- have brunch by yourself at the bar with a very sweet bartender who looks perpetually befuddled. order the french toast with extra strawberries.
- read the New York Post Sunday edition at aforementioned bar. if that tabloid-encapsulated wackiness doesn't cheer you, you are not fit to be a citizen of this cheerocracy.
- take the time to shave your legs so that you DON'T end up slicing every other inch of yourself. bonus: the pretty gleam of fur-free stems.
- buy yourself a whole new set of obscenely fluffy, turkish towels in colors beyond your usual hues.
- purchase (sans any guilt) one of the following wastes of tree and time: People, US Weekly, In Touch, OK!...I chose #3 because I'm cheap (especially apres-towel acquisitions)
- give your fist a rest. shaking it at heaven because your life is changing when you least want it to, when you thought you had it all figured out, when you are internally outraged at the unnecessary drama being hurled your way...well, it's exhausting. be nice to your hand. when no one else will give you one, you'll want it to be rested and willing.
...annnnd when you assume something, you jinx it something nightmarish. No good deed goes unpunished; I tried to help a dear friend by following their directions to pick their inebriated ass up from the unholy triangle in THEIR car so that they would "save $30" on cab fare and what happened? After a curb-side fight near 19th and M during which I unsuccessfully attempted to convince said drunkard that he is in no shape to drive, despite whatever he might think, I end up stranded. Cut to me unable to find an empty cab for BLOCKS, walking around a city so unsafe that when I finally do flag someone down by the ghost town which is the World Bank/IMF, after a few moments of pondering how much he should gouge, an Ethiopian cabbie tells me that it will be $35 to get home (it costs half that). When I balk, he replies, "have it your way. You'll get raped."
Thank heaven for Pakistani cab drivers who swerve through three lanes illegally via one mighty u-turn, just to cluck at you reproachfully. "Arre, beta? Vat you are doing all alone? Don't you know, there are men walking and mugging and hurting girls like you? Cheee! Get in, get in!" I've never been so grateful to be clucked at in my entire life. HE only charged me $14, so I tipped him $6. "Acha. No need. I just wanted to make sure someone's child got home safe."
The moral of this story: even if you think you're just "leaving the house for a second" and that you "won't be getting out of the car", dress like you are. Yes, I was wearing jeans, but I also had on the top I had been sleeping in (and obviously, no foundation garments) and FOUR-INCH WEDGES b/c they were right by the door as I was running out. Stupid, stupid girl. Also? DON'T ANSWER YOUR PHONE AT 3am. NO GOOD SHALL COME OF IT, EVER.
I am not lying; it doesn't bother me that I worked relatively late on a Friday night. I now accept that I am getting old and I relish being a couch-urulakizhangu, that is, when I'm not sleeping blissfully. (I got a new memory foam matress-thing AND found the first pillow I have liked since 1987, so sleeping is extra nummy these days) I just want to relax. We've had meetings at work about project plans, and I know that things are going to get hellish again very soon, so I'm trying to be extra sloth-like in preparation, so that I can then gaze upon these "good ole days" fondly.
All I want to do this weekend is sleep, wake up, get ready for brunch, enjoy THAT at Amma's Vegetarian with Barmaid AND her family, pick up the shoes Sassanova has on hold for me and then veg. On Sunday, I want to go to church, have brunch at Harry's and then veg some more. There is now a STACK of books I've purchased over the last six months, which I longingly gaze at, since I haven't read a single one. Who knows, I may not even get to touch those-- I so relish the Sunday paper and I regularly buy two (NYP + WaPo) to meander through over coffee (cold, these days). I am amused by how excited I am to be so...well, boring. Not one late night or expectation of drunken tomfoolery in sight and I'm not the least bit concerned that I'm "missing out"; THIS is what it means to be 31, y'all.
Yesterday was Grandpa's 91st birthday. Goings on were special. We have been bushed. Today's mail brought twice as many cards as he got yesterday, and actually we got so many yesterday, we didn't take a count or roll call for those missing. Tonight His eldest daughter will arrive, and we will begin all over again.
I am pleased to have your e-mail address and I am interested in the kind of work you are doing these days. I've got Veena's birth day in mind, and sent a card/ I e-mailed her too,but the message came back. Grandpa just came in to tell me about storms in the Phoenix/Chandler area and he feels his daughter will not be able to make it here, so I must go do some research.
NANA, GRANDMA MARJORIE
July 27, 2006
I've been caught up with all the July birthdays and beside that, my computer acted up. Waiting for the serviceman to get my scanner and printer back on track. I've been told I can not hurt the computer, but that doesn't mean I can not get it locked up.
I am curious what your day's work consists of. Plese inform me. You are so good at speech and communicating I hope you are using that skill.
Neither Grandpa nor I are driving----and that really lets you know we are old! But, we are in a great neighborhood, and that says a lot. I hear Grandpa needing me. Will drop in again soon.
Today felt like such a productive day at work. :) There is a reason why this was a notable and sweet feeling. It's because the project which dominated my Wednesday required using a program I am hardly awesome with: Excel. Maybe that's excessively harsh...I know enough that miraculously, I have been able to do whatever is asked of me despite experiencing a perpetual sense of trepidation.
I've had this irrational fear of Excel for years and I don't think it's going away anytime soon. The only thing I'm less skilled with is PowerPoint, but I've had several ex-boyfriends who extolled that as a virtue, so now I feel that stating "I've never created a PowerPoint presentation" is as golden as saying "I've never been to the Hamptons". Well, both of those truths are golden to the sort of boys I find attractive, at least.
Anyway, after wrestling with nine spreadsheets that each contained five worksheets (some of which had >6,000 rows) I was able to distill all useful information and create an Excel file of beauty. My supervisor was quite content with it after some minor tweaking, none of which had to do with my Excel-related stupidity, much to my surprise and then delight.
Why was I surprised at his reaction and why am I so freaked out by Excel?? Maybe I feel the pressure of my ethnicity? Every other brown kid I know in Manhattan is an I-Banker and whenever I hear those words, my inner asshole chirps, “Spreadsheet Monkey!”, so now I associate Banking with Excel. Since Investment Banking is one of the ONLY things I have not attempted, I imagine that it is very challenging, despite repeated and strenuous assurances to the contrary by a gloriously adorable boy who interrupted his I-Banking career to go nail a Yale JD/MBA; just so you don't give ME credit for it, HE is the one who planted that simian-enhanced epithet in my head in the first place. Anyway, yeah. I-banking. That must be it.
In other news, just typing this made me tired, so I am TRULY SORRY that you had to read it. Seriously. I know inducing ennui is my forte, but there is a limit and ladies and germs, I just blew past it.
So I made it to church a second week in a row, much to my Mother's uncontainable joy. ;) I know how that reads; it's not that I don't go or that I'm an easter/xmas bunny, it's more like something always comes up, whether that something is illness or travel. When I AM here and I'm capable of standing through an entire Orthodox service (no small feat for the feet, especially those which are espadrille or stiletto-clad), I go. I love church. Especially my (I know, unexpected and anomalous) church. Liturgies (do NOT call it mass or I'll get medieval on your ass) are glorious feasts for my senses and best of all, they leave me with a lovely, lingering sense of peace. But that's to be expected, since I'm the girl who swooned when Enigma appeared during my early high school days. I can't get enough chant. (Join in it, why don't you?)
After church, I made my Sunday Whole Foods run for the fat WaPo, the slightly chubby New York Post, excellent espresso, black tea and whatever else it was that I managed to spend $80 on, which filled just one reusable WF bag. I should just have my paycheck auto-deposited at that store; it would save time (though not any money). It doesn't help that I pass three of them on my way to and from work. My sister fell in love with that organic, healthy, bougie financial-drain, pronouncing it "yummy" and "fantastic". I knew she'd dig it. I bought her tiramisu and edamame and she was all giddy from the gourmetness of it all.
Sigh. I miss my sister. A lot. On Saturday evening, I cried at the airport and afterwards was so upset about how she was gone that a male friend helplessly offered me:
a) A new pair of shoes as a belated birthday gift ("I don't know what the proper bribe is for missing a little sister")
When I declined BOTH, the friend mildly freaked, since that proved it was serious.
I picked her up at 9pm on Wednesday, rushed her to Amma's Vegetarian to get her some Kerala cookin' before they closed at 10 and then we were too giggly to go to sleep. I think we both passed out around 2. Yesterday, I took her to Georgetown per her request and followed her about, relishing the fact that for once, the person asking for my opinion as she twirled in front of a mirror actually WAS my sister and not one of you beautiful women I wistfully seem to use as surrogate siblings. It was so much fun. I forgot what it was like to be able to anticipate exactly how someone is going to act or speak, what it was like to have an entire conversation via one sideways glance and how alike we actually are, even if our outsides contradict that fiercely.
I told her that when we grew up, she had to promise that we'd live in the same city, so we could see each other more than once or twice a year. Life is too short for such miserably-spaced moments and such moments are too precious to miss.