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March 16, 2007
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
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
March 15, 2007
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.
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.
March 13, 2007
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)
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.
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.
March 1, 2007
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.
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.
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.
February 26, 2007
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.
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.
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.
February 15, 2007
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.
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.
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.
February 12, 2007
February 8, 2007
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.
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.
February 7, 2007
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.
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!
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!
February 6, 2007
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.
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.
February 5, 2007
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.
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.
February 3, 2007
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!
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!
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