२००९ लाइफ Plans

January-Trip to Bombay...sublet apartment.
February-Grad School Interviews...Philly/DC Trips
March-Boston Trip
April-Acceptance! School selected.
May-Lauren's Wedding
June-Clui's Canadian Wedding
July-Norman's Wedding
August-Move! Start Graduate School
September-Gary's Wedding in St. Louis...Halle's Wedding in NH...Vegas turns 2!
October-Turning 29! Luckey is 4!
November-Home for Thanksgiving.
December-Finals. Apply for summer internships/jobs.

In 2009, I will

Believe in the goodness of others.
Give up ice-cream.
Attend graduate school.
Invite love into my life.
Visit my grandparents in India.
Listen to my Mother more.
Save up for a Euro-trip in '10.
Spend more time reading.
Develop a new hobby: Quilting!
Devote a day to service every month.
Taste Nigerian cuisine.
Try harder!

Cock Soup

च्रिस्त्मस Past

That title of this post reads, Christmas Past, btw. I recently added the Hindi translation feature so figured I'd give it a go.

Tracey was conspicuously absent from my annual holiday journey home. She's in Florida assisting the family of one of her students vacation. I've received many picture texts with text highlighting her fear and loathing of cartoons come to life.

It was a quiet Christmas. Luckey, Mom, her husband, and I went to see Marley & Me...we smuggled, Luckey into the theater--he's such a dream. Lots of gifts, nothing worth listing. Mom and I went shopping on the new Black Friday...bought more clothes.

Vegas spent his holiday with the D'Souzas. Unmarried, I might be, yet I share custody of my puppy. Only in America! At least there is no court battle--something to be thankful for this year. He's going to stay with him/them through my trip to India. When I get back neutering will ensue...it's long overdue.

Granting Requests

I'm a Grinch. At least this year, I am.

I was asked to take down a previous post.
A post that came from my heart--as a representation of my feelings about an event that took place in my life--but clearly another party was implicated because I am not an island. So my reaction to the event was viewed as exposing this other party's personal life which was deemed unacceptable.

Now, I have never granted such a request. I've previously been asked similar things by OTHER people, but in the name of all that is holy in the blogosphere, I have stuck to my guns.

Except in life, we make exceptions for the exceptional in said life. I am no exception, apparently.

Merry Christmas.
Happy Fucking New Year.

Committment: Fear of/for the Future

I'm not one to get bogged down in the details of the future.
Exhibit A: My life.

However the spree of engagements this year that are leading to weddings next year, might finally be getting to me. IN general, I'm a bit of a commitmentphobe--not in relationships per se--but in making decisions about my future.
Exhibit B: My career.
Hmm, what career?
Exactly!

So, the five ceremonies I've already committed to attending next year aside, I'm headed to India to visit my grandparents and extended family next month. India, the land where women over 25 are considered old maids. India, the country where the worth of a woman is measured by her reproductive abilities. India, where wives who outlive their husbands have been burned for their audacity of continued existence post His absence.
Exhibit C: Cultural competency in whose shadow I'm actually a non-conformist.
You wear twinsets and finally got the Jen An haircut...um, non-conformity?
Well, in the context of being Indian...being unwed and not wanting children is pretty OUT THERE. Kinda like Aliens.

The barrage of recent couples events and the spirit of family at the holidays is making me painfully aware that I am not on the path to creating my own nuclear unit. And while my womb isn't aching, my heart is certainly starting to feel the first gurgles of trepidation at another year alone.

Last year I was well on my way to becoming Mrs. D'Souza: a woman with a Goan Catholic man of finance who didn't have to make false promsies of becoming barefoot and pregnant but did brandish a rolling pin at her pie baking best. A woman with a new puppy and a home with a live Christmas tree. A woman who didn't sleep alone or wake up lonely. A woman whose life felt complete even if she was falling apart. A woman who believed she had just gotten everything she'd ever wanted in this life.

Sadly, I'm not that woman. Gladly, I've come to terms with it. But at least that sad woman had met her goals. I'm just setting new new ones as this woman. It's all a bit disorienting and heaped in disenchantment.

Happy Birthday, V!

I was asked to take down this post by V.
So I have.

I'm not happy about it but it was phrased as a request, if not fulfilled, would be measured as a sleight against him.

I'm not taking this down.
Hope you're happy.

Man-made Breakfast

Today, Taurean made me breakfast. It was the first time in my 28 years on this planet that a man cooked me breakfast.

Clearly, chefs and cooks at restaurants don't count for these purposes.

He added water to the organic eggs and cooked them in a high-priced skillet. He even applied organic jam to my seven-grain toast. The cheddar wasn't sharp and the spinach was perfectly cooked with garlic to boot. Truly, a delectable meal.

He even made me tea with honey to keep me awake after that enormous omelette and toast breakfast as I journeyed south of Harlem to work this afternoon.

Thanks, T. Travel safe!

Guac Off

Last night, I was in Park Slope at a couples party. There were three other single women at this party but no single men. A fact that made me feel like I didn't deserve any more Christmas wishes.

Can I just say 'tis NOT the season for me! I am not into meeting someone right now. A statement I haven't uttered since I hit puberty, but a true statement nevertheless.

Additionally, as the party crested Norman called the hostess to inform her of his engagement. Today I learned that the engagement involved three dozen rose petals spelling out "Will You Marry Me?" in a suite at the Waldorf-Astoria. Clearly, the lady in question said, "Yes!" But jokingly, Norman mentioned there was always the fear that she might just come back with, "What? I'm not worth orchids! What else you got?"

So, after last night's holiday spirit in Brooklyn, I'm heading to the UES this evening for a guac-off. That's right. We're having a contest to see who makes the best Guacamole--the attendees will serve as tasters to the test. If I could de-spice, I'd have a shot at the title...but I figure I might as well have one dish that meets my fire-eater levels to enjoy at the party.

Avocados peeled, tomatoes diced, onions chopped, cut up jalapenos, salt to taste and fresh limes squeezed....
GUAC-OFF

Keep on Tryin' (Poco)

I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout
All the times you told me
You’re so full of doubt
You just can’t let it be
But I know
If you keep comin’ back for more
Then I’ll keep on tryin’
Keep on tryin’

And I’ve been drinkin’ now
Just a little too much
And I don’t know how
I can get in touch with you
Now there’s only one thing
For me to do, that’s to
To get home to you

And I feel so satisfied when
I can see you smile
I want to confide in
All that is true, so I’ll
Keep on tryin’ I’m
Through with lyin’
Just like the sun above
I’ll come shinin' through
Oh yes I’ll
Keep on tryin’, I’m
Tired of cryin’
I got to find a way
To get on home to you

I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout
All the times you held me
I never heard you shout
The flow of energy was so fine
Now I think I’ll lay it on the line
And keep on tryin’
To get home to you

And I feel so satisfied when
I can see you smile
I want to confide in
All that is true, so I’ll
Keep on tryin’ I’m
Through with lyin’
Just like the sun above
I’ll come shinin' through
Yes I will
Oh yes I’ll
Keep on tryin’, I’m
Tired of cryin’
I got to find a way
To get on home to you.

Saw this on an old episode of Bones and it made me Limewire till I got it. The melody is just terrific....figures it's the Buffalo Springfield-feel of it.

Ghost of Love Past

....

Way past.

M.I.A

British-bred Maya Arulparasm, Sri-Lankan, singer/songwriter/graphic artist has a past checkered by political strife. Her father established the Eelam--the Tamil student group that raised hell in Sri-Lanka.

I learned about them from Love Marriage by Sugi V.G...Jo's friend who once came to tea.

M.I.A's song Paper Planes has taken the radio by storm. She has a lot of influences in her music but it's rooted in fusion. She lives in Bed-Stuy with her baby daddy Ben from The Exit. Go New York!

I'm a bit taken with the trajectory of her career and general motion of her life.

Unswerving Love

If you haven't already, get yourself to the theater to watch Slumdog Millionaire.
If you haven't yet, fall in love...unswerving love.

Because healing from heartbreak means you're ready to get your heartbroken all over again. Do it.

Exit Strategy

Today, I was talking to Tracey--as I oft do, but have not as much off late, given her myriad of jobs and my lackluster attitude towards my phone--and we had an interesting discussion about exit strategies.

Her argument was that in relationships we should never lose sight of the exit stategy. People change. Things change. Best to be prepared.

My argument was that if you always have an out how sincere are you about a future with your partner. Clearly, not all relationships are meant to last, but I'm speaking more of the ones that have the potential to be significant. How can you be in it 100% if you always have one foot out the door?

Moments

I was on the crosstown bus on 96th street after REACH (a mentoring program through the Goddard Riverside Community)this evening when I heard this heartwarming seasonal exchange:

Older black woman to much older white man: Sir, please have my seat!
Younger white man silently vacates his window seat.
Old white guy: Thank you, that's very kind.
Two blocks later, as the old white dude gets off, the black lady says: God bless you. Get home safe.
White fella responds: God bless you, too. Take care.

Who says New Yorkers aren't God-fearing friendly folk?

Another incident earlier today in Chelsea.
Man walking dog. I stop man to pet dog, after asking permission, of course.
Me...to the dog: Who's a good pup pup? Who loves to go outside? Who's a love bug?
Man...to me: A dog person, are you?
Me...(sheepish): Sorry.
Man: Never be sorry. Dog people are good people. Don't be weary of talking to dogs. Let those non-dog people think you're crazy. What do they know about a dog's love?

TV quotes of the day:
"OMG, I'm 30. Do you know what that is in gay years?"--Jack, Will & Grace
"You are the world's worst dog."--Owen Wilson, Marley & Me preview
"You should have punched him."--Miranda, Sex & The City

Puppy Cam

Tomorrow, I am joining my mother's husband on the UWS for a taping of my dogs under his care. As a veterinary chiropractor he has been invited to perform his craft on television. Luckey and Vegas are fortunate patients who will be aired as part of his segment.

Yay! Hopefully I'll be able to link to the video once it's available.

Family History--Back to Bombay!

I haven't talked much about my family in this medium. Part of the reason being that they have factored less in my life over the last 10 years than they did in the first 18 but another salient point is to protect their collective dignity--no, thankfully they don't read this little outlet for my neurosis. Clearly this preface reveals that I will now proceed to air decades of dirty laundry and rattle some closeted skeletons...because I can. My apologies to those masked by annonymity in advance.

MY GRANDPARENTS
My grandparents marriage was arranged to meet my grandfather's family's growing debt. His father was an alcoholic fisherman who lost the love of his life to what we suspect is cancer--no one really knew what it was back then. My great-grandfather married my grandfather's mother, a stern teacher, because he was expected to have a family and she bore him 9 children, 7 of whom survived puberty, my grandfather is the oldest. My grandmother's family consisted of a schoolteacher mother to whose iron will the agrarian father bent out of love or necessity no one knows. The union of my grandparents was far from romantic and while it wasn't as feudal as land exchanged it did aid my grandfather's family in marrying off their daughters. Dowry that goes around, comes around! In June 1948, the 16-year old farm girl married the 26-year old printing press worker.
The story goes that my grandmother was grossly mistreated by my grandfather's family for her dark complexion and the reality that the additional mouth to feed would lead to diminished income for the whole family. My grandmother moved to Bombay to join my grandfather in 1950 where she bore him three children, my mother being the classic middle child and sole daughter. My grandfather continued to support his family, a self-made man, he set his younger brothers up with printing presses of their own and raised his children by providing for them financially. My grandmother did all the actual rearing of said children. She channeled all her unfulfilled desires into them, launching one doctor after another and finally failing with the third who has become a wealthy man of commerce to her chagrin.

MY PARENTS
My father married my mother as a result of an arrangement my grandfather made with him. My mother's older brother was a dentist in America and agreed to sponsor my mother and her new beau to start a beautiful life in the New World. My father who wanted to escape the tyranny of his own parents and the obsessive Indian need for medical professionals felt this was his way out. He was a General Practitioner but wanted nothing more than to live an academic life surrounded by his books and waxing philosophically on existentialism. My mother, a pediatrician, knew nothing of any of this...all she knew was that her parents would collectively commit suicide if she were to not marry a man of their choosing. Yes, Bollywood's flair for melodrama comes from its palpability across Indian subcultures.

Since the immigration papers were taking longer than expected, my grandparents sent my parents to the Gulf in 1982. My father was not impressed with the restrictive life in that part of the world and returned shortly thereafter to his parents family abode in South India, my mother toiled on to make the requisite monies that would be needed for their eventual life in America. When I was about 7 years old, she returned to Bombay and set up a pediatric polyclinic all her own. She was successful but the stigma of being separated resulted in gender biased attacks. Married men constantly came onto her in crude ways feeling that as the mother of a child no longer locked in wedded bliss she was primed for mistress duties. Women fearing for their marriages reviled her for their husbands, albeit unwelcome, advances. Additionally, covert female competitiveness which was only exacerbated by her financial success and independence led to unending discomfort in the social realm. Despite my mother's strength and general "I care not for what soceity thinks of me" stance, it was tough. When her sponsorship papers for America came through in December 1989, she decided to give her marriage another chance and truly establish a new life for herself.

My parents attempted a reconciliation which failed and led to their eventual divorce in 1995. My father, disappointed by his unfulfilled ideation of streets paved with gold and unmitigated freedom from familial responsibility, returned to south India sometime in 1990 after less than a year living his dream. I was delivered to my mother by her mother in Jamaica, Queens in May 1992. Prior to that date my memories of my mother involved coiling and uncoiling rotary phone wires and packages with dolls with flaxen hair and blue eyes who talked and walked. I bore her no ill will but I knew that my home in Bombay was no longer my home and my grandparents were no longer my primary care givers. I don't remember it being difficult to assimilate, but looking back I know it was.

THE UNCLES
My oldest uncle, M, married the janitor's daughter at 19 and ran away from home. When he realized that love doesn't put food on the table and their first child was stillborn, he came home. My grandfather banished him to America because he was ashamed of his disrespectful display and in an effort to help him live an unfettered life in the new land. The tale he tells is one of hard work and loneliness which led him to four wives and twice as many children in and out of wedlock. He returned to India in 1997 with two young sons after their mother got him shot in his New Rochelle driveway. He had to give up maxilofacial surgery and now focuses on cosmetic procedures since he had a long recovery from ths shot to his vertebrae.
His departure to India may have saved his life but it also continued in a Western bent the East doesn't accept. He married a divorcee of my grandparents choosing, who he has since divorced to take up residence with a woman half his age with whom he has a daughter. He is also having an affair with the manager of his booming medical practice--a divorcee with two grown daughters. He recently made this woman wife number 5 upon what he claims was my grandfather's decree, but my grandmother was unaware of the situation.

My younger uncle migrated to the United States in 1987, thanks to M's sponsorship.
Seeing the dysfunction around him, he has cut all ties with the family. His Russian wife (blamed for his distance, obesity, and childless status) and he live in Long Valley and hope to retire to a mansion they are building in south India. His correspondence with my grandfather is strictly business. He remains a member of the family who surfaces rarely in matters of domestic politics.

THE PRESENT
Now, the reason all this history is relevant today is that I've volunteered to go to India for the month of January in an effort to get my grandmother into therapy or at the very least medicated for her condition. The actual condition remains a mystery.

On the day of the Mumbai attacks, she had a blowout fight with my grandfather--the straw that broke the camel's back: my grandfather's insistence that M. marry the mother of his most recent child in our parish in order for my grandfather to be buried there in the event of his death (it is unclear WHY my uncle needs to get married in the church my grandfather has been a member of for the past 55 years in order for him to be buried there) but my uncle went ahead with it without consulting or notifying my grandmother. She found out about the marriage through the church grapevine then my mother confirmed that my grandfather had insisted on this union under God. Her furiousness led to the removal of a substantial amount of gold from her person and a weeping departure from her home in a housecoat via rickshaw.
She disappeared for five hours on one of the worst possible days in the history of the city.
M. called my mother at 2am on Thanksgiving morning, whilst she and I chatted beside a fire in suburban New Jersey, to inform her of the situation. A transatlantic shouting match of the blame game ensued. Shortly, thereafter he called to quell her worst fear; my grandmother had been found standing on the rocks at Bandstand praying and crying. A suicide attempt thwarted; they've medicated her heavily since and my conversations with her have been stilted due to their side effect: disoriented affect, grogginess, and exhaustion.

ME
I am going back to India.

My grandparents raised me and I love them, I also owe them. My mother loves her mother, despite the hysteria, and she'd riddled with guilt. She was just in India for a few weeks and will be returning in February for a family wedding, but she doesn't have the luxury of taking off for months at a time. She has a medical practice to run. Additionally, her American husband isn't going to understand, let alone accompany her on a voyage to her motherland to care for her physically well/psychologically failing mother. Not that he can be expected to but he cetainly won't. I have neither a husband nor a career, I will go. My mother mired in the guilt of a filially pious upbringing can stop self-flagellating because her emissary will represent.

My career choice of mental health is both timely and soon-to-be-tested. I will return to my Bombay to ensure that my grandma gets the helps she needs--stigma be damned! Finessing my grandfather to allow this will be an epic journey in manipulation and wiles. It may take more than the month of January, but I intend to go back after any interviews I may garner as part of the clinical psychology doctoral application process and stay as long as is needed to begin the healing to hearth.

"Piety starts at home"

Series of Voicemails

To know me is to know my friends.

While I don't often admit to being utterly shaped by my environment--a hapless homo sapien--it's not invalid. I'm framed by the people I place on pedestals of varying heights in the largest chamber of my brain--the one wholly dedicated to interpersonal relations.

Ditha (my former NYC roomie and Indian sorority gal pal who ran off to Tollywood and now resides in Dallas with her family working in the theater despite) left me this message earlier this week:
(indecipherable music blasting on a car radio) It's that time of year again. Christmas time. I know how much you LOVE Christmas music, so as soon as I heard Christmas songs on the radio I had to call you and remind you that it's THAT time of year again. Call me back. Oh, it's Ditha!
THIS is patently untrue. Ditha LOVES the season--crazy Hindu--and when we shared a residence she started with the Christmas tunes on chilly October nights. I mean you have to get past Halloween at the absolute earliest!

Tracey (my high school bff, Russian comrade extraordinaire who has trascended selfishness to realize her purpose on this Earth is to patiently teach developmentally challenged children in suburban New Jersey has finally given up her ornithological dreams yet clings to her ice skating and snowboarding frivolties) left me this message:
Woman, I love your well-crafted messages. Such a delight to listen to. Especially that xoxo sign off, so Gossip Girl. You will forever remain my Felicity. I'm glad we aren't going to that dang 10-year reunion. I would rather shred my insides than sit at the Elks Club with this girl I work with who is dating Dick Potter--you remember him, he wrote "penis breath" in your agenda in art class in 8th grade. Yeah, I work with the woman who thinks he's the cat's meow. Give me a call if you have time or anything to report.

She's not one for flattery or social politeness but I'm still a sucker for both.

Li Chen (my Cali Asian hip hop loving booze hound bridge builder--literally he's a civil engineer--who loves his SF life but misses those East Coast nights of bacchanalian post-collegiate revelry) said this to my machine: Chili, Where you at? I finally got the papers for my new job, so back to happy hour in the city...finally. I wish you were here and we could go for drinks right now. Sadly, I'll have to make do with LIGS *lame indian girl* and LAGS *lame asian girl*. Holla back.
There were a small group of Asians who referred to me as Chili in college--I don't think I ever resembled the diminutive TLC member who dated Usher in the last '90s. Li just switched jobs. He's thrilled to be closer to the city and HH, even if his choice of companions is lacking.

Helen (the granola Brit--youngest of four--spent a year under a thatched roof in South India after college and is currently completing her MBA at MIT in order to work in disaster relief in the developing world) had this to say: Ray, it's Maddog. I stopped seeing the security guard. Despite the ease of conversation based on his limited intellect and the thrill of being picked up in a club, I just don't have the time. Are you still not talking to V? Honestly, it's ridiculous. My schedule is crazy but try calling me before 10pm. I can't believe we aren't going to the 10-year high school reunion. I bet Norman is going. We should go. Think about it.

She came up with these nicknames for us. Her family is all about nicknames. She's also all about reunions, clearly.

Taurean Spoons (true IBM *intelligent, black man*-- music maker, booty shaker, lover of all things romantic and spirtual--an artist at heart yet wicked smart) called to say this:
Bud, you never pick up. I'm feeling particularly down call me when you get this. You're my core. I need to talk to someone who understands what I'm going through. Love ya, 'bread.
He's going through a tough break-up...of engagement ending proportions.

Chi (crazy Tupac lovin' Kansan who consults in Chicago after her b-school/health management dual graduate degrees in Ann Arbor is my constant consort on all that ails single Indian women over 28) harried yet steadfast in her messages: Slutbag, I couldn't remember when I was supposed to call or what your work schedule is for today so hit me back on my Jack. The green-eyed monster is not making my life any easier and I think the Frog is trying to get back in my good graces. I hope Citi crashes and his lilypad above the Lincoln Tunnel burns down. You better not be returning Satan's calls/texts/e-mails. Don't lie, I know you get them. You're probably out with the Devil despite my warnings. You'll see, it can't possibly end well, again. I'm here when you come crying. I told you so.
The green-eyed monster is her current love interest--a dashing Neurology resident she recently started dating in Chicago.
The Frog is her ex (neither will admit to having had relations for two years in bschool)--the brash banker with bravado but zero follow through who lives in NYC.
Satan is D'Souza...her title not mine. I think that's a helluva promotion from DoucheBag, but I let her have her names and I have mine. She's forever chastizing me for maintaining contact with the exes.

The Devil is Zayan. My name, not hers. Appropriate for the time, just faceitious now. He's aware of the nickname and alright with it. Being Muslim I think he's heard worse. I was indeed out with him last night enjoying some art, free booze, more art, potential music and carefree drinks at B Bar...Jo was in tow, it wasn't even a non-date.

Those are the people nearest and dearest to me...the ones who called and the ones they called about. Sigh.

Date Night!

I haven't been on a date for the better part of the year....well, that's not true. I was on a date just last month with that disaster from Jersey City. But I haven't had a standing Sat. night date in over a year. Yes, despite living with D'Souza the first quarter you will recall we never actually DID anything outside our apartment after the initial weeks of wooing early in 2007. Lesson learned, but point being, date night has had no meaning to me in many moons.

However, the last two weekends I spent saturday evening with Zayan. Two weeks ago attending Jo's "Depression" party in Williamsburg--back when we thought the economy couldn't get worse--then last weekend watching Slumdog Millionaire and getting wasted at Continental. Tonight, we are meeting in Chelsea around 6 to check out Medieval Pagoda Art then dining at Naima or Brite Bar before heading back East to Bowery to check out live music at Crash Mansion. That's an evening of New York proportions. His bff from high school and Jo will join us on this non-date just to ensure no set pattern emerges.

You are well versed in my belief that once is chance, twice is coincidence, but three...three, my darling, is a pattern. Too bad, three broken promises didn't alert me to this reality about the Douchebag but Hope was the salve I liberally applied in the aftermath of that debacle. Coitally induced cohabitation blurring any foresight. Hindsight, thankfully, remains 20/20!

10 Things I Hate About Alphas

1. You break promises...over and over again.
2. Your lack of empathy.
3. Your single-mindednes, sole goal, ambition.
4. Your ability to shut off your feelings immediately and completely.
5. Your anger, built up from years of abuse, and your unwillingness to deal with it.
6. Your lack of respect for women: treating them as objects, transient to your taste.
7. Your controlling nature based on your belief that you know best.
8. Your quickness to commit and depart sans discussion because your will is law.
9. Your selfishness.
10.Your utter obliviousness to the hurt you cause and the heartbreak in your wake.

wish I'd never met you. I wish I never see you again.
I wish upon you the golden rule--someone to afflict on you the damage you have on me.
I hope you wake to a slow and awful emotional enlightenment.