things one just says translate into the real thing, somewhere down the line. I mean today, practically every mall has these sheer walls, with kids in helmets and a little piece of string tied around their middle, literally swarming up them. Now tell me, if we were meant to do that sort of stuff we'd have been spiders? Or flies? But what do I know.

Anyhow. After the 'climbing-the-walls' phase, I hit the 'quick-let's-fill-up-all-that-wallspace' phase. I had one wall in every room covered with stuff...framed posters, pictures, postcards, casual by-standers, a chipped heirloom plate, a couple of ex-boyfriends, a half-eaten pizza...you name it, I had it up there. Every wall in the place had its own personality, and some of them were multiple.

One wall was decidedly manic depressive, as it had Sunflowers by whosehisface wot chopped off his ear right next to a bunch of Picasso bulls and Toulouse Lautrec's high-kicking cancan girls. It must have been altogether too much for a poor wall to handle, all at once.

Then the too-much-stuff-up-there got to me and I lived the next few years with blank walls...unrelieved white expanses, severe and unadorned. It sort of fit the general mood. Now, I have wonderful knobbly walls full of character that resent anything being poked into them. I tried several times, with all sorts of drill bits. But they're probably made of nuke-proof reinforced concrete and repel any attempts at being nailed.

However, the knobbly bits provide the perfect surface for two of my catts to climb right up, which they do rather often and rather expertly. So now, to go with the catt-hairs in the carpets and hairballs behind the cushions, I have paw-tracks streaking diagonally across the mediterranean-look whitewash. In some places they criss-cross. I must admit, they do make a statement. Of what, exactly? I'm still trying to work that one out.

SunsetJunkies Unite!!!

The Santorini Promise...sunsets that keep you coming back for more...andmore&more!

Okay, okay, I'll admit it...I'm a bonafide, die-hard sunset-junkie. I have about a squadrillion sunset shots, taken in almost every place I've ever visited. With very little to differentiate between them, because I'm a purist and don't like people in my pictures, and also preferably not too many identifiable landmarks, unless the sunset is currently happening around one. Therefore, it's isn't easy for anyone (other than myself) to conclusively say: "Ahh, that's a shot of NOT the Acropolis by sunset, isn't it?", or "Oh, I know this place, it's outside Nico the Greek's taverna in Xania harbour, isn't it?"

As a result, you'd pretty much have to take my word on it if I show you one of my 59,863 sunset shots and tell you it was taken in the Serengeti just before we were attacked by a pride of lions. Or way up in the hills, in the remote reaches of Laos, where there is a little spring that feeds into an underground cave, and where I had the most surreal swim of my life! Or in the Kerala backwaters, where I actually got to drive? steer? chuggle? the boat for a whole 10 minutes, before I nearly chuggled it right into the densely populated riverbank. (By the way, the lion thing isn't true; I haven't been to the Serengeti yet...)

But to get back to those sunset shots...in an effort to weed out duplicates and reduce my vast collection from 38 assorted shoeboxes down to say, a more manageable 12, I have extravagantly begun using them as bookmarks (2 or 3 per book). I have started using them as birthday cards; as reminder memos instead of post-its; as gift tags; as hate-messages; as an alternative for wrapping paper (a collage of sensational sunsets is quite arresting, actually, though it does consume about 6 rolls of scotchtape...)

One project I did used about 1200 of these sunsets on the bathroom wall; they looked great till the steam got to them. It did make a small dent in the collection, though, so I'm considering doing the kitchen wall next...

In the meanwhile, I have severely curtailed my sucker-for-sunsets propensity, and now take no more than ONE roll per sensational, staggeringly seductive sunset. Even so, a recent trip to Greece has brought the total tally of shots back to pre-bathroom-wall status. And would you believe, some of them are EXACTLY the same views as I shot on my last trip?! This one here, for instance...I have the same view taken on 5 consecutive days from the last time, and on 3 days from this time. That's around 45,000 rolls of film just on caldera-view sunsets in Fira...I'm not even going to COUNT how many shots it all adds up to. And there's still Oia to sort and sift through. And then the next island...and the next...aarghhh.

My new motto is: NO MORE SUNSETS. Meanwhile, if I might interest you in a set of colour-co-ordinated roll-up blinds, each comprising no less than 5000 absolutely STUNNING sunset shots, tenuously held together with a tricky cobweb-lookalike filament, do let me know. There's a 99% discount on every order that reaches me before midnight of the Pisces full moon, 29 August 2004. Awwrrroooooooowrr.

Spot the Crow...

© Priya Tuli
Since I'm out of ideas today, here's a little visual exercise.
Winner gets to buy me dinner :-)

When I grow up, I want to be a Quaker!

"All the world is queer, save thee and me...
And sometimes I think thee a bit queer too."
-Old Quaker Proverb

Well, ahem. At the time that was written, it made perfect sense, albeit in a rather mutually-exclusive manner. Here is this perfectly serious QuakerOats testimonial advertisement-type person, making a very serious statement about how everyone on the planet has lost their marbles EXCEPT you and him...but wait, he's about to do the flip-flop and change his mind and YESSSS!!! There he is, coming up to the finish line...and he's saying: it seems you have lost a few marbles as well. This, naturally, leaves only him with all his intact...so it's probably oat-fallout. Along with all that fibre to keep you regular, then, it would seem QuakerOats also help you hang on to your marbles.

Today, it's a whole different macro-environment, where the intrinsic meanings of words are more inclusive, in many instances expanding into rather more substantive applications, wherein marbles have little to do with it. Or wotevah. But it's still a brilliant quote and it still cracks me up every time I read it. I've set it as my screensaver, so if you hear hysterical cackling at odd times, that would be me because my computer's been idle for 3 minutes and the screensaver's kicked in.

But seriously. All you need to do is flip back in time, revel in the somewhat archaic texture of the "thee", and exult in the word "queer", which is actually a rather wonderful word that immediately conjures up all sorts of oddball-personality-type mind pictures. You know the sort? Here's a little help from Webster.com to get your cerebro-projector cranked up (my personal preferences are 'mildly insane' and 'touched'):

Main Entry: queer
Pronunciation: 'kwir
Function: adjective
Etymology: origin unknown
1 a : WORTHLESS, COUNTERFEIT b : QUESTIONABLE, SUSPICIOUS
2 a : differing in some odd way from what is usual or normal b (1) : ECCENTRIC, UNCONVENTIONAL (2) : mildly insane : TOUCHED c : absorbed or interested to an extreme or unreasonable degree : OBSESSED d (1) often disparaging : HOMOSEXUAL (2) sometimes offensive : GAY 4b 3 : not quite well- queer·ish /-ish/ adjective- queer·ly adverb- queer·ness

Over the past two decades, an important change has occurred in the use of queer in sense 2d. The older, strongly pejorative use has certainly not vanished, but a use by some gay people and some academics as a neutral or even positive term has established itself. This development is most noticeable in the adjective but is reflected in the corresponding noun as well. The newer use is sometimes taken to be offensive, especially by older gay men who fostered the acceptance of gay in these uses and still have a strong preference for it.

Well, go figure. Time for us all to learn to be more politically correct, then? For my part, I have begun to ensure I turn off the screensaver when I'm expecting gay friends (particularly older gay men). Easier than having to explain that it IS really an old Quaker proverb and NO, I didn't make it up and really, it doesn't mean THAT kind of queer. Marbles, anyone? Oh shoot, hang on a second…I seem to have misplaced mine somewhere...

The Feline POV

CaTTskatzcattSkAtZcaTtsKaTzcAttz!!!

PutzyCatt, who's just turned 10, was 3 when this pic was taken. He's your
basic goo-ball, not to be confused with hairball; a talkingCatt who drools
(yes, drools!...unusual for a catt) when cuddled, from an excess of emotion.

If I had to describe a catt in one word, it would be this: amazinglysinououslygracefullyarchlyclownish&mostsadlymisunderstoodspecies.

Although I've always been a devoted dog-person...I've also always been an equally committed catt-person. I guess that makes me borderline bipolar and decidedly shizophrenic...so be it.

I believe catts deserve the extra T because it serves to emphasize all the Truths* about them that people choose not to see. (For current listing, check back with nearest feline). Sometimes I spell it katz...because that's how they are... savvy, frisky and hardly ever predictable.

This post is dedicated to all the catts who have shared their lives with me, each one of whom has been a singular, personality-plus specimen. Which is a whole lot more than I can say for most people. All mine (catts mostly, though sometimes people too!) are/were waifs, strays and injured orphans picked off the streets. And all they needed (the felines) was a home, food and a large dose of TLC. In return, they ensured I had a regular supply of generously utilized litter-trays to clean each time I was dying of bronchitis; they systematically smashed all my vases, ripped my carpets and upholstery to shreds, cured me of ever again using curtains, threw up on my bed at 4 am and sulked 5 days because I bawled them out.

Through all the drama involved when you're sharing living space with felines, they also ensured I had an unlimited supply of unconditional approbation, no matter what I looked like at 7 am. Acceptance, no matter how far up my arse my head was. Laughs when I most needed them. And last but not least, a legacy of inside jokes and endearing idiosyncracies peculiar to each one, which I must begin to chronicle someday soon. Most of all, they taught me the One Big Incontrovertible Truth: Catts make better people!!! I currently live with 7 of them, and as per the stereotype, am now in the market for a rocking chair.

*Cat myths and superstitions abound; I'm sure you've heard several yourself. I will not repeat them here, as then I would be guilty of perpetuating them. Suffice it to say that in ancient Egypt, catts were revered as the Great Goddess Bast. Those Nile-dwellers knew a thing or two about Goddesses, to be sure.

Unfortunately, because cats refuse to kowtow to people, they have been maligned through the ages. Some day, hopefully, people will wise up to the fact that all those nasty myths and superstitions were actually authored by mankind, not catts...perhaps the time is finally right for the Feline Point of View?

Kamikaze Mosquitoes

Oh dear.
This insect loop brings me back to a bit of history. In fact, 8-year-old history. I'm inflicting it on you now because it resonates with our current fascination with bugs&such. Do bear in mind, though, that I HAVE grown up somewhat since. Well, haven't I?!?


Bailey's drop-zone (1996)

Last night was, well, a wash-out. A major come-down. A forced crash-landing. A complete...and utter...disaster. But then, that's what you get when you go around weaving fantasies out of a few meaningful glances and a bit of innocuous flirting.

The up-side is, for once I had 2 interesting young SINGLE males all to myself, for the better part of 3 hours. The down-side is I was hoping for some dedicated, quality, one-on-one (sic) time with ONE single male. And naturally, entertaining wild thoughts of how he was going to be all over me like a rash.

There is no such thing as too much of a good thing, then. 2 men, no rash.

Ah well...wotevah. As evenings go, it sure beat sitting alone listening to Italian love songs, fishing suicidal mosquitoes out of my Bailey's, which is what I normally do weekdays after dinner. Javanese mosquitoes, I've discovered, have a diabetic fascination for Bailey's. They don't touch single malt, vodka or beer. But they zoom into the Bailey's like kamikaze pilots intent on satorial self-destruction, and steadfastly refuse to be rescued. Unfortunately, they still taste like mosquitoes.

I guess I could take the positive view and feel flattered that Mr X ( I name names here and I'll lose us a client, get the sack, sink into a penurious depression, and the shock of it all will prove too much for my muse who will flee), felt he needed a chaperone. Although to be perfectly honest, I was the add-on, as it seemed he already had an evening planned before he thought to include me. Like a *&^%$#* post-script.

On the other hand, I'm glad it was another man, and not one of these tiny winsome wasp-waisted beauties that are endemic to these parts (oooh, 'ow I hate 'em!) who make me look (and feel) about as fragile as a galumphing pachyderm on the rampage.

But then again, since he's allergic to cats and cigarette smoke, and I have 4 of the former and smoke 35 a day of the latter, I suppose this whole thing was doomed before it even began. Every time he's dropped by so far, he's been transmogrified into sneezy, teary-eyed misery within seconds of the front door. The first time I was all sympathy and commiseration, I mean hay fever can be wretched, I know, I’ve had it for years without the benefit of actually rolling in the hay, or perhaps it’s really an “abstinence & celibacy” allergy…

But then, the unkindest cut of all…he said, "I'm sorry, I'm allergic to (achooo) cats...(achoo) cats...and (achoo) could you please put your cigarette out...".

Oh jolly, now I can't even smoke in my own home.
And anyhow, he's probably gay. Or Nubian, as in eunuch.

And then there's the unfortunate business about his name, which for me has strongly canine connotations, possibly because I knew a St.Bernard who was called the same, well hell, I suppose I'll get over it eventually and anyhow he's too young for me, 33, a whole 6 years younger...why, that's like cradle-snatching and I go for "older men" and besides, he's going off on home-leave where I'm sure he's going to meet up again with this girl he almost married last year, he never did say exactly what went wrong, perhaps she discovered he was gay at the nth hour, the poor girl...

(End of story...!)

Shift Focus, HocusPocus!

Since my abdominals remain abysmally abominable, I chose to focus on insectsinstead.

As to houseflies and spiders (see para 1 of your last post...), I have a vast LIVE collection of both, and a major collection of mosquitoes as well. The regulars have names, and their own territories clearly marked out.

Most of my Reg. Mosquito Fraternity has Greek names, of course, and they each have their Most Preferred Bodyparts. Adonis is the neck-nibbler. Hermes is the earlobe fetishist. Poseidon prefers my Achilles heel. And Eros gets through the wonderbra every time.

My most prized Insectospecimen, though, has got to be the bluebottle that visits regularly. I have no idea what the lifespan of a blubottle is, but I swear this is the same one that's been visiting since the last 2 years. I recognize the tiny rent in his left wing. He has, of course, been granted Visiting Bluebottle Emeritus status, and even has his own beermug at the bar.

Spiders will always be special to me, particularly as they say that to squash one of those underfoot is Real Bad Luck, and who needs any more of that. Besides, I find all the webs rather festive, though the dust they collect is a bit of a partypooper.

Here's an Ode I wrote from the office one inspired Monday afternoon, which also tells you how busy they kept me...

SLY

There he is again, suicidal as ever.
I can see him out of my 8th-floor office window, running back and forth, sideways, diagonally, everywhichway.
It's more a sort of purposeful scurrying than running, and he remains totally oblivious of the fact that one false step will turn him into an instant gak-splatt.

Maybe he's bi-polar. Maybe he's an unloved, ugly duckling. Maybe he has a family problem.
Maybe his wife left him for someone more exciting and that's why he's always there alone.
Or maybe he's really rushing around looking busy so he can finish what he has to do and get home quicker.

Every evening around this time, he appears and goes through this entire routine, no variations. Some days when he's a bit late showing up, I start to get anxious.

I even gave him a name. Sly.

I've often wondered how old he is, what he does in his spare time and where he spent his last vacation. I marvel at his daredevil display of guts, hanging upside down outside the window. I guess to him it's no big deal, but that's how it looks to me.

I guess with eight eyes, you would get a whole different perspective on the world, too.
Even from 8 floors up.
Specially if you happen, like him, to be a spider.

So it's true, then? E=MC2??

Hrrmm. I don't do marriage. Which explains why I always flunked physics. You know, all that Laws of Attraction type stuff. (And maths, but that's another story...). So yes, I'm strictly "beentheredonethat" on the matrimonial issue. Not that it was ALL bad, but still, more elevated ponderings now command my entire focussed attention. For instance: Do bugs turn blue after they bite? Did it rain tomorrow? Is it a grizzle or a gwick?

Which brings me to this whole thing about newly-single people and their beds. I have documented and observed other singles afflicted in the same way. Suddenly, you're one person in a two-people bed, and find you've developed an acute case of agoraphobia practically overnight.

However, you are relieved to note that your growing pile of reading-to-catch-up-on now threatens to take over the entire planet, after having annexed the vast empty frontier beside you that extends into the horizon. You notice you feel compelled to add to The Pile every day, in a spontaneous and unstructured manner. So the 3-month stack of unread newspapers is forced to share precarious bedspace with last month's unpaid bills, a 2002 organizer, a used tea-bag, 5 unfinished books, 2 cats and a giant octopus stuffed toy missing one eye, which predates marriage, puberty and braces.

This goes on for years, till your immediate vicinity (for a 10-mile radius) vies for inclusion in the Guinness Book as World's Largest Landfill. Meanwhile, as you continue to sift through the inevitable debris of a divorce, 'that' side of the bed becomes increasingly sacrosanct. Nobody dares set it to rights anymore, least of all yourself. After all, what would you DO with all that space? You'd much rather just scrunch up into foetal position at the very edge of your side...it's closer to the door.

Till suddenly one day, about 85,000 years later, something snaps. You take 3 deep breaths, and heave, and ho, and PUSH all that junk to the floor, for the sheer pleasure of seeing it hit the ground in slow-mo. It's like an alien takeover of your body, every cell prompting you to reclaim the vast reaches of this prime bit of real estate. You inhale deeply as clouds of dust mushroom and billow around you, and as you cough, you watch transfixed as an entire army of tiny, newly-evicted life-forms scuttle off to find themselves alternative homes, where they will hopefully dwell undisturbed till the turn of the next millenium.

Once the surface is finally clear, you revel in throwing yourself diagonally across the bed, stretching from corner to corner like an X. Ex? You Finally See The Light. This is YOUR space and nobody is ever going to take it over again. Or at any rate, not tonight.

Believe me, few things feel as decadently luxurious as having a king-sizer all to yourself. Or well, there are some...but right now I'm exulting in the simple pleasures of sprawling across it without bumping into someone else's elbows, knees, grunts and harrumphs. Tomorrow, I shall put up an electrified barbed wire fence around it. Need to figure out how to let myself in, though, without getting zapped to Outer Sedona. Oh, bleeagh. It's back to Quantum Physics, then...