Wednesday, September 8, 2010


“I think we should go inside and order drinks,” I suggest to Wynn and watch the servers race around the patio. They look busier than Manhattan women fighting over authentic Prada bags at Midtown sample sales. “Agreed,” Wynn replies. Unfortunately the mob scene inside the sandstone walled bar is no better. Under a wood beam ceiling the bar, almost the size of the room, is on average five people deep on all sides. It is so loud my ears ring. And it so lawless we literally begin pushing our way towards the bar. When that doesn’t work we arch our backs, thrust our boobs forward and torpedo through the throng of patrons. There is no perceivable way we will hear or see Kate.

“Cranberry and vodka,” Wynn orders when she catches the bartender’s eye. “Same!” I shout. While we wait divine intervention shines upon us and Kate miraculously appears at our side. “Oh. My. God!” I girl-shriek. Wynn turns around puzzled at first, then relieved to see Kate. “I was so worried we’d never find you,” I gush and long-lost hug her, even though I saw her three days ago. “So glad you are here!” Wynn says and pecks a kiss on Kate’s cheek. “Me too!” Kate says, orders a white wine and looks around. “How are we going to get out of here?” “Same way we got in, boobs first,” I reply.

Once outside we find the alley between Ulysses, Puck Fair and Swift has filled with more people. “Where to start?” Wynn asks. “Over there,” I say and point arbitrarily. Our progression towards ‘over there’ is slow, bordering on nonexistent because all of Lower Manhattan has gathered here, ready to permanently indent the earth. While I like the bustle of big cities, I don’t like crowds. This is why concerts, Times Square and the Taste of Minnesota food festival are not on my favorite pastimes. With an exception to be made for Prince, that man is a mother-freaking genius.

It takes persistence and walking in a single file line like kindergartners to get across the alley. We regroup and form a half-circle so we can chat but are interrupted when someone yells, “Hey!” in our direction. We glance over and find a man wearing a tee -shirt of a monkey throwing poop. His two friends, Casual Clothes and Preppy Button-Down, hover behind him.

After a few minutes of introduction the six of us begin an organic conversation. “Do you know Wynn?” I ask Monkey Poop. “Nope. Just flagged her down and you all started talking to us.” Interesting approach. “So what do you guys do?” I ask of the handsome Preppy Button-Down. “We’re in television and live everywhere but Manhattan. What do you do?” he asks.

“I’m a writer.” This is the FIRST time I have ever said that. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or the need to reinvent myself, but I wonder if calling myself what I want to be, not what I am, is the first step towards empowerment. I no longer want to be that woman previous dates have met. I want to be new and shiny, a better version of that girl who fell for Town and Country, and dated Naveen Nair, Reindeer, Vee-jay, Dillweed, the ODDBs and etc.

On every level I know how crazy the Town and Country attraction is. Or was. But we had an intense connection, and a level of intimacy and honesty that came from sharing ourselves openly and deeply, with no judgment or expectation. He never lied or led me on and that kind of integrity doesn’t seem to occur naturally in Manhattan. I often think we got too close, too fast and exploded like stars caught in the gaseous atmosphere.

“What are you writing? I’m in TV. What’s the hook?” Huh, that is what my agent asks me all the time. After four years of writing and editing, I still pause and question my theme. “It’s about two generations of Indian woman in Minnesota negotiating…” I begin. “Won’t sell. Jhumpa Lahiri did it already and it’s a movie now.” Preppy says and crushes my dream.

“I didn’t know boys could still be mean at my age,” I mutter, sigh and pout. “How old are you?” Preppy asks with a smirk. “36,” I reply. “Now I know you’re a writer! Making shit up like that! 36? No really, how old are you?” Preppy asks and laughs. “Still, 36.” Who lies about being 36? “I’ll need some id,” Preppy says. This is deeply flattering and I have no issue producing my Minnesota driver’s license. “Damn. You don’t even look 30,” Preppy says. “Where’s your husband?” “I don’t have one,” I reply. “What? A single, good looking Indian woman? I presumed you were arranged by 12,” Preppy jokes. I presumed a lot of things when I moved to New York including meeting THE ONE, getting married and moving to Westchester within the span of 12 to 18 months. “Nope, still looking for the elusive Mr. Right,” I reply.

To be cont.


Anonymous said...

Liking the bold Preppy comments... And LOVE the name/existence/creation of "Monkey Poop"!!! Ha! Love it! Only YOU could come up with that.. That and "Dillweed". Love the names DG! Hey! DG=DesiGirl AND DG=DolceGabbana. You are SO worth DG! Keep them coming...

101 Bad Desi Dates said...

Dear Anonymous ... well thank you! What a lovely email to get. Monkey Poop, yep, well even now, long after meeting him I cannot get over that tee-shirt. :)

And thanks DolceGabbana, I used to aspire to want such things, but at some level I wonder why I squandered my money? Maybe I can get some swag DG :)

Will do ... keeping them coming is my promise to you!

DG (Desi Girl :)

Nancy said...

I'm a sucker for handsome preppy button-down... Can't wait to hear more!

101 Bad Desi Dates said...

Dear Nancy ... and if Preppy Boy wears a splash of Tom Ford cologne and has a British accent all the better! Hhhmm ... nice!

Desi Girl