feng shui, feng shit.

23 Aug

Last night – just as I tucked myself into bed and flipped on the TV to get my daily Mad Men fix (I’m a recent addict.  Thank you, Netflix for expanding the number of instantly available options, albeit at a 100% increase in price) – my mom peeked into my room.  She asked how my day was, who I had gone to dinner with, whether I had ordered a present for a friend’s upcoming wedding…and just as she was about to bid me goodnight, she nonchalantly mentioned that as of tomorrow night, she’d be mixing up the household sleeping arrangement.

She and Dad would be taking over my room (and bed), and I’d be sleeping on their infinitely more comfortable, Tempur-Pedic mattress.  I looked at Mom with inquisitive eyes, knowing full well that whatever logic led to this executive decision was likely to be entirely illogical.

She explained that the master bedroom is situated in the Northwest wing of the house.  And I had been relegated to Northwestern-sleeping for 30 days by the feng-shui powers that be so that I would be showered with positive qi and – you guessed it – get married.  The first thing that came to my mind – the White House has “wings”; our quaint, suburban home does not.  More to the point, WHAT.THE.EFF?!  I have nothing against feng-shui, but was it really necessary to involve (and uproot) Dad?

Instead of voicing these misgivings, I smiled and nodded.  I was game.  Like I said, my parents’ mattress is the bees-knees.  It does fancy shit like contour to the shape of your body.  I also had a sneaking suspicion that this exercise in feng-shui isn’t going to last long – Dad can’t do without the Tennis Channel, a subscription that is only available on the TV in the master bedroom.  Also, no amount of positive qi can make up for the cloud-like slumber guaranteed by a Tempur-Pedic.

my bed. soon to be occupied by the 'rents.




11 Aug

I’ve heard of interventions orchestrated to urge someone to seek professional help to overcome addiction, an eating disorder or a similarly traumatic event.  But an intervention staged to put pressure on someone to step up his or her dating game?  That’s new to me.  But at this stage in my seemingly endless dating trajectory, I have come to expect the unexpected.  Here’s how it went down…

A couple weeks ago, the kids of the family (amongst whom I count myself) piled into the car and headed to Fashion Island for dessert.  After filling our bellies with the likes of Rocky Road and Vanilla Swiss Almond and trolling around the open-air mall for a couple hours, we decided to call it a night.  As we walked back to the car, my cell phone rang – it was my uncle.  He, too, wanted ice cream and was headed down to Fashion Island in search of it (and us).

Turned out the ice cream craving was a cover.  When my uncle showed up at Fashion Island, he did so flanked by my dad and my aunt.  I should have known something was up – my dad is not an ice cream person.

Moments later, my uncle and all the kids (save me) headed back in the direction of Haagen Dazs.  My dad and aunt had distracted me with talk of the new culinary additions to the mall.  When I noticed that we had been left behind, I insisted that we follow the rest of the group so as not to lose them.  My dad and aunt had plans of their own.  They escorted me in a different direction – away from Haagen Dazs and the sister and cousins that often serve as my reinforcements.

Ready…set…INTERVENTION.  As is the case with most interventions (so I’ve heard), voices were raised, tears were shed, expletives were used (mostly by me).  They wanted to know why I wasn’t open to guys living outside of California.  They wanted to know what I envision in a future boyfriend and husband.  They wanted to know why I didn’t come to them with boy-related problems.  They wanted to be more involved.  Funny thing…all I wanted was for them to leave me alone.

After all was said and done (and we had circled past Forever 21 for the seventh time), the intervention proved successful in at least one regard – it reminded me that my family (intrusive though they may be) is always on my side.  I may not share my innermost feelings with them (I’m not good at sharing in that way).  I may resist future interventions.  But if and when I do need a hand to hold or a shoulder to cry on, I know I can count on them.

silver lining?

8 Aug

I may have gotten rejected, but at least I looked (and felt) cute on my date…

black & white polka dot romper: vintage (from somewhere in alphabet city, nyc). red belt: pinky otto, nyc. red hoop earrings: greece.

So unless my date abhors the somewhat recent romper trend, I think it’s safe to say that my fashion sense is not what got me kicked to the curb.


20 Jul

I’m a little behind on the story telling.  Haven’t felt much like writing lately.  But if there’s one thing Nanu wanted it was to see me get married.  He would have urged me to get back out there, to continue dating, to find Mr. Right, and to blog about it all the while.  This is for my Nanu….

Should I start with the good news or the bad?

Good news, it is (because the story flows better that way)…

I met a boy that I LIKE.  He’s funny.  He’s smart.  He’s ambitious.  He adores his family.  He dresses well.  And most importantly, we click (or so I thought)!!

So what’s the bad news?

He didn’t like me.  Which is especially hard to stomach because I rarely meet guys I like.

It was a lunch date.  On Larchmont Blvd in Hancock Park.  The location couldn’t have been more perfect (you see, before up and moving to New York for law school, I lived in Hancock Park, during which time I fell madly in love with the neighborhood.  He knew this and had picked a meeting place accordingly.  Way cute if you ask me).

Coincidentally, he, too, had a deep-seated attachment to Hancock Park.  He routinely frequented the Italian restaurant (La Bottega Marino) he chose for lunch and was chummy with the owner as a result (the benefits of which we reaped in the form of complimentary appetizers and extra attention).

The food was fabulous – more bonus points.  As was the conversation.  Whereas most first dates are rife with uncomfortable conversation and obligatory formalities, this one wasn’t.  I felt immediately at ease.  We lunched for 2 ½ leisurely hours, and only bid one another adieu because he had to get to work (he’s a doctor, so weekends don’t always mean time off).

That’s when things got awkward.  He said he’d “be in touch” (what is it with these vague, non-committal parting lines), causing me to second guess our seemingly perfect connection.

I was certain that I liked him, but I couldn’t be sure whether he felt the same way.  The uncertainty drove me to text him later that night – something about the Mavericks win (yes, that’s how far behind I am on sharing) and a question about his upcoming availability.  He responded – said he’d let me know when he was free to hang out again.

But ever since?  Nothing.

What’s a girl gotta do to catch a break (or some sort of reciprocity in love)?

I guess it’s back to the drawing board – this time, saddled with the bitter taste of rejection.

photo credit: inkygirl.com


in memory of my Nanu.

11 Jul

It’s been a rough couple weeks.  My grandfather (fondly referred to by those who knew him as “Nanu”) passed away.  He went peacefully, surrounded by all of his loved ones.  I still can’t believe he’s gone.  It’s a surreal feeling.

But I have to keep reminding myself that we’re lucky to have had such a super grandpa, one whose memory we’ll always cherish and whose way of life we’ll attempt to emulate.

We held a memorial service in his honor on Friday morning, at which his seven grandkids (myself included) shared their favorite memories of Nanu.

My bit went like this:

I have so many memories of Nanu.  

  • The fondness with which he referred to me as Tina, his pet name for me.  
  • The way his eyes lit up when he told the story of how I always wanted to go “bhar bhar” (“out out”) as a kid – even in those cold New York winters.  
  • The sound of his voice as I – and anyone else – entered the house through the garage – “Kaun?” (“Who’s there?”).  
  • The smile on his face when he could smell my brownies baking in the oven. 
  • The 16 almonds that I put in a bowl every morning – 8 for him; 8 for Nani (my grandma and the love of his life). 
  • The pride with which he wore the Yale Grandpa sweats that I brought home for him after having graduated from college.  
  • The way he stroked his chin whilst sitting on his designated “throne” in our family room – in search of stray hairs that Kuki Uncle may have missed upon shaving Nanu.
  • The enthusiasm with which he watched and recited the day’s breaking news via CNN.  
  • His lifelong dream of winning the lotto and distributing $1 million to each of his grandkids.  

And, most memorable of all, each week, when his lucky numbers didn’t size up, Nanu would remind us that WE – his 7 grandkids (which, after 2 marriages, has become 9) + 3 daughters + 3 sons – WE were his lotto.  

Nanu, we love you and we miss you.

pictures by the pool.

29 Jun

On Monday evening, some old co-workers and I reunited at the Hotel Avalon in Beverly Hills.  We snagged one of the poolside cabanas and sipped on citrus-y spritzers (a little fizz, a little kick and a lot refreshing).

Picture perfect, right?  So we decided to snap a few pictures of our own.  And because the instant gratification of digital photography makes it immediately possible to review pictures, one of my favorite old coworkers busied herself analyzing the shots we had snapped.

After zooming in on each of our faces, old coworker whispered in my ear: “You look fabulous in this picture.  Why don’t we get some single shots of you by the pool.  You know…so your mom has more to work with.”  I could picture my Mom grinning from ear-to-ear with an ‘I told you so’ look in her eyes upon learning that other, non-maternal figures in my life were equally interested in setting me up.

And so, I have a few more gratuitous solo shots to add to my collection.  Poolside.  Because that’s totally natural.  =)

old co-workers & i poolside at the hotel avalon.

too cool for school.

23 Jun

My most recent date was a long time coming.  We had first been (electronically) introduced to one another over a year ago.  He was a family friend’s brother-in-law and came highly recommended as “driven,” “quirky,” and “always ready to have a good time” (because all Indian set-ups are accompanied by a background check and at least three references).  Driven is hot.  Quirky is adorable.  And always ready to have a good time is right up my ally.

Our first couple e-mails were promising – we discussed everything from politics to athletic allegiances.  But sometime last year – in the midst of law school graduation, two family weddings, and Bar exam prep – we lost touch.  Totally my fault.

We reconnected with an e-mail from me to him, appropriately prefaced with, “I’m an asshole.”  He was nice enough to respond, and we have since graduated to talking on the phone and texting.  When he told me he’d be in California for a few days (to visit family), I was pumped.

When I asked if he’d be interested in meeting up, I was expecting a resounding YES (presumptuous perhaps, but after more than a year of e-mailing, texting and phoning, c’mooooooon).  Instead, he came back with – “let me let you know.”

I get it…he was only in California for a few days and he had a lot of people to meet and a lot of plans to carry out.  That said, I’m a proponent of making time for the people and things that matter, so his response was slightly off-putting.

He managed to squeeze me in – for breakfast (lucky me).  Where I discovered that in addition to being driven, quirky, and always ready to have a good time, my date was too-cool-for-school (or, at the very least, too cool for me).

It was all the little things – which, on their own may have gone unnoticed, but dished out all at once, were glaringly obvious.  Like the outfit he showed up in – a men’s undershirt and bright orange shorts (bright and orange are cool; undergarments worn as anything other than undergarments on a date, less cool).  Like the way he slouched in his chair while directing all conversation toward passersby on the sidewalk as if he didn’t give a damn about me or anything else.  Like the things he talked about (himself, himself and…himself).  Like the way he left things (cool, soooo, I’ll give you a ring).

I guess we’ll see…if he really does “give me a ring.”  But if first dates are about putting your best foot forward and impressing whomever it is you’re courting, ‘Driven-Quirky-and-Always-ready-to-have-a-good-time’ failed.  Miserably.

unfortunately, my undershirt-wearing date did not make his undershirt look as good as the model pictured above. because if he had, i might not have been complaining. kidding kidding. =) photo credit: http://www.undershirtguy.com/.