Yesterday is history.
Tomorrow a mystery.
Today is a gift.
That's why it's called the present!
June 28, 2007
Moving and Packing
Movin' on Up to the East Side...again.
Up Up and Away!
As a child I loved packing, moving, and unpacking. I also loved airports and talking incessantly on the phone. In the past few years, I've come to like all of these things less. Less to the point of disliking them.
Every move since my BIG move to the BIG Apple has been more debilitating. I dread the boxes. I dread putting them together and I dread filling them. I dread stacking them for the movers and I dread unpacking them. I even dread breaking them down to push into the recesses under my bed because I know that saving them only means I'm going to be building them back again in a year or two or at most three.
I feel like the Virginia Wolf of moving.
I want to move. I'm ready to move. I need to move. But I just can't bear the reality of DOING it.
The part I struggle with is the pack rat in me is forced to die a slow and recurring death in the course of every move. It's just not feasible to hold onto that note Tracey slipped me between homeroom and Math in 10th grade. It's unnecessary to save the dried flowers from the corsage Norman gave me for senior prom. The dozens of get well cards from my residents the summer I was an RA and had eye surgery at Hopkins also must join the dust bunnies. The cards my mom sent me every week in college to cheer, jeer, or otherwise infuse fear in me must also make their way into the trash. In a way it's cathartic to give these up...time moves on, so must I.
But to decide which of my books get donated or sold or just piled in the trash room--that's the bigger struggle. The reality that all my babies can't come crushes me. They're just too heavy and I've either read them or I know I never will. The reams of paper, the spines unbent, the glossy jackets, and firmness of a hardcover all remind me of their lives unlived. I can only hope they find better home and that others in their litter never had to suffer in a foster home like mine.
Less of a struggle and more of a chore is sifting through the piles, stacks, untidy lumps of clothing. What to donate, what to just throw. The clothes that I moved in a year ago and have yet to wear, definitely go. The clothes I have worn and hated being in, should also go. The clothes that shrunk, faded or just bore probably need to go. The formal wear I never wear needs to go into storage or maybe sold. So much to do, so little time.
The thing about packing is that I'm tired just thinking about it. Planning out each energy zapping exertion that yields in another full box is exhausting. Yet as my moving day inches closer, I'm forced to consider my alternatives....NONE!
It's time to go. It's time to move on.
Up Up and Away!
As a child I loved packing, moving, and unpacking. I also loved airports and talking incessantly on the phone. In the past few years, I've come to like all of these things less. Less to the point of disliking them.
Every move since my BIG move to the BIG Apple has been more debilitating. I dread the boxes. I dread putting them together and I dread filling them. I dread stacking them for the movers and I dread unpacking them. I even dread breaking them down to push into the recesses under my bed because I know that saving them only means I'm going to be building them back again in a year or two or at most three.
I feel like the Virginia Wolf of moving.
I want to move. I'm ready to move. I need to move. But I just can't bear the reality of DOING it.
The part I struggle with is the pack rat in me is forced to die a slow and recurring death in the course of every move. It's just not feasible to hold onto that note Tracey slipped me between homeroom and Math in 10th grade. It's unnecessary to save the dried flowers from the corsage Norman gave me for senior prom. The dozens of get well cards from my residents the summer I was an RA and had eye surgery at Hopkins also must join the dust bunnies. The cards my mom sent me every week in college to cheer, jeer, or otherwise infuse fear in me must also make their way into the trash. In a way it's cathartic to give these up...time moves on, so must I.
But to decide which of my books get donated or sold or just piled in the trash room--that's the bigger struggle. The reality that all my babies can't come crushes me. They're just too heavy and I've either read them or I know I never will. The reams of paper, the spines unbent, the glossy jackets, and firmness of a hardcover all remind me of their lives unlived. I can only hope they find better home and that others in their litter never had to suffer in a foster home like mine.
Less of a struggle and more of a chore is sifting through the piles, stacks, untidy lumps of clothing. What to donate, what to just throw. The clothes that I moved in a year ago and have yet to wear, definitely go. The clothes I have worn and hated being in, should also go. The clothes that shrunk, faded or just bore probably need to go. The formal wear I never wear needs to go into storage or maybe sold. So much to do, so little time.
The thing about packing is that I'm tired just thinking about it. Planning out each energy zapping exertion that yields in another full box is exhausting. Yet as my moving day inches closer, I'm forced to consider my alternatives....NONE!
It's time to go. It's time to move on.
Heard on the Porch
You look younger than your SPF!
My Starbucks addiction leads to the reading of such pithy propoganda. I'm a fan of the "Heard on the Porch" campaign they've launched...next up, trying that raspberry mocha frappucino.
My Starbucks addiction leads to the reading of such pithy propoganda. I'm a fan of the "Heard on the Porch" campaign they've launched...next up, trying that raspberry mocha frappucino.
Interviewing a New Yorker
I started my life in New York in a shoebox on Madison Avenue. I’m told most people begin their lives here in shoeboxes. I wasn’t at my first address long; apparently no one is in this town. In the six years I’ve been here, the only time I was alone was in that shoebox.
About five and a half years ago I left Madison Avenue for a week in New Jersey before making my way back to the Big City—this time to the Upper East Side. I had a few dozen room-mates in that apartment--at least it felt that way. Some had been there longer than me, some left while I stayed on. I noticed that the tallest girls got ugly the quickest. Well, they left home the most. I wasn’t tall, but I wasn’t squat either. I have enough wrinkles to show for my looks. By that I just mean that my pointy nose and leathery skin didn’t keep me from getting picked up.
My favorite New York memory took place at Mo’s Carribean. On a Wednesday on the corner of 76th and 2nd Avenue under a tacky red awning on a sticky spring day in 2005, I was sitting outside when the Brazilian waitress complimented the white cross-stitching on the red bow I proudly bore. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She had a tramp stamp clearly visible in her too-low jeans that read, “Made in Brazil”. I have one on my back a bit higher that reads, “Made in Italy”. I felt like we were sisters. I saw her smoking later, cursing loudly at her novio on an unnaturally small cell phone. It was bitter-sweet. A girl that good-looking could have problems didn’t comfort me but it did soothe my ego. At that point, I was past my prime.
For the past year, I’ve been living in FiDi—the financial district—it differs from the Upper East Side in that puppies replace prams and yuppies with leashes replace the foreign nannies pushing babies. Many of the girls moved downtown with me, some were let go. We’ve added a few new girls to the group; it’s always nice to see the young ones—so eager to please and excited to leave. I like it here better than I liked living uptown; for one thing, it’s close to every major subway which means less pavement pounding when I do go out.
This City is made for walking and I’m not as energetic as I used to be. I steer clear of the sidewalks in the winter these days; my soles aren’t made for wet weather. I get too hot in the summer, so I keep cool at home. I like to entertain so I have guests over and I’m not so polite anymore that I won’t retire before they depart.
This week, there are boxes all around. I hear buzz of us moving to SpaHa—Spanish Harlem—next week. I’m not sure I’m ready to rely solely on the 6-train again, but I go where I am taken. I’m a kept woman, but it beats paying rent.
Made by Moschino; worn by Vicious. Every shoe has a story--this is mine!
About five and a half years ago I left Madison Avenue for a week in New Jersey before making my way back to the Big City—this time to the Upper East Side. I had a few dozen room-mates in that apartment--at least it felt that way. Some had been there longer than me, some left while I stayed on. I noticed that the tallest girls got ugly the quickest. Well, they left home the most. I wasn’t tall, but I wasn’t squat either. I have enough wrinkles to show for my looks. By that I just mean that my pointy nose and leathery skin didn’t keep me from getting picked up.
My favorite New York memory took place at Mo’s Carribean. On a Wednesday on the corner of 76th and 2nd Avenue under a tacky red awning on a sticky spring day in 2005, I was sitting outside when the Brazilian waitress complimented the white cross-stitching on the red bow I proudly bore. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She had a tramp stamp clearly visible in her too-low jeans that read, “Made in Brazil”. I have one on my back a bit higher that reads, “Made in Italy”. I felt like we were sisters. I saw her smoking later, cursing loudly at her novio on an unnaturally small cell phone. It was bitter-sweet. A girl that good-looking could have problems didn’t comfort me but it did soothe my ego. At that point, I was past my prime.
For the past year, I’ve been living in FiDi—the financial district—it differs from the Upper East Side in that puppies replace prams and yuppies with leashes replace the foreign nannies pushing babies. Many of the girls moved downtown with me, some were let go. We’ve added a few new girls to the group; it’s always nice to see the young ones—so eager to please and excited to leave. I like it here better than I liked living uptown; for one thing, it’s close to every major subway which means less pavement pounding when I do go out.
This City is made for walking and I’m not as energetic as I used to be. I steer clear of the sidewalks in the winter these days; my soles aren’t made for wet weather. I get too hot in the summer, so I keep cool at home. I like to entertain so I have guests over and I’m not so polite anymore that I won’t retire before they depart.
This week, there are boxes all around. I hear buzz of us moving to SpaHa—Spanish Harlem—next week. I’m not sure I’m ready to rely solely on the 6-train again, but I go where I am taken. I’m a kept woman, but it beats paying rent.
Made by Moschino; worn by Vicious. Every shoe has a story--this is mine!
June 25, 2007
E-mail from Lauren: 1:48pm Today
Reason #368 why I should quit my job:
Went to the bathroom. Was greeted by a cockroach literally as big as my thumb.
I ended up going across the park to Pret-a-Manger to pee.
Went to the bathroom. Was greeted by a cockroach literally as big as my thumb.
I ended up going across the park to Pret-a-Manger to pee.
June 22, 2007
Woeful Writer
I look around my cluttered room: piles of clothes heaped on the solitary chair imploring me to put them away. The neatly folded laundry sits in tightly packed plastic bags—the handiwork of my industrious Korean drycleaners—keeping my room from looking like my closet threw up all over it. Normally, I would welcome the "cleaning" distraction; the most productive form of procrastination.
My tiny, fluffy, white pup looks up at me expectantly—bravely climbing the highest tower of clothes to nuzzle his wet, black nose against my naked knee. His encouragement melts my listlessness. I hear my Mother’s voice—high-pitched with the slightest British-influenced Indian accent—bragging to a room full of Aunties: “You should see some of my daughter’s writings. She has real talent. Most of it is completely over my head, she is that good. Do you want to see?” I can see them clearly: nodding patiently, awaiting their turn to brag about children who are doctors and lawyers, more importantly married to doctors and lawyers; armed with wedding photos and pictures of their grandchildren. All my mother has is a poem I wrote about her for Mother's Day.
I shake away the guilt and shame as I realize that most of my work lately has been penning porn for profit. My writing amounts to reams of pages detailing my most lewd fantasies, highlighting erotic dreams, and capturing my most indecent moments. I try to scrub clean the curb in my mind filled with months of carnal defecation—now what?
I’ve spent years trying to sound better than I am; struggling to be better than I can be. The feelings of ineptitude and anguish unite but don’t produce writer’s block. They lead to pages of drivel: words are my doodles with no exciting beginning or coherent end.
I can’t stop writing. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to surrender. I write to protect. I write out of frustration. I write out of regret. I write when it rains and I write when it snows. I write so I can feel the sunshine and the warmth within me grows. I write to stay sane. I write away my pain. I write to dull the ache of the blank page. I write about my secret life: the one with no boundaries or strife. I write with everything I’ve got. I write and write; I just can’t stop!
My tiny, fluffy, white pup looks up at me expectantly—bravely climbing the highest tower of clothes to nuzzle his wet, black nose against my naked knee. His encouragement melts my listlessness. I hear my Mother’s voice—high-pitched with the slightest British-influenced Indian accent—bragging to a room full of Aunties: “You should see some of my daughter’s writings. She has real talent. Most of it is completely over my head, she is that good. Do you want to see?” I can see them clearly: nodding patiently, awaiting their turn to brag about children who are doctors and lawyers, more importantly married to doctors and lawyers; armed with wedding photos and pictures of their grandchildren. All my mother has is a poem I wrote about her for Mother's Day.
I shake away the guilt and shame as I realize that most of my work lately has been penning porn for profit. My writing amounts to reams of pages detailing my most lewd fantasies, highlighting erotic dreams, and capturing my most indecent moments. I try to scrub clean the curb in my mind filled with months of carnal defecation—now what?
I’ve spent years trying to sound better than I am; struggling to be better than I can be. The feelings of ineptitude and anguish unite but don’t produce writer’s block. They lead to pages of drivel: words are my doodles with no exciting beginning or coherent end.
I can’t stop writing. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to surrender. I write to protect. I write out of frustration. I write out of regret. I write when it rains and I write when it snows. I write so I can feel the sunshine and the warmth within me grows. I write to stay sane. I write away my pain. I write to dull the ache of the blank page. I write about my secret life: the one with no boundaries or strife. I write with everything I’ve got. I write and write; I just can’t stop!
June 21, 2007
From Them
Somewhere between my Mother’s dry skin
And my Grandmother’s oily complexion, I reside.
Perched in each crevice of their wrinkles
Is my story—Unveiled!
Placed above a steel cupboard,
By a mischievous uncle,
Donning over-sized Ray-Bans—
A snapshot from my childhood.
Hidden in the folds of their multi-colored saris
Are the family secrets—Untold!
I’m not privy to facts or fiction
I’m a child in their eyes; innocent,
To be protected from the harshness
Of familial truth: Betrayal and Sacrifice.
In the cabinets with Tumeric and Tamanrind
Their wishes—Unfulfilled!
My Mother became the Doctor
my Grandmother willed her to be,
But refused to cook—that domestic feat—
We never ate at home; except when Amma visited.
Resting in each of Amma’s visible frown lines
My past—Unforgotten!
I promised young me I wouldn’t depend—
On a man to meet my needs
Or children to fulfill my dreams—
On anyone else to make me Happy.
In both my Mother’s disappearing laugh lines
My future—Undone!
I vowed never to be so Strong
or successful that I wouldn’t need someone
to curl up with in the heat,
Reading Harlequin novels under cotton sheets.
Somewhere between my Mother’s dry skin
And my Grandmother’s oily complexion, I survived.
And my Grandmother’s oily complexion, I reside.
Perched in each crevice of their wrinkles
Is my story—Unveiled!
Placed above a steel cupboard,
By a mischievous uncle,
Donning over-sized Ray-Bans—
A snapshot from my childhood.
Hidden in the folds of their multi-colored saris
Are the family secrets—Untold!
I’m not privy to facts or fiction
I’m a child in their eyes; innocent,
To be protected from the harshness
Of familial truth: Betrayal and Sacrifice.
In the cabinets with Tumeric and Tamanrind
Their wishes—Unfulfilled!
My Mother became the Doctor
my Grandmother willed her to be,
But refused to cook—that domestic feat—
We never ate at home; except when Amma visited.
Resting in each of Amma’s visible frown lines
My past—Unforgotten!
I promised young me I wouldn’t depend—
On a man to meet my needs
Or children to fulfill my dreams—
On anyone else to make me Happy.
In both my Mother’s disappearing laugh lines
My future—Undone!
I vowed never to be so Strong
or successful that I wouldn’t need someone
to curl up with in the heat,
Reading Harlequin novels under cotton sheets.
Somewhere between my Mother’s dry skin
And my Grandmother’s oily complexion, I survived.
Home Sweet Home!
I finally found a new place...in Manhattan! All fears of leaving the City have been put to bed--I'm staying firmly planted on the Isle.
Here is the entrance to my new abode in SpaHa (Spanish Harlem)!
This is my private outdoor "courtyard" where I hope to spend summer evenings drinking Corona Lights toasting the setting sun as the dogs run circles around my feet.
June 19, 2007
Un-thak-shah-ree
The sweat on my brow was mid-drip—it was that precarious second when the drop dangles on you eyebrow before sliding off your eyelash and becoming part of the moisture falling off your frame—I was frozen.
“Jaldi bolo, say it fast, we only have three seconds,” Shyla prodded me.
The drop fell off my face and the smile returned as I burst out loudly, off-key, “ILU, ILU, are ILU ILU…I love you, bolo, I love you”
The collective sigh of my team-mates confirmed that I had not lost us the round or repeated a previously sung lyric. Phew! Off the hook till the next round.
In Bombay, during a power cut when the servants are either at the market or otherwise engaged, there is no AC and with the exception of fanning yourself furiously—which would only lead to sweating more profusely—you have no choice but to define time in these terms: pre-drip, mid-drip, and post-drip. In these times when you can’t watch television or go outside, because of the scorching sun, you have no choice but to amuse yourself in old-fashioned ways. The ever popular advice of our mothers and grandmothers remain, “Study something! Learn something! Read something!” But we buck that tradition to play indoor games. We aren’t a country known for board games but we do have a veritable pu-pu platter of knowledge-based games.
This particular game is Anthakshree (pronounced un-thak-shah-ree): a popular method of timepass amongst Indian children which promotes Bollywood films by encouraging the player to view the most number of films in an effort to amass the most information about current and past song lyrics. The way the game works is that you break up into teams of two or more and draw straws to see which team starts the game.
The starting team has the advantage of choosing any song from a Bollywood film and singing the chorus or most popular, discernable part of the song aloud for everyone to hear. They can stop singing whenever they choose—mid-sentence, but not mid-word. The next team has 10-15 seconds to come up with a different popular song that starts with the exact sound the last team ended their song with and so on and so forth. If you choose a part of a song that is not easily identified by someone on one of the opposing teams you have to name the song, the movie it is from, and the year the movie was released. If you cannot sing a lyric in time or sing a song that has already been sung, your team is out.
As you can imagine, as the game progresses it becomes exceedingly difficult to think of a song that hasn’t been sung because once any part of a song has been used it is off-limits to be replayed in that particular game. There is absolutely no physical labor or movement required to play the game. Whether you have Polio or you're an Olympic athlete you have the same opportunities for success available to you. More often than not, you’re munching on a papaya, spitting out the seeds, or holding a wet watermelon slice to your sticky mouth as you struggle to think ahead and search you memory for where the current song may trail off and which song from your mental jukebox you should pick to deliver next.
After all, you can make your opponent’s life a lot harder by ending on sounds that are less likely to allow for the start of other songs. The game can be played rather offensively in that regard. Similarly, you can play defensively, by knowing a great many songs and ensuring that you pick team-mates you are strong in genres you are weak. Thankfully, Bollywood releases a minimum of 450 movies per year and on average each movie has 5-6 song sequences, so your choices for songs are seemingly limitless.
Being one of the more studious members of any given group I have played with, I remain the weakest link. This also makes me a wild card because you never know when I could dazzle by belting out a popular ditty in the nick of time. The game taught me all about teamwork, reading people, timing, and bluffing. After all, I could make up a song, movie title, year, etc. and be left unquestioned if I delivered these responses with an adequate level of confidence given the sheer volume of titles to choose from. Given my predisposition to sing softly to eliminate opportunities for mockery of my tone-deafness, I was exposed to much questioning on the validity of my song choices.
To this day, I blame my mainstream tastes and fascination with popular music on the consistent playing of Anthakshree as a child. The game is geared toward knowing the most amount of useless information. The only skill it hones is route memorization and its main purpose is to quell creativity by promoting conformity all the while shamelessly marketing Bollywood film and music. It also showcases with transparency your ability to carry a tune—to this day, I will not get up and karaoke, no matter how many drinks are in me.
“Jaldi bolo, say it fast, we only have three seconds,” Shyla prodded me.
The drop fell off my face and the smile returned as I burst out loudly, off-key, “ILU, ILU, are ILU ILU…I love you, bolo, I love you”
The collective sigh of my team-mates confirmed that I had not lost us the round or repeated a previously sung lyric. Phew! Off the hook till the next round.
In Bombay, during a power cut when the servants are either at the market or otherwise engaged, there is no AC and with the exception of fanning yourself furiously—which would only lead to sweating more profusely—you have no choice but to define time in these terms: pre-drip, mid-drip, and post-drip. In these times when you can’t watch television or go outside, because of the scorching sun, you have no choice but to amuse yourself in old-fashioned ways. The ever popular advice of our mothers and grandmothers remain, “Study something! Learn something! Read something!” But we buck that tradition to play indoor games. We aren’t a country known for board games but we do have a veritable pu-pu platter of knowledge-based games.
This particular game is Anthakshree (pronounced un-thak-shah-ree): a popular method of timepass amongst Indian children which promotes Bollywood films by encouraging the player to view the most number of films in an effort to amass the most information about current and past song lyrics. The way the game works is that you break up into teams of two or more and draw straws to see which team starts the game.
The starting team has the advantage of choosing any song from a Bollywood film and singing the chorus or most popular, discernable part of the song aloud for everyone to hear. They can stop singing whenever they choose—mid-sentence, but not mid-word. The next team has 10-15 seconds to come up with a different popular song that starts with the exact sound the last team ended their song with and so on and so forth. If you choose a part of a song that is not easily identified by someone on one of the opposing teams you have to name the song, the movie it is from, and the year the movie was released. If you cannot sing a lyric in time or sing a song that has already been sung, your team is out.
As you can imagine, as the game progresses it becomes exceedingly difficult to think of a song that hasn’t been sung because once any part of a song has been used it is off-limits to be replayed in that particular game. There is absolutely no physical labor or movement required to play the game. Whether you have Polio or you're an Olympic athlete you have the same opportunities for success available to you. More often than not, you’re munching on a papaya, spitting out the seeds, or holding a wet watermelon slice to your sticky mouth as you struggle to think ahead and search you memory for where the current song may trail off and which song from your mental jukebox you should pick to deliver next.
After all, you can make your opponent’s life a lot harder by ending on sounds that are less likely to allow for the start of other songs. The game can be played rather offensively in that regard. Similarly, you can play defensively, by knowing a great many songs and ensuring that you pick team-mates you are strong in genres you are weak. Thankfully, Bollywood releases a minimum of 450 movies per year and on average each movie has 5-6 song sequences, so your choices for songs are seemingly limitless.
Being one of the more studious members of any given group I have played with, I remain the weakest link. This also makes me a wild card because you never know when I could dazzle by belting out a popular ditty in the nick of time. The game taught me all about teamwork, reading people, timing, and bluffing. After all, I could make up a song, movie title, year, etc. and be left unquestioned if I delivered these responses with an adequate level of confidence given the sheer volume of titles to choose from. Given my predisposition to sing softly to eliminate opportunities for mockery of my tone-deafness, I was exposed to much questioning on the validity of my song choices.
To this day, I blame my mainstream tastes and fascination with popular music on the consistent playing of Anthakshree as a child. The game is geared toward knowing the most amount of useless information. The only skill it hones is route memorization and its main purpose is to quell creativity by promoting conformity all the while shamelessly marketing Bollywood film and music. It also showcases with transparency your ability to carry a tune—to this day, I will not get up and karaoke, no matter how many drinks are in me.
June 15, 2007
I am Murray Hill--or I was--
Curry In A Hurry and Kalyustan
Half a dozen Halal joints; an Indo-Pak store
Outdone by Chinese Mirch--
Indo-Chinese the newest Fusion--
Quickly dwarfed by TiffinWallah
delivering Mother India in lunchboxes.
I am Curry Hill now:
Same Streets, Same Blocks
New Smells, New Frocks
Salwars and Saris long replaced;
what remained of suits encased
behind long-looked-at glass panes
what remained of suits encased
behind long-looked-at glass panes
covered in freshly-spit paan stains.
I am crawling with cabbies mid-day
browsing Bollywood's newest releases
at rental mandirs sans late fees;
IST (Indian Standard Time)--2 hours behind real time--
an accepted norm even across the seas.
I'm not Jackson Heights but they make-do in Manhattan:
Indians accept substitutes; One Billion Born and More To Come...
I am late-night lines at Curry Express
where ABCDs (American Born Confused Desis) and FOBs unite
craving Chicken Tikka and Mango Lassi side-by-side.
Drunken hunger pangs and homesickness collide
Geography defies jetlag in an Old World
Wrapped tightly within The New One!
What better place for East to meet West?
June 14, 2007
New Year's Eve
January harkens hope so resolve to try something new and skip the mayhem of Times Square for a quiet carriage ride in Central Park where you can reflect on the grandeur that represents open space within the cityscape. Observe a moment of silence in appreciation for the fact that greedy developers haven’t yet encroached on the lakes, rocks, leafless trees, and hardened Earth that remain as pure and untarnished as a forest in Wyoming.
Fleet Week
Little can prepare you for the annual Memorial Day Atlantic fleet crossing of international ships that dock at the myriad piers on the west side making the women of New York swoon for crisp, ivory uniformed sea-faring mavens whose worldly charm can transform even a dive like Hogs and Hefers—a profane pit that reeks of day-old barbeque and stale domestic beer—into the set of a black and white movie when gentlemanly sailors held tightly to their hats to keep their hands from shaking as they asked the prettiest girl for a dance.
Rain
Accept that New York has a wet season and always carry a sturdy umbrella in April or you will meet the fate of all who’ve treaded before you on Vesey St. between Church and West Sts. The rejected carcasses in black, blue, red, and every other plastic hue create an umbrella cemetery that is surrounded by Asian immigrants undercutting each other to sell you the cheapest umbrella as the grey skies drip down your back and make you question your love for New York.
Ode to Street Fairs
Bid farewell to the summer at the last of the street fairs in early October. Leisurely amble past block after block of modern gypsies offering to reveal your fortune for a meager $5, retired hippies selling cheap jewelry for prices that justify their creativity and hefty booth commissions, NYU students selling art and photographs in the hopes of getting discovered or at least making enough to pay for another week of over-priced beer, Chinese masseurs trying to make ends meet, sausage salesmen at Italian carnival stands hawking funnel cakes and ices, Thai chicken on a stick and spring rolls, $2 lemonade and fresh-fruit smoothie stalls.
Shake Shack in Madison Square Park
Willingly queue up for an hour on a Sunday afternoon in September with your dog looking up at you expectantly; hoping his best behavior will earn him a caramel-covered peanut-butter-laced Poochini in conjunction with any scraps of your grease-dripping-off-your-lip double Shackburger and stick-to-your-teeth Cheese Fries.
Courting
Soaking up the sun in a paddle boat in Central Park in August—the sweet refrain of melodies from your past reverberate in your ears thanks to amateur musicians performing for dollar bills in Strawberry Fields—as your lover rows you in arcs competing for the title of Most Romantic New York Couple.
Bryant Park
Mondays at dusk when picnic baskets on blankets litter the green amidst Midtown skyscrapers anticipating the start of that night’s HBO movie--projected on a big screen beside an old fountain. The burgeoning sense of community is palpable as strangers become neighbors: bartering wine for cheese and corkscrews for fruit. The realization dawns that free films in warm weather provide cheap but memorable dates for students living two-to-a-walkup studio apartment in Alphabet City and executives in floor-through penthouses on Park Avenue alike.
55 Water Street
The tiered escalators to heaven continually assist those adventurous enough to make the climb to the Plaza perched above the FDR Drive at 55 Water Street—overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge and the Downtown Heliport—lush greenery in a concrete sandbox. Go at lunch on a weekday in June to gawk at the masses in suits, loosening their ties with hands in Au Bon Pain and Pret Manager emblazoned paper bags, shedding their disdain for New Jersey across the bay as they masticate and smile.
June 12, 2007
Where I'm From
I am from too many bodies crammed into too little space.
I’m from the Land of Jaldi Jaldi in a Universe of Masala Chai.
From Fish curry and Mint chutney, served piping hot in the sweltering heat.
I am from my mother’s gold bangles--ornately beaded Pink saris drying on parapets.
I am from elephant rides on Juhu Beach at Christmas; sand clinging to my wet toes.
I’m fighting to stay awake at 7am mass, rehearsed responses in an unknown tongue!
I am my granddaddy’s tennis star who crushed my grandmother’s OB-to-be.
I am a pediatrician’s daughter who doesn’t want children.
I am the Sun in Her galaxy; one of many moons in his Milky Way.
I am from weekly calls on rotary phones except during power cuts to a Mother who loved me too much--a nightly prayer for my future spouse ever since I can remember--In a world where a daughter is your guest till she is married into her forever home.
I am from singing in the monsoon and dancing in the shower.
I'm putting garam masala on my American Chop Suey
Watching--on mute--the censored version of Dirty Dancing
With my American cousin on a Colour TV sans closed captioning.
The same cousin who got knocked up at 16 and was ostracized from My Family.
I am from Keep Your Legs Crossed and Your Eyes Down.
From a world of Don’t Ask Questions and Because I Said So's
Mixed in a thermos of collectivism; blended in a pot of pacifism
Garnished with equal parts filial piety and family honor
In a stainless steel cup with my initials etched on the side.
I’m from the Land of Jaldi Jaldi in a Universe of Masala Chai.
From Fish curry and Mint chutney, served piping hot in the sweltering heat.
I am from my mother’s gold bangles--ornately beaded Pink saris drying on parapets.
I am from elephant rides on Juhu Beach at Christmas; sand clinging to my wet toes.
I’m fighting to stay awake at 7am mass, rehearsed responses in an unknown tongue!
I am my granddaddy’s tennis star who crushed my grandmother’s OB-to-be.
I am a pediatrician’s daughter who doesn’t want children.
I am the Sun in Her galaxy; one of many moons in his Milky Way.
I am from weekly calls on rotary phones except during power cuts to a Mother who loved me too much--a nightly prayer for my future spouse ever since I can remember--In a world where a daughter is your guest till she is married into her forever home.
I am from singing in the monsoon and dancing in the shower.
I'm putting garam masala on my American Chop Suey
Watching--on mute--the censored version of Dirty Dancing
With my American cousin on a Colour TV sans closed captioning.
The same cousin who got knocked up at 16 and was ostracized from My Family.
I am from Keep Your Legs Crossed and Your Eyes Down.
From a world of Don’t Ask Questions and Because I Said So's
Mixed in a thermos of collectivism; blended in a pot of pacifism
Garnished with equal parts filial piety and family honor
In a stainless steel cup with my initials etched on the side.
June 7, 2007
I couldn't MAKE this UP!
Sweet (03:53:31 pm): hmm...maybe just bubble tea before class will do the trick
sexytom346 (03:54:06 pm): agh that stuff'll sap all ur creativity
sexytom346 (03:54:10 pm): those bubbles are posion
Sweet (03:54:41 pm): no I love bubbles
Sweet (03:54:45 pm): yummy in my tummy bubbles
sexytom346 (03:54:52 pm): gross!
Sweet (03:54:55 pm): YUM
sexytom346 (03:55:01 pm): poop
Sweet (03:55:05 pm): ew
sexytom346 (03:55:15 pm): id rather eat poop than bubbles
Sweet (03:55:29 pm): that's disgusting
sexytom346 (03:55:36 pm): but true
Sweet (03:55:36 pm): I'm literally gagging at my desk
Sweet (03:55:43 pm): choking back the ickiness of it all
sexytom346 (03:55:43 pm): i gag at bubbles
sexytom346 (03:54:06 pm): agh that stuff'll sap all ur creativity
sexytom346 (03:54:10 pm): those bubbles are posion
Sweet (03:54:41 pm): no I love bubbles
Sweet (03:54:45 pm): yummy in my tummy bubbles
sexytom346 (03:54:52 pm): gross!
Sweet (03:54:55 pm): YUM
sexytom346 (03:55:01 pm): poop
Sweet (03:55:05 pm): ew
sexytom346 (03:55:15 pm): id rather eat poop than bubbles
Sweet (03:55:29 pm): that's disgusting
sexytom346 (03:55:36 pm): but true
Sweet (03:55:36 pm): I'm literally gagging at my desk
Sweet (03:55:43 pm): choking back the ickiness of it all
sexytom346 (03:55:43 pm): i gag at bubbles
June 6, 2007
Finally Focused
After a year of dilly-dallying and five years of finding myself, professionally, I have finally decided to invest wholely and solely on graudate school in the form of seeking my Masters in Business Administration (MBA).
I intend to pursue a full-time endeavor dually concentrating in Communications and Media Mangement as well as Marketing while splitting my focus on electronic and international business at Fordham Business School. It sounds loftier than it is...or maybe that's just the naivete of a cartographer creating a map from a journey an explorer detailed to her--a journey she has yet to take.
While Fordham is not a top school and my school snobbery knows few bounds, I have come to see that indebting myself to the point of collections and defaulting on loans is not a way to establish myself fiscally. I'm starting their pre-MBA curriculum this fall at which point I hope to build relationships with the faculty that will secure me a 300-hour graduate assitantship my first term which will reduce my tuition by 70%. Hopefully the remaining will be covered by a scholarship I can "easily" attain given that my current GMAT score is above their acceptance range (540-670 out of 800). I intend to take the exam again to beat the 700 mark to assure myself a place in their hallowed halls of free post graduate education.
Credit repair aside, I no longer have a burning desire to be average in a lot of over-achievers given my social loafing. I'm accepting the fate of working marginally hard to shine in a lot of average folk--a real cross-section of the populance. Not to mention their New York City location will avail me significant recruiters in the publishing and e-media industries.
I intend to pursue a full-time endeavor dually concentrating in Communications and Media Mangement as well as Marketing while splitting my focus on electronic and international business at Fordham Business School. It sounds loftier than it is...or maybe that's just the naivete of a cartographer creating a map from a journey an explorer detailed to her--a journey she has yet to take.
While Fordham is not a top school and my school snobbery knows few bounds, I have come to see that indebting myself to the point of collections and defaulting on loans is not a way to establish myself fiscally. I'm starting their pre-MBA curriculum this fall at which point I hope to build relationships with the faculty that will secure me a 300-hour graduate assitantship my first term which will reduce my tuition by 70%. Hopefully the remaining will be covered by a scholarship I can "easily" attain given that my current GMAT score is above their acceptance range (540-670 out of 800). I intend to take the exam again to beat the 700 mark to assure myself a place in their hallowed halls of free post graduate education.
Credit repair aside, I no longer have a burning desire to be average in a lot of over-achievers given my social loafing. I'm accepting the fate of working marginally hard to shine in a lot of average folk--a real cross-section of the populance. Not to mention their New York City location will avail me significant recruiters in the publishing and e-media industries.
June 1, 2007
Road Trip Caffeine
Thanks to Dunkin Donuts' soon-to-launch website: www.MyIcedCoffee.com you can avail yourself of tasty treats or just caffeine boosts in 33 states should you take a roadtrip across these fine United States. Whether you are going across or traveling along the coasts, DD is here for your mapped out coffee needs at every stop along the way.
Hazzah!
Hazzah!
Ms. Verbose meet Mr. Pithy
In my zeal to showcase my newly acquired Outlook calendar feature (via work) and assure D'souza that I am the organatrix I always was I have been sending him outlook invitations in 1-2 hour blocks of activities I have planned for us to participate in this weekend.
Saturday
9-10am Kayaking on the Hudson (Downtown Boathouse)
10-11:30am Tennis at the Canal Street Courts along the Hudson
12:30-1:00pm Lunch at Shake Shack in Madison Square Park
2-3:30pm Beginner Salsa at Empire Dance
4-5pm Boat ride in a paddle boat in Central Park
5:30-6:30pm Mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral
7-8pm Drinks at Ava Lounge at the top of the Dream Hotel
8:30-10pm Dinner at Buenos Aires
Sunday
11am-12pm Tennis on the Fayson Lakes clubhouse courts
12-1pm D'souza to help Mr. Winters (my mom's hubby) with his computer
1-2pm Take the motor boat on the lake for a relaxing ride
2-3pm BBQ with the family on the deck overlooking the lake
D'souza's response:
"stop the outlook appointments...just send me an email with all our plans...i can print it, laminate it and hang it around my neck...that way I can't forget!"
Saturday
9-10am Kayaking on the Hudson (Downtown Boathouse)
10-11:30am Tennis at the Canal Street Courts along the Hudson
12:30-1:00pm Lunch at Shake Shack in Madison Square Park
2-3:30pm Beginner Salsa at Empire Dance
4-5pm Boat ride in a paddle boat in Central Park
5:30-6:30pm Mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral
7-8pm Drinks at Ava Lounge at the top of the Dream Hotel
8:30-10pm Dinner at Buenos Aires
Sunday
11am-12pm Tennis on the Fayson Lakes clubhouse courts
12-1pm D'souza to help Mr. Winters (my mom's hubby) with his computer
1-2pm Take the motor boat on the lake for a relaxing ride
2-3pm BBQ with the family on the deck overlooking the lake
D'souza's response:
"stop the outlook appointments...just send me an email with all our plans...i can print it, laminate it and hang it around my neck...that way I can't forget!"
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