303. IN THIS QUIET? IN THIS DARKNESS?

After an hour of light, amenable conversation Dr. Froggy, Auntie and I start yawning. Auntie goes into the kitchen and comes back with an 8-ounce bottle of water. “In case you are thirsty later tonight,” she says and smiles. “Let me show you upstairs,” she offers. Dr. Froggy’s attention is torn between the TV and his phone, so we leave him in the living room.

 

There are two sets of stairs in this house. The ones in the back of the house are the typical half a flight, landing, another half of flight. But the ones in the foyer are a winding, circular sweep of airy steps that make me giggle and leave me feeling like I am on the set of a modern day version of Dynasty. I cannot comprehend what a single man is doing living in this much space? The house is actually so massive, 5,000 finished square feet, a three-car garage, an unfinished 2,000 square foot basement and miscellaneous attic space, that it is comically surreal to someone who lives on a small island and is constantly downsizing in a micro apartment.

Auntie shows me to one of the five bedrooms in this house. “Good night,” she says. I smile and watch the door shut behind her. There is a button lock and I lurch for and secure myself in a bedroom that is bigger than my entire apartment. I unzip my suitcase, pull on my pajamas and pad into the bathroom. I flip on the light to discover a marble room with jack and jill sinks adorned with mini-sized bottles of hand soap. This prompts me to whip back shower curtain to find mini bottles of the shampoo, conditioner and body gel. OMG. I’m in a hotel. I am also wondering if his mother is the one doing all the upkeep. This could be a whole blog itself, Desi Boys Who Don't Grow Up and the Mothers who Coddle Them.

I brush my teeth and pad back into the bedroom. I stop by the window stare at the crack in the wall and the unlevel windows. Hhhmm. For a brand new house he really should not have cricks and cracks. I make a mental construction punchlist for breakfast conversation. I pull back the sheer curtain and stare across the street into the empty parking lot of the country club. I take a deep breath, draw air in through my nose and feel it jerk through my lungs. For ten minutes I stand and study the street --- no cars pass, no noise is made. I live four blocks from the GWB so this suburban silence is killing me. Can I really live here? In this house? In quiet? In this darkness?

302. I LIKE YOU FEISTY

By the time my plane lands my head is killing me. I am not sure if it is from the cheap airport wine, texting Town and Country, or the stress of meeting Dr. Froggy’s family, friends and boss. I actually do pretty okay with babies and aunties (and uncles if I am wearing a low-cut top). So I am hopeful his mother will like me.

 

I don’t know what US Airways policy is, but Northwest and Delta let you turn on your phone as soon as you are wheels down, so I do. Quickly I text Dr. Froggy and ask him to bring some Tylenol and water. He texts back to say no problem (tis nice to date a man of medicine) and that he is driving the BMW. I deplane and wait almost 15 minutes for him. When he does arrive he gives me a hug and is gentlemanly enough to toss my bag into the trunk.

I belt in, pop the meds and slam an eight-ounce bottle of Poland Spring. “How was your flight?” Dr. Froggy asks. “Fine,” I reply and study his profile. He’s not bad looking, and if he wasn’t so hefty I think his features would sharpen, rather than flatten. His head though, seems out of proportion to his body. It’s like he needed to be a few inches taller to balance out that head. I can completely relate to that. I need to buy petite jackets at Ann Taylor because I am missing a few inches in my torso. I do wear missy pants, but those have to be shortened. So maybe I am missing a few inches on both ends – wow imagine how different life would have been if I had been 5’-7"!

“Did you have a Diet Coke on the flight?” Dr. Froggy asks. Oh that is sweet; he remembers my soda of choice. “Nope, they actually charge for it on US Airways, can you believe that?” I ask. He chuckles. “What?” I ask. “I knew that did that. I didn’t tell you to see if you’d get annoyed by them…” What is wrong with him? He wanted me get off the plane enraged? What kind of person does this? “Why?” I finally ask. “I thought it would make you feisty – I like you feisty,” he says. Still, this is a strange thing to think, much less share. Who wants a cranky house guest?

“Okay,” he says when he pulls into the Wal-Mart parking lot. “I need to get some cookies for the morning tea…”  Ugh. Am I the only desi who drinks coffee? “I’ll wait in the car,” I say quickly. I’m from Minnesota where Target is king; it is sacrilegious for me to go in there.

He’s an expeditious shopper and returns quickly. As we drive along the winding road he points out restaurants he dines at and the gym where he’s a member but never attends. When we arrive at his gargantuan house my stomach drops a little. He was not joking, he did indeed fashion his house in the manner of low-brow Beverly Hills fame. Oh my – I absorbed LeCorbusier and Mondrian for four years. If my undergraduate architecture program director knew of this I think he’d demand I return my degree.

 

In the living room we find his mother, watching TV at top volume. Dr. Froggy grabs the remote control, hits mute. Auntie stands up; her smile accessorizes black pants and a cardigan. “Welcome beta, please sit down.” She ushers me onto the couch and sits next to me. Immediately, I know I will like her.

301. DESI GIRL – A HALL MONITOR WITH A PENCHANT FOR PROSECCO

I fasten my seat belt. My phone is handy. Just in case Town and Country texts back before they shut the airplane door.

I may have mentioned this, but Town and Country doesn’t like to be challenged. Which makes him quite desi and traditional, something he told me early on. I suspect, given that his parents are older than mine, his mother dotes on his father more than mine. So, I presume that he won’t be in the mood to deal with a combative Indian woman. And I don’t plan on being any man’s Sita.

Text from Town and Country: Just checking to make sure you were okay.

Text from Desi Girl: Oh. Well. I am.

Text from Town and Country: Good. Are you free Friday?

Text from Desi Girl: For what? Like a date?

Text from Town and Country: Yes.(Hhhmm, date for him must be code for sex).

Text from Desi Girl: Can’t. I am going to Minnesota. What about next weekend? (Okay, what? Why did I: (a) lie (b) feel the need to suggest a future meeting and (c) not tell him about Dr. Froggy.)

Text from Town and Country: Sure next weekend. Have fun in Minne.

Text from Desi Girl: Will text you next week.

Text from Town and Country: Ok.

I'm sure you're thinking, Desi Girl is baked. But here is the thing. Town and Country does not what I want, yet my attraction for him is annoying uncontrollable. It’s true, Dr. Froggy is not as physically appealing, and his obsession with his money is kinda gauche. But he is interested in building a relationship and can text and call me on a regular basis. To date, I have never actually spoken to Town and Country on the phone. Additionally, I know plenty of people who have made arranged marriages work, so I feel confident I can make a relationship work with Dr. Froggy aka Mr. Right Enough. Sounds antiseptic, I know. But Dr. Froggy isn't perfect, either am I. Either is Town and Country. And maybe the time to be practical has arrived. Being a romantic only keeps me caught in the silky web of Town and Country.

If I can be vain and shallow for a moment, when it comes to Dr. Froggy and I, I am the more physically attractive one. But he is the one with the successful, thriving career. So I know, if this works out with Dr. Froggy, I will have to leave Manhattan. And yes, this is a big deal for me. I'm finally in a comfortable place with the City. I am used to no A train service on the weekends. I am okay knowing no one wants to visit me in the Heights. I lug heavy bags of groceries 10 blocks. I take my backpack to Target to make the schlepping less painful. I have a routine and friends. I am happy, but alone.

My true persona is that of a hall monitor (with a penchant for prosecco). But for once, I want to let loose, break the rules and not care about desi society’s expectations of women. I have been a good desi girl for SO long, that I want to act like a reckless man and have my last hurray, my last fling. Is that so wrong? Maybe. But at least I’m being honest.

300. YES I AM, WHY?

I sit at the bar for a while, two glasses of cheap white wine a while to be exact. During this time I begin my usual Town and Country ponderings. Why has he contacted me? Well he is a man, and this is Manhattan – so booty call comes to mind. Then another part wonders, maybe he wanted to make sure I returned from India. And if he really does have a “rotation” like Siobhan insists, then this is my turn in the queue.

Then the part of me that is a Hindu fatalist kicks in. This part of me believes that things are not left to chance, but destiny. This part says fighting and controlling something that cannot be controlled like life and this pesky of heart of mine is futile. This part of me says, there is a deeper, bigger, universal reason Town and Country keeps coming back, kismet. He’s your Mr. Big and you are brown girl Carrie. This part of me insists he’s interested in me. This part of me says, this is New York --- if he didn’t want the girl and just the sex, he can get that anywhere in New York. Instead he seeks me. This part of me says Town and Country is THE ONE.

I check my watch, collect my things and head to the gate. As I walk, I think, if Town and Country was my destiny --- then what and why is it taking him so long to join the matrimonial program already? And why does he engage in this mentally frustrating, emotionally destructive cloak and dagger thing with me. I want you, I change my mind I don’t want, wait wait now I want you, never mind I ignore you. And, since we’re on the topic of Town and Country, why does he get to call the shots? Because he’s the man? Is this why none of his relationships work out? He’s difficult and offers nothing.

And every date we ever had was convenient for him. Near his house or work. It is like he never leaves his side of the island! Whereas I am traveling everywhere. But is he really what I want? Sometimes I think the physical chemistry has temporarily blinded me to reason. Because at the end of the day, I still am pretty hard core. I am in it to win it, so in what alternate dimension of reality would I be okay with this little scrap of crap relationship he is offering?

I board the plane and stow my stuff. I sit in my seat and flip open the phone.

TEXT TO TOWN AND COUNTRY: Yes, I am back. Why?

299. NOW WHAT?

“Your license expires in 14 days,” the TSA agent says when he hands back my ticket and Minnesota State issued identification. There was a moment a few months ago when I thought about getting a New York license. Then reality set in. Why would I spend 4 hours standing in line or on line, like they say in New York, at the DMV so I can drive in a state where I have no car? Especially when my old license works just fine for rental companies. “Thanks,” I reply and proceed through security.

Because I’m an anxious traveler, I always arrive early, today being no exception. I have over hour before my flight leaves. I’m in no mood to read and the better idea sounds like me lugging all my stuff into an airport bar for $12 glasses of house white wine. I plop down at the bar, place my order and grab my phone. I. DON’T. EVEN. BELIEVE. THIS. Yesterday, somehow in my travel re-booking I missed this: TEXT FROM TOWN AND COUNTRY: You back? I distinctly remember telling him that I would be gone for two weeks, so of course I am back.

What also irritates me is how he knows when I have purged him from my system, when I have decided to move on, when I have decided to make a go of with Dr. Froggy. This is when he decides to return? This time though I feel that I have 5,000 years of Hinduism and Durga’s wisdom on my side. I remember that the pandit told me that this was not a good match. Which I mean, I am college educated, and at some level I must have KNOWN Town and Country was not a good match. But maybe I needed that divine intervention to liberate me from my worldly, lustful, stupid self.

I take a few slow sips of my wine and wonder if he is wondering why I have not written back to him in over a day. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Or maybe it really is like what Siobhan said. That I am not special to him and that he probably has several women in his life like me. My phone alerts me to a text and I slide it over and flip it open.

TEXT FROM TOWN AND COUNTRY: You okay? Haven’t heard back.

Now what?

298. DID YOU REALLY MOVE FROM MINNESOTA TO GO BACK TO A DIFFERENT VERSION OF YOUR FORMER LIFE?

“Where are you going now? You just came back from India and Minnesota!” Siobhan demands into the phone. “To spend the weekend with Dr. Froggy,” I reply. I just told her that I am not attending our volunteer meeting tonight. “Is this the overweight guy?” she asks. I sigh instead of replying her. “I don’t understand what you’re doing,” she asks.  “Are you just hanging out with him to get married? I mean he doesn’t even live in the City!” Live in the City? He lives eight hours away in another state!

And while I’m an urban girl and the thought of the Volvo station wagon and Weber grill lifestyle makes me a little sick to my stomach, Dr. Froggy is truly a NICE person. Sure, yes, I am not attracted to him in the way I was with Town and Country. But is that so bad? I mean look at what falling for Town and Country did to me? He uprooted my life every time he re-entered it because I allowed myself to be weak and demented when it came to him. I cannot marry someone who has that kind of power of over me; there will be no equality in that relationship.

So the time to pursue men who are interested in a relationship has come. No more dinging around in this infatuated Town and Country state. Often I think back to my college boyfriend and our first dates. I even remember being about 19 dates into dating The Ex, thinking, this will never work. Who knew four years later we’d still be together. Had he not cheated on me, I could have married him. And I think The Ex and could have been happy. So you really don’t know and I think I need to stop being so rigid.

“I need to give this a chance,” I finally say to Siobhan. “Then what? You marry him and his Porsche and move into his monstrosity of a house? Did you really move from Minnesota, to go back to a different version of your former life?” Siobhan demands.

297. LYING TO BE SOMEONE I AM NOT

My flight for TOMORROW’S weekend date with Dr. Froggy has been cancelled today. Why? Because two rain drops were spotted outside the control tower at LGA. I find this, like the way the City cannot figure out now to plow the streets, very annoying. The blade faces away from the street.

Sigh. Now I have the extreme pleasure of trying to track Dr. Froggy down during the work day. Of course I go into voicemail and leave a message and wait. I am still going – it may now be 36 hours later. I begin tossing some clothes into my rolling bag, including my black Loft dress, the one I know Dr. Froggy likes. There is a small part of me that would like to attend my volunteer meeting tomorrow and then fly off to see the McMansion and meet the McParents.

When the phone rings I answer, knowing it’s him. He has a whole program for the weekend, which is quite nice, a man who plans! “Hey,” I answer. “Why is the flight cancelled?” he asks, slightly irritated. “I don’t know…” I mutter. “This is why I don’t like New York. That and for $1 million I can have a huge house here or a shitty apartment there.” Well, then. I ignore his comment. I am sure he has real problems like patients with ailments so he doesn’t have time to deal with the woes of the weather and airlines. Sidebar: for a $1 million he can have more than "a shitty apartment" in New York. I'll just give him his moment to be cranky.

“I was thinking about coming the following morning,” I say. “No,” he says quickly. “We have to leave for the conference, and it is a drive to the resort.” Ugh, really? Instead I change mental gears and cheerily reply, “Okay.” I have been single for a long time and must realize the value in compromising. It is okay if I miss one volunteer meeting. The world won’t end; there are other mighty women in my organization to forward the mission. I must focus on this very important meet the desi parents weekend.

“Oh and one last thing…don’t tell my boss you’re a Democrat,” Dr. Froggy instructs. “Excuse me?” I ask. “Well I don’t care, well not really, but my boss is the head partner of the practice and a DIE-HARD Republican. I don’t want him knowing you swing the other way.” Clearly Dr. Froggy has NOT been listening to me, because I’m not a “Democrat” either. I’m a social liberal, but a fiscal conservative. At this rate, when the choices are socialist liberals or religious conservatives, I may just stop voting all together.

“Well, if no one talks politics all weekend, then he wouldn’t find out I guess,” I reply and am met with Dr. Froggy silence. Whatever. Compromise is one thing. Lying to be someone I am not? Not going to happen. Not even to get married.