91. DESI GIRL AND THE CRAZY LADY

Despite what you see on television, real New Yorkers do normal things, like laundry which I am doing when the Crazy Lady interrupts me. Recap: Crazy Lady has six pets and tried to sue Albany. I don’t know her name, but I am almost certain she is nuts.

“I am being evicted!” she screams. “I have lived here for 30 years and the whole time he has tried to kick me out!” I don’t say anything and she rants until my clothes are in the dryers. In a moment of empathy I say, “You have rights as a tenant.” I would think she knows this because she has lived in this building since I was 4 years old. “I have a friend who's a judge who says landlords can do what they want.”

“You must be just be rich,” she says. Really? They why aren’t I living on the Upper East Side or in Chelsea? So I correct her and tell her I’m getting by like anyone else. This sends her into attack mode (not that she ever came out of it) and snarls, “you’re paying more rent than me.” Well, yeah, I’m not rent stabilized like her!

“Do you know why I got the dogs?” she demands. Ugh, I don’t care. She then tells me she lived next door to crack dealers who beat her up. She then says, “You know the landlord harassed a woman for having a dog when her lease said she couldn’t have one.” Well, no kidding, the other lady was violating the lease…what is the landlord supposed to do? He's already letting her run a zoo on the 6th floor. “Well I won't let him do this to me. This is my home. I am going to sue him and Albany. You be careful, he’ll throw you out too!”

Wow. For a woman with no money she sure does wage many lawsuits. And she’s screaming like someone pulled her hair. I gather all my laundry and race out of the laundry room. On some level, the Crazy Lady does scare me. What if she is right about the landlord and he boots me out. I have no place to go. I have four friends and cannot afford to find a new home.

Kerplop, I drop my stuff in the living room and speed dial Jack. Without taking a breath, I retell the entire Crazy Lady to Jack, who finally cuts me off and says, “If a person is exposed to too much cat urine and feces they can go insane.”

That must be it! She has gone insane.

90. WILL YOU KEEP MY BABKA?

I am, pretty much, a straight shooter. When I give my word I bind myself to it. If I offer to plan your baby shower, it is going to be best damn blue or pink party you attend. If your life falls apart I will bring the super glue and help piece it back together. If we’re having dinner at 7:00 pm I will be there at 6:58.

Now that Reindeer is en route to pick me up for a date, I am reliving last night and feeling disappointed for giving Super Smarty my number. It’s not like I can blame the faithful girl stand-by ‘I was drunk’, because I was STONE COLD sober. Ugh.

I pull my 7 For All Mankind jeans out of the closet (these jeans were more expensive than my Ann Taylor dress pants and I wear those to work!) and toss on a black and white printed I.N.C. shirt. Oooo, my never worn green Franco and Sarto heels would be perf!

When Reindeer rings, I lock the apartment and hop into the car. He slides off his sunglasses looks at my outfit and says, “I thought I said casual.” I furrow my brows. “Jeans are my idea of casual.” He smirks and eases the car away from the curb then heads south on Broadway. “Where are we going?” I ask. “You’ll see,” Reindeer says. “Did you do anything fun last night?” I ask. “Saw a movie,” Reindeer says. I nod and say, “With your other girlfriend?” What the? Who said that? Shooot a pickle! Either I really have some desi Hindu guilt for TALKING to Super Smarty or I’m being passive/aggressive about his second profile that I am clearly STILL harboring negative feelings about. He glances at me and shakes his head. “I’m not seeing anyone else.” Oh.

He finds a metered space and says, “Can you walk in those shoes?” I flash a bored look, “Yes!” Reindeer nods but his body language demonstrates doubt. I’ll show him! Of course I wish I knew where we were going, that would make it easier to “show him”. As luck would have it (finally) we enter a deli. “So this Zabar’s,” Reindeer says. I nod. He laughs. “What?” I demand. “This is a New York institution. I’m showing you the sights.” Aw, that’s sweet the Big City Desi Slicker is showing the little bumpkin from Minnesota around town.

We have lunch and then wander through the grocery store where a substantial amount of time is spent in the coffee/tea aisle and then the bakery where Reindeer selects a chocolate babka. We hop back into the car and go back to my neighborhood. “So I have a problem,” Reindeer says. “What's that I ask?” I am mildly impressed that my feet don’t hurt. “I am going golfing now.” “Uh-huh,” I reply, these are cute shoes. “Well my babka will melt in the heat,” Reindeer states. He’s right, it might. “So will you keep my babka? Just pop it in the freezer.”

I don’t get this man at all. Still no kiss, but now I am storing his babka … indefinitely?

89. DESI GIRL AND A NEW SUITOR

Three days after the bridge collapses, Meera and I are sitting at the bar of Ono in the Meatpacking District. Meera orders wine and excuses herself for the ladies room. I pull her bar stool in closer (empty bar stools on a Saturday night in Manhattan are a HOT commodity). Because New York doesn’t really support sobriety and teetotalers, I order club soda with lime. It seems to confuse people into thinking I am still on the sauce.

Since I stopped drinking, I experience everything so much more vividly, including my love/hate relationship with the Meatpacking District. The trendy restaurant fare is good, but pricey. And the influx of B&T (bridge and tunnel) people can be maddening. But maybe they are the smart ones who enjoy the city and go home. While we Manhattanites stay and pay incredibly high rates of tax.

“Are you here for the NYU event?” a man asks. “No,” I reply. I can’t explain how, I just KNOW he is Pakistani. “Did you?” I ask. “Yeah, we’re having an event upstairs. I thought you were the organizer.” This is the strangest thing I have heard in some time. If I was the organizer why am I sitting with my back to the door, at the bar, drinking, albeit club soda?

Meera comes back from the loo and sits down, which allows me to return my attention to her. A few minutes pass and the Pakistani guy talks to me again. Meera shrugs and checks her phone. Just as I begin to politely end conversation the Pakistani guy’s South Indian friend appears. “Meet my friend! He is super smart guy, best in our class, great job, total catch,” Pakistani guy says. Super Smarty seems embarrassed but we exchange polite hellos. He is not bad looking, average height, a little stocky. “So are you seeing anyone?” Pakistani guy asks me. Before my brain can formulate a sentence, Meera snaps her phone shut and says, “No, she is not.” I glance at Meera wondering if she has forgotten Reindeer. Because I have not. “Super Smarty is single too,” Pakistani guy says and turns his attention to someone else. Meera returns to her phone. Thus forcing Super Smarty and I to chat.

I learn that Super Smarty was born in India, lives in Jersey, and works in the City. His has one sister she is married and lives in the Gulf (when desis say “the Gulf” we mean Persian, not Mexican). He does most of the talking, and only stops when Pakistani guys interrupts so say “Super Smarty is brilliant.” “He is going to be rich.” “He is going to be a great husband.” Wow, Pakistani guy has the subtly of an Indian Auntie.

When the NYU event begins Pakistani guy and Super Smarty get up to leave. Super Smarty pauses and says, “Can I have your phone number?” Aiy, what is the harm? So I give it to him. Aiy!

88. WHEN GOOD BRIDGES FALL DOWN

I survey my apartment. Yeehaw! It is tidier than a 5-star hotel! With cleanly pleasure pulsing through me I decide to treat myself to ice cream. Since I am a big fan of a bargain (and really, I think most desis are), I decide to visit my local McDonald’s for a 99 cent cone. But I quick call my parents to say hello first.

I get my ice cream, eat it on the way home and sit down on the couch. Literally, my booty makes contact with the cushions and the phone rings. It’s my parents and I am instantly nervous: 1) I just talked to them and 2) they never call me. And growing up, when the phone rang late at night, my parents never had to tell us, my brother and I knew, an elder, distant relative had died.

“Hello?” I demand. “Don’t panic,” is the first thing my always calm and collected mother says. Then perhaps she should not begin a conversation with, “don’t panic.” Because I immediately, P-A-N-I-C. “Don’t worry, Daddy is home and I talked to your brother, they are home, too.” “What is going on!” I demand. “The 35W Bridge just fell into the Mississippi River.”

For the love of Ganesh, this is the most surreal thing I have ever heard my mother day. And the words reverberate in my head. “Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.” It’s just the bridge that connects our house to our office that we drive across twice day, every day just FELL into the RIVER. In what world do perfectly good bridges just fall down?

My mother is still talking and I flip on CNN. There are bits and bubs of the bridge all over the place. OMG. I mean my mother would never make this up. But, holy shit, the 35W Bridge is in the water. “Mom, I have to go,” I say and immediately call Jack. “Hello?” he says. “The 35W Bridge fell into the Mississippi,” I say robotically. “What?” Jack shouts. “Turn on CNN!” I order and he does because it is so sensational. “Holy shit. The bridge is in the water…” he says. “I can’t talk right now,” I say and begin to hang-up. “What happened? You were just there!” he demands. “Well it’s not snowing, so it’s road construction season and they were repairing the bridge.” Now there are cars and concrete in the water?

For the next five hours I sit in front of the telly watching CNN. I have not been this disturbed since 9/11 when one of my co-workers came into the office and said, “I think a plane just hit the World Trade Towers.” Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

87. DESI GIRL IS PROBABLY DATING REINDEER

As if waiting and hoping on Reindeer is not stressful enough, I am, again, on the phone with my cousin who is requesting desi dating details and then doling advice like a Pez dispenser on speed. “You have to play the game” “These are the rules” “Trust me I know what men want” “I found three men for you to date.” Why, oh why, did I give up drinking? These conversations would be MUCH easier to bear if my blood alcohol was 0.04.

Half an hour later I receive a text from Reindeer. “Just landed in Ohio. Small plane and a flight attendant named Delilah. Will call when I have the rental car.” Hhhmm. Perhaps I did not do damage with my “are we dating” demand.

When the phone rings I pick up immediately. “So I am finally in the Midwest,” Reindeer says. “Uhm, Ohio is more like the industrial Midwest,” I correct. He laughs in that laugh I love. “You take being from the Midwest very seriously if you are excluding Ohio.” “I am being geographically correct.” Desi girl confession: While really, I do love everything about Karen Walker, at the core I am a hall monitor disguised as a party girl. “We actually landed in Kentucky,” Reindeer says. “So I decided to try Kentucky Fried Chicken for the first time.”

Whaaaaat? How has he lived in America for 20 years and never dined with the Colonel? “Have you eaten at Chipotle?” I ask. “Nope,” he replies. “Really? I will take you,” I say. “Sounds good,” he says. “It can’t be next weekend. I have girlfriends coming from Minnesota. We’re going to Ono, want to join us?” I ask. “Oh-no!” he exclaims. Geez! The way he responds so quickly and emphatically you’d think I offered to set him on fire, not invite him to dinner.

This is SO clearly NOT a good sign.

86. IS THE DESI GIRL DATING REINDEER OR NOT?

After finishing our made-fresh-by-Reindeer-juices we get into the car and leave for Stone Hill Farms. As we head towards the Tappan Zee Bridge, Reindeer explains that it is referred to as the “Tapp”. Since I am an avid viewer of the morning news, including the Road and Rail Report while I wait for the Weather on the 1s, I already know this. But I decide to let him be the man, and act like what he shares is fascinating. Where, oh where, is my Emmy for this performance?

Once off the freeway the drive becomes scenically pastoral and quaint with cows and rolling hills. The pristine view and gentle quiet, the endless grass and sky could be mistaken for central Wisconsin, not 40 minutes away from the largest American city.

We get out of the car and Reindeer directs me to the restaurant, and says, “There is so much to see and do here.” The restaurant is PACKED and sporting a two-hour wait. Just like that I am reminded that we are INDEED in New York! There is a little canteen across the way and we go there for sandwiches. He selects tea, making me seem more Indian, while I opt for Diet Coke, more carbonated, more American. We sit down to eat and suddenly his two profiles pop into my head. 

I set my sandwich aside and say, “Reindeer?” “Yes?” he replies, a little flirty, a little serious tone. “Would you say we are dating?” I ask. He raises a brow at me and says nothing. Shoot, why didn’t I learn how to be subtle? “I ask because, I enjoy seeing you, but we’ve never kissed…” I begin. He continues to sit motionless and then says, “I’m not seeing anyone else, so sure we’re dating.” And what about the kissing? I do like him, but what is going on here? I worry about falling too hard and too fast. And if does no like me back, I have to implement some self-preservation. I wish I just had the ovaries to ask about what really troubles me - the second profile. 

Conversation during the rest of lunch and the car ride is strained. He drops me off at Abby and Patrick’s house for Madeline’s first birthday and ends the date with a hug, no kiss. Even thought I just inquired about this lack of touch. And no, I am not looking for him to be an ODDB (Posts 17 and 16)  but I would like some reassurance that he finds me attractive.

When I arrive at the party, Meera, Rohit and Abby inquire about my date. Meera groans, “His reply is strange! Kick him to the curb,” she says with full-on girl attitude. “Do you think he is a player?” I ask. Rohit and Abby roll their eyes and simultaneously with forcefulness, say, “No!”

Then why do I feel like I am being played?

85. MEET ME IN WESTCHESTER

On the day of my Westchester date with Reindeer I get up extra early to wash and style my hair. I decide to wear a brown skirt, hot pink silk shell, light pink sweater and sandals.

Before dashing out the door I reach into the fridge for Reindeer’s samosas. I’m about to find out if the way to a man’s heart is REALLY through his stomach because I pretty much could get Mathew McConaughey to almost fall in love with me over these deep fried triangular bites of delish!

When the train pulls into the Westchester station I spot Reindeer, again leaning against his car, sporting his shades in the manner of a Bollywood legend. It is times like this I feel certain a bhangra song is going to slowly begin with the lilt of a flute, the gentle tap-tap-tap of the tabla. Until it crescendos into an ensemble of 50 color-coordinated extras dancing while Reindeer and I lip-sync to India’s number one hit song. Clearly I have seen WAY too many Bollywood movies. Sidebar: in my dreams I am an AMAZING dancer. In real-life I have some questionable coordination issues.

Reindeer greets me with a hug. Hhmmm. This is date four, shouldn’t we move onto a peck on the cheek or lips? He gives me the 50-cent tour of his town en route to his apartment.

His building is a design from the 1970s when flat roofs were the rage. Inside his apartment I am incredibly stunned. His décor rivals anything I have ever seen, including the cover of Interior Design magazine. Everything has a place, in this contemporary space filled with deep rich brown leather chairs (bad Hindu)and a couch accented with red pillows and a throw.

The unfortunate living room detail is the wall clad in mirrors. Another 1970s tactic to make the room seem bigger, when it really leaves you feeling a little dirty like a porn star once lived here. The bathroom has a H-U-G-E Jacuzzi tub but is pink with a large vase of curly willows. Since Reindeer rents, I’d like to believe he is not a super fan of pink. Otherwise I am becoming the desi Grace, with her very own Will (Reindeer) and Jack (the Banker).

His bedroom is spacious but sparse, with a bed and a dresser. “Would you like orange or grapefruit juice?” Reindeer asks and directs me to the kitchen where some Juiceman Juicer and a collection of cut citrus fills the counter. “Grapefruit” I reply and watch him pull an apron out of a drawer. This entire production is surreal --- pimped out juicer, farmer’s market fruit and an aproned desi man.

It takes a few minutes for him to concoct the frothy teetotalling beverages and we adjourn to the living room for a leisurely chat. Where he oddly, sits clear across the living room from me.

To be cont.