Thursday, December 29, 2011


Okay.  I am not exactly sure how I did this – but I have made to the airport with a few minutes to spare. I don’t like to cut leaving New York this close. I must be a sight to the man who is in the middle seat, stuck between me and a Nordic looking chic. Little beads of sweat cap the crown of my head. I am praying that they won’t slide down my cheeks. My sweater is already damp from running across a small island to make this flight. I am pretty sure my mascara is going to start running soon, too.

I had a plan. I really did. I was going to clean the loo, kitchen, then vacuum the area rug, then fold the laundry, unplug the electronics and water the plant. How that plant is still alive is beyond me. That poor thing gets water when I remember which is sometimes a month later. I guess everything, plants, people and animals all have a sheer will to survive. Some stronger than others. Clearly this plant is one tough cookie.

Then morning came, as in this morning, and nothing was done. So like a super sonic rabbit on speed I was racing around cleaning, choking on cleanser fumes (yummy), eating and drinking and freezing as much food as I could. Why did I go grocery shopping three days before I left? I think I thought it would be more healthy and cost effective. Ugga-bugga. I pick the wrong times to be sensible. 

And for some reason I did not pack a darn thing. So this morning between cleaning and eating, I was rifling through the closet looking for warm things, but too bulky things, because I needed to pack three pairs of shoes, toiletries and one party dress into the little rolling bag. Now that the airlines want $25 per checked bag, I protest, and pack 50 pounds into two carry-ons. Take that Northwest Airlines!

I made one last trip to toss out the garbage and the grabbed my bags, locked the door, ran out of the building and headed to the Uptown 6 train so I could catch the M60 to LaGuardia. I am sure it would have been easier to catch one of the many, many, many readily available cabs on First Avenue. But it was much cheaper to take the bus.

Of course I boarded the SLOWEST moving M60 known to man, arrived at the airport later than I had hoped, stood in a SUPER DUPER LOOOOOONG security line. Damn good thing I did not have to check bags in. Because then I could have stood in an EVEN LOOOOOOOONGER line. After that I ran like an insane person fleeing Bellevue Hospital to Gate 8 just as they began announcing the flight was oversold and we were not leaving until six people gave up their seats. Thinking that this could take hours, I flopped onto the ground and crossed my legs. 

Then seconds later this announcement, “Ladies and gentlemen in the boarding area, wanted to let you know that we have six volunteers giving up their seats and we are still anticipating an on-time departure and ask for your cooperation as we board this aircraft bound for the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, Minnesota. We’d like to begin boarding those traveling with small children, needing a little extra time and our guests in the First Class cabin.” After that, they boarded the aircraft from the back to the front, at a speed I have never seen.

Which is now why I am having heat stroke in my seat, clutching my purse for dear life, sweat rolling down my cheeks, minutes from take-off. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I make things so much harder? Why did I wait for the last minute? Why didn’t I just take a cab? Why don’t I just check in luggage? Why do I make everything in my life a competitive sport?

Thursday, December 22, 2011


All - 

This is not a post. I am resetting expectations.

Let me begin with, these are life experiences that I have gone through over the past several years. I contacted a marketing communications professional and there is nothing that forbids blogging as a form of storytelling.  Storytelling about past events doesn’t mean advice shouldn’t be given or that it is no longer of value.  What do you think books are about? They are not happening as you read them. 

Despite the level of sheer nastiness that was I was subjected to, I am not going to stop blogging, memoir-ing, or whatever you want to call it. I never lied, again refer to Post 52. And if you don’t like the blog – then just don’t read.

For those who read from the beginning and missed that it was about past events, I am genuinely sorry for that, there was no intent to mislead. I am going to edit Post Number 1 so it is clear from the onset that this about past events. Yes, I do understand that responding to the comments was a challenge due to the past-present issue, again my intent was never to mislead. 

The comments are now being monitored.  


Wednesday, December 21, 2011


Holy crap. I am so so soooooooo not ready to go home. I am not sure how this happens. It is not like I have not known for a month that I am leaving for the Minne. Yet here I am with loads of chores to do and a small amount of hours to get them done. The messy apartment being number one. I don’t like to leave a messy apartment for two reasons. One, I don’t want to come back to a mess. Two, if I don’t come back, because I died, then I don’t want my mother to think her only daughter was a slob. Because I am not. I just need to perform my weekly cleaning ritual asap. 

And I am pretty organized and I could be a professional organizer for a job. I have organized closets for five people. So I know not to do as a living because I won’t make any money.  I am the type of person who would quote 10 hours to organize a closet and if it took 15, I would invest the time and not charge a client. So if I had 4 clients in a week and went over 20 hours, then I’d be 2 clients behind in revenue. But I am not programmed to do a bad job. And I would love to find a job that allows me to use my organizational, communication and relationship building skills. And I definitely know that I don’t want to do plain old marketing. I need something with a pulse, but a heart rate, with some change and chaos. I suppose the desire from energy for that comes from my architecture days.

Errand number one is the mail. I grab my letters and bills (landlord will want to be paid). I somehow have no stamps and make a mad dash to the post office. It just opened and I want to use the automated postage machines for the lobby opens at 9.00 am and before the entire population of the UES lands up at the post office mailing Chanukah, Christmas and New Year’s Cards.

I get to the post office and it is silent, which is a little creepy, because someone employed by the Post Office has to be there and there is no sight or sound of another person. I post faster than I have ever mailed before and run out of there. I normally don’t get scared, but I feel the way I did the one night the A Train stopped at the 175th Street Station for 20 minutes at 2.30 am. I was six blocks from home but not willing to walk it outside.

Normally I pop my IPod in but I feel a little rattled from the post office so I let my ears drink in the early morning UES sounds. Garbage trucking beeping on the next block. Dogs barking. Taxis moving slowly along the street looking for a patron. It is a little chilly and I decide to treat myself to a Starbucks. I used to have a daily Starbucks treat, but I guess if it was daily, that would make it an addiction. This is back when a latte was $3. I drank and drank and drank them. Until one day Desi Brother looked at me sideways I knew I was toast.

He had this very reflective, look that came across his face, through his eyes. And he said, “So what does that cost you? $3?” I sipped my coffee, thinking the end was coming. Not knowing how – just knowing. “Yes,” I replied. “And what you drink about 5 of them a week?” he asked. I think it was more like seven a week, which he must have seen running through my mind, because he said, “Let’s go with 5 coffees a week, $3 a drink, is $15 a week times 4 weeks is $60 a month by 12 months is ….” He didn’t have to finish. Once he flashed the calculator at me, and I saw the $720, I gasped. “I think you should by an espresso machine and make these at home for yourself,” he, the practical one suggested. Since I was pushing a yearly habit of $1K – I followed his advice.

This is what I am thinking as I am standing in line ordering my drink, looking forward to seeing him. Looking forward to eating Mom’s samosas, puri, aloo, tandoori chicken, mutties, dal. Looking forward to getting away from New York for a few weeks. Looking forward to not thinking of Town and Country when I am his neighborhood. Not thinking about him when I pass a French restaurant whose special for the day is cassoulet. I try to tell myself he was a jerk, and he could by a bit of a jerk – but he was not all bad. He just wasn’t THE ONE.


I ask myself what was so attractive about him?  I am having a get real moment with myself. And how idiotic it was to invest in him, in what? Yes, much of the attraction was physical and definitely him being Punjabi was a plus. I was not resigned to only marrying Punjabi. But 98% of my family and extended family is Punjabi.  So on some level, that appealed to me. But if I would be honest, which I have to be now --- this is ridiculous. He has behaved like a total a-hole and ONLY because he is desi, and really ONLY because he is Punjabi did I tolerate it? That is even more ridiculous.

And surely Town and Country is not thinking about me and probably has gone back to making deals. And what is the point in mourning in something that is gone, over and lost – and what was it anyway? Kinda stupid to like a guy who liked me, and then didn’t like me, and then didn’t and then did again. And WHAT was that? I mean sure, I should have looked before I leapt.  But what was with him and all the back and forth? Why did he follow-up after every meeting and say it was nice to have me there. It was nice to see me. That he liked this top or that skirt. And what a jerk, who cannot say thank you, or stop with the stringing along and flirting? Ugh, this is so gross.

Whatever. I need to forget and move on, tie up important loose ends like clean my apartment, clear out the fridge and select a gym before I head back to the Minne on Friday to spend time with my parents.

When I first joined US Swim and Fitness I was in high school, I paid $39 a month for a year and then $6 a month for life after that. So when US Swim was bought out by Bally’s that was REALLY nice because I could use those gyms all over the country. When I moved to Washington Heights there were no gyms within 30 blocks, so I joined Planet Fitness in the Bronx. It wasn’t bad, weights and treadmills – but I think I am hitting a plateau and need to shake it up a bit.

I grab the phone and dial.

“This is Tate,” she says. “Tater-tot! Desi Girl, here.” “Hiya – whacha doin’?” she asks. “Picking a gym. I am down to three.” “Join mine – we can take ballet and zumba,” she says. “Where are you at?” I ask. “New York Sports Club,” she replies. “I have free passes, wanna go with me?” she asks. “I would love to, but I am leaving for the Minne on Friday. It is waaaaay cold and snowing there,” I reply.

I have been monitoring the weather for a few days, trying to figure out if it will be possible to skip packing the winter boots, they take up too much space in the carry-on.  “If I join New York Health and Racquet, they have a yacht members can rent and take for a spin around the island,” I say. “Or I guess I can just ride the Circle Line one day too.” “You could,” she says. “Join my gym. When I come up there to visit my boyfriend, we can take classes together.”

As she has been talking I have been online looking up her gym and see that if you sign up now, you don’t get billed for January, which means I am getting one month for free. Sweet! And sold! Who says there are no deals in the Big Apple? All I need is a new diet and some relaxation and I am set for the next year. I am rather looking forward to the possibilities that are yet to come.

Monday, December 19, 2011


I wake up the next morning. My eyes have puffed shut. I must have cried myself to sleep. I blink several times. My contacts have fused to my eyeballs so not only do my eyes hurt, they are blurry slits for seeing.  I stumble across the apartment to the bathroom. I cannot even brush my teeth because I cannot see anything. I grope around the linen closet and find drops and release half a dozen drops into each eye, until I can blink sight back into my life.

I brush my teeth, brew coffee and grab my phone. I re-read the series of texts, I re-live the cutting slices against my feelings. It is okay. This is not the first boy who did not like me back. This is the first not boy or girl for that matter, that wasn’t a great friend. This is not the first relationship in my life that has not worked out.

It does strike me that I gave him a lot more chances, because he was Indian. It does strike me that I most probably have not tolerated this from a non-Indian guy. It does strike me that me I should have just said no a long time ago. It does strike me that I am colorblind everywhere else in my life, why not in my lovelife?

Okay. Fine. This was a mess. I need to move the hell on. One by one I delete his emails, text messages and finally his phone number. For a moment I consider writing down his phone number, in case he calls or texts again, so I can remember who not to respond to.

But you know what, God and Ganesh willing, he won’t contact me. God and Ganesh willing, I can just get over this and start anew. A new year is coming – one filled possibility. So I should grieve and cry, let it out, cut myself some slack and start over.

Sunday, December 18, 2011


I walk the loop one more time. Up First Avenue, to 87th Street, back to Park, to 79th and then home. The cool night flicks little brisk kisses of wind across my cheeks. It is not so cold that I am freezing, but it is cool enough to where I don’t want to stay outside and complete another loop. 

I reach into my pocket and get my keys ready for the door. We (my neighbors and I) are not sure at what time, but at some time the steps of the church across our building become the sleeping station for the city’s homeless folks. I think it is really sad that they are homeless, especially those who fought for America in wars. I know we have services for them, thanks to God I have never been homeless, but it is awful. 

When I lived in Washington Heights, there was a homeless man there who was fed by a lot of the restaurant owners. Sometimes when I would come home from dinner, I would see him sitting outside the subway and he’d ask for my leftovers and without thinking I would hand them over. He also slept outside the subway station so some mornings on the way to the gym I’d leave my banana or granola bar for him. I once covered him in a blanket. To his credit he survives the winter, the summer, the heat, the cold.

I get back into my apartment the force of the heat from the radiator hits me. OMG. It is SO hot in the apartment. I thought the Washington Heights apartment was hot, but that was nothing. At least there I could leave my windows wide open because I had gates and window screens. But now my window is off of the fire escape which worries me a little so I close the windows before I go to bed.

I change into shorts and a tank top. Out of habit reach for my phone and don’t believe this. A missed call from Town and Country? We have NEVER spoken on the phone, this is strange and a part of me thinks I am imagining his number populating on he call list, so I hit the button for last call received and I go into his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me – Desi Girl. Did you call me? I thought you were done with this.” I hang up and I feel itchy and scratchy again. What is going on? Did I make up his yelling at me text messages? So I text him back.

Desi Girl: Hey. I think you called me. I find it weird since you have never called me before. I understood that we were done. So I don’t plan to contact you again. I don't even know why I am texting you - but I wish you well.