368. MAYBE I AM JUST INSANE

After Ainsley and I finish the tour of the apartment complex and go through the finances/rental agreement with the rental agent, we decide to walk to the waterfront, with Manhattan in full view. “What do you girls think of Queens?” Padre, Ainsley’s boyfriend asks as the three of lean against a park railing. Midtown East rises in front of us. We hear the cawing of birds and the East River lapping against the shore.

“I am not one of those annoying Manhattanites who says things like ‘oh I need a passport to go to the Bronx, Jersey or Brooklyn’. Overnight bag – yes, passport, no,” I reply. Padre slides his hand into Ainsley's and asks, “And babe, what about you?” “I like the apartment, but the rent is higher than I thought,” Ainsley says. “I thought that too,” I reply. A two bedroom facing Manhattan in this complex is $3300. I pay $1295 now, which is $45 more than what I paid last year. Ainsley pays about $1000 – but she has a roommate.

Ugh -New York is expensive. Which is why, sometimes I wonder what I am doing living here.  I have moments when I miss nice people. This is not to say New Yorkers are not nice, they are. But these are very intense people who move and live at an almost inhuman pace. I can keep the pace, but it is on like Donkey Kong all the time. And it takes time to make friends and feel like you have built a home and a life. I am finally feeling like I have what it takes to make New York work. I definitely think New York is NOT for everyone. But I think, if I make some changes, I can make a good go of a Big Apple life. Work is challenging, too. Our project pipeline has slowed down. I get worried every now and then about making the rent. So moving into a more expensive apartment worries me a lot.

And then there is pesky problem of finding a boyfriend/husband/soul mate.  I am funny, attractive, compassionate, caring, damn good cook. Yet for some reason the life of the single desi girl in the city continues. "What time is your date?” Padre asks and looks at his watch. “Noon," I reply, hoping this is a desi who can tell time. This is why I always carry a book in my purse. “Where are you meeting?” Padre asks. “Dos Caminos,” I reply, already salivating at the thought of tableside guacamole.

“You know that is not real Mexican,” Ainsley, the Texan, says. “Yes, I am aware. But tacos and nachos don’t disappoint!” I reply. “Your dates sure seem to,” Ainsley mutters. “I know I sound like a broken record – but I don’t think you should limit yourself to Indian men. In fact I don’t think you should date them at all,” Ainsley says, each word a little stronger, more emotionally loaded than the one more. “Babe!” Padre scolds. “What? I am entitled to tell my friend what I think,” Ainsley snaps.

“It’s okay,” I reply. Padre flashes a supportive smile, Ainsley gives him a look that says “see I am not in the wrong". “Einstein once said that the definition of insane is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Maybe I am just insane,” I suggest. The words are BARELY out of my mouth and Ainsley shakes her head and insists, “It is NOT you! It is New York, it is men, it is the men you date, and it is far more complex than simply you.”

367. I LIKE SHINY THINGS

Okaaaaay.  The A train is running local – AGAIN – welcome to weekends in the Heights. Four minutes into my commute to Ainsley’s West Village apartment, I already like the Long Island City apartment that I have yet to lay my brown eyes upon. This weekend construction is getting so out of hand that I am no longer able to gauge how long it will take me to get downtown.

And because I will be underground I have no way to inform Ainsley of my untimely arrival. As one of the few timely desis on planet Earth this would normally irritate me and my precise and exacting standards. But the MTA is one of the things that does not give me an aneurysm. There is nothing I can do about the MTA. They run on their own dysfunctional timeline and program.

Fifty minutes later when I pop out to the street level I go straight to Ainsley’s apartment, ring the bell and get buzzed in. I go to her apartment and knock on the door. Her roommate opens the door and seems puzzled to see me. “Hey, is Ainsley home?” I ask. “I thought you were Ainsley,” Alyssa Melissa (the girl whose names rhyme) says. “Oh?” I ask, thinking is not a good sign. “Yes, she left – like 20 minutes ago,” Alyssa Melissa says.  “Thanks,” I say and head back to the elevator. Ugh. I hope Ainsley didn’t think I was blowing her off and has left me. I am 160 blocks from home!

I go outside and my phone rings. “Where are you?” Ainsley asks when I pick-up. “In front of your building. Where are you?” I ask. “We’re around the corner, we got coffee, hurry – we’re late,” Ainsley says. “I know I had train issues,” I reply and speed walk down the street and around the corner. I move fast for a short girl. I get into the car, Ainsley hands me a coffee and her man heads east to Queens. “I’m going to take the 59^th Street Bridge,” he says. “Okay,” I, carless on an island, reply.

Once in Long Island City, Ainsley’s boyfriend finds a street parking spot (with ease). “Ladies, note how easy parking is in the outer boroughs,” Padre (Ainsley’s boyfriend says).  “Uhm, I am NOT one of those annoying people who thinks life ends at the Hudson and there is nothing but fly over space from here to California,” I reply. Padre, from Middle Village, where one of New York’s biggest marijuana busts just occurred, smiles.

While we wait for a sales agent to meet us, Ainsley and I go to the gourmet grocery store next door and get lattes and breakfast. We get back to the apartment complex and find Padre chatting with the agent. “Here are the girls who may be your tenants – my girlfriend Ainsley and our friend, Desi Girl,” Padre explains. Here’s what is funny, Padre is younger than both Ainsley and me, and he is calling us “girls”. Sigh. I hope Ainsley and Padre get married some day. He is a REALLY nice guy – and obviously I think Ainsley is a great gal.

We get the tour of the building – and I have to say it is amazing. While it is really charming and quaint to live in something built in 1929 – OMG – modern details are OH SO nice. I feel like an architectural sell out. I should not be so easily seduced by stainless steel kitchen appliances; card, not coin, operated laundry; views of Manhattan; and full gym on premises. But I am. What can I say, I like shiny things.

366. PLANNING MEERA’S NEW YORK BABY SHOWER

“You’re doing what?” Possible-Mate-from-Chicago asks. “Planning Meera’s New York baby shower,” I reply and review the list I was working on before he called. Invites. Food. Cake. Party Favors. Non-Alcoholic  drinks for Meera. Alcoholic for me. Speaking of alcohol – I am thinking mimosas – but I have never actually made one for myself, I am generally ordering them with brunch. I should email Haynes Thomas Taylor (Post 309)  – she knows things like the proper ratio of champagne to orange juice. I actually think mimosas are stupid. Who needs OJ? It just dilutes the champagne. And bubbles are delicious!

“New York  shower? Will there be showers in all 50 states?” Possible-Mate-from-Chicago asks, clearly amused. “Noooooo! But Meera’s mom is throwing one, too,” I reply. “Let me guess you have been invited that too?” he asks. “Well, yeah – why?”

Silence.

“Why?”  I ask again. “Well – you sure do seem to do a lot of stuff for people,” Possible-Mate-from Chicago says. Hhhmm, I cannot tell if he is annoyed, passing judgment or expecting me to explain my actions.  “Well – Meera isn’t people, she’s family. We have been friends forever. You have friends who are family, don’t you? What about those friends who are getting married in Cabo?” I ask. “I understand – and look – maybe Meera was a bad example. I take it back. It seems in the vast majority of our calls, I ask you what is new and you share a story of someone’s problem that you are expected to fix. As an outsider, you seem to have a lot of high maintenance friends, who seem  unappreciative of your efforts.”

“Meera is family. Her parents come to town, they ask to see me. Same as Rohit’s family. Same as my parents wanting to see Meera and Rohit,,” I argue. He chuckles and sighs. “And you don’t listen when you don’t want to.” “Whaaaat?” I ask. “I said, fine not to Meera. I get that relationship – plan her shower until the cows come home…” “It will be the  bluest shower known to man. They are having a boy,” I reply. “How do you know?” he asks. “They got the results,” I reply. “Good, I hope he is really healthy. But this volunteering you do and the two-hour phone calls you have with clearly unstable women who double as your friends who need you to talk them off the ledge is exhausting to listen to. So I cannot imagine how you do it.”

Now it is my turn to be silent.

“I don’t mean to upset you. It just doesn’t seem that there is any time for you in your own life. You seem to ‘complain’ – though this is not the word I mean to use – that you don’t have time to work out – yet you have four hours each week to take care of other people.  I think you should take that time you spend on others and re-focus back on yourself.”

Hhhmm. If I actually take care of myself, I may have to admit what isn’t working in my life. Which these days – is a pretty long list.

365. I MAKE ART

In New York, the State really encourages recycling. Don’t get me wrong, so do other states like Minnesota. But in New York it is a fine-able offense like disobeying the alternate side parking rules, failing curbing your dog or honking on parts of Park Avenue. I don’t ever remember Governor Jesse Ventura going ballistic on the issue of separating paper from plastic. He had plenty of other things to do like not fund education and give back rebates and drain the state’s savings account.

Inside my apartment I quickly separate my refuse into three bags, garage, J. Crew catalogues and Diet Coke cans into the third. My building super is very good, he keeps the building immaculate and even the refuse disposal area is very tidy, with three clearly marked signs: PAPER, RECYCLING, GARBAGE, over clearly marked garbage cans. You have to be stupid not to understand his system, so it makes him super nuts to find people disobeying him and the State of New York.

I step out of my apartment, three bags of refuse in tow. I stuff my keys into my pocket, to ensure I don’t toss them out with the trash, and face the elevator. It is on the sixth floor so I decide to walk out of the front door and access the disposal area from the side entrance.

The Super is coming out of the side entrance, holds the door open for me, eyeing my garbage. I am pretty sure he is making sure I have separated to the letter of the law specifications.  I come around the corner and stop in my tracks. Shoot! The Crazy Lady with the 3 dogs is rifling through the recycling. I am still 20 feet away from her so I cannot ascertain what she is doing exactly; I think she is looking for collectables. And I am pretty sure I don’t want to be in a confined space with her. There is a part of me that things I should step back slowly and just way, way, way break the law and toss all my trash and recycling into a city street bin. Too late, she must sense me and looks up.

“Hi!” she says. “Ah, hey,” I reply and decide that I can toss my stuff in 10 seconds and speed walk away. “What do you have in your bags?” she asks. “Uhm, garbage – coffee grinds, egg shells,” I reply. “No, no, the others – I make art you know,” she says. Okay, really not in the mood for this. What kind of person is not disgusted with “coffee grinds and egg shells”?  And what? Art? AIY! “I see,” I reply. “Yea, I do a show,” she replies. Stupid me asks, “You have a studio?” “No,” she says in a tone that she finds me boring.

“I make all my art in my apartment,” she says. “What’s in your other bags?” she asks. “Diet Coke cans and J. Crew catalogues,” I reply. “You shop there, eh? I have some pants I bought 8 years ago, I still wear them. I’ll show you some time,” she says. Great, just what I need! “Ok,” I reply. “So how do you make the art in your apartment? Do you have a 2-bedroom?” I ask and then want to punch myself, stop engaging her! “No, I have a one bedroom,” she replies. “But, you have all those animals – you have that much space?” I ask. “I don’t have any furniture,” she replies just as the super comes back and catches me talking to her. He gives me the “she’s crazy look” and goes into the building.

“Talk to you later, I have to ask the super for something,” I reply and empty my bags into the bins. “Be careful, he hates single women,” she says. Whatever. I’ll take my chances. I had a light bulb I could not reach and I asked him for help and he did it. I don’t think it is single women, I think it is single crazy women the super prefers to avoid.

364. TACOS AND NACHOS DON’T DISAPPOINT

I’m turning into someone I used to mock, because I now sleep with my phone. Which makes it easy to takes calls in bed. Perhaps sounds a little seedy, but not really. It just means that there is nothing to ever stop me from answering the phone.

“Hello?” I ask. “Hey, Desi Girl, it’s Chadwick, is this an okay time?” he asks. This is another one the Queens guys. This one lives in Forest Hills or Elmont or Belmont. Speaking of names, Chadwick and his brother, Radcliffe, have British surnames as first names. (Yes, these are code names, but not that off the mark from the real names). Chadwick’s family is Gujarati, which makes their names seem odd to me. I’m Punjabi – I am well aware of the stereotype other desis don upon my Punju peeps – stupid, loud, drunk, meat eaters – but Gujjus just seem more traditional, conservative, ‘desi’ – not the type of Indians to select Western names. Who am I to say anything? I come from a long line of people who pet name their kids: Bunty, Bubbli, Sweetie, Honey, Shiny, Cherry, Chini, Banta, Baba, Raja, Sonu, Monu, Ginu and the ridiculous list continues.

“Hey, this time is fine. What are you doing?” I ask. “I’m in Vegas,” he says, pronounced “Way-gus”. “What are you doing there?” I ask. “I’m here for a conference,” he replies. “Fun,” I reply. “Not really. I come here twice a year and the vendors just go crazy for us Executives. Dinners. Drinks. Shows – after the second trip it becomes old,” he shares.  Okay, he is the FIRST person, desi or otherwise who seems to think he is too superior to attend a corporate function. “I am taking a walk – so I thought I’d see what you were up to.”

“Well, I am fine thank you,” I reply. “How is New York?” he asks. “It is great,” I reply. “Where do you live again?” he asks.  “Washington Heights,” I reply. “Why there?” he asks. “Uhm, it’s pretty. The buildings have character. And it’s affordable,” I reply.  “I like Queens. Lots of space. Grass.  More space for less money, you must like throwing your money away,” he says. Uhm, okay – what? I don’t even know what the proper response to this comment is. So I ignore it. “You have any vacations coming up?” Chadwick asks. “Uhm – yes,” I reply slowly. “Where are you going?” Chadwick asks. “Minnesota – in July – to visit my parents,” I reply.

“Looking forward to it?” he asks. “Yes, of course – why wouldn’t I?” I ask.  “Most Indo-American desi girls hate their parents. You don’t?” he asks. You know when your gut kinda twists, and your better judgment notices, but your brain misfires and ignores the notice? Well this is what happens to me right now and I agree to lunch on Saturday at Dos Caminos in Midtown East. In the worst case scenario, if the company disappoints, lunch won’t – chips, tableside guacamole and tacos = happy times!

363. I DON’T QUIT

“Whaaaaat?” Meera demands into the phone. “Honey! Desi Girl is talking about moving to Queens.” Okay, I thought I was the drama queen! “No, no, what I said was next Saturday I am LOOKING at ONE apartment in Long Island City – it’s one stop out of the City – it’s not Belmont!” I explain.  Rohit gets on the phone, “Are you moving there for a man?” he asks, joking. I snort into the phone, “Absolutely not. It’s a big apartment, brand new, with a gym – luxury building – I want to see how the other half lives.” “Well, once people leave Manhattan they never come back into the City, and you don’t work in the City.” “I need to volunteer twice a month – I’ll come into the City,” I reply. “We’ll see,” Rohit says. “I haven’t even signed a lease,” I reply.

We hang-up and I flop onto the couch, rather amused with RoMe (Rohit and Meera). I love living in Manhattan, even way up here in the Heights. Do I wish I lived on the Upper East Side? Sure. Would I mind living in walking distance to Bloomingdale’s and a life in the East 60s, heck no! However, I really cannot afford a downtown lifestyle so I am okay where I am. But it is a little like dating; you want to see what is out there until you find the right fit.

The phone rings again and I answer without looking, “What do you want now?” I say, teasing my caller, assuming it is Meera. “Hey, Desi Girl,” a man’s voice comes. Shoot! Not Meera! “Heeeey…” I reply.  “Are you expecting someone else’s call?” Possible-Mate-from-Chicago asks. “No,” I say and laugh. “I thought you were Meera, we were on the phone right before you called.”

“So how have you been?” he asks. “Good, and you?” I ask. “Great – volleyball is in full swing, we are losing, but it is fun to get out there and be active,” he shares. “What about you? How’s the gym?” he asks. “It’s fine – I assume it is fine. Have not seen the inside of it in some time,” I mutter.

“That’s not good, what is that about?” he asks. “Ugh, biting off more than I can chew, I’d guess. My volunteer position takes up so much time. It annoys me sometimes that I put in all the hours and the work is not done – it’s frustrating actually – to be well intended yet project finalization never manifests,” I say. “It doesn’t sound like it makes you happy. Why are you doing it?” he asks. I’ve been doing it for eight years, I don’t think I know how to stop. “Can’t you quit?” he asks. “No. I don’t quit anything. I give everything my all - 157% all the time,” I reply. "Even if it kills you or makes you miserable?" he asks. "Even if," I reply.