Monkey In a Suit

LAWS, children, I am up shiz crick here.

I’m pretty certain that I have to dispose of my courtesy meet with Mystere this weekend since I had promised a long time ago AND meet up with 4, since 4 is rather internationally peripatetic and has started maneuvering towards meeting sooner than later because “wah wah wah, I has 2 go 2 3rd wurld countriez to oppress the natives” and whatnot*. Since I am not-so-hid, I don’t mind, it’s just a matter of scheduling conflicts. Currently we’re in preliminary negotiations, I’ve hedged by faking social engagements not involving other six footers and stating open-to-consideration and he has scuttled corporate crab-like to flattery-as-subtle-pressure-tactics. I figure I may as well go for it because if it doesn’t work I can move on Oil Wells 3 and 4 (ahhh, this is what pragmatism smells like in the morning).

That’s not the issue, though, I’ll figure out some way to juggle them. My problem is what I’m going to wear.

I just had this convo with my dad

Babs: I am calling to talk to you about your dress

I prepare for the use of word “conservative” though I’m practically in a burqa at this point when I meet these noobs.

Babs: You dress like a prison warden. Buy stuff. Something colourful and feminine and NOT black or dark brown or almost black or anything related to the colour BLACK. Feminine. Mummah and I will pay.

Me: I object to your condemnation of my wardrobe as being prison like.

Babs: You wear too much black

Me: Because black is slimming

Babs: No more slimming is necessary for you

Me: Thanks, that’s not what you usually indicate to me

Babs: You have come within proper weight range now, don’t make this is a fight. Just buy something. But I am going to be upset if it is black or brown, I’m telling you that.

Me: Fine, I’ll send you the bill.

Umm, who makes colourful and feminine clothes? I immediately thought Anthropologie but then I go to their site and a lot of their stuff looks like a glorified flower-splattered mumu.

Hourglass figure here folks, we’re not caftan empire-waist wearers or loose-blousey people. They do have some nice fitted jackety tops that I was thinking of layering on top of a colourful t and pair of pants.

After having done homework on jeans that fit curvy figures, I’ve narrowed it down to the J Crew hipslung (probably more affordable and I know the location of a store) and Joe’s “Honey Booty” fit jeans. The latter are probably close to $200 and located only in boutiques with mean salesladies that would require me to drive all over L.A.. Okay, I’m mildly regretful but I think I’m going to pray that the J Crew jeans work out, or then run over to B.R. and just buy a contour fit jeans on full price over there.

Any other ideas on what to wear? Things you like? It should be not too boobalicious (and yes the Bebe tunic is still in consideration as it is red and white but I would need to layer a tank underneath it and I would STILL look very voluptuous after that so I figure I need a plan B, or maybe at least a different top for each man. And yes, 4 gets the Bebe tunic, definitely). What I’m looking for can be summed up in this statement from my father…

I expect you to purchase something that is vibrant, flatters your lovely figure and disguises the fact that you frequently look like your aim in life is to cut everyone’s balls off. FEMININE. And please smile.

*does not oppress natives but does work in intl bidniss

I know I’ve been whiny lately but like I said, I feel my mood improving even though this is the time of year I start getting pissier. I think (aside from the hope that 4 might be a decent fellow) it’s because I AM starting to get out more, make friends (hi Asimovian!), find stuff to do.

And I’ve decided ALL of this can be traced back to one thing. MOVING.

Holy crap I am SO happy I moved. My life has improved so much in quality that I don’t even care about the extra 4K a year in rent.

So thanks to the 3 people who would NOT STFU about it until I bolted. My mom, dad and Cagey (who managed to politely bring it up every single time I talked to her). I expected my mom and dad to pressure me, but it’s nice to know that people who aren’t related to me care about where my mental health is at too.  

If my love life is the Kentucky Derby, 4 is so far ahead it’s almost like he’s coasting to a picture-perfect finish. Even my sister is somewhat pulling for him now, that it works out between us in person.

If I end up dating him, I have the best nickname stored up. But for now he’s just #4.

It’s amazing how petty I was about guys I was willing to be set up with after the whole “lose-weight-or-stay-single” debacle with my family. I think I was just so angry about the whole thing (which believe me, I’m still pissed that I’m judged by standards that I don’t hold other people to myself) that I ended up putting all these insane demands on prospective candidates out of simple angry revenge-my parents have always had the education/career boundaries firmly outlined but I never asked for anything additional beyond that other than a measure of charm, okay-ness with Western culture etc.. I never said, “oh this height” or “this weight” or anything. I figured I’d assess the person as a whole and see if our personalities, values and goals meshed. Besides, it’s the intellectual part that sparks my libido anyway (as evidenced by the fact that while it has been pleasant to think idly of what lies underneath Mystere’s pants, most of the time I forget he exists).  

After the debacle, I pretty much went crazy and screamed at my parents that if I’m putting in all this effort to become oh-so-thin that the boy needs to have all his hair (a MUST), has to be over 5′10″, be reasonably fit (after all, it’s not like I’ve become modelesque myself in terms of tautness) blah blah blah. So I will shamefacedly admit that when my parents shoved 4 at me and showed me his pictures I was like “HOW COME I HAVE TO EAT BAKED CHICKEN STRIPS TO CATCH THIS GUY’S ATTENTION BUT HE OBVIOUSLY CHOWS DOWN ON PANDA EXPRESS ONCE IN A WHILE AND I HATE ALL DESI MEN AND WISH THE WHOLE CULTURE WOULD IMPLODE AND HOW DARE HE JUDGE ME BY MY PANTS SIZE” and made a rather big scene about how I always have to be thin but the guy doesn’t and so on and so forth. Sometimes this stuff just builds up in me. The thing is that I didn’t even dislike the way he looked. He wasn’t unattractive, nor did I think he was overweight (he’s just average) or anything like that. It’s just that when I see these guys and they’re obviously out having a beer and eating pizza and living up life (as evidenced by the tiniest of potbellies) and I have to watch every calorie that goes in my mouth from 5:30 a.m. to when I eat at 7-I just end up so incredibly resentful and angry at them for no reason. 4 was tall and attractive with all his hair but when I saw that he was obviously just taking in life and having a damn glass of wine once in a while something in me just snapped and I went into one of my rages and sulked and held off on talking to him for days. I was also pretty nasty to my parents.

Now I feel really stupid because he is the nicest person I’ve talked to in a long time and I can just hear the smugly “I told you sos” unsaid over the phone when they ask me how it’s going with him.  He’s just a really really kind human being with a wicked sense of humour. Of course, the funniness inevitably catapulted him into hott territory.

I know attraction is important and it’s nice that he thinks I’m so pretty and stuff. I don’t have any evidence that he wouldn’t like me slightly softer so I figure I can’t really sit and stew and hold all my personal issues over his head. Plus, I’m too busy giggling and enjoying his company to even remember where all of that came from.  

I just feel really bad about how I reacted. In real life I can be not so mature at times, a downright b*tch at others. 4 did not cause my issues, did not expressly ask me to lose weight or anything else. 4 just tells me I’m funny and smart and calls me almost every day even though he works almost 17 hours every single day (yes, he did warn me upfront about the workaholism and I’m mostly okay with it because he has aptly demonstrated that he will find time even at 17 hours a day).

It’s nice how in spite of failure in this department, I always find it within me to allow optimism to cut through all my cynicism. I hope it works out. If it doesn’t, I’ll be okay, like always.

But I’m still putting my money on 4.

Did anyone else have one of those growing up? My parents refused to buy one for me, of course (along with the Technicolour armpit nightmare)–but I acquired one as a birthday gift. I loved that mood ring dearly, though I never got my body temp to bring it to my favourite colour, the bright amber gold. Hey, I’m a desi girl, flecks of gold nugget travel in my bloodstream. I am attracted to shiny, yellow things…like bananas and gigantic chunky gold necklaces and bangles.

Most of the time the mood ring stayed some dark colour, though I would run it under the faucet to get to the perfect temperature to turn it bright amber. I always imagine that burnished, glowing amber as my perfect mood colour.

Cripes I’ve been in a good mood lately. Probably since about last week. It’s like I woke up one day and all the issues I’ve been struggling with lately (re weight loss, loneliness) just faded away a bit. Or maybe I deal with them the way I deal with anything I don’t like, by ignoring it. But I think things are changing, looking up a little. I’ve even been wandering around admiring my ass. Sunday was what would have previously been a bad day-I went shopping and it doesn’t matter that I can zip up anything sized 4 in skirts and dresses and even Express Editor pants. Jeans are my nemesis. I simply cannot find anything that fits and sizes I had assumed would work, like a 6, just look kind of hideous and I’m confused. Then I go up a larger size and those bag out like crazy, falling off my body. I was mildly depressed about it until I decided I basically need to find a company that does not make jeans that end above my crotch because all the ones I’ve been trying on hit me at my widest angle. I’m going to investigate the matter further, as I currently don’t have a single pair that fits (the B.R. contour fit jeans I currently own in a petite 6 are sliding off me entirely).

Normally I would have come home from the shopping trip, freaked out, stewed, paced my apartment and then posted something totally neurotic. Instead I came home, tried on clothes from my current wardrobe (in all my extra small sizes) that look awesome, placidly sorted through crap I REALLY need to get rid of (like bright purple pants circa 2001) and decided “meh”.  I have a difficult body for the current pants fashions, too bad for me but I cannot be molting, fitting into everything in my closet and developing such an awesome ass if I were actually gaining weight. And I’ve always had a difficult body for anything except dresses and skirts, period. I think that’s why when I find a style of pants I truly love (like Express’s Editor series), I just tend to buy the same stuff in different colours.

If I am a mood right now, I think I’m amber. Man, life is really great, isn’t it?   

 PS: I am also attaching a preliminary tag of “Totally Awesome” to #4, he of potential butt-smackery. Blogger reserves the right to change said tag at will.  

8 passions in my life

Reading

Cooking

Bargain hunting

Separate from cooking-trying out GREAT and different foods

Daydreaming

Dancing in my underwear all by my lonesome when I’m feeling optimistic and happy

Proving stuff to myself-that I can do it, that I can get up and try try try again. Recovering from heartbreak and pain and sorrow, changing myself for the better. I feel like life is an evolution of the self and I adore the molting process no matter how many tears I shed in the process.

Travelling

8 things to do before I die:

Get married after having found a real love

Have a baby with the person I agreed to spend my life with
Make 6 figures (hey, if we’re being honest, I’d like to hit that golden number just to say I did)

Figure myself out

Travel to every continent

Eat at a really really posh restaurant

Bungee jump over a sparkling river

Celebrate some insane anniversary, like 30/40/50 years of marriage
 

8 things I often say:

Gods!
I am so not even kidding you or making this up at ALL
No WAY!
Claude!, don’t even go there
Frock me!
What do you mean [x]?
Excellent.
Maybe baby.

8 books I read recently:

Orphans of Chaos 
Fugitives of Chaos 
Eat Pray Love
Thinking Strategically
The Wind in the Willows
Scott Pilgrim’s Precious Little Life
Harry Potter Book 7
All Creatures Great and Small

8 songs that mean something to me:

 Debra

Crucify

Everything Counts

Sister Havana

That’s Just What You Are

Bizarre Love Triangle

Black Star

Boy with the thorn in his side

8 qualities I look for in a friend:

Humour

Kindness

Sense of responsibility

Sweet nature/loving personality

Empathy

Curious Mind

An ability to mock themselves/a little self-deprecation/humility

Confidence

8 people who I’m passing this on to: feel freet to igore but hey it’s an easy NaBloMoPo post

Cagey

MDH

Anjali of Life in the Hundred Acre Wood

Yank in Texas

M & Co.

Average Jane

Completely Irrelevant

Ali of Austin to Africa

Thanks to EEK! for the tag

I hate saying “no” or hurting people’s feelings. This is generally why I’m a one-man-at-time type girl.

Husband-hunting, on the other hand, means you cast the net far and wide. In the past I was somewhat leery of the practice but my parents sensibly pointed out that men are doing it too, and that in any case, it REALLY REALLY sucks to put your ova in one basket and then realise when it’s over and done with that you’re back to Square 1 all over again.

That said, I told my dad that my limit is 4. Because I’m trying to juggle 4 right now and it is freaking EXHAUSTING, plus, it doesn’t help that I like 2 of them much better than the other two.

#1 Mystere: again, model-good-looks blahblahblah, but I don’t think we have a lot in common. Whatever, I’m not really expecting it to work out

#2 Trader: my least favourite. I enjoy debating with him but sometimes he really pisses me off and I have a feeling he’s a little too “the world revolves around me.” As evidenced by the fact that he almost downright insisted I fly across the country to meet him. Hi, can’t we meet in the middle? I haven’t told him to piss off yet but he isn’t exactly in my good books.

#3 Cute-as-a-bug-doctor: this is the one I was talking about in the previous post (Door #3). On one hand, he’s so awesome on email, but when he called me earlier this week it felt really awkward. Mainly because he seemed really really nervous about talking to me. There was also something about him that reminded me of my OTHER Ph.d boyfriend…you know, the one from 2006 that broke my heart? Except this time I told him straight up front that I’m looking for a marriage minded relationship (no point beating around the bush with guys anymore). On the other hand, he did give me one of the most awesome and genuine compliments I’ve ever received…

CaaP: hey, you know how on when you described yourself you listed your “body type” as average?

Me: *warily* yeah?

CaaP: Yeah, but in those pictures you sent me, damn, you’re really athletic looking, not average at all. I have to warn you that I don’t work out nearly as much as you must.

Me: *preening* Oh well…you know, I fit it in here and there *tinkling giggle* 

Yeah, “here and there”. FOURTEEN FREAKING HOURS A WEEK.

And for the record, I sent him photographs I had my neighbours take of me this past weekend. They’re fobby desis and very sweet. My mom knocked on their door (of COURSE) and were like “oh, my little girl lives all alone…please keep an eye on her please to Ganpati!”

Yeah Mummah, your BARELY-UNDER-THIRTY-YEAR-OLD-LITTLE-GIRL, who incidentally, went to college in a different country and has lived all over the United States. So anyway, the other day I knocked on their door and was like “yeah, I know this is really awkward, but do you just mind photographing me for this thing?” and they posed me against their fobby (awesome!) decorations and took some nice pictures.

Which no, I am NOT going to post. I live in fear of being discovered.

However, I promise that since I DO feel like I am going to get engaged in the next 12-16 months (I swear, the air smells like possibility recently), I will post a photo of my ugly mug once I do. PP of course.

Oh yeah, which brings us to #4. I have to admit that he’s my favourite and the one I feel MOST excited about. You can’t talk on the phone with someone and not feel DONE, even after several hours, without there being something there.

I kind of felt like hitting my sister though-because I showed her all the pics of all the different guys and it was pretty obvious that they all shake out in terms of educational background/earning power. They’re all doctors (of philosophy), they all earn double-to-more MY income (except for the one who hasn’t finished yet…but it’s obvious he will eventually as well) and they’re all incredibly intelligent. My sister, duh, went for Mystere.

You should try to snag the one that looks like a model, she says.

I like #4, I tell her.

I could feel her roll her eyes at me over the phone. I can’t believe you-in this bunch you’ve got 2 guys who look like straight up models, waxed chests and all, and you want the one who looks like he watches football, burps and would slap your ass as you got off the couch?

Of course, I have to meet all of them to confirm, but for some reason #4 (who incidentally, is QUITE attractive, though not modelly like Mystere) is the sexiest. I think because he’s the only one who seems comfortable with himself, and me, which seems like it might be important in a marriage.

Hormones work in weird ways.

So as you know-I’ve got two pots bubbling on the stove now, potential-husbands-wise (Mystere and another guy it is pointless to talk about). Now my mom and dad have shoved a third one on-I’m actually semi-crushy on this one.

 Okay, so I’ll admit that I like Mystere quite a bit. But for all the wrong wrong WRONG reasons. Mainly because he looks like he stepped off the cover of Indian GQ or something. Krishna the boy is gorgeous. The truth is that Mystere hasn’t said or done anything that is cause for concern but I can’t help feeling that I don’t deserve a guy that good-looking (not in the sense that I am ugly but…I don’t know…I feel like what’s going to happen after I have a baby and trying to hold on to a GQ-model?? I can’t fucking keep this up forever) and in any case, he is very clubrat and psychotically social. And I am…you know…NOT.  At least he hasn’t hit me with a “u” yet.

Remember last year’s doctorate? Not the one I went out with…but the one I GAVE UP to go out with the one I went out with? Ha! My parents have somehow gotten in communicado with someone almost exactly like him-the guy is truly gorgeous (not as much as Mystere, but who compares to Mystere? He is definitely incredibly attractive), VERY close in hottness to Last Year’s Ph.d (band name!)  and such a freaking intellectual!!! I’m way more pepped about him than Mystere because it looks like there’s more personality compatibility. I’m trying not to be so judgey about Mystere but his distressed jeans really do me in.

Anyway, I woke up today feeling like 2008 is definitely my year. Why? Because the last 50 people I’ve interacted with have asked me if I was a student at CalTech or UCLA. I’m aging but clearly I’m holding up well. In fact, I’ve been feeling downright sexy recently-like I’m kind of a cougar who looks like a kitten or something. Of course, Mentos and Princess are still somewhat the flies in my ointment, accusing me left and right of sauntering around looking like I’m nipping out of the office for a quickie at the Standard, teasing me about dressing nice at the office and losing weight but I’m blowing off their annoyingness.

Something is in the air, I can smell it. I think I’m going to get engaged next year because Ganpati would not grant me the ability to skinny down to fit in the Bebe tunic and keep my face if not to snag a man or an armadillo or entrance to bidness school or SOMETHING.

Also, I’ve decided to believe that something is going to happen, just like that moment in time during my graduation when I decided to wish really really hard for a job and then I got an offer 20 minutes after I walked the stage. It’s because I was born under a lucky star, or I think because I can make things happen by thinking them.  

Dear California,

 Today I scoured the aisles of 4 different Ralphs and Vons looking for apple cider.

What is your frocking damage? In New England we have so much of this crap the locals sweat it out of their pores and we end up re-selling it to the Japanese as local delicacy “New Englandese Pocari Sweat, Cider Flavoured”. Yet, when asked for the location of this ambrosia, all the stockmonkeys at the store point me towards the bottled juice aisles. There isn’t a single pulp-ridden apple cider gallon jug, barely pasteurised and refrigerated, to be found here. Don’t any of your tax-ridden hellhole state’s slackjawed natives WANT to even taste this nectar?  

California, you frocking suck. The following are NOT apple cider

a) Apple Juice with 720 grams of sugar in a millilitre

b) Pedialyte

c) Sparkling juice in bottles made to look like wine

d) De-alcoholised alcohol

e) Sprite

It isn’t enough that I’ve given up cranberry bogs, bog fog, rustley leaves, Ichabod Crane, rain, water winds and the smell of mulch to live in this desert paradise. Now it turns out I’ve given up honest-to-god pulpy apple cider too.

I hate you. Now be hot and sunny tomorrow so I’m reminded of why I moved here in the first place.

Sincerely,

 Monkey

I’m sitting in the dead zone right now.  At work, but existing solely to be dismissed.

Tomorrow I am going to go see Enchanted after dinner. I’d put my shame-face on but I won’t bother-it’s getting great reviews and I need the escape into something like that to get me through the day.

My dessert plans keep changing. I half want to make a poached apple now. I know these are originally made with red wine but I’m somewhat wary of wine on account of my butt. What else can one poach an apple in? I’m not even sure if it’s the chemicals in wine that are sending me over, or the alcohol, to tell you the truth. I don’t care though-even if it’s the alcohol and that burns off I just want to avoid spending the holiday screaming on the floor of my bathroom, thanks.  I was thinking of baking it in apple cider as a compromise but lo and behold, no one has bloody apple cider! Also, my heart has turned against the farmer’s market, though I did stop by today to buy J the wheatgrass I turned down in lieu of the terrible heirloom tomatoes last week.

Readers, we’ll get back to the tale of Buddha Boy and you can all give me suggestions from the August 1997 Cosmo later*…I have more important things on my mind.

I’ve finalised my thanksgiving menu.

Appetizers: crab cakes with remoulade sauce (there will likely only be 2 to 3 since I’m limiting myself to one can of crab)

Dinner:

Pan-fried panko crusted cat fish fillet, half of which J. will harass me into giving him anyway

Oven sweet potato fries

Tomato and cucumber salad with balsamic basil vinaigrette

Sanjeev Kapoor corn
VERY LONG WALK

then fresh blueberries and raspberries (which I’ll buy tomorrow at the farmer’s market) eaten with honeyed greek yoghurt.

 Sounds like a nice compromise, doesn’t it?

Question is, I want to try my hand at homemade remoulade which requires pasteurised eggs since I’m deathly afraid of being the one person that dies by raw egg and ends up on the Darwin Awards. So the question is-where does one obtain pasteurised eggs? Should I just try to coddle the egg myself**?

*JUST KIDDING. I love people who comment, I do. I don’t even care that much about the occasional “you’re a horrible bad person” type comments/emails I get. I just can’t resist sometimes. I totally get that 99% of people on the internet are actually nice, decent human beings…heck even people who give me dating advice I don’t necessarily agree with are probably nice, decent human beings. I’m just feeling puckish today.

 **I have decided to abandon this plan. I stepped away from my desk for a moment to grab a fax and ignore my sister on speaker and realised I would rather just not die of listeria or whatever you get from raw eggs.  Also, seeing as I used to have an egg allergy as a child I’m extra-wary-esp. since I JUST listened to my sister yell at me about raw eggs on the phone and my allergies and blahblahblah.