251. DESI GIRL, THE ARCHITECT’S DAUGHTER

I'm seated at a table near the bar watching Dr. Froggy enter the restaurant. He’s in the navy blazer and on his phone talking to someone other than me. He sits down a few minutes later and says, "Sorry I’m late. I was talking to the builder on my house. Between him and the architect they are behind…what else is new?” Dr. Froggy mutters.

Sure, I know. Frank Lloyd Wright is the living legacy regarding what a pain in the ass architects can be. And contractors have subjected me to mocking and ridicule, asking if my hard hat is from Macy’s. So I know architecture and construction are dysfunctional. I also know Dad has always run his practice on the straight and narrow, with honor and integrity. So Dr. Froggy should not make such generalizations that upset the Architect's daughter.

“How long has the construction been going on?” I ask and sip water. “Since January,” Dr. Froggy replies. “How many square feet again?” I ask. “Over 5,000 finished and then there is an unfinished basement and attic. But it took forever to get the kitchen done and they made a mistake with the hot tub and the concrete pad was not engineered for the correct weight load. My mom keeps coming to oversee the construction,” he replies.“Well, that sucks for your Mom, but look, construction is an inexact science unfortunately. There are lots of unexpected variables. But have you made a lot of Owner requested changes? Because that is where they get you. If you sign off for A, B and C and then you ask for E and M, forget it. The price of your house just doubled,” I explain. “Really? I have had a few but the builder keeps telling me it will be okay,” Dr. Froggy says. “Well, maybe, but thankfully you're not at the year mark yet, so there is time,” I reply. "What happens after a year?" he asks. "Most clients have it built into their contract that liquidated damages kick in after a year. You have that right?"

Dr. Froggy looks puzzled and then says, “No. And they started construction LAST January, not this year, but LAST year.” I almost spit out my water. The Taj Mahal was on a faster construction schedule than this damn P. Diddy styled McMansion. “What? This has been going on for two years? You need to fire your architect,” I say. “I don’t have one,” he replies. “What?" I ask horrified. He is a Contractor's dreamboat. I know plenty of folks who build their houses without an architect and then suffer a woeful agony when they are price gouged and left with a house that is 80% complete. Desi Girl’s PSA: Always hire an architect. On an architectural project they operate like an attorney, someone to advocate for your project and pocketbook against a Contractor. “No, I just have a builder,” he replies. “Well, then you deserve to suffer. You are basically designing your house like a surgeon removing a gall bladder with a rusty oyster fork. I cannot have sympathy for you when you didn’t safe guard yourself."

Dr. Froggy laughs and leans into the table, “You’re feisty I like it…and I don’t know about you, but I have enjoyed the weekend and am wondering if you’d like to visit me next?”

250. DR. FROGGY DATE TWO

Two hours before I meet Dr. Froggy for our Rosa Mexicana lunch, I stare into the closet so devotedly you’d think Durga was in there doling wise counsel upon me.

As I wait for fashion wisdom I must agree with Meera. My outfit last night was indeed “sophisticated casual” and now I feel pressure to again be fabulous --- more for myself than Dr. Froggy. This is why I decide to wear Meera’s favorite outfit on me --- white vee-neck tee-shirt; white, mid-calf length Sunny Leigh skirt with red flowers and green stems along the bottom; a long green scarf wrapped around my neck twice (it doubles as a shawl if the evening gets cool), and red slides. I have planned nothing for Dr. Froggy, which means I have no idea what I will be doing over the next 12 hours. Let me at least don some sensible shoes.

Without delay or event I meet Dr. Froggy for lunch. He is again wearing his blazer and dress pants. We get seated and much to my delight, table side guacamole. Much to my dismay, another unfinished meal because Desi Girl was too full after finishing one taco and too many chips.

“Wanna see the Met?” he asks. “Sure,” I reply. Once inside the museum we go through my favorite galleries, looking at the Indian and Egyptian art. He expresses interest in seeing the armor and weapons, and I agree. Who am I to object? He bought the tickets.

“Any desire in going to Coney Island?” Dr. Froggy asks. “Sure,” I reply. You’d think from his planning efforts and ideas, it is he, not me who lives in NYC. We make small talk on the train and experience long moments of silence when the adjacent “kids” (I use this loosely because they look about 15) start talking loudly, jumping around and acting like alley cats. God, I hope I was NEVER like that growing up. And gross, when did I become “that old” that I think of these people as “those kids."

Once in Queens, we walk along the boardwalk. The afternoon is warm and a light breeze kicks up just a touch of salty air to sting my lips. We pass the rides and dozens of food stands selling taffy, cotton candy, hot dogs, pizza, and popcorn. “Want anything to eat?” he asks. I shake my head. What I want is a disco nap. Who knew eating, art and walking could be so exhausting. I however don’t object when we pass a lemonade stand. I need a sugary afternoon pick me up.

We return the City and Dr. Froggy says, “I am in the mood for dosas. How does that sound to you?” “Sounds great!” I reply. As a North Indian, I did not grow up dining on the delights of dosa, idli and sambar. And since I live in Washington Heights, it is not often that I get to frequent the dosa joints on Lexington in the 20s.

When we get seated I am OFFICIALLY tired an order a Diva Cola (Diet Coke) and drink about half of it in 6.7 seconds. Whoever invented the straw was a mother-freaking genius. Feeling re-energized I am more engaged in the date. Until the waiter comes.

I am aghast when Dr. Froggy orders a HUGELY HUGE deep fried appetizer platter AND a HUGELY HUGE dosa. His appetite would be less alarming if he was Michael Phelps and not an overweight cardiologist pushing 40. And not to be a Negative Nandini but I am a little concerned that this man has a completely sedentary life for two reasons. One is being overweight is unhealthy. And two, I am a really active person and worry I will run circles around him. My thought is cut short because the waiter returns with trays of food and I already know this is another meal I won’t be finishing.

“What time is your flight tomorrow?” I ask. Maybe talking will make me feel more alert. “Why?” he asks. “I have friends coming in for the US Open and I need to meet them for drinks at four. But I am hoping that we could have brunch at Marseilles in Hell’s Kitchen. Sound good?” He nods and says, “Sounds good.”

249. AFTER CRISPO THE DATE CRASHERS LEAVE

I watch Meera and her entourage get up. They wave wildly, blow kisses and leave. I am so glad this place has no mirrors!

When the check comes, Dr. Froggy’s money is where his mouth is. Without skipping a beat, he grabs the check and pays for dinner. “Would you like to get a drink?” he asks as we step out into the cool evening. I wrap myself deeper into my silk blend wrap and nod my head. “While Chelsea is known for a vibrant gay culture and scene, there are lots of nice places along 8th Avenue, sound good?" I ask. Staying in this area also keeps me close to the A train!

We sit down at the bar. Despite not finishing my dinner, I don't feel super tipsy. I never believed that women don't eat on dates, and I love to eat, but for some reason, I have yet to finish all my food on a Manhattan desi date.

"So one of my favorite places is Rosa Mexicana. Every time I come to New York I eat there. Normally I go with my buddies. Any interest in having lunch there tomorrow?” Ugh. I find Rosa overpriced and the portions HUGE. But he did pay lots of money to come here, so who I am to deny him. Then again, I have never said no to chips and table side guacamole! “Sure, sounds good. Which location, UES or Lincoln Center?" I ask. "There's two?" he asks. "I'd prefer the Lincoln Center one." "Me, too!" I reply.

"While I love New York, I have no desire to live here," Dr. Froggy announces. Oh man, he just drove a dagger into my heart. While I can barely afford to live here I love it. And is this his way of saying, if this works out I have to move into his P. Diddy inspired McMansion? "Why is that? Love it but don't want to live it?" I ask. "It is too expensive. My taxes are high enough and for a $1 million I can build a 5,000 square foot house there or live in a two bedroom apartment here. I'd rather have the house," he explains. "Hhhmm, I understand that. Some people are suburban and others, like me are urban," I reply. He nods and we continue chatting for another hour. He tells me about his rotations and how the construction of his condo is going.

Eventually I say, "Oh it's late! And you must be exhausted." He glances at his watch and nods. He, again, pays and once outside we hug good-bye and he hails a taxi for me, “I’d prefer it if you took a cab,” Dr. Froggy says with concern in his voice. "It's kinda late." Oh this is sweet. And little does he know how late and how often I ride around on the subway. While I would prefer to protest and state the subway station is across the street, allowing me to spend $2 rather than $30 on the ride home, I agree to his wish.

"See you tomorrow," I say and duck into the cab.

248. DESI GIRL’S DINNER DATE WITH DR. FROGGY

I must really NOT want to go on this date because I’m late. Granted it isn’t completely my fault. I left home at 8:20 pm and generally 40 minutes is enough time to get to West 14th Street.

Without trying, I saunter down the street in these three inch sandals. I see Dr. Froggy standing at the edge of the sidewalk, tuck my purse tightly under my arm and walk over to his side. “Dr. Froggy?” I say. “Hello, Desi Girl,” he replies and we do the awkward first time hug. “How was your flight?” I ask.”Fine,” he replies. He’s about 5’-7”, with a large, square head that doesn’t seem quite in portion with his body. I am disappointed to learn that his idea of average is more in line with my idea of heavy, but he is dressed VERY nicely in trousers and a blue blazer. “Did you let them know you’re here?” I ask. “Nope, I waited for you,” Dr. Froggy replies. “Oh, well thank you. Let’s go in and let them know, shall we?” I suggest. “Sure we can have a drink at the bar and wait,” Dr. Froggy offers.

We walk towards the restaurant and Meera and her desi posse consisting of Rohit, Shouldn’t Have Kissed Him, and two other male friends are standing and chatting. I catch her eye and she smiles, trying to get a glimpse of my date. She is wearing one of my favorite dresses on her -- a brown, ombre traffic-stopping sheath dress. In that moment, I stop and think, “poor Dr. Froggy, he has no idea about what’s happening around him.” Meera and I are so juvenile that it amuses me. Only really, good, close friends would consider doing such a thing. And God bless Rohit for going along with the charade, though I suspect he’s as invested in my groom hunt as Meera, Mom, Bangalore cousin and me!

Dr. Froggy and I order red wine at the bar. I take my first sip and see the hostess lead Meera and her entourage to a table. Ten minutes later Dr. Froggy and I are escorted into the dining room and we walk behind Meera’s table. She unfortunately has her back to us and Rohit gives me a quick wink. The hostess seats Dr. Froggy so his back faces Meera’s table , but I see them perfectly. Because I can think of no reason for us to change seats I sit down and wonder how Meera intends to her execute her viewing and observation plan.

We look over the menu and make small talk. It takes everything I have to focus on Dr. Froggy because Meera’s table antics have me wanting to laugh. First, Meera keeps sitting and standing, like a desi jack in the box, more like, desi jill in the box. Then she and Shouldn’t Have Kissed Him do the wave several times. All the while Rohit is on his phone. This goes on for another 20 minutes and Meera gets up again and points towards the bar and motions me to follow. I watch her leave, finish listening to whatever Dr. Froggy was saying and then excuse myself for the loo. I grab my purse, walk by Meera’s table, wave at her men and duck into the bathroom.

“How is it going?” she demands as I enter. That 80’s song by Kylmaxx begins running in head, “I got a meeting in the ladies' room. I'll be back real soon. I got a meeting in the ladies' room.” “Fine, he is quite nice and the conversation is going better than I thought. I am sure I could focus better if you weren’t doing the wave. But your table seems more fun,” I say.

“First, you look damn hot. Second, he looks nicely put together. I am digging his navy blazer, very Boston of him. Rohit has been texting you all night, did you get his messages?” Meera shares. “I can’t really pick up my phone…I am on a date,” I explain. “Good point,” Meera says. “Are you glad he came?” she asks. “I don’t know yet,” I reply. “Fair enough,” Meera says. "Where are you taking Dr. Froggy after this?” Meera asks. “Well, if he’s not too tired, probably a bar. It’s Friday night in Manhattan and neither one of us are driving,” I reply. “Text me details!” she says. We hug and go back to our tables.

247. DESI DATE TO BE CRASHED BY HARLEM’S FINEST

“Have you heard from Dr. Froggy?” Meera asks. “Nope,” I reply and turn on the television. “What? Isn’t he supposed to come today?” Meera demands. She can’t see me, but I roll my eyes. This pre-meeting conversation with Dr. Froggy has gone on for so long that if he bailed, I’d probably throw a ticker tape parade. Being this unexcited to meet someone has to be a bad sign, right?

“Hello? Are you there?” Meera asks. “Yes, I think he’s coming. He hasn’t said differently…” I finally reply and wonder what I should do for the next few hours before my dinner date with Dr. Froggy. “Honey!” I hear Meera yell. “Desi Girl hasn’t HEARD from Dr. Froggy and they have dinner reservations at 9:00 pm...” At first the silence leads me to believe that Rohit is ignoring us. Then I hear Rohit yell, “What? WE HAVE dinner reservations at 9:00 pm, too! What is wrong with this guy?” (See Post 243 where Meera and I decide they should crash the date). Meera gets back on the phone and says, “Well if Dr. Froggy bails you can eat with Rohit, me and Shouldn’t Have Kissed Him.” “Sounds fine to me,” I reply. “I bribed Shouldn’t Have Kissed Him with lobster so he would join us,” Meera explains. “It’s cool with me. I don’t harbor hard feelings over that strange hook-up,” I reply.

“What are you going to wear?” Meera asks. Now this is something I have been debating for SEVERAL days. Two months ago when I wanted to impress the shit out of Dr. Froggy I would have worn my date outfit, black pants, black and white wrap top and heels. I would have been styling my hair all day and fasting for the past two weeks. As I got to know Dr. Froggy and his obsession with material possessions, impressing him became less important because I found him gauche. This is why I give Town and Country his due props for being down-to-earth despite being so successful. I would even venture a bet that Town and Country is wealthier than Dr. Froggy, but doesn’t act like it.

When I finally reply, I say, “my denim pencil skirt, black tee-shirt and turquoise wrap. Hair in a pony-tail.” “I love it, so sophisticated casual. It’s like you’re trying without trying,” Meera says. “Trust me, I am not trying,” I mutter. “What are you wearing for shoes?” Meera asks. “Whatever I feel like, probably not flats, most likely black, strappy heels that say ‘hello Mister’,” I reply. Just because I am not thrilled to meet Dr. Froggy, doesn’t mean my feet and manicure must suffer. “Great! I cannot wait to see you tonight!” Meera says and hangs-up.

I snap the phone shut --- little does Dr. Froggy know our date is about to be crashed by Harlem’s finest and their seafood seeking sidekick.

246. I THINK YOU SHOULD MOVE

“I think you should move,” my Bangalore cousin says. This is her response to,"I booked my ticket to India." . “What” I ask. “I think New York is the problem. None of those men seem interested in committing.” “Where do you suggest I move to?” I ask slightly bored. Does she have any idea how much work it is to move into or out of Manhattan? “California,” she replies without skipping a beat.

Is she mad, as in insane, I wonder, and ask, “I cannot afford to live in California. First of all, I spent $3,000 trucking my shit half way across America. I’m sure a coast-to-coast move will cost $6,000. I may lose my current security deposit if I vacate early and then I need first and last month’s rent and a security deposit for a Callie apartment. Do you think I have $12,000 sitting around?” “Forget your stuff. Just take two suitcases and go,” my cousin advises. My shoes alone need two suitcases. “And what? Start all over? I have friends here and I am building a life, albeit very slooooowly, but a life none the less.” “But you are miserable there,” my cousin says. “No, I will be miserable in California with no friends and no furniture. And what kind of man is going to marry a woman with a sad job and no couch?” “Then I think you should move to India. I can definitely find you a good job in Bangalore and there are plenty of Indian men for marriage.” “If I’m not willing to move to the West Coast of my own country, what makes you think I want to move half way around the world and land up in the middle of yours?” I ask my cousin. Silence.

I hang up with Bangalore Cousin and call my brother. “So I am booked for India,” I say. He is quiet for a moment, which is not unusual for him. He is the diplomatic one who EVERYONE on both sides of the family, and I mean EVERYONE, adores. Little do the unsuspecting rellies in Delhi realize that beneath that polite and calm demeanor lurks the quick wit of my slightly sarcastic brother who wisely prefers to keep his comments to himself. Rather than engage the socio-paths, he nods and takes another samosa, the number one way to win a Punju lady’s heart --- eat her food. I on the other hand tell people to bite me (this is when I care about them or their opinion of me) or I ignore them (this is when I don’t care about them or their opinion of me). There is nothing subtle about me.

“Why are you going to India?” he finally asks. “To meet with a pandit and fix my matrimonial stars,” I reply. “I see,” my brother says, sighs and speaks again. “If that is what you want to do, then great. And not to sound like Dad, but I don’t think these pandits have a clue. They say one thing and then the opposite. I understand there are no guarantees but this roller coaster of ‘you will get married, you won’t get married’ is really stressful on you, Mom, Bangalore cousin and Massi. And I don’t know --- I don’t care if you get married or not, as long as you’re happy. Are you happy?”

I don’t think a happy person spends a month’s rent on airfare to ask a stranger to predict to whom and when she shall marry. And I don't want to admit this out loud to anyone, even my brother who I KNOW has my back, but this is the action of a desperate person seeking resolution. 

245. DESI GIRL SHOPS IN PREPARATION FOR HER HOMELAND TRIP

"Ainsley, I need a favor," I say quickly into the phone. "Sure, of course what?" she asks. I can hear her fingers running over the keyboard as she works on invoices. "I need two train cases, one in a funky print for my niece and one in black patent for my cousin." Ainsley works in fashion and her company makes bags, totes and accessories in soft, durable fabrics. "Niece? I thought she wasn't even one yet," Ainsley asks. "Well yes, my brother's daughter will be one next month. But my cousin's kids are like my niece and nephew." "Got it. How old is your niece?" "15," I reply. "Let me see what we have for you," Ainsley says. "Thanks," I say and hang-up.

I grab my purse and head down to the UWS for my nail appointment. When I am done grooming, I dart over to the Sephora on Broadway. Sometimes I find the gift getting really exhausting, not due to the actual running around, but because I want to buy things that are meaningful and in my budget. Which is why I often default to perfumes and colognes. They don't weigh much. They don't take up much space in my bag and who doesn't like smelling nice?

In the women's section I pick up two lipsticks for my younger massi (massi is the Hindi word for maternal aunt) and then find a nice, sophisticated perfume for my elder massi. Mom is the middle sister. This is another thing I really like about Hindi, the language differentiates paternal from maternal relatives. My paternal aunts are called "bhua" ... which is what my brother's daughter calls me.

I then wander into the men's section and select two bottles of cologne. One for my mama, maternal uncle, he is the youngest of the four siblings on Mom's side. The other cologne is for my Bangalore cousin's husband. He loves colognes and I always bring him one. My mama is actually found of really nice pens, but that is completely out of my budget.

I stuff the Sephora bag into my purse and step outside. The weather is so nice that I decide to walk the 30 blocks into Times Square. My Bangalore cousin has an 18 year old son who I am very fond of. He's in college now, which I cannot believe. He was the most adorable baby. As he got older I began to see so many similarities in our personalities. He's a little hot-headed, and rebellious, and stubborn. I tried on several occasions to share my experiences to better him. I remember during my last trip to India, he was fighting with his parents and I turned to him and said, "Why are you doing this? You won't win against them. You should learn to control your temper and be a diplomat like your sister. Don't do the things I did." I like to believe he heard what I was saying.

Because I adore him so much, I am willing to brave and battle the tourists in Times Square and go the MTV store to buy him a cool surfer type tee-shirt that he would be willing to wear in public. Even though I am the elder, I really want him to think of me as his cool American Massi. I wonder if kids realize how much they are loved, even by the aboard residing aunts.