Stolen

Poor D'Souza! His car got stolen as it sat innocently in his driveway in Jersey City late Sunday night/early Monday morning. Who is out stealing cars to commemorate the Risen Christ? Honestly....the outrage.

He wasn't as disgruntled at the loss as the theivery at hand.

WFC

The World Financial Center (WFC)stands across the West Side Highway from where the World Trade Center (WTC) towers once stood. WFC has 3 towers--Tower 1 stands apart from the attached Towers 2 and 3. D'Souza's main office is in 2 and my current assignment has me shackled in 3.

Yesterday, we had the unique privilege of walking to work together through the financial district across the West Side Highway into Battery Park City (BPC) to the WFC.

He took me to a delicious non-meaty lunch at SouthWestNY at 1pm--in observance of Good Friday. He also met Taurean and I for a quick coffee break at Starbucks around 4pm. Of course, D'Souza's day was a wrap at that point, so he got to go home...walk the dog and take a nap before meeting me for Liturgy at 6pm.

Bah work!

That's where I am right not, clackety clack clack!

Midnight Mass

It seems that Manhattan for all its conveniences does not offer a midnight vigil for Easter. I scoured the internet to find the latest available vigil at 8pm tonight, but that just doesn't cut it for D'Souza. Devout Catholic that he is, thankfully this vigil is at the appropriately Roman Catholic St. Patrick's Cathedral.

I escorted him to a 6pm Good Friday Liturgy yesterday at St. Paul's Chapel--which wasn't to my liking for the quality of the sermon--his qualm lay more in the lack of Roman in their Catohlic. In fact, I think they are Episcopalian...linked to Trinity Church as they are. Conveniently located across the street from the World Trade Center PATH station with an excellent proximity to the World Financial Center--home of US Xpress and Hoyt (workplace of D'Souza)--where we were both busily at work yesterday.

Good Friday

All believers in Christ, take a moment or mass/service to speculate on just how momentous today really is...Good Friday, indeed.

For the non-believers, drink hard on behalf of us non-imbibers and eat loads of RED meat...

Apartment of my Dreams

Apartment: XXL Studio or One Bedroom in Manhattan
Location: South of 96th St. on the West Side or 65th St. on the East Side
Space: 525+ sq. feet
Features: Walk in Closet, Eat in Kitchen, Windowed bathroom and kitchen
Amenities: Laundry in the building, dishwasher, microwave, hardwood floors...if a studio an alcove for the bed that can easily be screened off would be clutch.

Would be cool if there was a gym/room with weights included in the rent, but in the grand scheme of the things I want, I care about this the least.

Would be cool if it was less than 5mins. to the subway, but if I can get more space further away I'll take the space.

Elevator preferred but I'll live in a walk-up as long as it's not higher than the 3rd floor.

My neighborhood preferences are as follows:
Gramercy
Murray Hill
Financial District (not Battery Park)
UWS (ideally near Fordham)

Finding all of it for under $2K/month without paying ANY brokers' fees:
A Dream Come True!

Eulogy for Chiara

One of the greatest virtues we can attain in our lifetime is knowing how to live. Knowing how to make the whole room dance at just the right moment, knowing how to tell a captivating story, knowing that everyone should take out time to learn the art of bongo drumming at some point in their life. It is the ability to seek joy and bring it to those we meet every single day that allows us to really know how to live. The will to share your happiness with people around you—whether they are strangers, friends, foreigners, or just passersby—is a human ability we were all born with, yet it is so rare that you see someone embody this value as much as Chiara did.

How many people here can tell a story about meeting Chiara for the first time, going on with your day, week, or month, and then running into a girl who is suddenly hugging you and saying, “hey, you’re Claire McTaggart from Connecticut, I’m Chiara, we met the other day.”

This love of life and all the people in it is what has always made Chiara absolutely unforgettable. While most of us settle into what is comfortable and most familiar, Chiara set out to explore all she could that was unseen, friend any whose path she crossed, and ingrain herself into our memories as that really friendly girl with the wild curly hair.

It is Chiara’s style of living and her hunger to embrace everything outside her comfort zone that we should take with us. We should think about that eccentric Italian Jewish girl from Danville, Kentucky, and remember her emails from Montpellier France, the stories from deer camp in Marquette Michigan, the pictures of Chiara tearing up the dance floor in downtown Brooklyn and the great hat she bought for the Kentucky Derby.

We are all at such a great loss in her absence, but Chiara would never want us to sit here mourning. In her death she has still managed to bring people from all walks of life together, where NFL players can meet Italian New Yorkers who can meet Kentucky locals who can meet Michigan sorority girls. If anything, our obligation is to imagine those things about Chiara that made her so vivacious and so unique and incorporate that into yourself.

If you have trouble meeting new people, just remember Chiara and go introduce yourself to someone new. If you have never left your hometown, think of Chiara and find a way to travel to an unexpected city. If you find yourself stressed or working all the time, keep Chiara close in your mind and do something spontaneous with your friends. If your friends are all one age or one nationality or one race or one religion or one class remember our friend and learn how to appreciate those different from ourselves. And all of us, whenever we have the urge to speak badly to another or look down on someone else, please, let Chiara become a life long lesson so that we can all come out of this better people than we were before.

What happened to Chiara was a tragedy, but we must comfort ourselves knowing that in 23 years Chiara lived more than most people could in a lifetime. So lets each take a part of her with us, lets become that part of chiara that you always admired but never had the courage to be, and this way she will be living throughout each and every one of us as long as we live. Once we have wiped away the tears and expressed our condolences, please, let us each go back into our lives and become those people Chiara would have been honored to see us become, because through this she will never be outside our hearts.

THIS WELL WRITTEN EULOGY MELTED MY HEART AS IT ECHOED MY SENTIMENTS.

Movin' Out

My building is going condo come June, so I am back in the rental market. D'Souza has asked me to move in with him and after much deliberation, I have consented.

I will be one of the co-habitating masses living blissfully in sin and going to mass on Sundays. Does that cancel it out? Gotta make it to confession EVERY week now.

This is going to be a transition but given that the man has two suitcases and I have...er...many more and loads of furniture the dream remains a walk-in closet and enough storage space for all my shoes and bags. I've given up all hopes of squeezing my small dining table into what I can only assume will be our "large" studio, but it's a sacrifice worth making.

I'm all grown up! Look at me!

My Boyfriend's Back...

And he's better than EVER.

Standing on the corner of Hope St. and Anxiety Avenue at 5:26pm yesterday my eyes awaited their first D'Souza sighting in 3 weeks and 3 days. The minute I saw his signature strut in a gorgeous pin-stripe suit with Men in Black sunglasses, my breath caught in my throat. How could that glorious specimen of manhood possibly be ALL mine? That was the only thought in my otherwise racing mind. A passing thug hooted his approval at the smile which lit my face as my man sidled up to me sweeping me into a crushing embrace and amorous lip lock.

Time literally stopped as I breathed him in, oblivious to the rush hour bustle of the financial district around us. It was another movie moment to add to our long list of romantic rendezvous.

Of course, now he's back to work in distant OH till Saturday...but I can survive three days without complaint after the 12 hours of attention and affection he showered on me last night. God, I missed him.

Palm Sunday

Running up the steps on 5th Avenue, you leave the bustle of Midtown as soon as you set foot inside Saint Patrick's Cathedral--the oldest Gothic church in the United States.

Sitting in a pew near the back, I picked up two fresh stalks of palm and bent them--as I'd seen a thousand times at St. Theresa's and St. Mary's in Bombay--to make a cross in reverence to folks 2000 years ago welcoming Jesus to their town. The same folks who stood around and watched him get nailed to a cross five days later.

I said a prayer for Chiara...who never went to church or cared about organized religion--more for me than her--what did I have to offer her wherever she was. I could only hope her beliefs had led to a place where the wine never stopped flowing and the men were all foreign or at least had foreign accents. I knew she had been as close to happy as anyone could be who was taken prematurely and/or without warning.

I said a prayer for my Mom and the new family she had formed with her new husband. A family I tried desperately to keep myself separate from but realized with every passing day, despite my best intentions, I was alienating loved ones and gently damaging my mother. I vowed to do a better job of embracing that family--a family that included me with open arms and supported my most inane decisions.

I thought fondly of being in that churh with D'Souza and the family we hoped to be some day. I wondered if that fantasy was a reality I was truly ready for and I wished with all my heart that God would prepare me for what I hoped was the long road ahead. I prayed for his safe journey back to me, knowing he was on a plane somewhere over Europe where churches like St. Patrick's abounded--towering steeples and stained glass windows built by devout men hoping for heaven.

I made a mental note to cook an extravagant feast for Easter despite my culinary shortcomings and general disdain for all times spent alone in a kitchen.

I value tradition. I've come to accept that much of my faith is rooted in the customs I was raised with adherence to as well as the do-it-because-the-Bible-says-so-ness impressed upon me as a child. Perhaps that is how organized religion continues to weild power over the masses. Perhaps as I age, my inclination to cling closely to where I come from strengthens. I'm not much of a Catholic, in truth. What I am is a lover of the ritual and tradition of Catholicism planted in me as a child that despite infrequent watering has blossomed into a flower that frequents church.

I'm a pro-life/pro-birth control, pro-gay marriage Christian and I have no trouble reconciling my faith in Jesus with my value for freedom and free will.

US Xpress Desk Minion=Me

I will be working on migrating data at US Xpress in the WFC starting Monday, April 2. After 8 months of waking, sleeping, eating, leaving as I saw fit I will again be slave to that routine schedule employed individuals are forced to keep.

Yes, this will be the most boring assignment on God's green Earth but it pays a good deal for what it is with the opportunity for 10-20 hours/week in time and a half overtime promised. There is also no danger of me cutting and running as the actual contract is for 2 months with option to renew should the work be incomplete or prolific, at their discretion.

Incidentally, the WFC is where D'Souza works when he is actually at his home office. It is also a 10-15 minute walk from my current residence.

To living a debt-free existence: hip hip hooray!
To being a menial computer monkey: boo!

Into the sunset with cash lacking sleep in my drive to be productive and civilized.

My Other Blog

Here is a post I wrote on 230 Fifth for my other blog.

Don't worry...I'm still loyal to you, darling readers of my life. I won't leave you without Sweetly Vicious updates.

Missing D'Souza

Today marks three weeks since I've seen D'Souza.

It seemed so long and it was so long and it's done yet it drags on. He's scheduled to land at JFK at 7am on April 2, only to make his way onto a plane at 9am to OH where he is stationed next week. He should fly back into the tri-state on thursday night or Friday afternoon of next week--which means another week of me missing him.

In some ways I haven't had the chance to agonize over his absence because he actually made an effort to call/text/e-mail/skype/AIM with enough frequency that I didn't have long periods to examine the hole in my heart growing from his absence.

That said, it's been a difficult transition from spending every waking, non-working minute with my man to laying my weary, wistful eyes on his glorious visage. I can tell you that I'm going to stick to him like glue just as soon as he's in a touch-range of Sweet self.

D'Souza--Come home, pronto! I miss you.

Pachyderm Parade 2007

A caravan of elephants--the leader donned a sequined I *heart* NY coat--walked across 34th St. as hordes of New Yorkers whipped out their camera phones and high tech digital devices to capture the annual crossing of Ringling Brothers Circus onto our fair isle.
Tom, Norman, Kelly, and I were part of the eager scene...once they passed a full sprint was required to keep up with the tail-to-trunk parade. There were also a slew of beautiful, glossy-coated black horses followed by white horses and TINY, fuzzy-hooved ponies.
\

This one is on Tommy's camera which is still better than my attempts on a real digital--in my defense it's a REALLY OLD digital circa November 2003.

Where Does the Good Go?

Where do you go with your broken heart in tow?
What do you do with the left over you?
And how do you know, when to let go?
Where does the good go? Where does the good go?

Chorus:
Look me in the eye and tell me you don't find me attractive
Look me in the heart and tell me you won't go
Look me in the eye and promise no love's like our love
Look me in the heart and un break broken, it won't happen

It's love that leaves that breaks the seal of always thinking you would be
Real happy and healthy, strong and calm
Where does the good go? Where does the good go?

Chorus

Where do you go when you're in love and the world knows?
How do you live so happily while I am sad and broken down?
What do you say it's up for grabs now that you're on your way down?
Where does the good go? Where does the good go?

Off the Grey's Anatomy soundtrack, I dedicate that Tegan and Sara song to the memory of Chiara "McWeepy" Levin...the good left with her.

D'Souza's Doppleganger: Desi Model/Bollywood Actor

John Abraham's got nothing on my baby. Seriously, D' could be John's body double.

Ciao Bella

My neighbor and short-time but lasting impact friend, Chiara was killed this weekend. She was visiting her great aunt for her birthday and hitting up a law school prom in Boston when a drive by in Dorchester, MA tragically took her from this world.

Chiara was a beautiful, intelligent, imaginative, creative, culinary, sensitive person with exquisite taste and an elan I can best describe as Euro-Fab. She looked remarkably like Rebecca Gayheart, the former Noxema girl also hailing from the state of Kentucky.

She was a reveler of life. She was unadulterated in her zest for experience and exploration of the world. She had been planning to move to Italy this summer after spending this year in New York. She'd been here since July when she graduated from the University of Michigan and moved here to start a new life.

I will miss her every thursday as I tune into Grey's Anatomy without her McWeepiness. She was often reduced to tears by some sadness on screen or in real life--she just felt with a quiet intensity I can only relay as empathy. Her generosity in spirit and with spirits made my world a brighter place. Like her voluminous, untamed curls she quickly became something to everyone whose life she touched--like the sun in its wanton rising and setting. She radiated a warmth and curiosity that I can best sum up as genuine and youthful.

Here's an article in the NY Post about Chiara Maria Levin.

Ciao Bellissima Chiara!

I should have written this!

Stirring has piqued my attention a bit too late--since the last show was yesterday--but it has brought my attention to another project Shalimar Productions is developing: Immigration/Love Project. How fascinating!

Riding the 6

Going In Hard To Be Soft

This weekend I had the unique experience of being complimented for my brand of insightfulness on more than one occassion.

Friday:
Pixie, my friend from high school, whose boyfriend I'm reputed for stealing a decade ago (they broke up in July! we started dating in September!), celebrated her 25th b'day in Williamsburg. I'm not convinced that Graham Ave on the L is still Willy-burg, but given our tenuous history I don't argue with her. This is the annual event at which we share oxygen--for my part, I keep my head down and glug my drink with a religious fervor. It is upon Tracey's insistence that I arrive at the scene with a meager gift in tow under layers of winter wear.

Sean, GaGa's best bud (Pixie's current cohabitating boyfriend), and I in the course of conversational factions found ourselves discussing culture and identity in the great American landscape. At what might have been the terminus of my intellectual tirade, Sean looked at me with genuine respect which I could easily have mistaken for sarcasm and uttered every aspiring teacher's favorite words, "I never thought of it that way. That's a really interesting perspective you've added to how I look that." After his assurances of seriousness, I found myself enthralled by the compliment of a smart stranger. It's amazing how strangers can influence us, flatter us, create pools of self-doubt, bring a smile or a tear to our cheeks and seemingly vanish from our lives.

Incidentally, Sean is no small potato in the audio film community. Check HIM out! He's an extremely polite person predisposed to pensive bouts with an appreciation for my pedantic pandering. In my limited experience based on one-time contact--Great GUY~

Saturday:
Milan--one within the growing populous of men I've been on A date with only to realize his residence rests firmly in the friend zone--in the course of many hour-long conversations this weekend called my attention to how keenly I listen. He marveled at the level of detail at which I observe him and others in their actions and inaction. He was kind enough to insert at appropriate times, his commentary on my observations. Calling me out of using psychological jargon and analysis in daily observation.

There were moments our ruminations had the rumblings of a recording of Frasier and Niles Crane discussing the merits of Merlot vs. Chianti--except our presuppositions rested firmly in the psyche--why do or don't we do/say/act in certain ways. An exercise in complete self-absorption and at times narcicissm: it was an expression of our education coupled with the rebellion of intelligent desi kids with the have-no-desire-to-make-mucho-$ chip on our non-medically trained shoulders.

Moments of clarity were clouded by moments of self-loathing and doubt. Finally we summed the experience thus: I am a pot of uncertainity stewing on a stove next to him, a dilute pot simmering in discontent.

Our Song

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone.
It's not warm when she's away.
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And she's always gone too long
anytime she goes away.

Wonder this time where she's gone,
Wonder if she's gone to stay
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And this house just ain't no home
anytime she goes away.

And I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know

Hey, I ought to leave the young thing alone,
But ain't no sunshine when she's gone,
only darkness everyday.
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone,
And this house just ain't no home
anytime she goes away.

Anytime she goes away.
Anytime she goes away.
Anytime she goes away.
Anytime she goes away.

Guess who is learning to play this song on his guitar while he's gone?

Save MTVDesi

Please click on the link and sign this PETITION to save MTVDesi. MTV is making cuts and has eliminated MTVWorld which includes MTVDesi, MTVChi, and MTVK.

Asians need their presence in American pop culture as more than Apu, the Chinese delivery guy, and Korean dry cleaner. Let MTV know that you're MAD!

What a Mighty Good Man

An e-mail my man sent me from GOA! Here I thought I wasn't going to get to talk to him for a full FOUR days.

If you feel the need to talk to me, my friend Sachin's cell # is 98234720566 (can't get my own cell as everyone will keep checking up on me). Between the virgin beaches, the promiscuous babes and the copious amounts of booze, Sachin might not pick up but I will call back.

If I don't make it back, I won't be able to get you a present from here and for that I apologize. Take care and grind on.

D'Souza

Cheating

NO, I'm not cheating on D'Souza. God! Why is that the assumption you jump to make? I'm in looooove, no desire to cheat...even though he is 100000000 miles away and I won't see him till April 2. Yes, there is a countdown in effect.

Clearly, I've dropped out of graduate school so I'm not cheating in that regard as well. Though I never had the opportunity for that--no real tests administered, it's all paper based. boo!

What I will be cheating on my dear reader is YOU. I've been selected by Hotels by City to blog for their website and given my debt to soceity or Amex, Citibank, and Bank of America respectively I have no choice but to accept...besides I bet they get more readers than I'm currenly reaching. I think I'm just reaching you with this inane drivel, Tracey...and on a good day Carrie!

But, Hater...continue to read, hate, and comment (so I can decide whether or not I want to delete your inflammatory slander)

They say, "Cheaters never prosper!" I venture to guess I'm going to be a whole lot more prosperous in that venture than I ever was in this...though the cathartic value of SweetandVicious cannot be measured in monetary gain alone.

ee cummings

may i feel said he

may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)

may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she

but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
how said she

(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she

(come? said he
ummm said she)
you're divine! said he
(you are Mine said she)

Professor Vicious

I've decided that my dream of the week is to become a creative writing professor at a progressive university and inspire hordes of youngsters to not do but teach...alright, maybe some of them should write in lieu of inspiring others to do so. Not everyone can be a muse.

Style Virus

Heard today on Oprah by the British co-author of What Not to Wear, "There is a style virus in America!"

This got me thinking of whether or not I've fallen victim to this virus. My personal elan would certainly be a healthy mix of matchy-matchy meets shabby chic. While New York isn't Paris or Milan on the fashionista frontier, few would argue that there is a dearth of style in this metropolis. But fashion victims are everywhere as Markiv and I discovered walking up Bowery on Saturday as a young, frizzy-haired, enormous-shoulder-pad wearing youngster in polka-dot tights passed us making us realize why we would never revisit the leg-warmer decade.

My penchant has never leaned toward the label-conscious machinations of urban trust fund babies or surburban trophy wives, given my limited choice in the 0-8 size market and general disdain for spending more than $100 on any given item of clothing--much to Tracey's chagrin. I have prided myself on a well-groomed, polished appearance in public. Lately, in lieu of dressing for work I've taken to lounge wear and casual wear as my uniform of comfort--couple that with flats and shapeless, warm jackets and you see why I fear I've caught something stylistically viral.

This is not something I would have considered if not for D'Souza's dapper dress sense and brutal honesty. The man likes his woman dressed up or dressed for work and jeans and baby tees just aren't cutting it. Not to mention, I've never dated a man whose fashion sense superseded mine. Back to traditional gender roles 101. I'm forced to step it up with no real incentive given my meager financial standing and the reality that heels are just not grocery store appropriate--even in Manhattan--unless one is coming directly from the office or picking up beer on the way to a party.

While I'm not wearing high-waisted, tapered-ankle mom jeans I'm still suffering from a disease that appears to be sweeping the nation--albeit a condition symptomic of apathy-I'm plagued by the style virus.

Goa

Dating a Goan Catholic and never having been to Goa, I decided to learn a little something about Goa and specifically the Catholics in in my unproductively spent free time. Yes, perhaps studying for the GMAT would be a more effective use of said free time, but that's not the point.

History of Goa
Working our way chronologically backwards in the most cursory manner imaginable, here goes:
1987 Goa becomes a State of India, officially
1963 First Election to House of Assembly
1813 Representative sent to House of Representatives in Lisbon
1739 Marathas attack Goa (state of Maharastra where Bombay is located, directly above Goa geographically)
1622 St. Francis Xavier is cannonized by Pope Gregory XV
1570 Goa under seige by Ismail Adil Shah
1560 Establishment of the Inquisition in Goa
1542 Francis Xavier and Jesuits arrive in India--to Goa
1540 Persecution of Hindus in Goa
1510 Yusuf Adil Shah forced to surrender Goa to Afonso de Albuquerque of Portugal
1200-1300 Goa under Mauryan Rule of Asokha The Great

The history of Goa, like much of India but perhaps more so than the rest of the country is colored by religious strife. The Hindus, the Muslims--the Mughals--, and the Portugese Catholics infilrated Goan beaches time and time again. It's one of the smallest states in an over-populated nation but it continues to hold its own at least from the standpoint of tourism. For decades the West has smoked pot and soaked in the Arabian sun on the beautiful beaches of Goa. But past the debauchery and relaxation, the Catholic community in Goa is incredibly strong with architecturally majestic old churches on what were once pristine beaches. Before the resorts and the commercialization, there was St. Francis and Vasco Da Gama.

Culturally, the most Western of communities East of the Middle East Goans love to tout their Portugese heritage and some years ago the government of Portugal issued EU passports to dozens of Goans who could prove their European lineage. Last names like D'Souza, Gomez, Rodriguez, Fernandez, D'Mello, Pinto, Lobo, and Lopez abound on these beaches--these names belong to Indians, or at least folks that look like the rest of the Indians running around the beach.

Goans--at least the Catholic ones--have long held the title of the premier merry-makers and dancers (expect the waltz in lieu of Bhangra) in the greater Indian community. Few are the non-Punjabis (northern Indian community bordering Pakistan consisting of Sikhs, Bhangra dancers, and future Bollywood stars) and who can outdrink the Goans and they can only do it because of their warrior blood and relative enormity compared their dimunitive Goan bretheren. Catholic Goans also represent the only group of Indians to consume sausage in a country of vegetarians and fish eaters. Muslims have the monopoly on goat. Non-goan christians will break ou the beef and fish, but it's the Goans that enjoy lavish Western breakfasts of sausage, eggs, cheese, and milk all in one sitting. No Indian Jew can sit at a table less kosher.

I want to be clear...I'm not Goan and if I were to eventually be yoked with one, I would still never BE Goan, but it's a culture that has fascinated me since childhood. Walking on the beach in Juhu (what was once a fabulous beach in Bombay), you could always tell the Goan Catholic couples apart from the rest--they were the most affectionate, they had on the coolest pair of blue jeans, they had the most interesting slang, and they always looked like they were having the best time with each other in that moment along that shore.

Johnnie Walker Black Label

Growing up in the sticky summer months and less sticky winter months on the

West Coast of India, my grand-daddy always had a peg of Johnnie Walker Black Label on the rocks before dinner.

Dinners in Bombay are eaten late at sprawling tables adorned with overflowing bowls of fresh fruits--papayas, guavas, watermelon, mangoes, custard apples, jackfruits, and pomegranates are seasonal regulars. Dinner, like lunch, isfreshly prepared by women who spend most of their days slaving over hot stoves in air-conditioned flats with poorly ventilated kitchens. Our flat in Bandra is no different. Despite having a fridge and for some years now a microwave, my grandmother still prepares every meal from scratch with fresh ingredients--pestle and mortar in hand, wooden coconut grater on the floor, a small blender (everyone refers to as a mixie) and an enormous pressure cooker hooting intermittently on the gas stove.

These are elements of me I don't have to explain to D'Souza as he sits at my wooden dining table in my window-less living room sipping a double Johnnie Walker on the rocks as I furiously stir a pot of chicken curry on my electric stove and the rice cooker whistles in the background.

After Party

D'Souza, despite his protests, showed up--post car accident. He got bored. He's not much for chit-chat. Just as the crowd as winding down...we headed to MePa for a quick drink as the bars shut down at 3:30am. Much to Tommy's chagrin, I left our meager abode at 3:20am for a night out with my man. As the house party wound down, the real party started up. Sadly our plan was completely spoiled by the fact that all the bars in MePa were at last call and thus failing to admit us. We rolled up to Pizza Bar--where a couple was practically copulating in the booth behind us, while the group of youngsters in the booth in front of us proceeded to seat 3 in a 2-person seat only to break the damn seat. The hipster girl landed with quite the thud and bruise on her face as she hit in falling from her seat via the formica table. Fun times. I sat innocently sipping my Cosmo watching D'Souza sip his scotch on the rocks chased by Amstel Light. Here I was again...with the guy and his Amstel Light. Here I was again at Pizza Bar in the Meatpacking District, late night, Manhattan.

Vice President's Deserve a Day Party

Norman wanted to have a party. In light that it was over President's Day weekend, I suggested that Vice President's deserved a party since they didn't get a weekend and thus the plan was hatched. WE notified Tom promptly and the party date was picked--last Saturday.

The last party we had was our Housewarming in September. We'd adopted a JailHouse theme for that one. This party involved few small, color printed flags strategically taped up around the apartment; dressing Luckey in a blue sweater to match his red collar and general white-puppy cuteness, and putting up 10 Veeps on a wall with a page under each for guesses. Who's even HEARD OF Hannibal Hamlin or Schuyler Colfax? The prize for the best guesser or knower of VPs of the United States thus far was a bottle of red wine. My friend Markiv came closest with a solid 50%. Dan Quayle, Teddy Roosevelt, Spiro Agnew, Thomas Jefferson, and John Adams were the easier bets. Nelson Rockefeller, Millard Fillmore and George Dallas rounded out some of the tougher guesses.

Tommy cooked up some delicious Quayle Sandwiches (cornish game hen) with a delectable ginger-mayo-dijon sauce, Burr It's Cold Ice Cream Sandwiches (he MADE the sugar cookies himself from scratch), Broccoli Spears-Spiro-Agnew. I handled the drinks with a bevy of Veep inspired concoctions: The Fillmore (Jello and Vodka), Triple Johnson (Triple Sec, Vodka, and Malibu Rum), Mad Adlai (OJ, Tequila, and Rum), and Crazy Calhoun (Bailey's, Kahlua, and Vodka). The Crazy Calhoun was the biggest hit as were the Burr It's Cold!

The party was a success. Not a roaring success, but a success nonetheless.

Opera

Tracey and I went to the Opera last thursday. The Metropolitan Opera in New York City to be specific. She "yoinked" her parents season tickets to transport me to this cultural event...The show was remarkable in the dramatic flair and depth of emotion which only operatic Italian can convey. The individual subtitle holders weren't as difficult to follow manuevering expertly as I did with the adorable binoculars Tracey carted for me in her voluminous bag--along with a full bottle of water and Burt's Bees Lip Balm.

The BATHROOMS in Lincoln Center's Opera House is majestic. There is this tiny piano-looking pedal that flushes the royal toilets. Go figure.

In typical Sweet fashion, I ran us late at dinner and we missed the first act of La Traviata. We dined at HavanaNY with my boy prior to the show. We were scheduled go to Plaintain but it's non-existence led us to alternative Cuban on the very same block. It was so much to Tracey's liking that she created her own paper-napkin goodie bag for the sole plantain that remained uneaten on her catfish plate. That's my Tracey Lord--she'll take me to the Opera in skinny jeans and fleece-lined boots with a bag full of goodies including freshly packed Krispy Kreme doghnuts and plantains.

My Girly Valentine

Brownie,
Darling, I wanted to send you a Valentine's Day greeting because you will always be one of the greatest loves of my life (dont' tell Kevin: he'll be jealous.) You're the greatest friend a girl could have and I adore you. I may have found the man of my dreams, but as perfect as he is for me, he'll never understand my neuroses in the way that you do (men can't) and he'll never know all the secrets you do. So no matter how many Valentines you have, remember there's a little blonde girl in Georgia who loves you!
Blondie

My closest friend and sorority sister from college who went on to UVA Law and currently works for the court system in Gainesville, GA sent me that gorgeous note in her enormous, child-like print. It was surprising and sweet.

Bliss

This is not a review of the Manhattan spa, but a short epistle in the last week of my life. The week, I may very well recount to having changed my life, twenty years from now.

D'Souza drove me home on Saturday morning and spent the entire weekend meeting my folks. Mom's high-pitched squeals and constant attention drove him a bit batty but he enjoyed the manliness of Marc's football tangents. I cooked him a simple pasta dinner over which he said grace before we sat down at the family dining table and ate while candles waxed poetic. Mom and Marc left us to our devices as their previous engagements dictated they head to a hospital fundraising event. Despite the adult themes, there were elements of high school in that weekend. Him sleeping on the couch while I donned my Indian nightgown (imagine a curve hugging mu-mu) and slept in my room upstairs coupled with my mom taking us to a local diner for brunch on Sunday afternoon cloaked the grown-up aspects of this meeting in child-like innocence.

We parted ways Monday morning after we spent our first night at la casa de Mi. Despite the messy bedroom and frantically jumping dog, it went well. He left awkwardly kissing me goodbye as question marks danced above my head.

We connected later and discussed the implications of meeting the parents as well as the general direction we were headed. Our mutual need for control and incredible stubbornness grounded the conversation in questions answering questions and answeres evading ears. Soon, thereafter, he invited me to him and I declined.

I did appear Tuesday morning, cold rice in tow, in an effort to cook him lunch as he worked from home. He ran me to the local Shoprite where I proceeded to pick out the perfect singing card for myself for Valentine's Day upon his insistence. Something to be said for getting exactly what I want. Lunch turned to dinner...leading to breakfast, allowing us to share leftovers for lunch the next day.

Somewhere in there he asked me exactly what kind of diamond ring I wanted. He was well-aware of my three-carat requirement, but he wanted clarity on the cut as well as the expected value of such a gesture. Not that it's about money. It's never about the money. Soon after I directed him to the Tiffany's website to showcase a solataire in the setting of my dreams, in lieu of balking at the figure he professed his appreciation for the style--my style. As I stirred the Butter Chicken and checked on the rice cooker--a picture of domesticity, in Jersey City, no less--I realized that this may be it. He may be it. It was sudden but I wasn't startled.

We had reservations last night at Churrascaria Plataforma. It was one of the most romantic dinners I've ever had. The place itself was not imbued in Valentine's Day splendor despite the heart-shaped balloon centerpieces; however, his frequent question, "Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?" in conjunction with pushing me to reveal the exact nature of my feelings for him only so he could reciprocate them left this shrew tamed. I've met my match. He's got the pizzazz and gumption I need in a man with the sensitivity and caring I want. He gets that I get him and he's accepted that he'll never really get me. A part of my heart remained in Bombay when I boarded that plane to this place I call home; D'Souza found it and brought it back to me last night.

The Facebook Skit

Crazy Indian kids will do crazy Indian kid things. Bollywood movies make romance seem an awful lot like stalking...but damn, it's a good time!

I'm a Runner Up!!

Handbags for a year

Cocktails by Jenn, the line of vodka martinis inspired by fashionable "Sex and the City" types, announces an essay contest, "Handbags Are a Girl's Best Friend." The winner walks away with 52 handbags - one for each week of the year, by designers such as Gucci, Marc Jacobs and Louis Vuitton - for herself and a girlfriend. Twenty-six runners-up and their best buddies each will get one designer bag. Beginning Friday, Sept. 15, and continuing through Thursday, Nov. 30, consumers can submit the best words of wisdom ever given to or received from a girlfriend. Judges will look for unique essays that are well-written, original, practical and personify the spirit of girlfriend relationships.

- Roxanne Washington, Plain Dealer reporter

SADLY:
Given my financial situation, I am turning down the $550 worth of designer goodness for a petty $440 cash. Overdraft protection, I will replenish thee.

Key Card

D'Souza gave me a Starbucks card the last time I saw him. I had forgotten this till I discovered it in my pants...

Can I just say that is the KEY to my affections? I adore Starbucks and Starbucks gift cards in particular...so for him to hand this to me with no prompting in a nonchalant-found-it-in-my-pocket way was extremely endearing...not to mention bought him MAJOR points.

He sure knows how to woo a girl...despite the 265lbs. cracks that fall too easily fall from his luscious lips.

Opposite World

Women Court Men in certain cultures, specifically on Orango Island, Guinea-Bissau.

Thank God I'm not expected to prepare a fish dish for my beau or build a mud hut for that matter...EEK! I'll take a diamond and freshly painted condo/coop any day of the week--go ahead and call me culurally relativist!

Frames of Reference

I spent the majority of last night IMing the Bombay Boy, D'Souza, in lieu of sleeping. We typed extensively about music--specifically music we like--well, it turns out there was much overlap. Why that is a good sign I can't explain, I can only say that it is an excellent omen.

We had a short chat about identity...cultural identity specifically which transitioned into a discussion about religion. A conversation that led to us finding more consensus than stuff ot argue about--it was an odd turnaround from the verbal jousting that has come to define our interactions. Though he is exclusively Indian in his relation to the globe and I have more of a struggle given my history of Western influence--his terms were simpler than mine--we came to see similarities in our differences or perhaps just agreed to disagree with little ado.

Shortly after that point I felt it time to drop the No-Baby-Mama bomb. He took it remarkably well. Most guys either lose interest or feign understanding, he did neither. This is not to say I've elevated his interest in any way, but I thik he got it. He didn't insult my intelligence by suggesting I would change my mind, nor did he express his deep-seated desire for offspring of his own...he got that it was about me and he respected it. I have no idea where he actually stands on babies, but I know that he is very clear on where I stand--which was the POINT. How refreshing!

In my heart I've always felt that the tradition of shared roots bound people closer--it bridges the gaps in communication we inevitably face--and with D'Souza I felt last night that this belief was validated.

He doesn't put people in boxes like I do*. I like that.
He calls me out on my shit. I respect that.
He claims he can and will be gone in 60 seconds. I recognize that...but if I don't believe that--I'm in BIG trouble, because I'm a girl with abandonmnent issues and he's a guy with a track record of the silent good-bye. Not good!


*I have so much to process--like laundry--so I sort in my haste to clean to ensure the colors don't bleed.

Send me on my Way

Last night, Adam followed my lead--cleaned his room, assembled his desk, created a playlist, and lit some candles after he came home with a six-pack of BudLite from the corner store--a few minutes before I buzzed up to be let into his two-wing apartment. The last time I had seen the inside of his space it was a mess of dirty clothes and unhung shelves...this was a pleasant surprise.

We talked for a while about putting in the Hindi movie I had brought--a clever ruse he had created to lure me into his man-trap. A ruse, I had knowing full well, fell blissfully into with little struggle. I sipped my two beers as he swigged four--apparently in light of the Bears losing the superbowl, he had drunk a fair share of Stella Artois's earlier in the evening--he was the man and I got to be the little lady. We discussed the state of affairs in India; namely the reasons we hadn't ascended to superpower status in the last 1000 years--history majors are not ones laypeople should argue with on semantics or facts. He fought my bleak outlook on organized religion. He struggled with his uncertainity about life and looming quarter-century mile marker. I made a mental note to throw him a splendid surprise party...pending we are together in April.

Somehow when we talk it surpasses chit-chat. It's how it should be, but often isn't with boys. Even boys I've been out with many many times, never get past the shallow "How was your day BS" but with Adam it's different. Every revelation is couched in self-discovery and I always feel like he's opening up to me as much as he has ever opend up with anyone. It's a comforting feeling. It's a warm feeling. It's a feeling that breeds security and, in my case, a prevailing sanity that is critical in the early phases of dating.

To put it another way, I don't feel the need to impress him, but I do yearn to protect him from the harsh reality that threatens his idealistic view of the world. I want him to keep those rose-colored glasses on him as long as humanly possible, so I want to shield those UV-rays encroaching on his corneas. In turn, he hastens to comfort and soothe me when I express discontent. When I'm with him I feel like he values not only my physical and mental attributes but the greater whole of my being.

I suppose it would all be a moot point if I didn't turn to putty every tim his lips brushed mine and and I felt that sharp intake of his breath before we breathe each other in. The magic of kissing someone who gives you goosebumps is indescribable. It gives me chills, thrills, and spine tingles. It's like warm brownies with cold ice-cream. It is passion wrapped into action. It's the cool side of the pillow after warming up the first side to your discontent as you toss and turn in bed. It's a hot shower on your aching muscles after a filty game of exhausting soccer. It's everything you want when your palms are sweaty and your mouth is dry.

To Karen

Tonight I met Karen, Lauren, Jo, and Halle at Gin Lane to bid adieu to our Karen. In the tradition of Sex and the City, she has quit her gallery gig and is moving in with her French boyfriend--into his studio in Paris, that is. The first of the tea girls to leave the island.

Sitting on that brown,leather, pin cushion ottoman, I can't help but think of the Karen I had met 8.5 years ago...sitting demurely in an uncomfortable seat while the rest of my pledge class milled around the classroom acquainting themselves with one another and the rum punch. She had finishing school written all over her. It took me a full year to realize she was Jewish and from Chicago--not some WASP from Connecticut. She partied harder than most of the other girls and she was always the last one up--even later than me.

We bonded over sleeping in, slacking off, and drinking too much but a friendship was forged when she took to calling me out of the blue to ask me to join the gaggle when I fell off the face of the Earth between dating V and running the sorority. I never forgot that. I tried to return the favor when she fell off the face of the Earth when she started dating her toxic i-banker boyfriend who moved to New York and promptly dropped her for some ballerina.

Karen had matured into a woman who still follows The Rules but now she follows them with a purpose all her own. She had stopped saying things like, "I voted for Bush because Daddy said people who have a lot of money need to protect their assets." But she is still a Park Avenue Pollyanna underneath it all and that will always be what I love about her. Her fashion sense is less eclectic and more exact. Her look is classic, her style impeccable. With her high cheekbones, fair complexion, dark hair and eyes perfectly made up...I have never seen her completely ruffled--not even during a walk of shame on a sunday afternoon from the seediest of frat houses. I've seen her cry and I've heard her squeal, but now all of that is in the past as she embarks on the next phase of her life.

With Karen's departure I feel a looming sense of loss. I mourn all my girlfriends who now live with their boyfriends and are lost to me in that single girlfriend way that closeness is bred by commiseration. I am happy for each of them, of course, but I'm sad to have lost all of them so soon. I guess on some level to be the last one standing is lonely. I don't lament my single-dom, on the contrary I cherish it...but I wish I had someone left to share in the trials in lieu of living vicariously through my torrid tales.

As Karen boards her plane in the sitcom of my life, Cat Stevens's Wild World comes to a crescendo as she takes a final look back at New York. Finally, she pushes her Anne-Hathaway-The-Devil-Wears-Prada-bangs out of her face and bravely steps onto the carrier to her future--in Paris with Frenchie sans job sans girlfriends--Manhattan past tense!

I'm not Eve!

Adam has not called or texted me in 72 hours.

I am less freaking out and more weeping out. Granted we only met 10 days ago, but we saw each other every other day with texts on the days we didn't lay eyes or lips on each other for the first 8 of those days.

Tommy insists I should give it another day or two and then call him. But I don't see why I should be calling HIM! Call it stubborness, call it gender roles, call it what you will...but HE should be calling ME!

When he left here at 3pm on Sunday afternoon and I explained to him that phones make calls as well as send text messages I was under the impression he grasped the concept I was impressing upon him--call me tomorrow!

Bombay Boy

I met a boy from Bombay. He's Catholic. I cite these two statements because my first crush at age 11 was on one Leighton Gomes--a Catholic boy from Bombay who was in my tennis clinic--the Portugese influence in Goa led to a sprinkling of Aryan on the subcontinent in a way that tne British never deemed us worthy of mixing their blood with ours.

FF to 2007~
Pros: This boy came to the US for his MBA and is now a consultant with Dettol. He has a lilt of a Bombay accent and all the playful Bollywood banter I grew up believing to be requisite for real romance.
He plays football, drinks Black Label on the rocks, and favors hot wings to all other food. Talk about East meets West.

Cons: He travels every week for work. He reminds me of my friend, Rahul from college, who Shiv insists I had a crush on but I NEVER did!

Luckey Noir

I saw Oprah

Yesterday at 1pm, I was escorting Tommy to his office to help stuff some envelopes when we passed the Hearst Corp buildling on 8th ave. I spied Oprah (exciting!) as she exited her black town car with Gayle King in tow. Gayle looked younger and more vibrant than Oprah--in fact, someone approached Gayle--not Oprah--with their cell phone to snap a quick photo with her.

I guess you do see celebrities in NYC all the time--even Chicago-based Oprah.

Millionaires Share Cabs

Roughly a year ago, I happened to share a cab with Boaz Weinstein. I jumped in the first available cab on Water Street after a long work day and he was in a rush. He politely asked if I minded sharing the cab since we were both heading uptown. He hopped off near the UN--while I went further north to the UES--he gave me $15 which was more than his fare but less than what the fare ended up being when I reached my destination. The next day I thought to myself, I should look up that nice chap in the German Bank's intranet system to refund him the money I owed him...but as with most initiatives, the fleeting thought passed.

Today, as I was catching up on Amit's blog I stumbled across Ashok Vardhan--a young Indian who pulls in some serious cash--in my cyber stalking of him I stumbled across Boaz whose projected income last year was $30-$40 million.

WTF? I shared a cab with that guy! His suit didn't look any more stylish or expensive than any other suit. He looked young...he should, he's only 31. But most importantly...he could have slipped me $20--no reason he shouldn't cover my cab fare for speeding up his arrival at that hotel by the UN--honestly, he could afford it!

Adam

Tonight I kissed the most beautiful man...since my ex that is...his name is Adam. Interestingly enough, both Tracey and Helen have boyfriends named Adam--though each of those couples have passed the two-year mark. I'm happy to report my Adam and I have passed the 12-hour mark, for what that's worth.

He's only 24 but as the eldest of three, he has birth order on his side...well, that and HOTNESS!

Lauren Turns 26

From left to right: Lauren (b'day girl), Jo (T girl), Ursula (Gabe and Lauren's work friend from their former place of employment), Gabe (Lauren's bf), Moi, Norman (my roomie!), Karen (who is soon leaving the country to move-in with her French bf in Paris!)

Here's a picture from Lauren's b'day bash at the Back Room last night.
The vibe in that joint was reminiscent of this fantastic bar Tommy, Li, and I hit up in Berlin. In American terms, it had that whole speakeasy thing going on.

Single Again

Well...that was short-lived--back to my life as I know it--the single life.

No one really cares about the musings of one-half of a couple, esp. a boring couple, so for the readership (if nothing else)...I'm back, baby!

I wonder if Irish realizes that our code of silence can only spell gloom and doom. You DO NOT go away for weeks at a time and stop talking to a girl upon whom you bestowed the title of girlfriend. You think a man approaching his 44th birthday would be aware of the basic etiquette surrouding said interactions...apparently that is not the case. IRISH--I AM STILL MAD! Send flowers or at least an e-card.

Borat for Bankers

I'm completely in love with Amit Chatwani's blog.

Jo sent me the Biz Week article in the Finance section on Wise Guys featuring this 2004 comp sci Princeton alum and I'm on a mission to meet him. He's not only young, brown, educated, and incredibly funny--he's an entreprenuer. Plus he frequents Ulysees which is the only happy hour joint in my 'hood worth a visit.

I wonder if his Q-list celeb status has led to aunties calling up his fam in an effort to marry off their eligible daughters--now there's a mark of brown town success. Go Amit!

First Fight

Irish and I had our first blowout fight on thursday. The result was that we didn't speak for a few days and now he's gone for at least two weeks, most likely three...his pursuit doesn't necessarily bring him back to the city till March. Why don't I learn my lesson with absent men?

The first fight sets a precedent for future fights. And much like with everything else Irish, I've let him off too easily. I think part of my reasoning is that he's so much older it doesn't make sense to expose him to my juvenile reactions. But the truth is those fragments of immaturity are who I really am--I haven't grown past them and it's unfair that he is exempt from what a younger man would be privy to--not that he's going to complain about this inequality, but it's still less real.

On one hand, his admission of personal truths made me feel closer to him, he's cracked open a window in the large house that represents the recesses of his mind; but on the other hand, is this how things are going to play out moving forward--he gets off scott-free and I stew in misery?

Why I hate the Police!

As I sat at the Brooklyn Bridge stop with Luckey safely tucked in my bag, a handsome young Italian couple approached me. They petted my pup and made inane conversation as we awaited the downtown 4/5 train. As always a plethora of uptown trains went by and a series of downtown 6 trains made their final stop...yet no 4 or 5 were in sight.

As Luckey grew restless and I recognized the foolishness of awaiting a train to transport me one stop, I made the executive decision to walk home. It's not that cold, after all, I reasoned. As I trudged up the steps and hurried to the turnstile, I released Luckey from his captive bag arrest and held firmly to his leash.

Wholly unaware of the Po Po patrolling, I began my ascent out of the dredges of subwaydom when Officer Mills hastened to shout, "M'am, please halt!" I assumed I had dropped something out of my purse or otherwise been oblivious...such was not my luck. He proceeded to calmly ask for my ID--which I had conveniently lost last week in a tussle with the bf at the Westin--so I produced Columbia ID (no birth date with a Jan. '07 expiry). I cringed as his partner pulled up. One cop can be talked out of ticket, two cops cannot. Bad cop, good cop and such. Officer Mills was good cop. Bad cop, Officer Corrado, issued me a $25 ticket and a hearing date of 2/8/07. Of course, I'm not in a position to contest the ticket. I was, in fact, carting my critter on a leash but outside the confines of a doggie carrier or crate--as is the LAW, it seems.

I realize $25 is pittance...but when your bank account is at -$112, it's money you JUST DO NOT HAVE. The outrage. Honestly, aren't there bigger crimes in NYC than a Sweet Girl with a Vicioius Puppy ambling up the stairs (far from the platform) at Brooklyn Bridge. Is Manhattan so safe that THESE are the violations NYPD feel the need to prosecute? Am I not cute enough to get away with this? Better yet, isn't Luckey cute enough?

Quotes of the Day

If you want endless repetition, be with a lot of different people. If you want infinite variety, be with only one.

Love is reverence, worship, glory, and the upward glance; not a bandage for dirty sores. Those who speak of love most promiscuously are the ones who've never felt it. They make a feeble stew of sympathy, compassion, contempt, and general indifference and call it love.

Take a Step

At church this morning, I sat through a sermon that didn't bring me closer to God but did serve as an inspirational and motivational message to the procrastinator within. The pastor discussed Matthew 14:22 which pertains to Peter walking on water on the insistence of one water walking Jesus. The message was titled: Step out of your Boat. It was part of the Take a Step series which will be the message for the month of January.

My particular boat is procrastination. I've been really slacking on those b-school apps. I've been skipping interviews which I should be grateful come my way. I've been sleeping till noon even on days I get to bed by midnight.

I've been focusing on a relationship that is not a relationship at all; merely a distraction from my search for the real deal. Perhaps an act of self-sabotage, perhaps a fear of committment, perhaps even a misguided attempt to prove to myself that a selfish man CAN love a selfish woman. I've tried that before...it doesn't work--I've learned that lesson.

I usually hate sermons. It's why I love Catholic Church, most of the time is spent on rituals that focus on repetition rather than a message. But this morning, sitting in that pew betweem my mom and her new husband I realized we never fully shake the yoke of faith instilled within us as children.

When all was said and I done, I believed because I was taught to believe. I listened as I was taught to listen. I will live as I was taught to live, despite the length of hiatus I take from that path--it is my path and I will tread upon it.

My Song: Mundian to Bach Ke-- Punjabi MC



Every time this tune comes on at a club--like all the other Indian kids--you will see me go completely crazy and break out the best of my Bhangra moves. Admittedly, my moves are pathetic at best, but let me tell you I "screw in the lightbulb" with a gusto you have never before seen.

Ari Ari--Bombay Rockers

Happy 2007!

Best Worst Movie Ever

I actually liked this song the first time I heard it at the end of Snakes on a Plane with Zayan this summer. As far as bad movies go, this is one of the best. Samuel L. Jackson's famous line, "I'm sick of these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane." This video has a hell of a hook!

I still love Kalpen

Despite how awful this video is, I'm still totally loyal to Kalpen because he represents all that is good in this world.

12 Days Of Indian Christmas

My hatred of South Park aside, this video cracked me up. I sent it to every damn Indian I know at home and abroad. heehee

Hum Tum (Me and You)

Juggy D and Veronica came into my world with this song they did for the Bollywood movie Hum Tum starring Rani Mukherjee and Saif Ali Khan. Incidentally this is one of the first Hindi movies to incorporate cartoon characters into a regular feature presentation. I absolutely adore this song--the beats, the elements of bhangra, the melody--much of this video is filmed in Bombay which adds to its appeal.

Dick In a Box

Justin Timberlake gives new meaning to lowest common denominator. Tommy played me this video on Norman's insistence when I came home after spending Christmas with the family. I was going to send this to Irish but he'd seen it already and just as I suspected thought it was ridiculously funny. A part of me suspects this may very well be my Christmas gift...Ah boys!

Drop it like a FOB

Check out this video on YouTube. Indian people take the idiom: Imitation is the highest form of flattery to a whole new level. I LOVE this video.

2006 melts into 2007

I feel like I pretty much wrote a year in review entry in my 500th post, so here's a post dedicated to the developments of the last few weeks that have implications for the next month.

Potential job in the works. I don't want to jinx myself but the interview went well even by my high standards for interviews. The job is at a small firm in the heart of Times Square providing HR Generalist support for a team of 40 subcontractors and consultants who are placed on systems projects at big banks. I should hear back Jan. 5 but I'm guessing most likely it may be the week after.

I'm officially with Irish. Despite my lunacy and insecurities, he's sticking with me for now. One month down...hopefully a whole bunch more to go. So far he's handling me, I'm hopeful.

Finally, officially, quit grad school. B-school is on hiatus. I've decided to apply for 2008 which gives me a little time to perfect the application and gather the perfect recommendations. Not to mention develop a clear plan for post graduate life.

Settled matters with both major exes once and for all. V and I are going to be friends for life. He's moved so far on and I've come to terms with it. I love him to death and he me, but we're in a platonic place or at least as much of one as we can ever be in. I'm 100% over Zayan. I haven't so much as thought of him since I met Irish, but I'm surprised the holidays didn't even stir in me a desire to send him a cursory text. We are faux friends. Not in that it's fake as much as it is forced, but it's important to me to keep him on my terms and I think I finally am.

Luckey is my perfect pup pup love bucket. He grows nearer and dearer to my heart with every passing day. We have our spats but he's my heart's delight.

No resolutions. Well, perhaps just resolve to be more productive, less crazy, and appreciate the truth that self-satisfaction need not interfere with self-improvement.

Crazy Me

All this photo needs is lightening or a superimposed mini-Batman in the sky. I'm sitting bravely along the base of the chain bridge between Buda and Pest in Hungary.

Photo by Tom Arbus

Friday Night Lights

Skipped a date to stay in and drink a Coors Light...it makes me feel closer to Irish--of course, I'd prefer a Budlight but I'm going with what I've got. He doesn't know it and it doesn't matter because I'm H A P P Y and I am blaming my Irishman.

The Ultimate Compliment

Last night as we ambled hand-in-hand Tracey paid Irish what I can only deem as the highest compliment in the looks department. She said and I quote, "He looks like that guy who played that comptroller on Sex and the City". That guy is my darling John Slattery who I saw eating lunch with his wife and adorable, young blond son in the West Village this summer. I was with Jo and she encouraged me to walk back and get his autograph--I brushed it off as, "Nah, I don't want to be that lame fan", but the truth was my knees would be knocking so hard and my heart beating so fast that I couldn't possible muster the words to create coherent sentences. Isn't he gorgeous? I assure you Irish, though not a spitting image, is equally handsome.

Power Switch

Sex and the City provided us with the "Power Flip". The first episode, perhaps it was not the pilot but one of the early episodes in the first season, explained the notion that women in their 20s have the dating world on a string with their pick of men (older, younger, married, single, whatever they want) while men in their 20s are struggling to establish their careers and find themselves limited in the options available to them (women their age or younger who are comfortable with the seemingly little time and/or money they offer at that nascent stage in life). However somewhere in their mid to late 30s there is a power flip; men have women of all ages available to them while women having lost their youthful glow, if they remain unmarried, find it much harder to meet eligible men.

Now, the Power Switch as I've coined it isn't related to this but I highlight Power Flip to showcase just that point--these are two SEPARATE terms! As I see it, the power switch is that pivotal moment in any relationship when the person who was originally more enamored with the other party becomes less enamored while the original "cool kid" grows more attached. Let me provide an example: When Tommy met Kerry, he liked her enough to ask her out again but didn't think she was his "type". Tommy likes waify girls with the capacity for melancholy. Kerry was a happy athelete who after the first date was feeling a strong attraction and interest in Tom. However, after their second or third date the power switched. Tom found himself falling for Kerry's disarming honesty and domestic charm (the girl cleaned our stove when he cooked her his signature third date dinner), while Kerry in preparation for her looming move to the West Coast started to pull back a bit.

The Power Switch can feel debilitating when it happens because it alters the status quo and more often that not brings to the surface the more confident/less invested person's insecurites as they submit the emotional control to the party originally willing to lose control. Every relationship is not prone to a power switch, but more often than not after a first date one party likes the other more. In a majority of these cases, even in healthy long-lasting relationships, a power switch occurs down the line to either equalize or destroy the balance of power.

In Tommy's opinion it is best to fall hard and fast if the attraction is mutual because the Power Switch will find you on top--the one in control. I subscribe to the opposite school in suggesting that it is best to maximize your time on the front end of the switch and experience the power switch a few months into the relationship as a great equalizer. On some level I think those are gender-influenced responses. After all, a man needs to feel very attracted to a women to seek commitment and monogamy on the outset while a women needs to be wooed and feel desired. Also the switch for the woman alleviates any feeligs of guilt that may have built up from being in control early in the relationship as well as providing the man with a much needed masculine dominant role within the later part of the relationship.

The Power Switch is a universal phenomenon but there are plenty of people that have never experienced it.

Serial Dater

I've always cringed at the term serial dater. I mean why must the ability to date well--the willingness to explore what's out there to the fullest--result in a title that conjures memories of serial killers.

Anyway, I was recently told I was a serial dater. No big surprise, but it got me thinking about the phrase. It's catchy. It's clever. I rather like it. But more than that, I think it's apt for New York City. In a subculture that revels in diversity with a veritable pu-pu platter of options the most efficient way to maximize your dating potential is to serial date.

How is serial dating different from just old fashioned, non-monogamous dating you ask? Well, I'm no expert (I can't take credit for coining the term) but from what I've deduced serial daters are addicted to first dates. It's more about meeting new people and adding to a pre-existing dance card that it is about settling down. A serial dater goes on a lot less second dates than a regular dater. After all, when you actualize on your options you're bound to be more selective. Selectivity hinges on criteria that is you-specific and it cannot be molded to another's standard.

That said, serial dating gets to be a bit of a disease, particularly in the internet context because you continually want to see what in the bush is better than the birds you currently have in hand. The phenomenon of "not settling" takes on what I call the Vast Menu Syndrome: when you have so many options, options you have never tried that look good, you are naturally curious. How and when do you choose just one entree even if you get one or two sides?

Bathroom Banter

What follows is a conversation Tracey overheard within a neighboring stall in a public restroom at a mall in NJ as it was recounted to me this evening at Veniero's Bakery on E. 11th St.

"Mommy, you have fur! Why do you have fur? I'm going to tell Daddy you have fur!"
"Shh. SHHHH. He knows. He knows!"

I cracked up so hard I almost snorted some of my iced hazelnut coffee and had a seizure.

When I just related this tale to Tom he barely chuckled. Now, only one of two explanations can be provided: 1) my delivery, unlike Tracey's, sucks or 2) Tom just didn't GET what the kid meant by fur.

Pursuit of Blood Diamonds

Pursuit of Happyness was campy as expected. Mom loved it, of course. I thought Will Smith's son was a cutie pie but other than that aigh. Though I did cry at the very end when Will Smith's character gets the job of his dreams and runs to his son's daycare to hug him. It reminded me of all the times growing up my mom raced to my side and held me so tight because something had gone her way and I was the only person she felt mattered enough to tell--though I was too young to grasp the depth of the accomplishment. Thandie Newton's character though unlikable was well acted in all her bony, made under splendor.

The Diamond Dealer took me to see Blood Diamonds at the Loewes by Lincoln Center. He held his tongue except for a spontaneous, "That's the first myth!" uttered during the first few moments of the film while the credits rolled and "stats" were displayed on the screen. It was interesting to hear his take on the film as we walked from the theater to my subway ride and his glorious penthouse; alongside the park, past the AOL Time Warner Center...so New York sitcom momen.

Till I told the original older man in my life about the new, special older man. He took it well for the most part but I could tell he was miffed because he always believed I thought he was too old for me, though I'd never given him any such indication. He was also aghast that Irish was Irish. He'd made the mistake of assuming I only dated my own--a mistake others have made before him only to be alarmed to see me walk arm-in-arm with one of theirs. Sigh. When you assume...

Eastern European Expedition

Tom likes this photo a whole lot more than I do, but I thought the cool circular pattern of this gate was worth capturing at the time. Why I stuck my head in it remains a mystery at this time, but I promise it seemed like a brilliant idea at the time it was taken. I may very well not have been that sober given the 25cent 1/2 liter beer we'd imbibed at our favorite underground bar around the corner from St. Nicholas Cathedral in Prague.





Don't I look like I'm plotting to take over the world in this photo? I'm no Brain, but what little likelihood of my world domination is encapsulated in this photo. My photogenicity is at an all time high--making me like this picture even more. This series of sculptures is a stone's throw from the church that houses the Infant Jesus of Prague.





I don't think is a particularly flattering photo, but I do think it represents a certain classic black and white photo element that captures youth and happiness. I think this is a photo I will look back on in a few decades and wonder why I didn't like it more at the time--but at this time, I just don't like it much.





I decided it would be best to dangle fearlessly from a pole that stuck out behind this particular segment of what's left of the Berlin Wall. Tom and I rode the S-Bahn a long way to the East Side Gallery so he could search for the spot his cousin signed the wall. We didn't find his graffiti nor did we add our own, but this photo is a pleasant by product of the journey.





I loved the Reichstaag! That's the background although you can't see any of its magnificient glory in this pic, but I sure look happy to be there.

Tommy's Photo Series of Me in Eastern Europe

This was the shot that got Tommy on the tangent of taking photos of me as I photographed things that caught my interest. He was blown away by my utter disregard for ridiculous positions taken in the effort to capture "the shot". Little does he realize that my antics look like stand and shoot compared to the craziness that ensues everytime Tracey has a camera in her tiny fist.




This is the look I kept giving Tom when he tried to photograph me candidly. I like to pose for photos, what is so wrong with that?








Tommy insists it looks like I'm giving this creepy statue a rim job the way I'm angling myself to get just the right photograph through a crevice in his build. I resent that!

HotDog

Best Message Ever

"You're in church right now and I'm having some really really nasty thoughts about what I want to do to you."

Click.

Repeat.

Save.

Loot 2006

Going to present my loot in list form below.

Family Loot
Glorious floor length red coat with gold buttons--British looking
Beige Charter Club sweater with gold threading
Enormous round-faced Traveler's watch with four mini watches within all reporting different times (you pick what those times are!)--one will always be set to Bombay and and another to New York...the other two I'm working on!
$$$ (but not enough to pay all the late bills, but covers rent)
Wooden jewelry box with multiple compartments with lattice work
Black Scarf and matching i-pod sequin holder from Ann Taylor


Tracey Loot--she has a tradition of inundating me with the most fantastic bounty on every gift giving and non-gift giving occassion...she's is ridiculous!
Three pairs of shoes: pointy, red Moschino pump with a kitty heel and bow with white-cross stitching; taupe Lacoste tennis shoes with alligator stitching on the side which won't be out till the Spring, and oval, peep/open-toe flats a la CV.
Margarita scented face scrub
Two, warm, fuzzy grey socks
Two pairs of black, non-slutty fishnet stockings
Black, elbow-length, leather dominatrix gloves with bows
Two earrings: black hoops and clear chandeliers
Three black rings: plastic rose, sparkly chunky, and wedding cut with sparkles set
Black aviator glasses
Lucky Jeans
Virgin mother Tee with Red Roses in the background
Black, Nicole Miller shrug with woven sparkles
Style Handbook
Three books of NYC postcards because I love to send snail mail


Luckey's gifts:
Taupe plush bed
Battery-operated brush
Adorable knit multi-colored sweater with hood

Merry Christmas~

The family went to midnight mass today. It was a service that reminded me how much I love Catholic service and awakened my latent desire to go more frequently. I know better than to make this a New Year's resolution, but I do miss church.

I grew up in the Syrian Orthodox tradition as I mentioned months ago, but my upbringing was laced in Catholicism (having attended a Convent primary school in India run by strict but fair nuns). There is a peace that comes over me after I go through the ritual that is mass. Knowing the hymns, responses, and times to kneel fulfills within my cultural framework the need for collective belonging. I also love the smell of incense and the whine of an organ as a novice choir tries to sing over it. I revel in being in a cathedral--the meditative value of those high cielings is even higher in a privacy-lacking nation like India. I feel a sense of absolution, no matter how misplaced, after I leave a novena. The chanting quality of sing-song delivery by priests whose completely grey hair reminds me of my grandfather seals the deal.

It's not church I miss. It's the innocence of my youth. It's India. It's my grandfather. It's nostalgia.

Couples' Guilt

Maybe it's naivete, maybe it's narcicissm or maybe I do love drama and this is my way of ensuring it for life--but I just can't cut someone who likes me out of my life. This is a problem I've recently resolved on the ex-boyfriend scene but one I'm struggling to smooth over in my recently coupled state on the former suitor front.

Now, I'm not conceited. Really, I'm not. A healthy self-confidence aside, I really don't think I warrant a ton of attention from the darker sex. That disclaimer notwithstanding, I have yet to cut ties with Indian Christian, the Dog Watcher, or even LawyerMan.

The Dog Watcher is aware that I have a boyfriend and proclaims complete comfort with a platonic friendship which I hasten to take at face value but my gut tells me he's merely biding his time.

Indian Christian has never professed his true intentions toward me or made a move since our "courtship" which began shortly after Thanksgiving. He did give me very thoughtful Christmas presents this evening: three Razr phone skins and a fresh motorola battery since my cell phone is my life. However, the fact that he pays for drinks despite my protests and always offers me his arm as I jaunt down the street may signal an old-fashioned notion of "dating". How do I tell him I'm with Irish without it getting back to mom? His family and mine have taken to spending the holidays together--while those are now behind us--clearly they are the ties that bind...and this case, chafe.

Lawyerman is a different matter altogether. He serves no real function other than to inflate my ego plus he has a girlfriend/ex with whom he is "sorting things out"--so while I maintain complete transparency on that frontier--I'm not convinced our conversations have boundaries appropriate for live communication. So far we've managed a strictly cyber relationship, ex post facto...but recent talk has turned to face-to-face interaction and I'm torn between proving to myself that there is nothing there and risking a nascent but beautiful thing I have with Irish. EEK.

Yes, clearly--as Tracey puts it and she does put it often--"JUST STOP IT!"

TimeLine

Isn't it remarkable how quickly someone goes from being a stranger to your daily phone call? I thought this with Zayan and I'm falling into the same pattern with Irish--yeah, he's an I-person--it's truly amazing how quickly and naturally you transition from not having that special person in your life to awaiting a call from them in their prolonged absence.

Irish and I have been going together now for 3 weeks, the last of which he has been in the Sunshine State and I'm currently in the Garden State--sniff! Over this short span, we've developed a comfortable dynamic that encompasses playful, sarcastic, polite, sexy, and on occassion serious. Now I don't mean SERIOUS--but we've conquered that pivotal point where we can have a conversation about feelings, specifically mine, and he won't freak out. He'll tell me he doesn't get it or that "those are (my) issues" but I don't worry that he's going to run for the hills and never call me again. Then again, maybe that's a wholly premature statement but I've made it and now I'm going to stand by it.

EEK. I'm in a couple again. ME...not single! Me...half of a couple.

Two Boys...One Venue

In an effort to maximize my time, I had pre-show drinks with Indian Christian. I had invited the Dog Watcher to Escape M60's performance (Taurean's band featuring one crazed drummer and a pair of long-haired '80s heavy metal emulating guitarist twins). To my unplanned horror, IC quickly accepted my spur-of-the-moment polite invitation to attend the show--despite his long commute to the family stead in NJ. I was forced to introduce my former suitors to one another, much to my chagrin. Despite their similar characteristics, namely an affinity for the Giants and extreme friendliness toward the average stranger, they did not take to one another one bit.

I think Taurean summed it up best when he said, "When I looked off stage and there were TWO of the same Indian dude--one on each side of you--I thought my vision was shot or the lights were too bright. With the twins on stage and your doppleganger boys off-stage I thought I was in a doublemint commercial and not at my first gig in the city."

Escape M60 was amazing! Considering it was their FIRST performance in front of a live audience. GOOOOO TAUREAN! Rock on, son.

Sweet Sighting Tonight

I'm going to be at Otto's Shrunken Head on the border of the East Village and Alphabet City tonight to see my home boy Taurean Spoons make his NYC singing debut at this kitschy Tiki Bar.

Their set starts at 11:30pm--late for a Monday--but I'll be wearing a sweatshirt that reads Baby Girl and cheering wildly. Norman and Tommy will be joining me despite their day jobs.

If you're in the neighborhood, please stop in...listen to a few beats and say "Hey!"

the AIM Block

So, my boyfriend who is currently far far away...in distant Florida claims not to have any idea how to block someone on AIM--yet mysteriously he's managed to block me on AIM. Unless the AIM gods are scorning me for some unknown crime against AOL the whole thing seems highly suspect to me.

So, in an effort to be the technologically advanced woman in his life, I go ahead and create a new screen name. Of course within the first fifteen minutes of combative banter the man makes the mistake of typing, "So, how do I block you?"

Why? Why oh why are men at every age entirely clueless about what NOT to say to a woman? Double sigh.

Human Interactions

Sometimes, I fear my relationships are founded on lies and etched in deceit--self-deceit.

How can you believe they mean the things they say when we are unsure they say the things they mean? How do you discern when reading between the invisible lines when the infrared coating is entrenched in your desire to take at face value what your gut has severe reservations against?

Being an adult means trusting your instincts.
Being an adult you know when to let your mind lead where your heart can't follow.
Being an adult with an established network of trusted cohorts, you still have to defer to your own sense of right no matter how wrong they think you are.
Being an adult involves making difficult decisions you are willing, yet seemingly unable, to live with at the time.
Being an adult transcends instant gratification for delayed results which inevitably enrich your later (prolonged) quality of life.

Being an adult can suck when you feel like a child.

5-year College Reunion

I'm so sick of getting reunion materials in the mail...they started sending me information in June for the April '07 reunion event and the more I receive from Hopkins the less I want to go back.

It was a great college experience, mine was. I'm just not far enough removed from it to appreciate that it's over. Sometimes, I wish I could go back for a day or a week or a month but I know in reality that would just irk me to no end and I'd just wish to return to my life in the city. My life void of work, meaning, and achievement. At least in college I was a pillar of the community--by choice and luck--but in the past six months I've managed to extricate myself from most facets of being an adult citizen who functions independently and manages a cosmopolitan lifestyle.

I'm living the dream but quickly losing sight of what that dream really is.