I regret to inform you that Koko, the baby mouse found in my office in January, passed away awhile ago.
After a few days in the care of my coworker Troy who had adopted her, Koko suddenly stopped eating, became weak and then died. From comparing Koko with pictures of other baby mice, he suspects that she was still nursing from her mother when she was found in our hallway, and thus was too young to have been weaned.
Koko loved chocolates.
There was a brief ceremony and she was buried in a park.
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Okay, so I'm thinking of starting this mini-series: "Wish List" of things I'd like to have and why.
First up, pepper spray—for the next drunken punk who works up the nerve to call me a "nigger bitch".
I was heading to the tram at Narodni alone last Friday after spending time with friends at Joe's Cafe. A group of four young men came out of a side street suddenly. They were making a racket, clearly drunk.
One jumped out to my right: "Yoooo, wassup?..." In that way wanna-bes and fools do, attempting familiarity yet only achieving condescension or irritation.
I told him to buzz off.
"Yeah, blah, blah, blah, nigger bitch...."
"Fuck You." I spat back, unruffled, and kept on walking.
Alright, any black person thinking of coming to Prague and reading this—don't get scared. Come. Prague is a safe city. I've never had any major or scary situation here. And many people will tell you the same. But like anywhere else when some folks get drunk or get high and are in packs they can get brave and stupid. And if you're a woman alone they think it's okay to “play”.
The best thing is to just avoid them. If you can't, ignore them, which I should have done after his "wassup", in hindsight. He could have gotten aggressive after my second rebuke. Then again, there's the school of thought that Czech men scare easy.
And I've tested that assumption before.
During one of the “dark spells” that besieged me late last year, I was heading to the metro on a crowded #6 tram. I was standing. At the metro stop, the man sitting in front of me got up to exit the car. He wasn't polite about it—jostling me and others in the process. I was in a foul mood that day, right? So I pushed him with my bag. He nudged back.
Did I mention that my foul mood was brought on by the recent end of my relationship with Jan?
I turned, balled up my fist and punched the man in the back.
He staggered and turned around with a stunned look on his face.
I stared back and did not flinch, as in: Motherf—er, if you even think of taking a step towards me I will knock you down flat with my laptop....
"Blah, blah, blah...!" He yelled in Czech, walking off the tram.
"Tivole!" I called after him, startling the old women nearby.
(Tivole, by the way, is this all-inclusive Czech cuss word: f—k you, screw you, bastard, a—hole, damn it, shit, son-of-a-bitch, etc.)
Recounting the story to people, I have been called brave AND crazy in the same breath. What if the man had tried to hit me back?
So yours truly will get to work controlling her temper and her tongue, and practice the art of walking away—and aiming her mace, just in case.
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The fatigue that I touched on in the last two posts turned out to be the work of a viral infection (and something else that is yet to be determined) that kept me out of commission for two weeks. My latest blogging relapse was not intentional—I just had no energy to write. But thanks to medication I am making my way back to 100%.
I'll keep this back-to-blogging post short and sweet.
Talking about sweets—I gave up dessert for Lent. Fakt jo?!!! Yeah. No cakes, no candy, no cookies, no pastries, nada. I am suf-fer-ing—which is kinda fitting for Lent, no?
My sweet tooth is well-known among friends. “Let's meet for coffee or tea” is just code for my sugar-fix; I usually skip the drinks. As a challenge, I decided that this year dessert would be it for Lent.... (Last year, I gave up meat.) It's been harder than I thought. I have a habit of ending just about every meal with something sweet; now I've resorted to chewing raisins. Raisins! Fruits are so looking and tasting good these days.
30 more week-days to go. (Yeah, Sundays don't count as part of Lent.)
For the week of Valentine's, my plan had been to post a few thoughts (probably all sarcastic) in dishonor of l'amour. My immune system had other ideas, of course.
(Valentine's Day at Radost FX)
Still, "Little Miss Ambivalent About Romance that She Would Kick Cupid Even if He Looks Like a Baby", which would be me, received tokens of affection last week. I met up with namesake at a hospoda near me last Sunday for some comfort Czech food. Across from us, a table of five men throwing glances; in particular, a good-looking one maintaining steady and frequent eye contact. It's a common thing in eateries here for street-florists to wander in and try to sell roses. 
One came in, walked from table to table. A few minutes later, a waiter stopped at our table and set a vase with a single yellow rose in front of me: “From the gentleman....”
Slightly less dramatic. Thursday, I got a Rocher chocolate, which I couldn't eat because of Lent but kept anyways. The gift-er and I had gone on two dates late last year; but he annoyed the heck out of me at the second meeting—and I told him bluntly that he f—ked up.... Kinda nice of him to give me a treat months later.
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Despite a tiring week, Friday night found me at Bombay with three girlfriends. Bombay is a bar/restaurant in Old Town that attracts a largely international tourist crowd.
It has a reputation as a meat market, and as is the case with a lot of venues in Prague the happiest shoppers are men. Between my girlfriends, we derisively call it the “Midget Bar”.
The atmosphere is almost always upbeat, which was perfect for me during our visit. I had so little energy that all I could do was people-watch and engage in some bar-stool philosophy....
A beautiful, tall girl chatting with an equally good-looking, tall man. Their respective group of short friends stand around with plastered smiles on their faces trying to figure out what to do with themselves.
Conclusion: Beauty attracts beauty; sometimes the rest of us are just bystanders.
A group of women two tables away from us. They have a “refreshed” look about them that hints to a familiarity with scalpels. They dance, drink and laugh, but they're mostly alone. Men steer clear of their table.
Conclusion: Plastic surgery can do wonders, but as a woman when you get to a certain age men in clubs are just not that into you.
One of my girls wants weight-lifting tips. A trainer is a good first step for a beginner, I tell her; weights can do wonders for the body even though she doesn't look like she needs much much. She protests. No, no, no, I need it. Pointing to her triceps—a classic problem area for many. I say, “If it's possible for you to look hotter than you already do....” Men have been throwing glances her way as she grooves in our tiny corner of the club.... "You're a very sexy woman." She covers her mouth. She looks stunned and touched: “People don't really say that about me....”
Conclusion: Everyone could use a bit of affirmation....and not just about beauty.
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I am, yet again, playing host to some nascent bug.
(The finicky nature of my immune system, by the way, is something of a family lore. “Oh boy, are you sick again?!” was the chorus back in New York whenever I wandered into the kitchen on a weekday morning and didn't look ready to go to work.... As it so happened, I usually was.)
The original plan for today was to invite “namesake” over in the evening for some jollof rice and a movie, but that's been postponed. I don't want to risk infecting her or suddenly getting tired before she arrives.
So it's a sedentary Saturday for me. I'm catching up on emails, blog browsing, and using up the last bit of Smetana (Czech cream) in my fridge to make Baked Rice Pudding.
When I'm sick or on the verge of it, I hardly want to eat real food. I crave simplicity (and a nap). And this pudding recipe from my Home Food cookbook is about as simple as they come. The effort level required is zilch. And even better, I can catch a snooze while it bakes.
You need very basic ingredients: rice, cream, milk, sugar.
1/ Divide a quarter cup of short- or medium-grain rice into four greased ramekins. (I usually fudge measurements and add more rice. Tip: Add more liquid if using brown rice.)
2/ Mix together one-and-two-thirds cups of milk (low-fat is okay....) and three-quarter cup of cream (g'bye to that “low fat”....) Add a tablespoon or two of sugar and a dash of vanilla extract. (Sometimes I don't have much cream available, so I play around with the ratio of the liquids.)
3/ Evenly divide the liquid into the ramekins. Dot the top of the bowls with grated nutmeg and one (divided) bayleaf.
4/ Bake in 300F oven for an hour or more until the liquid has been absorbed (you'll hear a crackling noise) and a brown skin has formed on the top of the bowls. (Maybe it's my oven, but it usually takes about 90 minutes to get mine done, hence the nap.....)
5/ Eat hot with or without cream. Then take another nap.
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I regret to inform you that Koko, the baby mouse found in my office in January, passed away awhile ago.
