120. CHRISTMAS EVE SHOULD ALWAYS INCLUDE VEUVE AND CAVIAR

When I’m in New York I think of Minnesota with nostalgic fondness. Nice people. Great summers. Lots of lakes. Now that I am ACTUALLY back and being pounded by one Alberta Clipper after another I am feeling a white-hot hate for cold brown 5’-0” tall snow banks.

I had to buy Wellies to get around. You must be wondering what a girl from Minnesota is doing without snow boots. First, I’m more of an indoor girl, malls and museums, over snowshoeing and skiing. Second, when I moved to NYC, my boots did too. They are there and I am here. So I need new snow shoes!

This visit to MSP also includes my annual invite to a Christmas Eve fete hosted by my friends Steve and Elle. Through phone calls and emails, I have kept Elle abreast of my misadventures in desi dating. So she knows and agrees that my 193 days of alcohol abstention must end. And we have decided that it will be in their lovely home.

Of course, being a Hindu girl living in a Lutheran state I am free on Christmas Eve, every year. In fact I get invited to more Christmas parties than Diwali or Holi gatherings. Which is fine. There is no wine at auspicious Hindu and religious functions. Boo.

I arrive early to catch up and help. I’ve been coming here for several years and have an official Xmas Eve duty, make the toast points for the caviar. Yum. Steve and I are in the kitchen, while Elle flutters in and out with final details. “Okay, so I have some Veuve Clicquot to toast your return to drinking,” Elle says and pours three glasses of bubbles. When she says “some” Veuve she means she has a magnum. Delish! “Your wine charm is Vixen,” Elle says and hands me a glass. Oooo, how I wish I was a Vixen in real life! “Cheers to you,” Elle says, we clink, sip and hot damn, champagne is Durga’s gift to me!

“So what happened to Reindeer?” Steve asks and prepares the meat and cheese tray. “I don’t know. One week he adores me. The next it’s like I contracted Ebola,” I reply and sip golden bubbles of heaven. Did I really give up drinking to fix my demented, burnt out, rusted stars? That was dumb. Alcohol consistently makes me happier than any man ever did. “I think you should stop dating Indian men,” Elle says. “They don’t get you.” Clearly. “So the caviar is ready,” Steve says.

In the loving presence of friends who love, support and provide the DIVINE decadence of food and drink, desi girl gets her drink back on! There is NO other way.

119. KINDLY RETURN MY TUPPERWARE ALREADY

Four hours later I am panicking for calling and potentially losing my plastic home goods to a very bad man! Just when I think Reindeer won’t call back, he does. And I am relieved because the power has shifted back to me and I feel closer to getting my Tupperware returned.

“Hey there,” Reindeer says. Oh boy, there it is again, that yummy, sexy, turns my knees to molten chocolate voice. Sidebar: WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Why can’t I get over him? “Hey Reindeer,” I reply, praying I can contain myself and banish hopeful thoughts that he professes his undying love pour moi!

Without my prompting HE launches into a tale about HIS day. He was at lunch when I called. This comment mortally wounds every bit of me because I presume he met a woman. And it’s not like I can ask because I will die if he confirms my fear. Thinking I had any power is a complete joke. Then, as if on cue, he says, “I met a buddy at the Doral Arrowood Country Club in Westchester. Didn’t you go to... you’ve been there right?” He remembers this? I went there LOOOOOONG before I ever met him.

Because I am weak and it doesn’t feel like six weeks have elapsed I fall into conversation with him and share that I’m freezing. He laughs and says, “How can the girl from Minnesota be cold?” “Don’t ask,” I reply. “I’m going back for a few weeks.” “Oh really? I’ve been in Kansas for the past few weeks,” Reindeer shares. “How is Kansas?” I ask. “I don’t get to many of the square states.” “While I was there I thought of you,” Reindeer says. This conversation is interesting and all over the board, yet I cannot segue into the opportunity to pounce for my plasticware! “Yes, in Kansas City I take Interstate 435 see signs for I-35 for St. Louis and remember you were once a former resident,” Reindeer says.

Okay what is going on here? This he remembers, too? Finally after 35 minutes I say, “Can I ask you a question?” He replies, “Yes.” I pause and then ask, “What happened in our last conversation? It was weird and awkward.” Now he takes a long pause and I stop breathing, waiting for the moment of truth. I should have asked for my Tupperware and forgone the closure.

“Yes,” he says. “It was awkward…I still have your dishes and you must want them back since they seem expensive.” “Well yes there is the matter of my Tupperware.” This is when I should ask him to mail them back. Do I? No. Instead I redirect and re-ask, “So again, what went wrong?” “I need to think about it,” Reindeer replies. WHAT?! He has had six weeks to figure out why we stopped dating. But I let it go and he suggests that we meet in January because I leave for the Twin Towns in 72 hours.

I hang up and flop onto the couch. I reach for the remote and surf the TV for some Law and Order. By flirting and remembering random little me-isms, Reindeer has filled me with false hope. And I have forgotten how dangerous that can be.

118. CONTACTING REINDEER

My fingers warm from clutching the over-sized mug filled with coffee and fat-free, lactose-free French vanilla creamer. I avoid thinking that something can be cream but not dairy. Perhaps I simply have a love of processed things that may or may not give me cancer like Diet Coke aka Diva Cola. Yum!

I cross my legs and wiggle around in my office chair. My computer is open to the Banker’s latest email, “Did you call Reindeer yet?” Man I am NOT a person to be dared or challenged. Everything I am, everything I have accomplished has been a struggle of fight. Because nothing has come easily for me I get a little combative and competitive. This is also why I am a deplorable board game player. I am a really bad loser because I pout. And I am an even WORSE winner because I gloat. I have found my friendships last longer when I don’t play board games.

Accordingly the Banker’s dare to contact Reindeer pecks at my brain the way the pigeons in Bennett Park go after the last piece of bread. It doesn’t help that nothing I do (shopping, eating, dating) shakes thoughts of Reindeer. It’s like he's perched on the ledge of my mind and my mental Swiffer cannot sweep the thought of him away.

I don’t know what the point of deleting a number that I memorized was, because within seconds I am dialing Reindeer. While I wait for him to pick-up I decide that I will say hello, ask how he is doing and then ask if I can get my Tupperware back.

But when I go into voicemail I check the time. Noon. He finished yoga an hour ago. It’s December so he’s not golfing. Sometimes he gets his hair cut. And of course there is the chance that he’s is ignoring me. Surprisingly I feel relief that I don’t actually speak to him. After the beep I leave this voicemail, “Hey Reindeer, can you call me back when you have a chance.”

After hanging up, I have a few hyperventilating moments of “why did I do that?” Sure, I don’t back down from a challenge. And my voicemail was nicer than saying, “give me back my Tupperware you balding f*ck-head.” Did I shift the power back to his court? Who cares! I am entitled to get my private property back!!!

117. TODAY’S INTERNET DESI HUSBAND TROLL

I return home from my Banker lunch feeling good about myself, something I haven’t felt in a while. Having a desi man friend is refreshing and exactly what I need right now. 

I sit down at the computer and read through profiles until one catches my breath. The potential groom (Quan Jock) writes: Vacation in the Caribbean -$2000. Two dozen red roses - $200. Candlelight dinner with the right partner - PRICELESS. Professionally secure man working in investment bank as vice president. Easy going, ambitious and confident person living life to the fullest. I like new things and cultures, have varied interests and a liberal outlook on life.

Well, well, well doesn’t Quan Jock sound A-B-S-O-L-U-T-E-L-Y fabulous!!! And we have LOTS in common. We’re the same age and Punjabi. He’s from Delhi (where I go every other year) and cute. I mean, Quan Jock isn't gorgeous like Don’t be Scared (Post 115)  but he’s attractive with nice features, fair skin, and has ALL of this hair. From his photos where he wears jeans and a polo shirt, he looks slim, bordering on skinny. All of which triggers my triggers my body issues and has me worrying that I may outweigh him. Thank goodness he’s 5’-7”, so he's at least taller than me! And if he’s a great conversationalist with a sexy voice…swoon. With a click I send a notice of interest and log off.

Banker’s dare to call Reindeer still lingers. Banker believes Reindeer had a panic attack and disengaged and doesn’t know how to re-direct. So the part of me that STILL thinks Reindeer is the one (I don't know what is wrong with me) wants to believe what the Banker suggests is true. After all Banker is a desi man from India just like Reindeer.

I decide to wait on calling Reindeer. Let’s see if Quan Jock is interested because he writes like a man, not a boy-child, who is looking for a woman. And as a woman wanting to be found, it is good to have options!

116. RETURN OF THE DESI BANKER

I have seriously lost my mind. For some reason I thought I could “pop” into Macy’s and return some shoes I don’t love and buy some lipstick I do. But going there three Saturdays before Christmas is like making crystal meth in my apartment. Suicidal. Because this is the earthly shopping portal to hell.

After months of not hearing from him, the Banker (Post 76, 69, 60, and 59)  has invited me out to lunch. We've decided to be friends, which is fine. He likes un-fed waifs that look like boys and I like to eat!

I get to his apartment in a building where he pays pays four times what I do to live in a new, modern, sleek building. We do the mock-hug and he says, “You just missed the NYPD do their drill. 50 cars head east and then west. It is quite loud." "Wow," I say not really knowing the proper response. “Is it cold outside?” the Banker asks and surveys his coat closet. “Don’t ask me. I’m Minnesotan with a warped idea of cold,” I reply. “Good point,” he replies. The other question that should not be posed my way, “is this spicy?” I grew up in a Punjabi house where spice reigns. Pepper me up baby, because this maharani (desi for queeen) likes it hot!

We sit down to lunch and Banker asks, “So what’s new?” “I am dating again after Reindeer.” “Oh so that is why you were ignoring me?” the Banker scolds. What? The Banker just called me last week after months, so who is ignoring who? “Tell me about Reindeer,” the Banker asks.“Do you want me to start with his out-dated pictures that didn’t reveal his bald spot, until AFTER I met him?” I ask in a saccharine tone and   nibble on my bacon, also the reason I could never be a vegetarian. I would rather die than live without bacon.

The Banker asks me to retell the entire relationship and so I do. I am shocked that the nonsense Banker never tunes me out or asks me to get to the point. When I finish my story he sits quietly for several minutes, adjusting the collar of his turtleneck, thinking, reflecting and finally speaks. “So what’s the reason for the break-up?” Huh. No one has ACTUALLY asked that question, including me. “I don’t know. He said he had been thinking about and didn’t think it would work,” I reply. “What does that mean?” The Banker demands. “How the hell do I know?” I snap. “Do you like him?” The Banker asks. I shrug.

“Look, I think it is hard to find someone these days. I think you should call him up and talk to him,” the Banker suggests gently. Full disclosure: For weeks I have wanted to contact Reindeer. I admit it. I am weak. But I am trying so hard to be strong, reminding myself that when a man wants you he does not allow days, weeks and months slide by. “Actually,” the Banker says and flashes an amused and sexy smile. “I dare you call him.”

115. DON’T BE SCARED

I’m chatting with Don’t-be-Scared. He’s one year younger than me, Punjabi, works on Wall Street in Oil Gas and has a voice that is verbal deliciousness! And he’s GORGEOUS in that “too-cool-for-you” desi manner. He strikes me as the type of man who only dates the really, thin, coiffed, manicured, prissy desi girls. But he seems really interested in me, which is great because I used to be really overweight and I sometimes I still see myself as chubby and unattractive.

We decide to meet the same night as the Rockefeller Christmas Tree lighting. Bad idea. So we venture further east and end up at the Midtown East W. He orders a wine for him and club soda for me. He, too like Dr. Comb-Over  (Post 114) asks why I am not drinking. And again I say because my personal trainer encouraged me to cut out alcohol. And no joke I have not been this thin or fit in 15 years.

“So, how long have you been on the matrimonial site?” I ask. “About 11 months,” he replies. I nod and reply, “Me too.” “My goal was to meet someone this year and get married,” Don’t-be-Scared shares. There are roughly 6 weeks left in 2007 so he doesn’t have much time, which leads me to ask, “What is your success rate at meeting women you like?” “It’s okay. But sometimes I run into someone I dated and it’s awkward.” “Why?” I ask. “Well it’s disconcerting when they’re into me and I’m not into them. And then they act weird.” He is either conceited or a serial crazy dater. “How mad can a woman get after two dates? Because, really, only crazy people invest that quickly,” I ask. He agrees and laughs.

A strange look flashes across his face which prompts me to suddenly ask, “How many women have you dated this year?” He sets his drink on the table and looks me straight in the eye and says, “I don’t want you to be scared...” DANGER! “A lot,” he says. “How many?” I ask. “Well, you make 73.”

Where does he have all that time? To arrange two dates a week means he had to spend at least two hours emailing or chatting per woman before each date. And how is he keeping our names straight? Ugh, he must be the worst kind of desi, a player who want me to know he’s a player! Or he is REALLY picky and no woman will ever be good enough for him. Either way, I remind myself that people tell you who they, you have to be paying attention ... and clearly this is a man who says he wants to settle down, but doesn't, which is okay … because I say ... NEXT …

114. DR. COMB-OVER

We all have tendencies and biases which is how I became a serial FOB dater. So now I need to shake things up. And my new friend Ainsley Ayers (Post 111) must agree because yesterday she said, “What’s your type?” I replied, “Single, Hindu men.” She nodded reflectively and said, “Date the opposite.” Which would be what? Married Christian men? Clearly dating married men is a bad idea, so when Dr. Comb-Over writes, I accept rather than reject him.

I generally don’t date desi doctors for two reasons. One, the majority of desi doctors (and their mothers) want matching doctor brides. And two, while doctors are smart, I sometimes find male doctors difficult to talk to. I think this is because they know 90% of one thing whereas I know 10% of a bazillion things. But since I live in a little bubble I am pushing myself outside of my comfort zone, which is why I am waiting at Chola on the UES for my date.

He arrives late and wearing a double-breasted suit, tailored in India, with misshapen collars (think Duran Duran). And it’s in an olive green color that does not appear organically in nature. He spots me and waves. More upsetting than the suit is his comb-over (which was not prevalent in his photos because they, like his suit are from 1984). Yes, this is shallow, but I don’t find him physically attractive. I wish I could. I wish I did. But posting photos of who he LOOKED like is totally unfair. I actually feel deceived, so I don’t feel bad that I intend to eat and run.

We sit down and the first thing he orders is deep-fried appetizers --- samosas and pakoras. At 8:30 pm this is the WORST thing for us to eat. He orders a beer and I a Diet Coke. He finds the no alcohol puzzling and presses me to order a wine. I explain that I am not drinking because I am training, which is not a lie. I am re-training my stars from being negatively affected by alcohol. Dr. Comb-Over reminds me he is a doctor, and says I can have one drink. I politely refuse but it bothers me that he wants me to drink. Does he think drunk I’ll forget the comb-over? Bad suit? Lack of manners?

He sets his I-Phone on the table, I presume so I will be impressed by $600 phone. Even though half of Manhattan is running around with that EXACT phone. He smiles and insists I have a drink, that I cannot let him drink alone and what kind of wine can he order me. OMG. I again decline and finally he relents. I punish him by not speaking through dinner. Which is actually punishment for me, being silent for the majority of dinner damn near kills me.

Just as I plan my escape back to the West Side he says, “Shall I drive you home?” “No, no, don’t worry. I live in the OPPOSITE direction.” Because, again, I am not letting a man I just met on the Internet drive me home. Especially after he was so adamant that I drink.

The next morning I wake up thinking my Dr. Comb-Over date was a bad dream. But that bubble bursts when I find this text: Good meeting you. I hope you had a good time. Argh! I didn’t! So I fully intend to ignore him! And if calls, I am will learn how to reject numbers on my mobile phone.