156. MY JOB FURTHER COMPLICATES MY LIFE

In addition to the Town and Country disappointment, my job (I work in my family's architectural practice) is negatively impacting my life. I have worked there since I was 16 years old and have spent two days crying over it (sidebar: I could write a whole blog about misadventures in employment). Dad's office is also why my brother and I majored in architecture; and the reason entrepreneurs (like Dad and Town and Country) fascinate and terrify me.

The office has always been more than a business, it’s Dad’s identity and he derives extreme joy from it. At the same time when he was stressed or business was slow his frustration seeped into every aspect of our lives. It’s not as though I didn’t benefit from Dad’s hard work and successes. The parking ramp on 19th Avenue, across from the University of Minnesota’s Carlson School of Management put me through college (see photo to the right). So I put up with the office as it attended family vacations and dominated every dinner conversation. The office was like having a redheaded stepchild and illegitimate sibling rolled into one. I could never escape it and sometimes it felt like Dad cared about it more than me.

When I graduated from college I wanted to move to Manhattan. But Mom said, “Daddy is counting on you.” I told Mom, “I want to find myself.” “You’re not lost, come home,” she ordered. At 21 years old, obedience was easier than fighting for my wants and so I moved home.

After a while the experience of working with my direct gene pool made me want to set my hair on fire. Dad and I have similar hot-tempered, impatient elements in our personalities. Sometimes when we mix it can be a volatile combination. My mother is soft spoken and rarely voices her opinion, which gets annoying in about three minutes. And my brother regularly dodges family crossfire with his diplomatic style. That was a lesson I should have learned from him!

There were times when I really resented that damn office. It determined the direction of all our lives. It was my father’s baby but my brother and I ended up dealing with things that were not in the job description. A bat (named Wayne after Bruce Wayne of Gotham) lived in the basement for a few months. He scared the shit of me and I envisioned him landing on my head to take a pee. Two years in a row Spring came early and melted the snow faster than it could run off and flooded the basement. My brother and I spent days shoveling snow and sucking up water with a shop vac. The following year the main pipe connecting the Minneapolis sewer system to our building settled. Those three days of hell was all it took for me to fully appreciate indoor plumbing. In the end, for family and love, you make concessions.

In some ways my family is why I date desi men with a vengeance. Dad once said bring home an Indian man or don’t come home at all. Sure there were instances when I thought, dude it’s Minnesota, there aren’t a lot of desis and who cares love is color-blind! But then I pop in a Panjabi MC or Hard Kaur cd, dance around the apartment and it’s me who wants to be at the center east-meets-west, where bhangra collides with hip-hop.

But as I relive every moment of my life up to Tuesday’s conversation with Dad, in which he tells me I am overhead the business doesn’t really need any more so I should get another plan in place, I feel very righteous that I have been wronged. I did EVERYTHING they ever asked, EVERYTHING, and now that the world is entering a global recession I am a burden? Bite me.

On top of that, I live in Manhattan, a most unforgiving place if you’re not fabulous or a celebrity (of which I am neither). It’s not like I can JUST find a job tomorrow. So I am not okay feeling like I am nothing more than a soda, once the cola is consumed the can is dispensable.

A life's worth of resentment flows through me and I blame myself and Hinduism, and the goddesses Radha and Sita. Actually, scratch that. I feel empathy for Radha. She was so in love with Krishna that she accepted being invoked in prayer rather than be affiliated with the man-god himself. I can relate to loving someone so much you accept whatever, even scant bits, he offers you. But I feel pity for Sita. She followed Rama into the jungle, disobeyed him by leaving the compound, was kidnapped by Ravenna and then banished from the kingdom. Time and time again Hinduism reminds me that there are consequences for disobedience. But where did obedience get me?

All that matters is my foundation shook and shifted, and I doubt I will ever be the same.

155. WHERE IS MY SNOW PLOW?

Around 6:00 am I wake up and feel pain running along the left side of my neck. Oopsy, I fell asleep on the couch at a crooked angle. My contacts have fused to my eyeballs, rendering me almost unable to focus on the grey, rectangular fuzziness that is my mobile phone and some shoes that have seen a better day. Through the blur I see a missed text message from Town and Country that came in at 3:00 am. 


T&C: Landed!

Desi Girl: Great to landing! Party was fab! (I wonder if he thinks I am still partying or just getting home or waking up. I really should find eye drops.)



Sunday comes and goes. Odd that he did not return my text. So I email him. Monday I chat with Meera and tell her about the fundraiser and radio silent Town and Country. “Emailed him? Tell me you didn’t!” she shrieks into the phone. “Now he thinks you’re interested. You reached, he didn’t, and then you reached again. Didn’t you read the book?”

Normally I would agree with her. But Town and Country and I were emailing non-stop for three days and then spent three days in a row together. Doesn’t that count for something? Anything at all?

***

Apparently not. It takes days, FIVE to be exact, for Town and Country to be bothered with contacting me via text. And I know he’s addicted to his phone.

T&C: Just got back. Let’s catch up this evening.

It takes everything I have, but I force myself to wait an hour and a half before emailing a response. This is my attempt at seeming calm, cool and collected. Even though, deep inside I know something happened to Town and Country’s interest in me.

DESI GIRL: Welcome back. Sure let's catch up. Do you want to chat or have dinner?
An hour later T&C writes: I’ll call you later, ok?
DESI GIRL: Sure. Call later. I’m packing for Killington.

For some reason, against my better judgment, I have agreed to go skiing with some girlfriends. I am a little worried because I am one of the drivers and I hate driving. It’s one of the reasons I left Minnesota. The other reason of concern, and this is the important one, despite growing up in Minnesota, Land of 10,000 Lakes according to the license plates, I don’t know how to ski. I also don’t know how to swim, which is why I felt like I was living in “Land of 10,000 ways for Desi Girl to drown”. Both of which contributed to my preference for indoor activities like shopping and eating.

Later in the evening Town and Country texts me: Have friends in town. Going to dinner. Catch up when you’re back?

For some reason I thought Town and Country was different. Did I imagine his persistent pursuit of Desi Girl? Because I swear he was the one emailing and texting with the fervor of someone who wanted to gobble up my free time. I wish he had told me he would, at my expense, hibernate at will. 

Because now I feel like I’m losing control of my car in snowstorm. The freezing rain has turned into the heavy snow of rejection. And the slick black ice of being cast aside sends me careening across the freeway and I again, land upside down in the ditch. Where is my romantic, available and emotionally supportive snowplow? Will he ever come and clear the road in advance of me?

Or are my stars so bad that I am destined to spend this incarnation perpetually stuck in a bank of desi dating snow.

154. I HATE MY FEET … OR MAYBE IT IS MY SHOES I HATE

I love to dress up. This is why tonight’s fundraiser has me almost giddy, reveling in the glorious sight of men in tuxedos and women in floor-length gowns.

Because I am a fashionista on a budget (what an ugly word) I opted for a black and silver lengha (short blouse and long skirt with a matching scarf that doubles as a shawl), bejeweled in sequins and silver zari thread. What is even more fabulous than how I feel (Indian princess) is that I always fit into Indian formalwear with its adjustable waist! My shoes are another story. I have been in these death traps for five hours and want to cut off my feet. And I love my feet. They are my portal to pedicures. [p.s. that is not me to the right, nor do I look like that, these are examples of lenghas].

I walk around the beautiful ballroom, ablaze with candles and lights. There are two bars flanking either side of the room and tables line the dance floor. Because we had wine at dinner I decide to peruse the silent auction but it's a blue and silver blur of spas, ski vacations, haircuts, and diamonds.


My friends want to boogie so we grab champagne and head off to the dance floor. Slowly we make an amoeba shaped circle and dance like Americans. Half of us flail our arms, while the other half contort our bodies like we’re in a Wham! video.

Around midnight, I realize I am not drunk or trashed. Holy bad manners, I am shit-faced at a ticketed formal event surrounded by glamorous and sophisticated people. Somehow in my beautiful Indian clothes blinking has become a challenge. On, then there is the matter of my feet. I no longer feel them. And so I decide I must leave. NOW!

At the coat check I can’t tell if I’m slurring. More importantly I don’t care. I slip my coat on, accept the goodie bag, gather the folds of my lengha to keep from sweeping the sidewalk and hop into a cab. I get home and have no recollection of the FDR or the taxi cutting across Washington Heights to my building.

Inside my apartment I shrug off my coat and untie my lengha skirt. It falls onto the floor and forms a black lake of silk. In my blouse, stockings and shoes, my hateful shoes, I plot my escape from silver strappy leather. I try and kick them off, but they won’t budge. Hhhmm. That was weird. Normally these things just slide off.

I sit down on a chair and tug at the strap, trying to pull them off. But they seem stuck. Did someone super glue them to my feet? I pull one foot close to my face, just under my nose, to inspect the buckle (thank goodness those four yoga classes made me limber enough to do this). I rather hoped this action would jog back memory of how buckles work. Instead an opposite situation occurs. Fear shoots through me as I realize I don’t remember how to push the pin out of the hole. I try pulling at the buckle. That doesn’t work. I tug at the front of the shoe. Nothing. I yank at the back. Nothing. Holy crap. I am trapped in my evil Macy’s sale shoes.

Finally, because desperate times call for desperate measures, I find scissors and sit down on the couch. With two quick snips I violate 101 fashion codes, including always save the shoes, but manage to liberate my feet.

Ooo. Let’s see, no husband, too much bubbly and a scissor to shoe sacrifice …. Oh yes, life is so NOT on track.

153. YOU AND ME, AND A LITTLE FLEA … MARKET THAT IS!

In the back of the cab I close my eyes (something I would NEVER do on the subway). Now that I have a moment, I need to release my plumbing frustration and transit stress, and clear my head of all thoughts, but my phone yips, alerting me to a text message. I pop one eye open and see a message from Town and Country.

T&C: Good morning. When should I expect you?
DESI GIRL: In a cab, no more than 7 minutes away.
T&C: Good. Text me when you get here. (He then explains how he is in the middle of a complicated matter between two siblings, more name-dropping and money talk).
DESI GIRL: Sure thing. (Again why is he telling me? It creates a push and pull, between wanting to pursue him and walk away before I invest myself and end up as romance road kill. Because I really am a simple gal. As long as I can get my nails done and buy shoes, I’ll be fine. I am not looking for a bank account, I have one. What I don’t have is a life partner and that is what I want.)
T&C: Change in plans. Meet me at the corner.

I give the driver new directions and Town and Country is exactly where he said he would be in an army green jacket and a cap tight to his head. I suppose this must be the advantage of being bald, looking sleek in a wool cap. He pecks my lips and I give him his coffee.

“I bought vanilla scones.” “I don’t like sweets,” Town and Country says. Okay, I’ve a shitty morning the least he can do is freaking play along and eat the damn scone. “These aren’t sweet,” I insist and he eats it. “How was it?” I ask. “Very good,” he says.

We walk, sip coffee and listen to how tranquil Manhattan is on a Saturday morning. She seems sleepy, serene and almost innocent, with only a few foot soldiers ducking into coffee houses, walking dogs and collecting newspapers in their pajamas. We reach the flea market and stroll between tables filled with vintage clothes, wigs, jewelry, books, records, faux fur, old tin plates, brass goods, wood goods, comic books, and turquoise. My mind goes numb from what previously owned goods you can buy. 

What I find even more fascinating about Manhattan is that this is a town where the average apartment lists at $1.4 million, most people live WAY beyond their means and tote bags can cost more than rent, yet there are more flea markets and street fairs than I have ever seen. Town and Country takes a call and I check my phone and see several missed calls from Rohit and Meera.

Rohit NEVER calls me and Meera is not a phone person. I return the call and it barely rings. “Where are you? Tell me you are NOT still with him?” Meera demands.“I am,” I reply. She starts screaming and then says, “Honey! She is STILL with him!” Rohit gets on the phone and says, “Where are you missy?" "Flea market. And my name isn't Missy," I tease. “Tell us EVERYTHING!” Meera shrieks. Evidently I am on speaker phone and say, “He is standing five feet away I don’t think your request is the best idea.” “Fine. Call us back," Rohit says. "Oh. My. God! He wants to fill every moment of time and space with you,” Meera says.  “What if he buys you something?” Rohit asks. “I don’t want anything," I reply. “What?” Meera yelps. “If he buys, you accept!” “I’ll call you later. Once you come off that caffeine high,” I say, laughing, feeling blessed for their friendship.

Town and Country and I leave to have lunch. He orders tea and I a Diet Coke. He spends a couple minutes looking around and shakes his head. “This place could make so much money. But the staff is clueless and the service slow." Always the businessman. I wish I was like him, more dedicated to the pursuit of my dreams, goals and hopes. At the end of lunch I insist on paying, he resists at first, “I like paying,” he says. But I can be VERY persistent when provoked and say, “My treat." He shrugs and lets me. “I am off to a conference tonight,” he says. “I am off to a fundraiser,” I reply. “My flight gets in around midnight, but it’s too late to call you,” he says. “No it’s not,” I reply. “Great. I’ll text you then,” he says.

Super! Date Four must surely lurk around the corner!

152. DATE THREE IN A ROW WITH TOWN AND COUNTRY

On Saturday morning I wake up and press snooze one more time. I am quite excited, but a little suspicious for my third date in a row with Town and Country. I have found dating in New York rather hard and the men challenging. All the articles I read, saying New York is the hardest place to meet a man, are not helping. Some days I would prefer to have root canal than go on a date. So is it possible that I’ve stumbled onto a guy who doesn’t believe in the abnormal cloak-and-dagger-gonna-call-not-gonna-call-you Manhattan game? Is it possible Town and Country thinks, when you are interested in someone, it is normal to go out with them three days in a row? In any case, it is delightful to date a man who wants to date me.

When the alarm goes off again I push away the covers and hop into the shower. As I wash my hair I wonder what one wears to a flea market. I already wore black pants on Thursday night and jeans last night. It is still too cold to wear a skirt and probably too dressy. I turn off the water and notice that a 12-inch pool of standing water has collected. But I did take an EXTRA long shower and it is not usual for the water to sluggishly move through the old pipes.

I jump out of the shower, and pull on a black turtleneck and fitted jeans. I pop back into the bathroom to put on my make-up and see the water has not HAS NOT drained one teeny tiny bit and this makes me nervous. But not wanting to panic before my date, I calmly put on my blush, eye-shadow and mascara. In that time there is no reduction in the water level. I leave the bathroom, change purses, come back and see again no recession in the water.

Because I don’t know what time I am coming home or the first thing about plumbing, I don’t know if I can leave the tub like this. And I don’t have time to wait for the super to come address the issue. So I race into the kitchen, find a pot and start scooping one pan-full of water out of the tub and into the toilet. Ugh. So gross. When I am done playing plumber I have to change my clothes because I am drenched in sweat and dirty tub water.

For some reason last night I offered to pick up coffee so I lock the apartment and rush to Starbucks. I get to the cafe and find it PACKED. When did all these people move in my neighborhood? And why are they all awake at this hour? I glance at my watch. Town and Country lives a solid hour away from me, now that it is 8:10 a.m., I wonder if I can meet him by 9:00 a.m. Screw it, I can get coffees downtown. There are two Starbucks at Columbus Circle.

I scurry across the street and find that the A train is not running its regular route. I have to take a shuttle bus to 168th Street and then take an A train running local not express. Because I boarded the most unhurried A train train known to Manhattan we arrive into the 125th Street Station at 8:30 a.m. WOW. At this pace Town and Country will be dating someone new by the time I reach his house. And because I am underground I cannot EVEN text him to tell him my troubles with transport. Luckily my life is not a complete joke, and a D train (runs express to 59th Street) pulls into the Harlem station. I grab my purse, run across the platform, board and we arrive Columbus Circle 10 minutes later.

Once in Midtown I begin to think that I may be able to make an on-time arrival if I can get coffee in five minutes and hail a cab. In the manner of an insane woman I dodge taxis and traffic across 58th Street into Starbucks. Keeping with my “everything that can go wrong, will go wrong" morning, it takes the barista what feels like an eternity to pour two coffees into the cups at the SLOWEST Starbucks E-V-E-R.

I hail a cab, give the driver the address and sink into the seat. Man this is a lot of work for a flea market date. I cannot believe fate is conspiring against me so early in the morning. The only thing that can go wrong is if we get hit by a bus. And I double-dog dare fate to piss me off now.

151. WHAT COMING FROM A “GOOD FAMILY" MEANS

As Town and Country continues talking about his family, I think about mine and this desi construct of what it means to come from a “good family”. Growing up my parents drilled into my brother and me that obedient children, “study hard, don’t talk back to elders or teachers because they have a superior place in your life, and marry someone from a good family.” Sandwiched between the Lutes and Swedes, Dad would tell us we’re related to Guru Nanak (founder of the Sikh religion) and that Punjabis were the best. At times I wondered, if we’re so great what are we doing living with people whose kids think I am Pocahontas commanding rain on demand through dance and are mean to me at school (see below). And why aren’t we going back in India where I could be the princess of Punjab?

But the thing about Dad was while he said things, he never explained them. So in the same way I learned about Hinduism, Christianity and prostitutes (piecemeal through eavesdropping on grown-ups and TV) I developed then applied this unscientific definition of a what a good boy from a good family would look like: (1) Indian --- Hindu or Sikh (2) never been married, widowed or divorced – his parents should not be divorced either (3) from a middle class family, highly educated, including the requisite graduate degree stamped on his forehead and (4) if possible, would come from our Khatri caste consisting of these families: Bedi, Chopra, Kapur, Khanna, Malhotra, Puri, Sahni, Sethi, Suri, and Talwar.

As you can imagine growing up in Minnesota with the Anderson, Johnson, Nelson, and Swenson families made marrying one of our Khatri peeps from Punjab challenging. So I spent most of groom-hunting time looking for a nice, educated, middle-class Hindu/Sikh boy. While my parents are traditional, they would NEVER be labeled conservative. So they NEVER mandated that I bring home one of Punjab’s finest. Subconsciously it was my preference for a VERY loooooong time.

And really, as far as Indian parents in America go, mine are pretty cool. While proud to be Punjabi they didn’t teach us hate (except for Pakistan) and my brother and I were spared details about the ugly side of the caste system. Which is why I was unprepared for the day in elementary school when some kid asked what caste I was from. I didn’t even know the name so I just said, “A high caste.” “Brahmin?” he asked. “No,” I replied. He made a face and said, “You’re not high caste if you’re not Brahmin. Don’t you know that?” How some freckled white boy made me feel small and insignificant baffles me now that I am armed with knowledge.

When I was old enough I self taught myself all things Indian including the caste system. I learned that Brahmins, while high caste, went on to be scholars and pandits who refrained from meat and alcohol. Oh the other hand, Khatris (one level down) were warriors and zameendhars (land owners) who clearly ate meat and drink. Quickly I got a-okay with my caste. But I think Dad’s belief that Punjabis are the best is a LOT of pressure for drunk, carnivorous warriors and landowners.

And if some of my relatives were really honest, they’d admit they haven’t let go of the ancient idea of aesthetics when it comes to match matching: beautiful daughters for handsome sons; fixed sons for unbroken daughters; and affluent daughters for ambitious sons. Just when I think this matrimonial stuff is crap and wonder what bullshit keeps the system in place, Hindu teachings come back to me. I was taught that daughters, while a joy and lakshmi, to cherished and protected, are also a burden and must be protected. This is why the gods do not bestow peace and prosperity on fathers, brothers, and sons whose daughters suffer or live in despair. The scriptures are particular about this. So of course, parents have a lot riding on the appropriate settlement of their children, especially their daughters.

In the time I have been lost in my thoughts, Town and Country has set his wine on the table and stares at me. Maybe he now wonders if I am dead since I have not said anything in 10 minutes (most likely a record). I clutch my glass like a security blanket. He leans in to kiss me. I let him, even though I know he’s not THE ONE. How can he be when he just told me he’s still in love with someone else?

“Look,” I whisper between kisses. “If this is just sex. You have to be honest with me. I can’t take any more heartbreak.” He sighs. His deep brown eyes seem darker. “This is New York. If I wanted sex I could get it anywhere. I don’t need you for it.”

In that moment he actually seems more vulnerable than me.

150. THE SEX GODDESS AND THE PRUDE

“Catch any mice today?” I joke. He laughs, “No!” “Will John be joining us again?” I ask. Suddenly his mood shifts to sullen and he shakes his head. “Think John was stoned last night?” I ask. Town and Country shrugs, and with indifference says, “It’s his thing.” Meanwhile I am fascinated that John would brazenly get laced and then stay with his boss. I rather admire him for that. Even at my age, I still need my parents’ acceptance and continue to do things they would never approve behind their backs. Nice to see that plump 14-year old with sideburns, braces and eye-glasses still lives inside of me. That freak has been following me around for years!

We go into the dining room and he grabs wine and glasses. On the sideboard I see his car registration. “Drive much?” I ask. “Not really. Just to see my folks. Most of the time it sits in the garage."

Upstairs we sink into the couch and he goes RADIO silent. I glance over to see if he’s breathing or dead. Because the quiet begins to LITERALLY kill my inner chatty Chaaya, I ask, “How long have you been on the matrimonial Website?” “Not long. You’re the first person I’ve met.” Sigh and ggrrr. This is NEVER a good sign. Recently joined people are in the experimental stage. And I understand the curiosity I was once like that. But I have been out there long enough to know I am ready to meet THE ONE and settle down.

If my cousin were here she’d remind me that I am unmarried because of my own choosing. That had I selected (read: settled) one of those B-grade-guys-who-was-more-into-me-than-I-he, I’d be married now and in time would grow to love him. Unlike her, I don’t think a husband is a plant; I cannot simply water him into love.

“I was seeing someone seriously but we broke up last month,” Town and Country shares. Okay, Desi Girl, this does not bode well for you either. At least, up-front I know I will be insignificant, nothing more than a time pass while he’s mourning her. And I am not insane or narcissistic enough to think I have what it takes for him to get over her. “I called her on my birthday and she took days to get back to me,” he says sadly.

I feel a little bad for him and clear my throat, “Look, I know women. Her delay in returning the call means she either needs space or is over you. I understand how awful that sounds, but a smitten woman calls you. Especially on your birthday. I know I’ve done it. And will do it again.” He looks at me and nods. “I know I’m withdrawn tonight. She never liked it when I was like this. This is actually the second break up.” Really? Now I have to play therapist? I sigh and say, “Please tell me you didn’t WAIT for her to come back to you.” “No I dated someone else. It didn’t last but the sex was great.”

Does he think we’re friends? Because I really don’t want to know about his sex with ANOTHER ex. And on the off chance I sleep with him, I, the prude, don’t need the pressure of wondering how I stack up against the sex goddess. When he changes topics and talks about his family, I feel relief and concentrate on S-L-O-W-L-Y sipping my wine.

To be cont.