186. KISS THE BOYS, THEN RIDE THE BULL – Part Three

“How about Mr. Right Now?” Monkey Poop inquires. “What?” I ask unable to stop staring at his tee shirt. “Kiss me and I will be Mr. Right now and you can keep looking for Mr. Right,” Monkey Poop suggests. He is cute for a 26-year old. “Sure,” I reply. “What about me?” Preppy and then Casual ask. Why not, and like that I kiss the boys, all three of them. Wynn has become Annie Leibovitz and clicks the camera like a professional. Poor Kate, her jaw drops.

Just then Charles, the man Kate thinks she is dating, walks by with a gaggle of gorgeous and gaunt girls in runaway haute dresses. They sit down at one of the picnic tables and the sight of them silences us. “Who does he belong to?” Monkey Poop asks. “No one really. But mostly Kate,” I reply.

A table opens up on the other side of Charles and without saying hello, goodbye or thanks for smooching, I make a mad dash across the patio. Everyone has talents and mine is being the spotter. I find the BEST parking spaces at the mall and I am not afraid to hover over a table when I see people paying the bill. Wynn immediately rushes over. Kate stops to speak with Charles and then joins us. You can see hurt in Kate’s face. Her cheeks look flush and her eyes are red.

A waitress stops by and I say, “We’re going to need snacks. French fries, small sandwiches and more drinks. Lots of drinks.” “You got it,” she says and leaves. Charles comes over at the same time two Wall Street types in Hermes suits ask if they can join us. I say yes to the Wall Streeters and hear Wynn growl at Charles, “your shit is not good enough for Kate. Now shoo."

Night has set in around us and the crowd outside Ulysses seems to get stronger and louder as time rages on. The Wall Streeters are chatty and pay for most of the drinks. The married one is smitten with Kate and demands her attention even after she excuses herself to use the loo and returns to sit away from him. The other Wall Streeter is Irish and we have been talking for I don’t know how long about I don’t know what. My mind has gone numb and at some point I kiss him too. When they leave Wynn leans over the table and with disbelief says, “Who knew Manhattan’s giant prude would kiss four men, three of whom are friends in one night? You’re amazing. You’re a whole different person. I am impressed."

I don’t sleep around because I don’t have eight weeks for antibiotics to kill venereal diseases. Don’t even get me started on how picky I am about my shoes. They only go ON my feet. I also don’t want to be a single desi mom. Indians are cruel to widows, spinsters and divorcees. Also, I don’t disconnect my heart from my body, so I actually think sex means more than sex. Though I have learned, sex with meaning, is a foreign concept in New York.

When we no longer have space in our stomachs or the capacity in our tolerances to continue drinking, we decide to go home. Charles comes over to Kate and unsurprisingly they leave together. Giggling, Wynn and I teeter and totter our way along crooked streets until we reach the Bowling Green Station. The night is dark and cool, perfect Spring sleeping weather.

“Desi Girl,” Wynn whispers, grabs my arm and leads me along Broadway. “Yes?” I whisper back knowing night will keep our secrets. “I want to ride the Wall Street Bull,” she says and points at the 7,000 pound bronze symbol of American finance and greed. “Oh why not,” I reply. “How to get on it?” Wynn asks as we drop our purses, plant our hands on our hips and stare up at the bull.

A young couple walking along Broadway sees us and stops. “Do you girls want to ride the bull?” she asks. Wynn nods. “Honey, hoist her up there!” Like an obedient husband he helps Wynn. This is when I realize she had intended to do this all night. The camera was for the bull, not the boys. When is she finally perched between the bull’s horns I point, click and shoot. She slides off and says, “Desi Girl, your turn.”

Oh why not, and just like that, I, too, mount the Wall Street Bull.

(Yes that is Desi Girl herself on the Wall Street Bull)

185. KISS THE BOYS, THEN RIDE THE BULL – Part Two

“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.

184. KISS THE BOYS, THEN RIDE THE BULL – Part One

I arrive at Wynn's Midtown office just before 6:00 pm. She greets and leads me to her office where the desk is lined with vials and pots of makeup. "Have a seat, I need to fix my make-up," Wynn says and continues with her grooming process. Ten minutes pass and I feel nervous. We’re supposed to meet Kate at 6:30 pm and I fear we will be late because we still have to ride in the turn of the century elevator back to the lobby, walk to the subway station and then ride the 4/5 train to Bowling Green.

Wynn must sense my tension because she peers from around her hand mirror and says, “Relax!” She is wearing two green tank tops a light colored one layered on top of a darker one and black pants.“Kate might worry," I say and cross my legs. Unplanned, I, too, am in a green and black paisley print camisole, a black sweater, fabulous fitting black skirt and strappy sandals. “So?” Wynn replies and applies mascara. I think it’s rude to arrive late, but what can I do. So I sit back in the chair and make a mental note to buy an eyelash curler.

* * *

In theory it should take 30 minutes to go the 5 miles from Midtown East to Bowling Green on the 4/5 train. Today time and transport elude us. Wynn and I stand on the warm subway platform, eagerly awaiting the subway. We get excited each time we see the white light coming out of the dark tunnel, only to be disappointed that the arriving train is yet ANOTHER N/R/W train. Fifty-two minutes later we resurface and trek east.

We pass Beaver Street and I shudder, delighted that I never applied to M.I.T. whose mascot is the beaver. Girl beavers. It’s like they never thought women would attend college there. I tug my purse forward and unzip it. My hand roots between my wallet, sunglasses and keys until I find a piece of paper. I pull it out and unfold the address and directions to the bar. When I leave the gridded part of Manhattan, so does my direction sense.

“What are you doing? You look like a tourist!” Wynn demands as I study my notes. “Figuring out where we are going.” “I know where we are going! Relax!” Wynn orders. “This has nothing to with you. I like to orient myself in new areas,” I reply calmly, but annoyed that she scolds me like a child. “Okaaaay,” Wynn replies. Her tone is a cross between bored and unimpressed, like I dyed MY hair green without HER permission.

We can hear the bar Ulysses before we see it. We turn the corner and stare down the alley street. I am not prepared to see so many people in one spot! It is literally overflowing with people. My depth perception is not my sharpest skill, but if the alley is 40 feet wide by a hundred feet long, it is crowded with the standing and the seated, the drinking and the eating. I watch two women begin walking across the alley. For every three steps forward they take, they take two steps back. At this rate it will take them 15 minutes to cross. An urban mosh pit unfolds before my eyes.

Once my evening mixes with vodka, I foresee regretting the combination of three-inch sandals and the cobblestone, even if my legs (BELOW THE KNEE) look model hot.

To be cont.

183. PSYCHIC NETWORK

I leave Ainsley, Kate and Wynn, board the M4 bus and begin my 45 minute journey back to the Heights. I find a seat mid-bus on the right side. The bus is unusually full for 10 pm on a Wednesday night. I pull a book out of my bag and turn on my iPod. The nice thing about riding the bus late at night is the traffic is light (for Manhattan). And because I do this commute several times a month I don’t notice the bus cruising along Madison Avenue, turning onto 110th Street and cutting north at Broadway through the 120s, 130s, 140s, 150s, and finally into the 160s where it turns west again onto Fort Washington.

Except tonight the driver doesn’t turn at 165th Street. But everyone else on the bus notices and someone yells, “Hey Driver! You need to turn at 165.” “No, I don’t,” the driver yells back. Because we are 10 blocks from the George Washington Bridge my first thought is that he’s an MTA employee gone rogue. And this renegade is taking us to the Bronx or Jersey, where he intends to hold us for ransom that he won’t get because the MTA is broke. “Yes, you do have to turn at 165!” another woman yells. “The route says turn at 168, so that is what I am gonna do,” the driver shouts back. “That’s the old route! The new route is west on 165!” “What? This an old map? Shoot! This isn’t my normal route,” the driver shares.

He slams on the brakes and yanks the bus diagonally across Broadway until we are in the left lane. We are ready to turn onto 168th Street when at the last minute the driver flips the biggest u-turn I have ever witnessed. My right boob is crushed into the side of the bus with my nose pressed up against the glass. Ooo, the window stinks. 

The driver cuts off a gypsy cab, almost clips a hydrant, miraculously avoids another bus and then heads south. “Gotta make all the stops! Goin’ back to 165!” the driver announces and grins at us. None of us are hurt or maimed, but he has silenced two dozen New Yorkers. We’re also VERY lucky that once Broadway hits the Heights the road is W-I-D-E. Because it not only takes skill, but space to whip an accordion bus 180 degrees. 



Once inside my apartment I sit down at the computer and check for Town and Country's response. (I know bad and stupid Desi Girl). But on one of our three dates, Town and Country and I chatted about palm readings and psychics. He said he knew of a good one. So a few days ago I emailed him for the contact information. I don’t totally believe in astrology. But I find it interesting that a stranger can read my energy or that my life is literally written in my hands. Staring at the computer I know while I am stubbornly steadfast, I am wantonly weak. And this HAS TO BE the last email I send him. EVER.

I bet no man had the audacity to tell Durga where and when to meet him. And I feel confident that Durga never contacted a man who rejected her. I am sure she was too busy saving mankind from itself to give a man the chance to reject her. Besides, she is not the pining type. She’s the type of woman to lock eyes with a man across the bar and buy him a drink of her choosing. I need to get strong and independent like her because I am tired of dejection and relationships on his terms. I need to live a life, this life, my life, on my terms.

182. DREAMS, DISCOVERY AND DUDES

A week later I am having drinks with Ainsley (Post 166, 164, 140, 135, and 111), and Kate and Wynn, from the Killington ski trip (Post 161, 160, 159, and 158). “I’m being haunted,” I say, sip my wine and retell my Virat dream with graphic detail. When I finish Kate is speechless and Ainsley nods, processing the story. Wynn however says, “You are so strange.” Perhaps. But my dreams are like that. Vivid. Or else there are huge holes in them and I wake up in a panic.

“I had another dream once; it involved this awful former friend whose life revolved around having five boys interested in her at all times. Looking back I knew she was a horrible, shallow person. But I didn’t think to break-up with friends like I did with boyfriends. Until one night I dreamt I was house-sitting for her and decided to smoke cigarettes while vacuuming. When I went to take out the trash and it wouldn't stop flowing and soon the whole apartment was filled with stinking garbage and cigarettes. And I started freaking out because she was returning at any moment. Then there’s a knock on the door and I peer out the peephole. It’s a girl I haven't seen before with two side ponytails, wearing purple shorts. She knocks again, I don’t answer and finally the girl leaves.” Wynn makes a face, “That dream is stranger than the other one.” “What happens next with the girl?” Ainsley asks and ignores Wynn. “I wake up sweating and it ends,” I reply.

“How did you become friends with someone so rank?” Ainsley asks. “I don’t know,” I reply. I doubt Durga would tolerate a vain and unstable friend obsessed with boys, who wore make-up two shades too light and looked like the desi Michael Jackson. So why did I continue to spend time with someone who lacked any knowledge of current events, wrote emails riddled with grammatical errors and drove me to get caller id. Am I too Minnesota Nice and not enough Manhattan Ice? Or do I simply lack self-esteem in all areas of my life?

"Please tell me you are no longer friends with her,” Kate asks. “No,” I reply quickly and swiftly. “She tried to friend me on Facebook and I ignored her. She sent emails and I never wrote back. And when she invited me to her wedding and I didn’t RSVP because I worried she’d take that as communication.” Ainsley stares at me for a long moment and says, “If the apartment dream is your subconscious telling you to stopping being friends with someone. Your Thai dinner date dream is deeper than men.” I slowly release air from lungs and think Ainsley is correct. But I am scared to cut myself open and discover my psyche. Three and a half decades of repression, self-preservation, loss and disappointment is not going to be pretty once under the mighty lens of honesty, even if it leads to self-discovery.

“I think everything would fine if you’d just find a fuck-buddy,” Wynn suggests. Has this woman met me? If so, I doubt she would suggest, to a self-proclaimed prude, that the solution to her life is to find a man who uses her for sex. “No thanks,” I reply. Wynn does not relent, “We need a night of reckless abandon where we wildly kiss inappropriate men.” Wynn then points at me and says, “Desi Girl, you better smile and be nice if you want them to buy drinks.” “I can buy my own drinks. Besides I don’t think it’s nice to use men,” I reply. “Do you live under a rock?” Wynn demands. “If that rock is Washington Heights, then yes, I live under a rock,” I reply. Wynn groans and shakes her head, “Men like to be treated like shit…and I know just the place to take you.”

181. TEETOTALERS, VEGETARIANS AND HUSBAND? OH MY! – Part Four

I begin ordering. “Two egg rolls. Pork, with fish sauce on the side. The roasted red pepper chicken, extra chicken, lean on the veggies, heavy on the spices...” I stress each word, watching color slowly draining from smug Virat’s face. The full force of my warrior Punjabi caste aligns with me and I continue, “And vodka with soda water. Heavy on the vodka, light on the water.”



With my spicy meat dish and drink on the way, I feel empowered. It was high time to order a drink…no, no, order drinks in front of the teetotalers. Maybe even get drunk. Why not? And vegetarians? Why bother? Spinsterhood or not, I am not giving up chicken curry for any man. Ever.

When I meet quiet and introspective types, I will drive them away with incessant chatter, putting an end to dates with mutes. If he cannot string five words into a sentence then he is not for me. For the religious men, I’ll tell them my stars are bad, which is no lie. No superstitious Indian man is going to stick around and find out more. Tomorrow I’ll work off the egg rolls on the treadmill, my modern day lion. Tonight I will drink vodka like water. I have no issue with making concessions, but I am not accommodating the likes of the Virat the Vegetarian or Tanuj the Teetotaler.

Then suddenly I have the unbelievably strong and uncontrollable feeling that I have to pee, and right then and there, I do. I pee in my seat. I pee and I pee and I pee until I bolt up, panting and gasping. It takes a moment to determine my surroundings and realize I, again, fell asleep on the couch and left on the living room lights. I squint. The VCR clock says 445 am and the early morning news blares on the telly. An empty wine glass rests on a coaster. A small dullness beats against my temples. I reach under my ass. Dry. I did NOT pee in my sleep, but man I have to go now!

I sit up and push the blanket away. Reality settles in. Holy fuck! Holy fuck! HOLY FUCK! That was a dream. Thank GOD it was a dream, but HOLY FUCK! Every bad date I have ever had and all my worst fears about myself just manifested in my subconscious. I don’t have a choice, I have to ask, how did my life end up on this course? And why aren’t I strong and fearless like that in real life? I don’t know what is worse insomnia or these dreams that generally come in advance of conflict or deep-seated anxiety that I am denying.

These days I cannot seem to strike the balance. I feel beat down by relatives who judge and advise but in the end don’t help. You are too picky they say. Come to India and get a job at an MNC. And we can find you a husband in no time. But they don’t listen when I tell them I don’t want to live in the Third World where the plague still breaks out. There is a reason Dad got the hell out. I don’t want any man, I want THE ONE, because he will surely understand me, make me laugh and genuinely love me. Am I really asking for that much? I shouldn’t have to settle because my cousins did and think I should, too. And I most certainly don’t want to uproot my life. Again. I am barely hanging on in this one.

And shit man. I don’t understand what is going in the man department. In college I knew SOOO many nice men. Indian or otherwise. Did all the goods ones get married and all that is left are the losers? What does this say about me? Because I am not the single mom type, nor should a child be left alone in my soul care, I am freaking out that my window to naturally bear kids is closing. Every time the sun rises I get closer to 40, further from 20 and feel everything I was raised to acquire (a masters, marriage and motherhood) is slipping away because nothing seems to go my way (other than the graduate degree).

But the thing is, I don’t like my job, I am nothing more than a glorified secretary. Instead of walking away, I keep plugging along “for the family” like we’re the freaking mob or something. I don’t like my apartment, but I get paid in Minneapolis wages, while living in Manhattan, so I can’t afford a place on the Upper East Side. I can barely afford this one. And then there is my small addiction to Ann Taylor coupons. I cannot resist those glossy flyers that come in the mail and say, “For 4 days only, all full-price items are 30% off” and deplete my monies. Desi men? Well Minnesota didn’t exactly prepare me to adore tall, dark and handsome because I have an insatiable desire for Matthew McConaughey and Val Kilmer. But Dad has told me that if I bring home anything other than brown, I am disowned. I know parents make empty threats, but Dad is scary stubborn and I believe him. So what choice did I have but to become a serial desi dater and end up on this course.

As I make my way to the bathroom I force myself to be honest. I cannot solely blame the men, my job, family, or relatives. I allowed it all. Desi boys got away with behavior that green or blue men wouldn’t. I put up with life in a family business and relatives telling me to move to India, that I am old, not that skinny or that pretty. My friends too. Why do I return calls, text messages and emails within seconds of receipt, while it takes them days, even weeks to respond?

I switch on the bathroom light. My face looks dull and tired. Ten-pound hefty bags have taken permanent residence under my eyes. The truth is, some time ago I sold myself up the metaphorical river and now I have to buy myself back. Einstein said the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Ugh, this has to be my wake up call to change things. Or else I may seriously lose it.

My dream of incontinence also makes me realize that what I need more than a boyfriend, or a husband, are a Manhattan paycheck with the trimmings of 401K, vacation time and health insurance, and some balls like Hilary Clinton, not flimsy ovaries like Sita. And most likely a, therapist --- a good one who can prescribe drugs.

180. TEETOTALERS, VEGETARIANS AND HUSBAND? OH MY! – Part Three

“So what are you looking for in a life partner?” Virat asks. “Someone who is physically, intellectually and emotionally compatible,” I reply. “That seems very vague. Perhaps that is why you aren’t married. You don’t know what you are looking for,” he says giving me a grave look. Now I want the earth to open up and suck Virat into its core, and maybe scorch him a little.

"Of course it is vague. It’s part destiny and part chemistry. The rest of my life can’t be qualified, like a math equation. It’s not like I am buying Tide at Target,” I snap sourly. “You shop you at Target?” Virat snickers. “You should go to WalMart it’s all the same stuff but cheaper. I bet you don’t put enough into your retirement accounts to get employer matching either, huh? How much to you save each month?” Virat asks abrasively. “I save some savings,” I mumble uncomfortably. More like no money, but I won’t be marrying him so why share my dark spending secrets.

I am crossing and uncrossing my legs under the table, my stomach is flipping from hunger. Or pain. This man could literally be killing me. I almost salivate when another waitress walks by carrying plates of pad Thai embroidered with curly strands of julienned carrots and white domes of rice on banana leaves. Finally, finally, finally our waitress returns. “Sorry, for the delay. Are you guys ready to order?” “Desi Girl?” Virat, who has the personality of diarrhea, sets his menu aside, looking at me with flat eyes as if he is doing me the favor by dining tonight. “Oh, no! Please you first,” I insist sweetly. “No, no,” Virat replies. “I need one more minute!” I confess.



He sighs deeply it borders on a groan. Even the overworked and underpaid waitress notices his impatient displeasure. He picks up the menu with the fanfare of a theatre performer, “I’ll have pad Thai with fresh tofu. Not fried.” “Okay,” the waitress notes his order on her pad. “No, no. I’m not done,” Virat interjects roughly. “No fish sauce. No egg.” “Okay,” she says. “Did you write it down? Write it down. I don’t want this coming out wrong,” Virat demands. Clearly, he does not believe in treating servers very well. Another bad sign. I stop and peer around the menu, hoping that someone at the next table and not my date is going on like a belligerent asshole. The unmistakable look of hate flashes through the waitress’s eyes and the pencil moves across the pad. “Total asshole” “Spit in food” “Poison the loser at table 15”. I can only wonder what she is writing.

“Are you ready now?” Virat presses in his superior sounding tone. I set the menu aside and look the bastard square in the eye. Oh yeah, I am ready….