After some quick shuteye, I showered and ventured into the city. We were joined by my friend’s Spanish boyfriend. When I told my friend Neha that my friend was dating a Spanish boy, she got all swoony and drooly hoping to live out her Enrique fantasy even if it was vicariously through someone else. But in reality, Preeti’s ‘Enrique’ turned out to be more of the siesta loving, pot-bellied Spanish man who loves wining and dining more than anything else in the world. Oscar speaks very little English. And just about enough to make conversation with me. Preeti and Oscar converse only in Spanish. And they’d call each other amor, which is the Spanish word for love. ‘Amor’ is also one of my countless nicknames. So everytime I’d hear amor, I’d turn around, only to see them whispering into each others ears. How awkward it must have been. For them.

Later in the day, we walk through an Egyptian temple in the middle of the city and take a cable car ride. Oscar’s trying to explain the history of the cable cars. And as he’s struggling with some words, Preeti turns around and goes, “Oh by the way, he does know a few Hindi words too!”. I turn to Oscar and go all, “Nice! Say something!”.  I’m hoping to hear a “Namaste” or a “Mera naam Oscar hai!”. And Oscar turns to me and with a straight face goes, “Chutiya”. Expat Indians must make the country so proud.

Me: RhiRhi, Indian men are such assholes.

RhiRhi: Umm.. aren’t you an Indian male too?

Me: Uh, yeah, but that’s not my point. Somebody posted this video on their Facebook status, and after watching it, I was all, “whaaa!?”. As much as I feel sorry for the poor chap for getting beaten by a hundred guys, honestly, he had it coming. The cardinal rule of life is, “YOU DON”T HIT A GIRL!” How hard is that to follow. I don’t get this whole alpha-male I-can-do-whatever-the-fuck-I-want-and-get-away-with-it bullshit.

RhiRhi: What the hell are you talking about?!

Me: Oh sorry. Back story. I need to write an article about a women’s development issue.

I show her the link and the topics that I can write on.

RhiRhi: Ooh! Relationship issues! You should totally write about that. Like cheating. What would you do if your girlfriend or wife cheated on you? Would you kill her?

Me: Huh!? Why would I kill her?

RhiRhi: Because that’s in your culture, right?

Me: NO! We don’t do that! Jeez! They’re right when they say that for Americans, the world starts and ends at America.

RhiRhi: THEY DO NOT SAY THAT! And I’m Mexican-American asshole.

Me: Don’t yell at me! I was just telling you about how men think that it’s okay to hit women and then when they’re getting the beating, they’re all bheegi billi and crying for their mommies.

RhiRhi: Bheegi whaaa?

Me: It means wet p… ahem… cat. That’s besides the point. I’m talking about insecure men with Mommy issues and the marking-their-territory whole evolutionary psychology stuff. I mean hitting a woman? Really? My lawyer friend says that people who hurt women should be castrated. And she’s a human rights lawyer. Imagine that! What would you do if a guy hit you, RhiRhi?

RhiRhi: Oooo.. I’d get all flirty and have him buy me drinks and maybe get his phone number and exchange naughty texts. Who knows what it leads to!

Me: Ugh.. hit you NOT hit ON you!

RhiRhi: Oh! If my man ever hit me or cheated on me, I’d cut his weiner off.

Me: You’re scaring me. Can we focus on the topic?

RhiRhi: Okay. Don’t write about Reproductive Rights or Hygiene and Healthcare or Female Infanticide & Sex Selective Abortions. Those are serious topics. That’s not your style. Try Relationship Issues or Workplace Inequality. You could be all funny about those things.

Me: Oh please. I’m a serious writer okay? If I write funny shit about these things, how will I ever get the Pulitzer?

RhiRhi: Oh honey! It’s too late for that. Have you ever read your blog? Blogging about poop and vomit does not make for serious writing.

Me: Screw you asshole. You don’t know shit. I’m a serious writer.

After going back and forth for over half an hour, I realized that she wasn’t going to be of much help. So I just decided to post our conversation on my blog. Sorry S, I tried. Happy International Women’s Day to all y’all beautiful ladies!

RhiRhi asked me to keep her identity a secret because of the bold and racy nature of my blog. She doesn’t want to get fired. But I think that she’s under the Witness Protection Program and doesn’t want the Mexican druglords to find her and kill her her. Because I’m that famous. You hear that Maa, I’m THAT POPULAR.

Exhibit A: Baby names synonymous with awesome

If you look carefully at the image above, you will notice the rather obvious water stains on the writing. And very conveniently, the water appears to have found its way more to “my side” of the page. And if that wasn’t enough, she went ahead and completely blotted my name out. As though I didn’t exist. You make me sick N.

N, THIS MEANS WAR! And Swatiji, I’m really sorry to drag you into this mess, but I present to you the top 5 reasons why you should name your child after me.

1. I was named after Amartya Sen, who was named by the fabulous Rabindranath Tagore himself. That’s quite an amazing legacy inherited just by virtue of the name. Tagore, obviously, needs no introduction, and Sen, a world famous economist and Harvard professor.
2. Both Tagore and Sen have won the Nobel Prize in Literature and Economics, respectively. It doesn’t get bigger than that. To quote a friend, that’s a life contrasted by creativity and science. And who knows what shenanigans I pull in my life.
3. With Obama as President, I reckon that day isn’t too far when we see a brown dude in the White House. I’d rather that the first President of the United States of Indian origin have a classy, majestic sounding name like Amortya/Amartya. And it means immortal. The POTUS which by itself it supremely badass job title and as we all know is a path strewn with life threatening situations. Hence, a name that quite literally translates to immortal would definitely bode better than a name that means love or rain. Politics is not a joke. As leader of the free world, the POTUS needs a name that inspires people to hope for a better future and strikes fear into the hearts of the bad guys. Sadly, “Neha” just doesn’t do it for me (no pun intended).
4. Swatiji, surely you’re worried how a name like Amortya would work if it’s a girl? I would be too. I should inform you that back in college, for an entire semester, my engineering drawing professor called me Amruta/Amrita. Hence, these are acceptable variations of my name, and I would not be offended if you chose these names for the munchkin. I hate to bring it up, but a name like Neha doesn’t have any President-worthy variations. Just saying.
5. I’m an amazing namesake to have. I’m kind, charming and a wonderful person. I was more than willing to include N’s suggestions in my list. That was before my trust was betrayed. My trust AND yours. Surely you don’t want your first born to be named after a backstabber like that? Tell tell?

So Swatiji, I rest my case. The ball is now in your court.

Dr. Hottie and her business-suit-wearing fake assistant

So there I am, sitting on the awesome robotic dental chair. Lil’ M’s having an awesome time playing with the suction tube thingy stuck in my mouth. And Dr. Hottie is looking at my teeth with that judge-y in her eyes. And I yell back, “STOP JUDGING ME! IT’S NOT MY FAULT I HAVE HORRIBLE TEETH! IT’S INHERITED!” The maternal side of my family must be part British because we have the worst teeth ever. Discolored teeth, tooth decay, bleeding gums, cavities, worn or broken teeth- we have them all. And my father’s side of the family. They’re the Brangelina’s of a community of people that’s been cursed with bad teeth. My Dad though has got a phenomenal set of teeth AND he hasn’t been to a dentist a single day in his life. Sadly, natural selection doesn’t work the way I want it to or else, today, I’d be a heart-throbby rocket scientist working for NASA with a million dollar smile and an equally awesome paycheck. Instead I’m a lowly code monkey with no lateral incisors, an ugly nose zit thingy and a gift for digital stalking. Which is one of the reasons why I have had such long lasting relationships with my dentists. Yes, plural. My first ever dentist was a vision of ethereal, jaw-dropping beauty. Her stunning features, flawless face, and that killer smile melted my heart instantly. And when my mother saw that infatuated look in my eyes, she decided that nip the fledging romance and my evolving player status in the bud. And sent me to an all-boys school. And moved the family television to her bedroom. Because of, well, Sonali Bendre. Also, all of my subsequent dentists were dudes, even the dumbass ones that extracted the wrong teeth or filled the one that didn’t have a cavity. You hear that Ma? THAT IS THE REASON I’M STILL SINGLE AND YOU DON’T HAVE ANY GRANDCHILDREN YET!

I meet my friends at Tramonti in the Theatre District and after pigging out on some super delicious fried calamari, I start ordering the main course. Except that I couldn’t. Because the menu looked like it was written in Aramaic. I’m trying figure out what the hell on the menu was penne with marinara sauce. The entire menu blurs into a haze of disorganized gibberish and I start to get a migrane and all I want is some food and WHY CAN”T ALL MENU’S BE AS EASY AS OLIVE GARDEN’S?! Seriously, Olive Garden has to be God’s gift to mankind. Or Mussolini’s. Or whoever invented Olive Garden. What are people like me, who are Italiano illiterate, supposed to eat? Which makes me wonder, WHY DON’T I KNOW THIS ALREADY!? Why isn’t stuff like this taught in colleges? Skills like how to read the menu at a fancy-schmancy Italian ristorante are so crucial to one’s wholesome development and to adapt successfully to real life in the real world and to not get a smirk from the cocky waiter as he judges you for struggling to pronounce Capellini Mare e Monti. And what in fucks name even does Capellini Mare e Monti even mean?! Why can’t you call it what it is: spaghetti,  beans, mushrooms and tomatoes. Except that it wasn’t spaghetti, but something called angel hair pasta. Which reinforces my point about why important information like the gazillion types of pasta and the subtle differences between spaghetti and angel hair pasta be made a part of core college curriculum. Young impressionable adults need to prepare themselves cope with the pressures that await them in the real world of fine Italian dining that goes well beyond Ray’s Pizza.

But all’s not lost. I did meet a guy who has Jack Bauer’s job. And I go, “Yeah right! The fuck you do.” But he does. Almost. He works as an interrogator for a international organization. The moment he said that, my brains were blown away. Like icky, sticky brain matter splattered on the wall after a game of Russian roulette, blown away. Of course, this guy played it down largely, saying all he did was question officials to detect fraud and corruption. But still, to think that he sits in a dimly lit room having a single light hanging from the ceiling swinging back and forth, in front of a man chained to the floor, having drips inserted in his arm injecting him with whatever-the-hell-it-is truth serum is called, calmly asking for cooperation, breaking a few fingers, threatening him with more violence, and offering immunity deals when required, gave me like a teeny-tiny orgasm! But then again, I also think that Hiro Nakamura is the coolest character on television, so that’s not saying much about me. I know, I watch wayy too much television.

Really? I don't think so!

It was only after I got to the ground that I realized the devious ways my Mum’s mind works in. Well, I shouldn’t have been surprised. She is after all MY mother! Mommy was totally pimping me out for all the eligible girls present there. Here’s how it worked. I was standing with my Dad on one side of the ground checking out the food stalls (obviously!). Ma goes about socializing and networking like she’s one of the girls from SATC. But truth be told, her hawk eyes were scouting for nubile, young women to pitch to me. And after she’s done with her recon mission, she calls me over and introduces me to her friends AND their daughters. She’s goes like, “Here is my son. Engineer. NRI. And doesn’t he look like Abhishek Bachchan?”. Obviously, she couldn’t tell me anything straight up, but one look in her eyes and I knew what her end game was. She’s cute na? She’s well educated, has a good job, comes from a good family and can cook! Why don’t you call her sometime? Of course, if she had it her way, she would have probably had me engaged then and there. Thankfully though, I managed to drag her by the hand away from all the madness. She was quiet, but her body language was yelling, “I AM NOT GETTING ANY YOUNGER. I WANT GRANDCHILDREN! AND I WANT THEM NOW! THIS IS GOING TO HAPPEN WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT, EVEN IF I HAVE TO KNOCK YOUR ASS UNCONSCIOUS AND MAKE YOU TAKE THE GODDAMN PHERAS”

.

I suddenly remembered a promise I made to a coworker to bestow on her pseudo Internet celebrity status. So Shonan, as you enjoy the delicious tiramisu from Hot & Crusty flanked by your birthday presents- the hunky Edward and Jacob, I hope that someday my blog hits superstardom and you shall thereby be immortalized in the annals of the Internets.

Shonan with Edward and Jacob

My New Year celebrations were surprisingly fabulous. After spending the last few hours of 2009 at my pal D’s apartment, I bounced to another house party where I barely knew more than 3 people. The roads were slushy. I wasn’t dressed appropriately enough for a party. And that last shot of patron was starting to kick in. Oh and not to mention, this was my FIRST EVER party that was busted by cops! Kinda lame, I know, since I’m like all of 25. But fuck you.

Yes! That's my buddy KB partying like a rockstar!

Google  avoid  Bailey.  Okay,  so  I  am  on  the  train  heading  out  of  I.  D  and  she  gave  me  about  25  minutes  to  get  you  want  and  if  it’s  good  and  maybe  another  month  rent.  Another  thing,  and  130  minutes  of  each  show,  you  can  just  so  kind  of  speculate  about  an  hour  from  now.  I  need  to  get  to  follow  up  with  the  okay,  so  I’ll  give  me  a  call  when  I  get  out  of  the  subway.  Alright,  see  you  there.  Bye.

So I’m all what the fuck? Google screwed up? What am I going to do now? I thought they knew everything about my life? Now I have to figure out where to go ALL BY MYSELF!? I start attempting to decode the message. No dice. I finally give up and just walk down to Trader Joes, where my friend was planning to go. Why, really? Cause cheap wine is awesome. Not as awesome as Bailey’s. Because Bailey’s is fucking awesome.

So we hop on to the green line and head to Ravagh and our lovely waitress tells us that they didn’t have any lamb shank. And I’m like get out of my face already lady!? What did you just say? No lamb shank? What do I do now? I HAVE NO REASON TO LIVE. I was devastated. So after settling for some kebobs, and an appetizer and some non-shanky lamb stew, both of which had the word bademjan in it and contained inordinately large amounts of eggplant, we got done with the meal. But I’m still upset that we didn’t get the lamb shank. And especially mad because my friend didn’t get to try it since I’d been raving about it for the longest time.

Later last night, it hits me that I can listen to the message. That’s right, lissssennn to the message. After the unnecessarily long period when I felt like a total dumbass for not knowing this, I play the message. Here’s what she REALLY said:

Google Voice, really? Okay, so I’m on the train heading out of White Plains and it will take me about 25 minutes to get to 125th street and another 30 minutes maybe to reach Union Square, so kind of calculate about an hour from now for me to get to 14th street. Okay? I’ll give you a call when I get out of the subway. Alright, see you there. Bye.

Google, as awesome as you really are, and as much as I blindly trust you with pretty much every itsy-bitsy bit of information about life (not like I have a choice), its about time you got your shit together and transcribe my voicemails correctly. I’m at a point in life where machines help me make most of my decisions, and NO ONE TAKES THAT AWAY FROM ME!

Now I’m not the kind to take an insult lying down. But here I was getting trash talked by a woman. So I did what I do best- bring out my smart alecky self and make a feeble attempt at redeeming any self respect I might still have after my argument was demolished point for point and my ego destroyed. And after a moment, I say that Kajol should play her in the film. And cheekily added that the only way she and I would get to star in the movie would be if she played the role of my mother or sister, since the rather obvious age gap between Ranbir and Kajol would make for a very awkward couple. Pleased with my acerbic wit, I grin with absolute glee. She responds, “Ok Morty, go ahead, be Ranbir. I’ll be Kajol. I’ll walk away with all the awards year after year. And you can spend the rest of your career compering those very same award shows”. Touché.