“So what are you looking for in a life partner?” Virat asks. “Someone who is physically, intellectually and emotionally compatible,” I reply. “That seems very vague. Perhaps that is why you aren’t married. You don’t know what you are looking for,” he says giving me a grave look. Now I want the earth to open up and suck Virat into its core, and maybe scorch him a little.
"Of course it is vague. It’s part destiny and part chemistry. The rest of my life can’t be qualified, like a math equation. It’s not like I am buying Tide at Target,” I snap sourly. “You shop you at Target?” Virat snickers. “You should go to WalMart it’s all the same stuff but cheaper. I bet you don’t put enough into your retirement accounts to get employer matching either, huh? How much to you save each month?” Virat asks abrasively. “I save some savings,” I mumble uncomfortably. More like no money, but I won’t be marrying him so why share my dark spending secrets.
I am crossing and uncrossing my legs under the table, my stomach is flipping from hunger. Or pain. This man could literally be killing me. I almost salivate when another waitress walks by carrying plates of pad Thai embroidered with curly strands of julienned carrots and white domes of rice on banana leaves. Finally, finally, finally our waitress returns. “Sorry, for the delay. Are you guys ready to order?” “Desi Girl?” Virat, who has the personality of diarrhea, sets his menu aside, looking at me with flat eyes as if he is doing me the favor by dining tonight. “Oh, no! Please you first,” I insist sweetly. “No, no,” Virat replies. “I need one more minute!” I confess.
He sighs deeply it borders on a groan. Even the overworked and underpaid waitress notices his impatient displeasure. He picks up the menu with the fanfare of a theatre performer, “I’ll have pad Thai with fresh tofu. Not fried.” “Okay,” the waitress notes his order on her pad. “No, no. I’m not done,” Virat interjects roughly. “No fish sauce. No egg.” “Okay,” she says. “Did you write it down? Write it down. I don’t want this coming out wrong,” Virat demands. Clearly, he does not believe in treating servers very well. Another bad sign. I stop and peer around the menu, hoping that someone at the next table and not my date is going on like a belligerent asshole. The unmistakable look of hate flashes through the waitress’s eyes and the pencil moves across the pad. “Total asshole” “Spit in food” “Poison the loser at table 15”. I can only wonder what she is writing.
“Are you ready now?” Virat presses in his superior sounding tone. I set the menu aside and look the bastard square in the eye. Oh yeah, I am ready….
Upbeat desi woman outsources herself from Minnesota to Manhattan in search of love, and finds something more...
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
179. TEETOTALERS, VEGETARIANS AND HUSBAND? OH MY! – Part Two
The waitress arrives with a pot of jasmine tea. She fills stoneware cups and pulls out a pen and pad to jot down our order. “Anything else to drink?” she asks. “Is the tea free?” Virat asks. Stunned, I look up from the menu. Who asks such a question? Is he cheap? How much can tea possibly cost? Visibly irritated, the waitress nods. “Then I’ll also have a pineapple juice,” Virat announces like he’s the first person to order a fruit drink.
Hhhmm, he seems a little wacky, which was not evident from his profile. I am debating if I should order an adult beverage (read: something consisting mostly of vodka) or a diet soda. I am beginning to fear that this will be a long and grueling night. Then again, what if he is simply nervous and will eventually chill the fuck out. So I give him a second chance.
I also decide to be “good” and order a Diet Coke with lime and return to reviewing the menu. Pad Thai, Pad See Ew, green curry, red curry, coconut curry. After Punjabi, Thai, along with Mexican, are my favorite cuisines. I grew up eating food spiced with coriander, chilies, cumin, turmeric, and paprika. My food doesn’t have to be five-alarm fire hot, but it must be a party for my taste buds. “I’m glad you don’t drink like all these Indian girls in America.” Ooo, so he did NOT ready my profile.
“The devout refrain from meat and alcohol. You should stay away from spices, too. The heat affects some people negatively,” Virat lectures as if he, the Indian, is an expert on American desi girls. “You don’t eat meat?” I ask. “No. Didn’t you read my profile?” Virat’s words are prickly. I don’t remember his profile saying he was Brahmin, which is why I then ask, “I thought only Brahmins refrained from meat and alcohol. Are you Brahmin?”
A storm flashes through his brown eyes. “I’ll have you know I’m quite pure in my habits. I don’t exercise because I eat well. I don’t waste money and time at the bars. Sodas, too, you do know Diet Cokes are unhealthy?” Yeah well Diet Coke, affectionately termed “Diva Cola”, is one of the reasons I get out of bed every morning, so he can bite me. To demonstrate my affinity for brown bubbles, I take giant gulps of soda and sublimate my rage towards him.
I cannot stand Indian immigrants who move to the US and think they are better than those of us who were born here. I realize Indian desis think American desis are snots, but I double-dog dare them to spend and survive the 1980s in places like Des Moines, Fargo, Minneapolis, or Pittsburgh. Our charmed lives were not lived without challenges (including but not limited to: growing up with hairy monkey arms, caterpillar moustaches, unibrows, sideburns that rival Captain Kangaroo, wearing home-made clothes, and having sketchy athletic ability). And if these cantankerous over-stuffed, over-educated Indian desis despise us and everything American, they can go back to where they came from. Silently I will the waitress to return and take our orders so I can get the hell out here.
To be cont.
Hhhmm, he seems a little wacky, which was not evident from his profile. I am debating if I should order an adult beverage (read: something consisting mostly of vodka) or a diet soda. I am beginning to fear that this will be a long and grueling night. Then again, what if he is simply nervous and will eventually chill the fuck out. So I give him a second chance.
I also decide to be “good” and order a Diet Coke with lime and return to reviewing the menu. Pad Thai, Pad See Ew, green curry, red curry, coconut curry. After Punjabi, Thai, along with Mexican, are my favorite cuisines. I grew up eating food spiced with coriander, chilies, cumin, turmeric, and paprika. My food doesn’t have to be five-alarm fire hot, but it must be a party for my taste buds. “I’m glad you don’t drink like all these Indian girls in America.” Ooo, so he did NOT ready my profile.
“The devout refrain from meat and alcohol. You should stay away from spices, too. The heat affects some people negatively,” Virat lectures as if he, the Indian, is an expert on American desi girls. “You don’t eat meat?” I ask. “No. Didn’t you read my profile?” Virat’s words are prickly. I don’t remember his profile saying he was Brahmin, which is why I then ask, “I thought only Brahmins refrained from meat and alcohol. Are you Brahmin?”
A storm flashes through his brown eyes. “I’ll have you know I’m quite pure in my habits. I don’t exercise because I eat well. I don’t waste money and time at the bars. Sodas, too, you do know Diet Cokes are unhealthy?” Yeah well Diet Coke, affectionately termed “Diva Cola”, is one of the reasons I get out of bed every morning, so he can bite me. To demonstrate my affinity for brown bubbles, I take giant gulps of soda and sublimate my rage towards him.
I cannot stand Indian immigrants who move to the US and think they are better than those of us who were born here. I realize Indian desis think American desis are snots, but I double-dog dare them to spend and survive the 1980s in places like Des Moines, Fargo, Minneapolis, or Pittsburgh. Our charmed lives were not lived without challenges (including but not limited to: growing up with hairy monkey arms, caterpillar moustaches, unibrows, sideburns that rival Captain Kangaroo, wearing home-made clothes, and having sketchy athletic ability). And if these cantankerous over-stuffed, over-educated Indian desis despise us and everything American, they can go back to where they came from. Silently I will the waitress to return and take our orders so I can get the hell out here.
To be cont.
Monday, August 30, 2010
178. TEETOTALERS, VEGETARIANS AND HUSBAND? OH MY! – Part One
I step into the restaurant and immediately smell warm sesame oil, peanuts and vegetables. My ears drink in the delicious sound of an indoor fountain. Wooden Buddha sculptures and exotic metal statues of Thai women line the walls. I walk up to the host stand, a teak table shaped like an elephant offering up mints and toothpicks and say, “I have a reservation under Desi Girl.” “Yes, I seated the other guest. Come with me,” the host says and escorts me to my awaiting date, Virat.
He rises to shake my hand. In my 3” tall boots we’re the same height. Interesting. His profile said he was 5’-8” but in these shoes I’m 5’-6”. Because I am a sighted woman who can visually determine things like obesity and height, I don’t like feeling deceived. Then again, what if he is the one desi engineer who cannot do math.
Virat has round pockmarked cheeks and a broad forehead pitching towards the top of his head. He has a small gap between his front teeth and huge eyeglasses that not only hide his eyes but his unruly eyebrows. His shirt has more wrinkles than an old fisherman’s face so he must not own an iron or live near a dry cleaner (remarkable since there are on average four dry-cleaners per block in Manhattan). Then again I am not Miss World; he doesn’t need to be Bollywood hot. Besides, in my experience the painfully good looking Indian men also have the I’m-too-cool-for-you attitude and prefer white flesh to desi.
“Hello Desi Girl,” Virat says. Oh it is N-I-C-E to be on a date with a desi man who can properly pronounce my name. Even though I complain loudly and often, there are benefits in having a name that does not occur naturally in the American vernacular. It allows me the opportunity to screen calls from telemarketers, who routinely slaughter the pronunciation of my name and then ask if I listen to Christian Gospel music (no) or if I want to upgrade my cable package (again, no).
“Have any trouble finding the place?” I ask. “Not at all,” he replies and I try to place his smooth, almost-but-not-completely-Indian accent. UK maybe? “I love Hell’s Kitchen. If I stay out too late, I can easily catch a cab from here home,” I share. Virat curls his lips. “You must like to vhaste money.” I swallow my water quickly. I misheard him, right? “Sorry?” I ask. “Don’t you take the subway?” “Well yes, but not when it’s late.”
From the way he says ‘vhaste’ rather than waste, he grew up in India. And from the way he can control his accent, making only one minor slip, I can tell he has studied in the States as well. Accents are funny that way. Mine is a little Midwestern, a little California, and then there are some rogue words like paprika I pronounce like a Delhiite. No matter how hard you try and change yourself, telling parts always remains. My mother still, after forty years in America, falls into the Delhi habit of rhyming.
To be cont.
He rises to shake my hand. In my 3” tall boots we’re the same height. Interesting. His profile said he was 5’-8” but in these shoes I’m 5’-6”. Because I am a sighted woman who can visually determine things like obesity and height, I don’t like feeling deceived. Then again, what if he is the one desi engineer who cannot do math.
Virat has round pockmarked cheeks and a broad forehead pitching towards the top of his head. He has a small gap between his front teeth and huge eyeglasses that not only hide his eyes but his unruly eyebrows. His shirt has more wrinkles than an old fisherman’s face so he must not own an iron or live near a dry cleaner (remarkable since there are on average four dry-cleaners per block in Manhattan). Then again I am not Miss World; he doesn’t need to be Bollywood hot. Besides, in my experience the painfully good looking Indian men also have the I’m-too-cool-for-you attitude and prefer white flesh to desi.
“Hello Desi Girl,” Virat says. Oh it is N-I-C-E to be on a date with a desi man who can properly pronounce my name. Even though I complain loudly and often, there are benefits in having a name that does not occur naturally in the American vernacular. It allows me the opportunity to screen calls from telemarketers, who routinely slaughter the pronunciation of my name and then ask if I listen to Christian Gospel music (no) or if I want to upgrade my cable package (again, no).
“Have any trouble finding the place?” I ask. “Not at all,” he replies and I try to place his smooth, almost-but-not-completely-Indian accent. UK maybe? “I love Hell’s Kitchen. If I stay out too late, I can easily catch a cab from here home,” I share. Virat curls his lips. “You must like to vhaste money.” I swallow my water quickly. I misheard him, right? “Sorry?” I ask. “Don’t you take the subway?” “Well yes, but not when it’s late.”
From the way he says ‘vhaste’ rather than waste, he grew up in India. And from the way he can control his accent, making only one minor slip, I can tell he has studied in the States as well. Accents are funny that way. Mine is a little Midwestern, a little California, and then there are some rogue words like paprika I pronounce like a Delhiite. No matter how hard you try and change yourself, telling parts always remains. My mother still, after forty years in America, falls into the Delhi habit of rhyming.
To be cont.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
177. FROM THE FIRE TO FRYING PAN
“I followed a stranger into a building under construction. In Harlem,” I confess to my brother over the phone. “Was he at least wearing a hard hat and a company construction jacket?” he asks, not really surprised or concerned, probably because I’m alive and this isn’t the most dramatic thing I’ve ever done. All for matrimonial purposes, alone I traveled to a temple in Jammu and Kashmir, met strange men in strange cities, tolerated lewd actions and moved to Manhattan. “Yes, to both,” I reply. “Well, okay. But this isn’t something I’d tell Mom and Dad.” Agreed.
Later that afternoon I receive a call from Meera and Rohit asking if I checked out the building. Because I have these annoying Midwestern values that include integrity and honesty, I earnestly retell my escapade and receive a severe reprimand.“You did WHAT?” Meera yells into the phone. “Honey, you will NEVER believe this!” I listen to Meera recount my misadventure. I can tell by their fading voices and the hollow wind sound that they’re in the car, spending Sunday in Jersey looking for light fixtures. “Is she CRAZY?” Rohit yells. He is driving because direction sense is not her forte. “Tell her she’s an idiot!” “I can hear him,” I tell Meera dryly. “Good. Don’t ever go into an abandoned building again!”
That evening like a recovering crack addict I am jonesing for a Starbucks. I have actually hit that age where caffeine after 3 pm keeps up until 3 am, but I’m in the mood for espresso and steamed milk. I pull on a light jacket and leave my apartment. Once outside I smell coffee in the air wafting from the café. This is another reason I love New York, coffee made to specification located 30 seconds away, 60 if I don’t make the light.
From the sidewalk, I step into the street. The traffic lights in Manhattan are timed, the City couldn’t make driving and walking any easier on this island. Yet the vast majority of New Yorkers don’t bother with the crosswalks or traffic laws, and are the most indignant jaywalkers. And for what reason, I have adopted this behavior and step into northbound Fort Washington Avenue, and wait for the M4 bus to avoid me. I move into the middle of the street allowing southbound cars to pass. A gypsy cab slows down, stops and allows me to cross. I flash a huge smile, wave and jog in front of him. Sometimes New York surprises me. People stomp on your foot without apologizing, shove you on the sidewalk, or honk at you if you look at them wrong, yet this driver lets me cut across illegally on his right of way.
It could be argued that I am a certifiable idiot who engages in reckless behavior with her own person. Out of the fire (abandoned buildings) and into the frying pan (wandering in traffic), sometimes I wonder if I will learn. I definitely think it’s a good thing I’m not someone’s mother. Other times I think maybe I don’t have bad luck, so much as I have selective luck. I may have the world’s worst matrimonial stars, but I have the world’s strongest dangerous-situation-avoiding stars.
Later that afternoon I receive a call from Meera and Rohit asking if I checked out the building. Because I have these annoying Midwestern values that include integrity and honesty, I earnestly retell my escapade and receive a severe reprimand.“You did WHAT?” Meera yells into the phone. “Honey, you will NEVER believe this!” I listen to Meera recount my misadventure. I can tell by their fading voices and the hollow wind sound that they’re in the car, spending Sunday in Jersey looking for light fixtures. “Is she CRAZY?” Rohit yells. He is driving because direction sense is not her forte. “Tell her she’s an idiot!” “I can hear him,” I tell Meera dryly. “Good. Don’t ever go into an abandoned building again!”
That evening like a recovering crack addict I am jonesing for a Starbucks. I have actually hit that age where caffeine after 3 pm keeps up until 3 am, but I’m in the mood for espresso and steamed milk. I pull on a light jacket and leave my apartment. Once outside I smell coffee in the air wafting from the café. This is another reason I love New York, coffee made to specification located 30 seconds away, 60 if I don’t make the light.
From the sidewalk, I step into the street. The traffic lights in Manhattan are timed, the City couldn’t make driving and walking any easier on this island. Yet the vast majority of New Yorkers don’t bother with the crosswalks or traffic laws, and are the most indignant jaywalkers. And for what reason, I have adopted this behavior and step into northbound Fort Washington Avenue, and wait for the M4 bus to avoid me. I move into the middle of the street allowing southbound cars to pass. A gypsy cab slows down, stops and allows me to cross. I flash a huge smile, wave and jog in front of him. Sometimes New York surprises me. People stomp on your foot without apologizing, shove you on the sidewalk, or honk at you if you look at them wrong, yet this driver lets me cut across illegally on his right of way.
It could be argued that I am a certifiable idiot who engages in reckless behavior with her own person. Out of the fire (abandoned buildings) and into the frying pan (wandering in traffic), sometimes I wonder if I will learn. I definitely think it’s a good thing I’m not someone’s mother. Other times I think maybe I don’t have bad luck, so much as I have selective luck. I may have the world’s worst matrimonial stars, but I have the world’s strongest dangerous-situation-avoiding stars.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
176. HAUTE DIGS IN HARLEM – Part Two
I turn the corner for the “affordable” building. The sign lists the broker contact details and I wonder why I didn’t notice this information yesterday. Two men without coats pass me. It is not that warm I think as a light breeze presses my hair against my lip-gloss. I tug my tresses free. The front door opens and a construction worker steps outside.
“Hi,” he says. He’s about 40 with a great complexion. He’s wearing Carharts, a company jacket, hardhat and steel-toed boots. “Hey,” I reply. “Thinking to buy?” he asks. “Maybe. If the price is right,” I say. “The floor plans are nice,” he shares. “Hhhmm,” I say and nod slightly. I need to sound reflective. Real estate in Manhattan is a merciless blood sport when contractors or brokers realize you’re interested. My words and body language need to appear loose, so he works to pique my interest. “We just laid the marble lobby and the security system’s gonna go in this week. Every unit will have a washer/dryer.”
He just raised real estate wooing to a new level. From my own hunt I know if an apartment building has even two sets of washers and dryers on-site I should drop to my knees and thank the goddesses. I have seen other New Yorkers lugging twenty pounds of stinky clothes, quarters and detergent down the street, hoping for one free machine at the Laundromat. Of course, if you can afford it, there is always the option of a washing service. But the thought of laundry IN my apartment is like finding a good sale - accidental happiness.
“Granite kitchen countertops, too,” he adds and looks me square in the eyes. Damn it! I paused too long and he knows he hooked me with laundry. I must raise the stakes. “Really granite? Or Sila-stone?” “How do you know that?” His brows wrinkle, a slow moving SUV momentarily distracts his attention. Majoring in architecture is not like serving in the Navy, I don’t wear my profession. So I must resort to dropping little bits and bubs of information that insiders would know. It gives me just enough credibility to appear knowledgeable.
“Doesn’t everyone in the industry know this?” I ask nonchalantly. So what if I don’t ACTUALLY design nor have a license? Contractor man does not need to know that. He nods and seems impressed. “Want a tour?” “Sure,” I reply. “You can’t tell anyone I did this. It’s against policy since we’re under construction and I don’t have a hard hat for you,” he explains. “I won’t say anything,” I reply.
Quickly I glance up and down the street. As I step over the building threshold I wonder, are these the last people to see me alive? I am not getting the cold-blooded murderer vibe from Contractor man. But I did just agree to follow a complete stranger into an abandoned New York City building filled with nail-guns, hammers, and power saws because he enticed me with washing machines and granite countertops.
“Hi,” he says. He’s about 40 with a great complexion. He’s wearing Carharts, a company jacket, hardhat and steel-toed boots. “Hey,” I reply. “Thinking to buy?” he asks. “Maybe. If the price is right,” I say. “The floor plans are nice,” he shares. “Hhhmm,” I say and nod slightly. I need to sound reflective. Real estate in Manhattan is a merciless blood sport when contractors or brokers realize you’re interested. My words and body language need to appear loose, so he works to pique my interest. “We just laid the marble lobby and the security system’s gonna go in this week. Every unit will have a washer/dryer.”
He just raised real estate wooing to a new level. From my own hunt I know if an apartment building has even two sets of washers and dryers on-site I should drop to my knees and thank the goddesses. I have seen other New Yorkers lugging twenty pounds of stinky clothes, quarters and detergent down the street, hoping for one free machine at the Laundromat. Of course, if you can afford it, there is always the option of a washing service. But the thought of laundry IN my apartment is like finding a good sale - accidental happiness.
“Granite kitchen countertops, too,” he adds and looks me square in the eyes. Damn it! I paused too long and he knows he hooked me with laundry. I must raise the stakes. “Really granite? Or Sila-stone?” “How do you know that?” His brows wrinkle, a slow moving SUV momentarily distracts his attention. Majoring in architecture is not like serving in the Navy, I don’t wear my profession. So I must resort to dropping little bits and bubs of information that insiders would know. It gives me just enough credibility to appear knowledgeable.
“Doesn’t everyone in the industry know this?” I ask nonchalantly. So what if I don’t ACTUALLY design nor have a license? Contractor man does not need to know that. He nods and seems impressed. “Want a tour?” “Sure,” I reply. “You can’t tell anyone I did this. It’s against policy since we’re under construction and I don’t have a hard hat for you,” he explains. “I won’t say anything,” I reply.
Quickly I glance up and down the street. As I step over the building threshold I wonder, are these the last people to see me alive? I am not getting the cold-blooded murderer vibe from Contractor man. But I did just agree to follow a complete stranger into an abandoned New York City building filled with nail-guns, hammers, and power saws because he enticed me with washing machines and granite countertops.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
175. HAUTE DIGS IN HARLEM – Part One
One end of the tape measure rests between the pads of my thumb and index finger. Meera stands eight feet away with the other end and Rohit takes notes. They closed on this apartment a year ago and are a few months from move in day. Their impending ownership delights me. As much as I love these urban nomads who have moved three times in two years, I really don’t want to help. Again.
"Honey, what about fixtures?” Meera asks. Her voice echoes against the white walls and bounces across the wood floor. Empty apartments always sound unwanted and hollow to me. “What about fixtures?” he asks without looking up. I smirk. Meera groans, “We have to buy them!” “I walked by a really nice light store in Flatiron,” I suggest and glance out the window. The sliver sized Romeo and Juliet balcony catches my eye. I am sure it is securely fastened to the building, but I don’t plan on standing on that thing any time soon. It is a seven-story drop from the apartment to the sidewalk. Given my luck these days, I don’t think I should chance it.
“Whaaaaaat?” Meera says. “Flatiron? Are you crazy? It is SO expensive. I buy wine glasses from Wal-Mart. We’re going to Home Depot, right honey?” “Yup,” Rohit replies. He has mastered knowing when to tune in and out of our conversations. “It’s required by law for Minnesotans to shop at Target,” I tease. “Why would I pay more when I can pay less?” Meera asks. “Am I really listening to this?” Rohit asks in a tired tone, “Wal-Mart and Money by Meera?” “What’s wrong with him?” I ask Meera. Normally Rohit PRETENDS we are annoying, but secretly finds us entertaining. “Oh he’s just mad because I don’t want to put in a faux brick wall like we had in the Upper West apartment,” Meera says. “I think they look very New York,” Rohit insists.
Meera rolls her eyes. “Honey! They are not going to increase the value of our apartment!” Rohit makes a face and returns to his notes. “Desi Girl, I have an idea!” “What would that be?” I ask. I never know which Meera I am going to get: the very serious medical professional or the goof who doesn’t like to wear shoes. “Move across the street from us.” Her beautiful brown eyes brighten and she smiles big and full, revealing perfect rows of pearly white teeth. She MUST be joking, with what shall I make the purchase? I have anti-money these days. “It’s considered affordable,” Rohit adds.
“Affordable” is a loaded word in this City. On the other hand, I am still thoroughly infatuated with Manhattan that I don’t see myself returning to Minneapolis any time soon. “Are you serious? You’d be okay with me living across the street from her?” I ask Rohit and point at his wife. “Why not?” Rohit asks, looking puzzled. “We would never see you anyway.” “Just make sure you close those curtains when you are having some lovin’ tiiiiime,” Meera sings. “I think I just threw up a little in my mouth,” Rohit deadpans.
* * *
The next morning it takes the better part of an hour to go four miles. Sketchy weekend subway service is becoming a regular nuisance. By the time the train pulls into the Harlem station I am certain I burned 100 calories sighing and fidgeting the whole ride down.
I rush out of the subway and onto the street. I wait for the light and inhale deeply and exhale slowly. Yoga is not helping. Tiny bubbles of tension are trapped under my skin and I cannot release them because I don’t know what is causing them. I just feel them all the time.
The walk light flashes and I cross the street. The air smells like meat and I remember to sanitize my hands. What I like about Harlem is what I like about Washington Heights. Real residential neighborhoods inhabited by real New Yorkers, who travel on rush hour subways to 9-to-5 jobs, buy groceries from the bodega and sleep in on Saturdays. Cabs are an infrequent sighting and it is comforting to see the same cars parked in front of my building. I find the requisite Starbucks, Duane Reade, Chase and Citibank locations at the intersections. But thankfully the big boxes cannot find enough space to invade my urban landscape.
I don’t fear Harlem like I used to. I have learned that no one in Manhattan bothers you if you act like you belong. So I regularly employ tactics like scowling, avoiding eye contact, looking bored and jamming on my IPod to underscore my native status. I haven’t been mugged yet. So far so good.
To be cont.
"Honey, what about fixtures?” Meera asks. Her voice echoes against the white walls and bounces across the wood floor. Empty apartments always sound unwanted and hollow to me. “What about fixtures?” he asks without looking up. I smirk. Meera groans, “We have to buy them!” “I walked by a really nice light store in Flatiron,” I suggest and glance out the window. The sliver sized Romeo and Juliet balcony catches my eye. I am sure it is securely fastened to the building, but I don’t plan on standing on that thing any time soon. It is a seven-story drop from the apartment to the sidewalk. Given my luck these days, I don’t think I should chance it.
“Whaaaaaat?” Meera says. “Flatiron? Are you crazy? It is SO expensive. I buy wine glasses from Wal-Mart. We’re going to Home Depot, right honey?” “Yup,” Rohit replies. He has mastered knowing when to tune in and out of our conversations. “It’s required by law for Minnesotans to shop at Target,” I tease. “Why would I pay more when I can pay less?” Meera asks. “Am I really listening to this?” Rohit asks in a tired tone, “Wal-Mart and Money by Meera?” “What’s wrong with him?” I ask Meera. Normally Rohit PRETENDS we are annoying, but secretly finds us entertaining. “Oh he’s just mad because I don’t want to put in a faux brick wall like we had in the Upper West apartment,” Meera says. “I think they look very New York,” Rohit insists.
Meera rolls her eyes. “Honey! They are not going to increase the value of our apartment!” Rohit makes a face and returns to his notes. “Desi Girl, I have an idea!” “What would that be?” I ask. I never know which Meera I am going to get: the very serious medical professional or the goof who doesn’t like to wear shoes. “Move across the street from us.” Her beautiful brown eyes brighten and she smiles big and full, revealing perfect rows of pearly white teeth. She MUST be joking, with what shall I make the purchase? I have anti-money these days. “It’s considered affordable,” Rohit adds.
“Affordable” is a loaded word in this City. On the other hand, I am still thoroughly infatuated with Manhattan that I don’t see myself returning to Minneapolis any time soon. “Are you serious? You’d be okay with me living across the street from her?” I ask Rohit and point at his wife. “Why not?” Rohit asks, looking puzzled. “We would never see you anyway.” “Just make sure you close those curtains when you are having some lovin’ tiiiiime,” Meera sings. “I think I just threw up a little in my mouth,” Rohit deadpans.
* * *
The next morning it takes the better part of an hour to go four miles. Sketchy weekend subway service is becoming a regular nuisance. By the time the train pulls into the Harlem station I am certain I burned 100 calories sighing and fidgeting the whole ride down.
I rush out of the subway and onto the street. I wait for the light and inhale deeply and exhale slowly. Yoga is not helping. Tiny bubbles of tension are trapped under my skin and I cannot release them because I don’t know what is causing them. I just feel them all the time.
The walk light flashes and I cross the street. The air smells like meat and I remember to sanitize my hands. What I like about Harlem is what I like about Washington Heights. Real residential neighborhoods inhabited by real New Yorkers, who travel on rush hour subways to 9-to-5 jobs, buy groceries from the bodega and sleep in on Saturdays. Cabs are an infrequent sighting and it is comforting to see the same cars parked in front of my building. I find the requisite Starbucks, Duane Reade, Chase and Citibank locations at the intersections. But thankfully the big boxes cannot find enough space to invade my urban landscape.
I don’t fear Harlem like I used to. I have learned that no one in Manhattan bothers you if you act like you belong. So I regularly employ tactics like scowling, avoiding eye contact, looking bored and jamming on my IPod to underscore my native status. I haven’t been mugged yet. So far so good.
To be cont.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
174. I FOUND YOUR HUSBAND – Part Five
“How did a Jewish guy go over with your parents?” Jane asks. Oh boy, she is NOT going to be subtle about this. Then again subtly is not one of her or my strengths. “She was 37 and they wanted her married,” Naveen says. “How old are you?” Jane asks. “38,” Naveen replies and orders his third drink. Fourth if you include the one at Spotted Pig. He also drove into the City, so I’m glad I won’t be on the Brooklyn Bridge tonight. “Are your parents pressuring you to marry?” Jane asks hopefully. Meanwhile I think I might die. My own mother is NOT this direct. “Nah, I’m a guy,” Naveen says and stretches his arm across the back of my dining chair.
I find this so maddening I could spit; I mean if I weren’t such a priss-pot. Do I really need another reminder about how messed up and anti-woman desi dating is? Or maybe it is dating in New York, but thanks to Charlie Chaplin having babies at the age of 73, men seem to think they have A-L-L the time in the world. But really, at 50 are they going to be handsome and have their hair? Also, I don’t appreciate Naveen invading my space after his declaration of disinterest. It is completely fine with me if he wishes to play the field, but I don’t need him being all faux-cozy with me.
From that point I talk to Bill and Jane. I don’t ignore Naveen; however I make it clear that if he is interested he needs to act like it. Obviously Naveen is a clever boy and senses my disdain. He removes his arm and stops acting like a jackass. That is until the bill comes.
To my horror, the bill is divvied into four equal quarters. And no, I was not expecting my date to comp my meal. However, I was not expecting to pay for Naveen’s three drinks, coffee and steak dinner. I ordered a $20 pasta and water. Jane, a skinny girl chronically on a diet, had wine and salad. Because I am a simple working gal, making it month by month, I find the cheapness of rich people stunning. Sure, I understand that this is how the rich got rich. But this is TACKY! Jane and I combined spent $50 on our dinners and they spent $150.
Jane and I can’t say good-bye fast enough. We scurry, more like limp since our feet hurt, out of the restaurant. She hails a cab. I protest that I cannot afford it, especially after that dinner. “I’ll expense it,” Jane insists, shoves me inside and slams the door. “Two stops. West 71 and Columbus and West 181 and Fort Washington.” The cabbie whips a U-turn (not recommended on the cobblestone West Village/Meatpacking streets) and cruises onto the West Side Highway. As I watch Chelsea and Midtown West blur by I turn to Jane and say, “I don’t think I’m marrying him.” “Absolutely not! He is cheap and uncouth!” Jane yelps. “And was raised by wolves,” I interject. “Clearly,” Jane adds and sighs.
I find this so maddening I could spit; I mean if I weren’t such a priss-pot. Do I really need another reminder about how messed up and anti-woman desi dating is? Or maybe it is dating in New York, but thanks to Charlie Chaplin having babies at the age of 73, men seem to think they have A-L-L the time in the world. But really, at 50 are they going to be handsome and have their hair? Also, I don’t appreciate Naveen invading my space after his declaration of disinterest. It is completely fine with me if he wishes to play the field, but I don’t need him being all faux-cozy with me.
From that point I talk to Bill and Jane. I don’t ignore Naveen; however I make it clear that if he is interested he needs to act like it. Obviously Naveen is a clever boy and senses my disdain. He removes his arm and stops acting like a jackass. That is until the bill comes.
To my horror, the bill is divvied into four equal quarters. And no, I was not expecting my date to comp my meal. However, I was not expecting to pay for Naveen’s three drinks, coffee and steak dinner. I ordered a $20 pasta and water. Jane, a skinny girl chronically on a diet, had wine and salad. Because I am a simple working gal, making it month by month, I find the cheapness of rich people stunning. Sure, I understand that this is how the rich got rich. But this is TACKY! Jane and I combined spent $50 on our dinners and they spent $150.
Jane and I can’t say good-bye fast enough. We scurry, more like limp since our feet hurt, out of the restaurant. She hails a cab. I protest that I cannot afford it, especially after that dinner. “I’ll expense it,” Jane insists, shoves me inside and slams the door. “Two stops. West 71 and Columbus and West 181 and Fort Washington.” The cabbie whips a U-turn (not recommended on the cobblestone West Village/Meatpacking streets) and cruises onto the West Side Highway. As I watch Chelsea and Midtown West blur by I turn to Jane and say, “I don’t think I’m marrying him.” “Absolutely not! He is cheap and uncouth!” Jane yelps. “And was raised by wolves,” I interject. “Clearly,” Jane adds and sighs.
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