DOES GOD HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR?

I sure hope he does. Or I am likely to be stuck by lightning as I walk home today. It is raining here by the way. So the stage is set.

I was stuck with religious fervor on Christmas Eve which resulted in my agreeing to go to two different services on Sunday. One of them at C and D’s church and the other, an evening candlelight service at C’s parent’s church. Maybe I was making up for all those times when a 6 o’clock curfew and later the lure of a nice, warm bed prevented me from ever going to a Christmas Eve mass.

The morning one was comparatively incident free if you don’t count the one tiny incident where I almost caused a sweet old woman to go into seizures. I tripped over a wire that someone had left on the church floor, for the express purpose of tripping people up I believe, and almost landed in the poor lady’s lap.

This was a high-tech service, with an overhead projector, where the lyrics of the carols were displayed so everyone could sing along. I decided to add my voice too; only, I had no clue as to the tunes. I did catch C giving me strange looks during the carol singing, but then it’s the spirit that counts right?

The sermon was far from boring too. It was delivered by a long-haired, good looking pastor wearing a colorful striped shirt and tan slacks. He added spice to the proceedings with frequent references to Tom Cruise and his ilk.

The evening service was more moving. The cathedral was a stately one, and decorated with all the trimmings of the season. The pastor, or should I say lady pastor, was an ex-newscaster with the local San Diego news station, before she decided to serve God instead of a media mogul. She definitely had the gift of the gab.

This service was advertised as a “candlelight” service. Of course, like all the things here, it was not quite as it seemed. There were fire regulations in effect, so of course, there were no real candles. We had battery-operated ones and these could be turned on by twisting the top half of the “candle”. We all stood in a circle around the pews and each person turned on the light when their turn came. It was soon my turn, and as usual, I could not turn on the candle. The top half was screwed on really tight. I soon had people on either side of me trying to help me with it and all their efforts were in vain. My candle refused to light up. I looked up to see half of C’s large family at the opposite end of the church grinning from ear to ear and trying hard not to guffaw. C’s father finally solved the problem by handing me his candle. Like I said, I sure hope God has a sense of humor.

SCENT OF A WOMAN

“Lotion is a wonderful thing!”, declared C, as she sat on the bed one morning slathering on the stuff. I would have agreed with her if I didn’t have to waste 10 precious minutes each morning putting on the stuff. I wonder why they couldn’t have come up with a spray-on version. They do have spray-on sunscreens so why not winter lotions too?

When I first came to San Diego, I labored under the delusion that since it was by the sea, it would have weather like Kerala. Hot, humid and the kind that skin and hair love. I could not have been more wrong. This is becoming a habit, being so wrong about things. My brain had neglected to register the fact that that the whole of California is basically a desert.

Winter arrived and brought with it a unique set of problems. My hair, which has a mind of its own even otherwise, began to look like I had stuck my finger in an electric socket and the less said about my skin the better. Suffice to say that the Komodo dragon seemed to have skin that looked better than mine!!!

In an effort to get back to a semblance of my old human self, I embarked on an expedition to stock up on lotions and potions. I got the names of a couple of lotions from my roommate and armed with that knowledge, I confidently marched up to the cosmetics aisle of Target. One look at all the aisles full of cosmetics and I was tempted to turn tail and run back home. How were people ever supposed to decide what they wanted if there was such a bewildering array to choose from? And here I thought Americans valued their time!!

I steeled myself and started on my quest. I was baffled when I found a ginger and orange lotion. Is this a scent in this country? And to think of the hours I spent with halves of lemon frantically trying to scrub the scent of ginger/garlic off my hands. But it brought back fond memories of trying to weasel out of helping mom with the cooking, so I went ahead and got some. Sun-kissed raspberry and gardenia, now that sounded very exotic, so I had to get that one too. Powder fresh, now this reminds me of sweet swelling babies, all bathed and powdered with Johnson’s baby powder, so I grabbed some of that too.
Suffice to say that I now have enough creams, lotions and gels to last me for the next 10 years if not for the rest of my life. The question is, how many of those can I use at the same time, without smelling like the Malleshwaram flower market???

GIMME S’MORE

I had donned my new fuzzy socks, had brushed my teeth like a good gal and climbed under my quilt with my “Memoirs of Cleopatra” book when a knock sounded on the door. C’s head poked inside and she stated, “Even for you S, this is a new record. In bed by 7:30 PM!!” I pointed out that since I was reading and not sleeping she could not accuse me of one of the seven (or was it eight?) sins.(Sloth, in case anyone is wondering). She would have none of it and enticed me out of my warm lair, with promises of making some s’mores.

A s'more, according to Wickepedia, is a traditional campfire treat popular in the US and Canada, consisting of a roasted marshmallow and a slab of chocolate sandwiched between two pieces of a graham cracker. (a thin square biscuit).

A marshmallow is skewered on the end of a long stick and held just above the campfire until its outer surface starts to brown, char, or even catch fire. Once heated, the marshmallow's inside becomes soft. The marshmallow is quickly pinched off its stick with the waiting graham crackers. Ideally, the heat from the roasted marshmallow partially melts the chocolate into a gooey mess.

We live in an apartment complex, and a campfire was out of question. Per D, we had two options, either he could fire up the barbeque unit on the balcony or we could use candles. Neither of us wanted to brave the freezing cold out on the balcony so we decided to go along with the candle idea. Next, we needed long sticks. We searched high and low and found nothing to suit our purpose. D again came to the rescue. He found us wooden kabab skewers. How the man can remember where every single thing is placed is quite beyond me. He then went back to his online classes.

We assembled all the paraphernalia we would need. We had also found some tea lights (tiny flat candles in aluminum holders, rather like Diwali lamps). This we placed on a plate after lighting them, since we were sure D would get upset if we got any wax over his dinner table.

We skewered our marshmallows on the wooden skewers and held it over the flames. To our surprise, D came out of his room, pulled out a chair and sat down between us. He had decided that he could not quite trust the two of us not to burn down his house.

He gave me strict instructions that I was to blow out the flame if my marshmallow caught fire. And as usual, I bungled it. The minute my marshmallow got too close to the flame, D would yell, “you are on fire” and it made me so tense that I would wave my stick around, feeding the flame, instead of blowing it out. When C did the same thing, I guess D had had enough.

He marched into the closet and returned with a dusty old fire extinguisher. At our incredulous expressions, he informed us that he was not taking any chances with two pyromaniacs loose in his home. And the said fire extinguisher had lost its safety ring, so technically it was ready to go. I just prayed that D did not have super quick reflexes or one of us was sure to get sprayed.

In spite of D glaring at us, and trying to pretend like he was exasperated, we managed to make two s’mores each and enjoyed the gooey mess, giggling all the while. D of course was busy eating all the leftover pieces of chocolate. We licked our fingers clean and made our way to the bathroom, where, as C so eloquently put it, we performed, “BRUSHING TEETH, TAKE TWO.”

BROKEBACK CAT MOUNTAIN

I live with two cats: Clyde and Stuart, who belong to C and D respectively. Until now, I had no idea that cats could have personalities, let alone such distinct ones.

Clyde is the friendly one, who loves to explore. He has been in cat heaven ever since I moved in to live with them. I had brought along a suitcase full of spices from home, and Clyde spends most of his waking hours in my room, exploring all the new smells.

Stuart on the other hand, is the good-looking bloke, all sleek black fur and what C calls a white garter on his hind leg. But if a stranger tries to pet him, he runs the risk of being hissed at or scratched to within an inch of his life. And both C and D have unsuccessfully tried to convince me that he doesn’t actually bite, it is just “love-bites.”

Wars are fought at home between C and D for their affections and there are strict rules in force about whose lap the cats can sit on while we all watch television. The cats are both male and hence D feels a little less threatened. His constant refrain is that in a house with two women, he is awfully glad that at least the cats are male.

All said and done, the two are a constant source of amusement. D has a tiny laser light that he shines all around the house and the cats simply go berserk at the sight of it. They jump up at walls following the laser pointer and provide us with endless laughs. I am sure that D is walking a thin line here. One of these days, he is going to be charged with cruelty to animals, as I keep warning him every so often.

Yesterday evening we all settled down to watch an episode of One Tree Hill and the cats as usual played favorites. Both cats decided to favor D with their affections in spite of him trying to hand Clyde over to C. After a few minutes, something very strange happened. Clyde climbed on top of Stuart and got busy licking his ear. This sent all of us into hysterics and D exclaimed, “Great, we have gay cats now.” “This sure is Brokeback Cat Mountain.”

THE NUTCRACKER

When I was a little girl (that seems like such a long time ago), I was brought up on a steady diet of Russian Children’s Magazines. My favorite pictures were those of the beautiful ballerinas and of Russian dolls, the kind that fit perfectly into each other. They seemed to belong to a completely new world, a world of fantasy where only the very privileged were granted entry.

The next nail in the coffin was when Preity Zinta takes Aamir Khan to the opera in the movie Dil Chahta Hai and I fell, hook, line and sinker. Symphonies, operas and ballet became the stuff of my dreams maybe because I didn’t have a hope of ever going to one.

So when my roommates C and D asked if I wanted to watch the ballet with them, I jumped for joy, notwithstanding the snide comments of two of my friends (male, obviously) who couldn’t understand why I was getting all excited about what they deemed a “perverted show.” It took a couple of minutes before that sank in.

I promptly went out and bought a new dress. I bought it on sale to quench a guilty conscience. It was a black silk chiffon number with a skirt that ended just below the knees and a pretty lacy top interspersed with sequins. I also discovered the joys of a pair of nylons. Whoever discovered nylons has the eternal gratitude of women the world over, specially the ones with less than perfect legs.

Come Saturday, and I got all dressed up in my new dress. The pretty dress just begged for a pretty face, and since I have the kind that can crack a mirror, I decided to try camouflage. I decided to put on makeup!! I assembled all the stuff I owned that fell under the general category of makeup. It consisted of eyeliner, mascara and a lip-gloss. Pathetic.

I discovered another aspect of my personality. I can never put on eyeliner or mascara without smudging it, which results in my looking like a raccoon, and today was no exception. I finally gave up in frustration and decided to wash my face clean.

We went to Anthony’s, a very pretty restaurant by the harbor for dinner. C’s parents took one look at me and said, “You should take a picture and send it back to your husband.” God, had I not succeeded in getting all the stuff off of my face? I did not want poor Deep fainting in shock. We sat down to dinner and as usual I could not decide what I wanted to eat. I usually get someone else to order for me so I could be spared the stress of choosing, but that was hardly the case here. I finally decided to go for a platter, hoping there would be something I could enjoy eating. The platter consisted of five different kinds of lightly battered and fried fish along with a side of salad and rice pilaf. Very very satisfying.

Stomachs sated, we went to the Civic Center in Downtown San Diego to satisfy our souls. The ballet began, and it was everything I had ever dreamed it could be. The live music, the wonderful performances and the beautiful settings. The ballet was performed by the California School of Ballet so the performers ranged both in ages and proficiency. My favorite part of the ballet was the scene in the land of candy, where everything was pastel, the music ethereal and the performers seemed to be floating on thin air.

The last musical note sounded, bows were taken and it was soon time to go home. As I left the theater, I left with a smile in my heart, since I was leaving with the priceless treasure of yet another beautiful memory, the kind that lasts a lifetime.

LETTING GO

Julia stood by the water looking out into the harbor. It was weird how she had never noticed its beauty before. Anthony’s, the restaurant, jutted right into the water. All was quiet now, the patrons having left long since, happy and sated, by both the beautiful view and the excellent sea food the restaurant served. The water looked very dark and mysterious. The lights reflected in it enticed, promising a magical new world, if you would just take the plunge.

She was tempted to take the plunge and end it all. The heartbreak, the tears, the pain of having to let go. She looked at Arun, who was studying some of the sculptures on the sidewalk. He seemed quite absorbed in them. She could never understand what was so interesting about some weirdly shaped pieces of metal; some artist’s representation of trees.

Arun looked up suddenly at an airplane flying overhead and said excitedly, “I am going to be on one of those tomorrow, going home.” Her heart contracted at these words. Should she tell him and take the consequences? Or did he know already? Was it better leaving some things unsaid? She knew he would never dream of staying with her. His heart was elsewhere and nothing could entice him to stay. He had shared his hopes and dreams with her, and none of them had included her. He was going to go home and marry the girl his mother chose for him, his gift to his parents as a dutiful son.

But she could not bear to let go. How her heart would break when he left. Would he even realize what a forlorn, lonely girl he had left behind? He was not even going to think about her when he was amongst friends and family so why was she eating her heart out? Why had she even allowed this to happen? She knew love meant pain. But then it had sneaked up on her unawares. And she knew no amount of tears, no amount of pleading would soften that piece of granite he called a heart. She was going to have to learn to let go.

She would go to the airport tomorrow and bravely wave goodbye to them both. Both Arun and his canine friend Bruno, the love of her life.

THE IDIOT BOX

Anil was tired. It seemed like he was always tired nowadays. All that studying, cooking and work was taking its toll. Combined with the fact that he was far from home and missing his folks, life was not exactly the bed of roses he had envisioned when he had landed in the US of A.

“I think I shall buy myself a TV.” He thought to himself. “One of those inexpensive ones, that should help me understand this country and its people.” “And maybe, just maybe, it will help me get through those lonely hours too.”

Decision made, he logged onto craigslist.com, and began looking through listings for televisions. “Hmm, this one sounds interesting,” he thought to himself reading further.
Moving this weekend, television for sale, speakers included. Perfect, he thought to himself. I think I will go check this one out.

He got to the address listed and the man selling the TV told him, “ I am leaving right away, and you can have the TV for $20.00 if you take it away right now.” “Wow, that is quite a bargain” thought Anil to himself. But then his cautious side asserted itself. He had better switch it on and see if it worked. He switched on the TV and was confronted with ghostly images that were dancing to eerie ghostly music. The owner assured him saying that the cable was disconnected and that was why the images were so hazy and that it would work just fine once it was set up properly. A bargain was stuck and the TV changed hands.

Anil walked outside pleased with himself and was confronted with the next problem. The TV was big and heavy and his car was too small to safely transport it home. He called Hemant, praying he would be home and willing to come help him with transporting the TV. He enlisted the help of Arun too, just in case the TV proved too much for the two of them.

Hemant arrived, wondering for the 100th time why he had never learned to say no to people. First, it was this girl who had just arrived in the city and knew no one. She wanted to move from one hotel to another and he had volunteered, sensing she needed his help. She had two battered suitcases and his heart was in his mouth when he had to place one of them on the back seat of his brand new car. And now this huge, heavy TV. His leather seats were never going to be the same again.

Sighing and resigned to the inevitable, he went in and helped Anil wrestle the TV into the back seat of his car. Where was Arun for pity’s sake? The guy was around only when there was food available.

Anil managed to get the TV safely home and got it all hooked up. He held his breath when he switched on the TV and something was not quite right. The whole screen was red since the actor wore a red shirt. Smacking his head and cursing his stupidity, he resolved to set it right if it was the last thing he did. He got to work. He looked up every website listed on the topic of tv repair and finally managed to fix it over the course of three weekends.

THREE MONTHS LATER

It was time to get rid of the TV. It had gone on the blink permanently. Anil now had his eye on a new flat front 58-inch TV that he had always wanted. But what was he to do with his old one?

He hit upon a brainwave. He got a thick sheet off the bed, put the TV in the middle of it and got his four friends to hold up a corner each. After all, everyone was going to benefit once the new TV came home, right? And didn’t they all state that they owned 1/3rd of the old TV since they had helped to bring it home in the first place?

They again wrestled it into the back of Arun’s car, since this time Hemant flatly refused to subject his car to any more mangling.

They drove to the waste disposal center. The attendant at the disposal center accepted the TV, but when Anil put the two speakers on top of each other, he insisted that those were “electronics” and that they had to pay extra to dispose of them.

Heart heavy and purses lighter, the quartet returned home. The only bright star on their horizon was the anticipation of the spanking new TV that would soon find it way to their home.

LAUNDRY LAUGHS

Laundry tops my list of most-hated chores. Our apartment complex has a public laundry. There are some 5 washing machines and about 200 people, hence, getting it done is such an excellent exercise in time management that I feel business schools would do well to incorporate this into their curriculum.

A wash cycle is about 23-25 minutes usually and the dryer takes about 45 minutes. And heaven help you if you don’t make it to the machines on time. The next person waiting for the machine will simply take all your clothes and dump it on the nearest flat surface. So if you do not want to face the public humiliation of having all your clothes on display, you would do good to ensure that you reach the washing machine at exactly 22-1/2 minutes from the time you started it. This has to be the most aggravating part of the entire exercise. Personally, the very thought of some stranger handling my clothes gives me the goose bumps.

I now have an action plan to circumvent all this hassle. I absolutely refuse to do my laundry on weekends, even if I am doing nothing more exciting than reading in bed. My precious weekends are not to be wasted on mundane stuff like laundry. Next, I make sure I get it started before 7 o’clock. I am yet to bash in the head of the next impatient male wanting to do his laundry as well as watch the Monday night football game at the same time, so it looks like my plan is working.

Yesterday, when I lugged my heavy basket into the laundry, I was confronted by a sign on the door. Dreading what I would find, I read through it hastily, in the semidarkness. It said, “All but two trees will be uprooted and pruned.” I was shocked. Our apartment complex has atleast 25 trees. And notwithstanding the fact that I was forever tracking tiny little leaves into my room and having to vacuum every two days, I loved those trees. I did not want such a horrible fate befalling them. And why did they need to uproot the trees to prune them? Was this another of those American ways that I was never going to comprehend? I have heard of tree doctors and trees being transplanted in Bangalore, but to do that to 25-odd trees did seem like a mind-boggling exercise in futility. Would they ever take root again or did the pruners plan to plant fully grown trees next spring??

Soon it was time to go back to the laundry room and I decided to read the sign again. And then it dawned on me why my English teacher was so adamant about commas and their placement in a sentence.

EGG NOG, POPCORN AND TINSEL

Christmas has certainly arrived at our office. After my last fiasco with popcorn, almost everyone has taken to leaving packets of popcorn on my desk. So much so that I can hardly be seen behind all of the stuff. I know this is the holiday season and everyone loves to get into the spirit, but I do wish they would stop burying me under all that goodwill.

We got a tree at the office today, and I was promptly marched off to help trim it. This makes it my third tree. By the time I get back home, I am going to be quite the expert at this.

The other tree I got to trim was at C’s parents home. The only difference was that each of the ornaments that went on the tree had a story behind it. It was a beautiful feeling hanging up memories. And I just loved the sentimentality of it all. Of course, the men folk refused to help, stating that they would rather watch three beautiful women trim the tree than move a muscle to help.

I have been bombarded with so much Christmas trivia that I am now a walking encyclopedia on the subject. Did you know that a pickle(an ornament not the real thing) is hidden in the tree and the child who first finds it gets an extra gift? Or that a tree should always have a bird’s nest with a bird in it for luck? Or that seeing a red headed woman on Christmas Day ensures that your child would be a red-head? (If it only were so easy!!)

My tree trimming at C’s parents house came to an abrupt halt when I leaned over too far while trying to position an ornament just so, and almost fell into the tree, step ladder and all. I was saved in the nick of time, by C’s father who pulled me back by the seat of my pants. I was mortified and worse, I strongly suspect “D” got a picture of me in mid flight.

By then, C’s parents figured out that it was safer to have me sitting down than have their tree and their home in shambles. Hence, I was promptly shown to a comfy armchair and plied with chocolate, cheese cake and egg nog in reward for all my labors.

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

The ordeal is finally over. America’s Top Model has been chosen. I have never been an avid fan of reality shows and have never watched them until now. I feel happy for the ones who finally make it but feel terrible for the ones who lose out and wear their hearts on their sleeves.

It took a lot of guts and determination for me to be able to watch week after week. C loves to watch though. I suspect it had less to do with the show itself and more to do with the fact that she had an ongoing pool game with her girl friends on guessing the winner. She is richer by 40 dollars as of this Wednesday.

Coming back to the show… I could bring myself to watch because there was this really exotic Indian girl. She was dark with the longest, straightest hair and a face that could truly launch a thousand ships. And was she happy?? Oh no. She was maybe 5 pounds heavier than some of the other girls and she was obsessed with it. I wish somebody would explain genetics to her.

Throughout the show, the contestants have been put through what can only be called endurance tests rivaling those of the US Marines.

They have been photographed in the most bizarre situations a demented mind on psychedelics could have dreamed up. They have been dropped into a vertical air column, they have narrowly missed being gored to death by bulls, they have been asked to float in ice cold water and these were just some of the innovative settings. The last one truly took the cake. The last two contestants were ghostly brides or in other words “brides of Frankenstein.”

After emerging triumphant through all these trials, they endured the scathing comments of four supercilious judges. What makes judges so superior to the rest of us humans??

Anyways, atta gal Caridee, and I hope the world is a beautiful place for you!!!!

MURDER , SHE WROTE

I am in a particularly murderous mood this afternoon. It might have something to do with the fact that I have a pounding headache and my favorite brand of tea is missing from the cafeteria shelf. It could also have something to do with the fact that I had to eat a salad for lunch.

At such times, I find that committing a murder or at least planning one seems to have a soothing effect on my nerves. I have tried this once after I have landed in the US of A and I was rescued just in time by the ever gallant “D”. His timely intervention ensured that there were no police cars, fire engines or ambulances outside our door. It is still unclear whether he did this out of the goodness of his heart or merely out of a sense of self-preservation.

I decided to go ahead with my plan. I sneaked out of my cubicle and sauntered past coworkers with a beatific smile plastered on my face. I made it to the lunch room without anyone suspecting that something was amiss. A quick peek into the lunch room ensured that there were going to be no witnesses to the heinous act.

Midway through the murder, smoke began to emanate from the lunch room. This was accompanied by an acrid smell of burning. I had to leave quickly before I was found out. I rushed out, to the sight of people, all standing in their seats, signs of alarm writ large on their faces. I shamefacedly returned to my seat, wishing that I could be an invisible fly on the wall.

I had done it again!! I had managed to murder yet another bag of microwavable popcorn.

GIRLS DAY OUT

Saturday morning saw me twiddling my thumbs with nowhere to go and nothing to do; hence I agreed to help C with her Christmas shopping. Yeah, she did entice me with breakfast at her favorite place, and my agreeing had more to do with the chance to check out a new restaurant than with any great interest in retail therapy.

Hash House A Go Go, the very name of the restaurant caught my fancy. It is situated in what is primarily a gay locality. At least that is what I have been told. So we were guaranteed some great looking guys for our viewing pleasure. The restaurant itself is very quaint, with framed photographs, an antique boiler, tables squashed together and a lot of cheer and noise to go with the ambience. The food is hearty, tasty and there is quite a lot of it. I thought I had gotten used to the portions here, but this one must surely take the cake. There was enough food to last us for a week. It is served on really heavy skillets for plates, with huge sprigs of rosemary stuck in it. Now I know how all those cute waiters get their bulging muscles.

We got rid of all the foliage on our plates and dug in. Even after all our valiant efforts, we were only able to make a tiny dent in all the food set before us. We still had to make space for the desserts. Yes dessert after breakfast, weirder things have been known to happen.

A word about the desserts at this place. The secret has to be shared. Anyone trying to get a woman to fall in love with you: Simply bring her here and share a s’mores mocha. If she hasn’t fallen in love with you by the time you’ve reached the bottom of the cup, you might as well stop trying.

THE PRICKLY PEAR

The day after Thanksgiving saw the whole family, thirteen of us to be precise, make a beeline to The Prickly Pear. The Prickly Pear, to the uninitiated, (I for one) is an antique store in downtown Yuma, Arizona. We were all to choose our Christmas presents there. Whatever happened to the idea of surprise gifts?

We entered a dimly lit store and I was in Aladdin’s Cave. The store was filled with curios from all around the world. More than the store, it was the store’s owners that caught my interest. Two ladies, who look almost identical. One was garbed in a black velvet dress with chunky blue and turquoise jewellery with spiky hair. The other in similar attire, just that the velvet dress was brown and the jewellery was green. This in the searing heat of Arizona.

I was standing by a stone Nandi and hence was treated to an elaborate spiel about it, complete with the most fascinating hand gestures. I was told that Nandis were found only in Nepal. I shudder to think what all the Nandis in front of the Shiva temples in India would have to say about that. The conversation was brought to a sudden stop when one of C’s aunts introduced me to the lady, stating that I was from India.

C’s aunt wanted my opinion on a rug. It was a beautiful one, in warm earth tones, and I told her so. But I was secretly pleased when they reluctantly decided not to buy it. They felt it would be too slippery for the passage they intended to place it. In case you’re wondering, the rug came from Pakistan.

More wandering around in the store turned up Kashmiri Shawls!! A bittersweet moment, homesickness combined with a sense of pride that India had made her presence felt even in such a rustic place, right in the middle of nowhere.

A discordant note in the store was the presence of steel kitchen appliances. Since when did steel come to be considered as antique?