City Boy » Awkward Moments Galore

Five stupid things I’ve done under the influence of alcohol

Amortya Ray — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 01:36:58 +0000

I’m known to have the alcohol drinking capacity of a 5 year old. Not that 5 year olds drink alcohol. Or maybe they do. Kids are grow up really quickly these days. But that’s besides the point.

Here’s my wall of shame.

Note: It contains only the stuff that I can still remember and stuff that won’t get me fired.

This one time I excused myself from a night of wild partying. My excuse? I wanted to watch SnL. On a Friday night.
It was my day off. I get up with a heavy head and a bad hangover. I step onto a soaking wet rug. Now in spite of the hazy details that I remembered from the previous night, I was sure I had gotten up in the middle of the night for a glass of water and to pee. What I can’t remember was if I ended up spilling the water all over the floor and/or if I made it to the bathroom. And since my feet was already submerged in it, I was hoping it was water. So I did what any sane/hungover person would do. I dropped to my knees and smelt the rug.
Having commandeered N’s phone, my friends and I go on a crazy texting spree. And the unfortunate target of our drunken shenanigans was N’s brand new husband. (On on that note, CONGRATS Mr. and Mrs. B!). Also, try guess which of my friends is a Dick Fuld Jr. loyalist.
Technically this is not something *I* did. My friend Adi talked me into posing. Not one to refuse a photo op, I gladly obliged.
Had I known that this was going to happen, I would have worn a shirt
This happened a few years ago. I wasn’t aware of the debilitating effects tequila has on an empty stomach. So I decide to take my obsession with David Beckham to an altogether new level, by practicing a free kick on a cardboard carton. Except what I thought was an empty cardboard carton, turned out to be a box filled with bricks. Sadly, (sadly?) I was too wasted to realize that and merrily went on my way to Tom’s Restaurant and had some cheesecake. However, the next morning I wake up to find my right toe all black and blue and the size of my fist.

I find it odd how I have amazingly lucid about all the stupid things that I do when I’m drunk but not a single memory otherwise from all the craziness, like how I manage to get home.

PS- When I smelt the rug, it was neither pee nor vomit. Thankfully it was just a leak in my floor and some disgusting water.

Drug tests and Flu shots

Amortya Ray — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 14:39:20 +0000

This happened a few years ago. I was starting at my first job the day after Presidents Day and needed to get a drug test done. And very smartly, I decide to schedule it 2 days before my first day of work and 2 hours after I land in New York after a 15 hour direct flight from India. So at 10am, I shower, shave and get ready. Oddly enough, I decide that it is very important to look professional, even if all that I’m going to do is pee in a cup. Looking super dapper in a black suit, I take the 1 train to 745 Seventh Ave. (where the erstwhile Lehman Brothers was located).

At this point, I will digress momentarily to narrate some facts that are not necessarily relevant to this story. Back in the day, when I was younger, and some might say a lot smarter, I had a very volatile relationships with the medical community. Once my doctor had to call in security to hold me down while she was giving me a flu shot. Even with two big guys holding my arms and legs wasn’t enough. It’s not like they were burly bouncers (and possibly former marines) now working at a New York nightclub from which I had to be escorted out (ahem.. not that that’s ever happened). Those regular mamu’s were no match for a 10-year old boy possessing abnormal amounts of adrenaline-fueled strength. I struggled and kicked and thrashed around like my life depended on it. I escaped from the clutches of the security/bouncer dudes and ran out of the clinic. That moment gave me a deja vu-ey feeling similar to that scene from Terminator 2: Judgment Day where the Sarah Connor is trying to escape the psych ward and the Terminator and John Connor, and T1000 chasing her. I was eventually cornered in the hallway, pinned down by three men and given the shot as I contorted my face in unimaginable agony all while holding my breath and honestly believing that if I stopped breathing, the syringe penetrating my epidermis wouldn’t hurt as much. However, coming back to my point, my body never had the ability to pee at will. Does anyone’s body do that at all? Once, when I was doing the whole-pee-in-a-cup thing, I couldn’t produce enough specimen to fill the cup to the line. So I decide to fill the cup to the line by diluting my produce in water. I was very pleased at my brilliance.

And as I walked into the Health Center, I chuckled thinking about that incident from several years ago and hoped that my body supported me and that I wouldn’t have to pull such underhanded measures today. I walk in and start gulping down glasses of water. The nurse gives me a bunch of instructions and I walk into toilet. And here’s where it gets rough. As much as I try, I cannot get myself to pee. Nope. Zilch. Zero. Nada. Not even a drop that I could dilute using my aforementioned tactics. I try thinking of running water, but that doesn’t help either. I jump up and down (quietly), but nope. It’s been close to 3 minutes in there, and I haven’t done a thing. Another 2 minutes. The nurse knocks on the door asking I was done. I tell her that I’m almost done. I focus all my energies on the job and manage to squeeze a few drops out of my bladder. And I wash hands (inspite of explicitly being asked not to by the nurse until I’ve handed over the cup!). Finally, after 5 long minutes, I emerge with my head hung in shame as I hand over the cup. The nurse yells at me because I wasn’t supposed to use the damn sink. And without much ado flushes my hardwork down the toilet. I reschedule and get the hell out of there. So now here’s what happened. Apparently, water takes its own sweet time to trickle down to your bladder. That and the fact that I was mighty dehydrated after my super long flight, required at least a couple of gallons to cover. 10 tiny cups just just wouldn’t cut it. It’s all science.

After spending the weekend getting rid of jetlag, I walk into the Health Center at 10 am sharp on Monday morning. I had been prepping for 3 hours, drinking water non stop. I grab the cup, do my business, emerge vindicated and walk out like a boss in under 2 minutes!

PS: I realized much later that I overdid my prep for the drug test, because I spent the next 2 hours in and out of the restroom emptying the remainder of my bladder.

Laundry tales

Amortya Ray — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 13:57:19 +0000

So remember how I’m like the king of awkward moments? Yep. The following is another similar embarrassing incident that will forever be etched in my wretched mind.

Rewind to a few years ago. Circa 2007. I was a lowly graduate student in New York City. Barely making ends meet. Living paycheck to paycheck. Had no more than $35 in my checking account. And the cardinal rule of graduate school is that you do not do laundry until absolutely necessary. And by absolute necessary I mean that until you completely run out of clean underwear. It was one such night. I had a job interview the next morning. And no clean clothes. At 11 in the night, I decide that it would be a good time to do laundry. So I grab my hamper and head down to the basement, drop it in the washer, come back in 30 minutes to put them in the dryer. As I’m dumping my soggy clothes into the dryer, through the corner of my eye I notice my neighbor starting her washer cycle. About half an hour later, I’m back in the basement to pick up my clothes. Neighbor lady is waiting for me to empty the lone dryer (it was a pre-war, rent-controlled building and cheapass landlord so 40 apartments had to share 2 washers and 1 dryer) so she can start her dryer cycle. And as luck would have it, my clothes aren’t completely dry. I mutter the classiest of swear words as I prepare to kick off another dryer cycle. Neighbor lady goes all sigh-ey and complains about how she had an early morning meeting and it was getting late. And the good samaritan that I am, I offer her to share the dryer with me. Lady jumps at the opportunity to save an hour of her time, drops her clothes with mine and leaves.

About half an hour later, we meet again in the basement. We separate our clothes and go our own ways. Later, when I’m folding my own clothes, I see that she left a bra behind in my pile. Now I could either trash it and let it be at that. But then I do know that bras don’t come cheap. But I really don’t want to be the one handing it over to her. Because, well, that would just be awkward. So what do I do? I decide to leave it on her door knob, ring the bell and vanish the fuck out of there before she opens the door. Pleased at my genius plan, I tiptoe over to her apartment (very conveniently, she happened to live right next door), and am about to leave the bra on the doorknob. And before I could get to doing that, her door opens, and neighbor girl stares at me with a judgey look in her eyes and her bra in my hand. Awkward with a capital A. Avoiding all eye contact, I hand over the goods and turn around and close the door to my apartment.

I avoided her like the plague for the remaining 6 months I lived in that building.

If I still had my washboard abs, I’d be engaged today

Amortya Ray — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 02:39:55 +0000

So this morning while I’m having breakfast and staying up-to-date on my Facebook stalkees (don’t act like you don’t do it), I come across pictures of this girl I knew a long time ago. She was the girl I had my first ever crush on. We met when we were 10 and I knew her for five long years before my family moved to the suburbs and that broke my fragile adolescent heart. Sigh. Fortunately for the creep in me, she hadn’t changed the settings on her albums, making my job as stalker extraordinaire´, a cakewalk. I saw that she had posted her wedding pictures online. And after giving them a cursory glance, the first thought that came to my mind was, “Ugh! That’s the d-bag you’re married to!? Dooood, you should have totally married me. In addition to the perks that being Mrs. Ray can fetch, our kids would look unbelievably awesome since we’re both, well, TOTAL FUCKING KNOCKOUTS. They’d be blessed with superior intellect given that our combined IQ is like twenty-two thousand. This world is in desperate need of first-rate genetic material that only you and I can provide. WE OWE THAT MUCH TO THE WORLD.” Except that it wasn’t the first thought that came to my mind. I was all, “Hmm, he looks like he’s a nice guy and you guys look TOTALLY in love and the pictures look super awesome and you two look insanely cute together and if he ever breaks your heart, I’m going to hunt him down and whoop his sorry Sindhi ass all the way back to Ulhasnagar.”

And then at work, I’m talking to Lil’ m about the gazillion weddings, engagements, hookups and one night stands taking place around me and I suddenly start freaking out. I go like, “Yo m, what if I end up spending the rest of my fucking life completely alone! What if I never find someone? What if I’m the creepy 65 year old with a grey ponytail and cheap sunglasses that buys your kids candy floss, lives with 3 cats and shows up in pictures like this? Sure I could also be a badass oldie like Gandalf or one of these guys. But lets face it, the odds are slim.” And then I decide to take matters in my own hands. BOOM. Just like that. I know that Lil’ m has a boyfriend so, OBVIOUSLY, I decide to make her my plan B. You know plan B? The one where if neither of us are married by the time we’re 30 (or 35 or 40), we marry each other.

But I was still in panic mode. I needed a plan A. Like yesterday. So I decide to con(vince) Big M into marrying me. Except that it wasn’t going to work. Because she works out like every fucking day, and the last time I stepped into a gym was back when MSFT traded at nearly 60 bucks. I wasn’t always like this though. Back in the day, my prowess at tomato racing was rather legendary. Tomato race no comprende? The one where your hands are tied behind your back and you race to the middle of the track, grab the tomato with JUST your mouth (twss!) and sprint to the finish line. However, my moment in the spotlight came to a crashing halt a few years later. I was participating in a 400m relay and comfortably cruising to the finish line. And in true Bollywood fashion, the world around me slows down. Everything and everyone begins moving in super-slow motion. I can hear people chanting my name! And I’m thinking, “Wow! People just love me. I’m quite the superstar here. The crowd just can’t get enough of me.” Except that it wasn’t the crowd yelling my name. It was another runner hollering and swearing and cursing at me because I was in his fucking lane. And as I stealthily move to my own lane, he promptly overtakes me and subsequently wins the race. Yes. Not my proudest moment on the track. And that fall from grace was directly responsible for the end of my career as an athlete and resulted in me embarking on a new career as a crackerjack slouch.

I thought of putting this up on the blog as I was walking back towards Grand Central Station this evening. But I was rudely interrupted by my coworker N who yells out loud that SOMETHING in her bag is vibrating. This would have been funnier AND infinitely more awkward for her had I not known apriori that she was carrying her boyfriend’s electric razor in her bag.

Midweek shenanigans

Amortya Ray — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 13:42:42 +0000

Few things in life are better than getting wasted on a Wednesday evening. Very few things.

So I attended a charity event this evening in New York. It was a fundraiser for an organization called SAYA that is devoted to benefiting South Asian kids from New York City. It was hosted at a club called Greenhouse. All through the week, my friends and me kept discussing over email whether this event was worth our totally precious time, because we’re like all so awesome and like all so busy and oh did I mention that we’re all so awesome that our time is worth like a gigaazzilion bullions of platinum. One of the reasons, we did decide to attend the event was that Greenhouse is an extremely exclusive club and most regular people don’t ever manage to get in. So that being decided, we grab a platter from the dude on 53rd and 6th and hop onto the E train downtown.

The mandatory image that, I realize, adds no value to my writing

The place was exactly how I imagined it would be. Very sleek, excellent ambience and the most ridiculously expensive half priced drinks that made me feel like I was selling my soul to pay for. The crowd was primarily Indian, because, well it was a South Asian Youth event. So yah. Now the reason I have a dismal record at talking to women at bars/clubs is because I feel the need to have a lot of quiet around me to hold a meaningful conversation. Or even to exchange a word. Or two. Now the DJ at the club was real good, but too goddamn loud for a networking event. I mean COME ON! If I’m supposed to mingle with people, AT LEAST LET ME HEAR THEM SPEAK! So I manage to introduce myself after having gotten close enough to make out with the fungus that grows on the wax in her ears, I go like, “What do you think of this place?” and she’s yells, “Vodka and cranberry juice”, and I go, “Hmm.. Okay.” WTF.

After that I’m like, “Screw it. Where’s my drink?” And that is when the awesomeness got cranked up to the max. Because after my Long Island, most of the evening flew by in a wonderful haze that I can barely recall. Except the part when I’m talking to a friend and I’m all, “Hey! Why are you wearing pants?” YES! I’m the undisputed champion of awkward moments.

Inappropriate Dinner Talk and Steaming Desserts

Amortya Ray — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 19:51:13 +0000

My wonderful parents, who have been blissfully married for 26 years, celebrated their anniversary today. And I, as the dutiful, financially independent, first-born, decided to take them to dinner. So we drive down to this really fancy Chinese restaurant in Bombay called Mainland China. And whilst waiting the appetizers to be served, Mommy decides to regale the crowd with some scintillating tales from their younger days. Now be warned, Momma Ray is a fabulous storyteller. Her educational background in literature and history, along with her innate talent for the gab, makes her one heck of a conversationalist. So as I wait for my pan fried dumplings, Ma tells the story of her’s and Baba’s wedding anniversary in Bangalore. Yes, the one where an overfed, 3-year old me decided to be a rather gracious guest at the restaurant and throw up all over the floor. In excruciatingly graphic detail. Now, as I have no recollection of the aforementioned incident ever taking place, it’s my word against her’s. Oh and yes, my parents were charged extra for the ‘cleaning up’ of the toddler’s puke. This story, however, pales in comparison to the next one where I pooped under the table at a restaurant. YES I DID! My childhood is full of such lovely anecdotes about shit and vomit. And about making a mess on the menu card when a daring stunt with chopsticks and oriental cabbage salad goes woefully wrong. YES I DID!

From stinky turds to the greatest dessert ever created, gentlemen, I give you, the sizzling brownie. And a shout out to Lil’ m, yes- it does sizzle!

Sizzling Brownie! from Amortya Ray on Vimeo.