Today was one of those days when you're allowed to buy overpriced coffee rip-offs. I seemed to be at a loss with my casework, have a nagging, crippling knee, and, most importantly, have a Visa gift card. All circumstances pointed to the necessity of making a frivolous purchase, one which would usually go against my principles.
I bought a chocolate stirrer. It was a wooden stick with a dark chocolate cube at the end. Again, everything seemed to point to the necessity of this chocolate aparatus in my life.
These edible stirrers were by the register, and so I picked it out last minute when I was paying for my cappuccino, which in and of itself is too wild of a purchase for me. The chocolate cube at the end of the stick immediately started melting away, till my cappuccino tasted like thick hot chocolate and I was holding a wooden stick with brown putty on it.
I threw out the remains of the stirrer and indulged in the hot drink. The weather is still gloomy, the knee still throbs, and New Yorkers still suffer the rising costs of their own existence, but I'm hoping everything just melts away, and becomes a de facto hot chocolate.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
buddies
So as I step off the E train headed in the direction of Third Ave (where I work) I bump into the Deputy Director who was heading in the other direction. He looked puzzled and I told him it was quicker to walk the other way. And then as we made small talk on the elevator, we turned to see the State Director on the escalator right next to us.
And then the three of us skipped to work holding hands.
And then the three of us skipped to work holding hands.
Friday, September 24, 2010
AM blues
It was one of those mornings when you heave a sigh, ruffle your bangs, and say with a scowl, "It's just one of those mornings." I woke up more exhausted than when I hit the pillow the previous night; I had waited 2 hours in Port Authority the evening before, nestled comfortably between a pack of Korean tourists and a middle aged commuter who smelled heavily of white-out and cigarettes.
The aftermath of my moving back home as my cousin moved in finally hit me, and in the morning I was scouring through piles and piles of my clothing on the floor, trying to look for a decent shirt. I had no time for breakfast--I was too busy cursing my room, my family, and the gods which rendered me helpless to the clutches of disorganization and lethargy. As usual, I took everything out on my parents, who in turn brandished their most lethal weapon of mass destruction: kindness. Loyal to their origins, the state from which Gandhi hailed, they never reacted violently to my tantrums, choosing instead a path of peace that rendered obsolete any of my concerns. They passively accepted everything I said, and even felt bad for me, before promising that they would build my dresser over the weekend. Their kindness angered me more and I told them I didn't want a dresser. I just wanted conditions to stay miserable for some time so that I was justified in lashing out at the world.
NJTransit proved to be a reliable factor in creating cruel and unusual conditions. The bus was late, and as it started raining, we found ourselves stuck in traffic. The woman in front of me was yelling about her local car dealership. My Sherlock Holmes mystery conceded to the complexities of this woman's life, detailed so clearly for anyone on the bus who had the slightest interest.
I rapidly limped to the E train, only to find the doors close in front of my face. My knee throbbed under my own weight, only reminding me that my new job was a sad excuse to stop working out. The E train arrived 10 minutes later, and, like cattle, we were herded onto the train by the forces of responsibility, obligation, and habit.
Many of the side streets by my office have been closed off for the United Nations Millenium Development conferences, and so as I stepped out of the Subway, I was again shuffled through arbitrary matrices crafted by the NYPD.
I finally neared my building. I stopped at the cart by my building, run by an old Italian man who always says "thank you" to me in Hindi. Instead of the usual small, I ordered a medium coffee with milk, and could barely manage a smile from my immobile lips. The wrinkles around his eyes creased with concern. "One muffin for you, my darling. Just for you." For the first time since I awoke, I felt my own heart beat. I was suddenly conscious of myself, of my own breath, and the slowness of the persistent sunlight, which parted the clouds that had hung heavy during my morning endeavors. I sipped my hot coffee and clutched my muffin as I waved to the security guard inside the building.
The first email I got in the morning was from an agency contact informing me of a favorable decision for a constituent. There was a resolution, some hope, for an economically and physically disabled woman with whom I had been working all summer. I immediately called the constituent to relay the good news, and I could hardly comprehend her words of gratitude as she heaved sobs of happiness.
I felt pretty accomplished. Before 10:00 AM, I got a corn muffin from an old man and blessings from an estranged lady, her face anonymous but her life familiar.
When I got home, I ate Lebanese food with my family. The fattouche was stellar, and the falafel was pretty subpar. I kept staring at all of them. My grandfather read aloud the menu for the entire restaurant to hear; my grandmother and mother sat in fits of giggles; my father was trying to compare all the dishes to Gujarati dishes for easier access. My sister was there in spirit--she kept texting me her misery in SAT class. No one made any sense. I forgot about the morning's fuss, mainly because of the chaos of dinner. I smiled again, as I smiled with my free muffin and my favorable case.
It was one of those days when you heave a sigh, ruffle your bangs, and say with a smile, "Life isn't half bad."
The aftermath of my moving back home as my cousin moved in finally hit me, and in the morning I was scouring through piles and piles of my clothing on the floor, trying to look for a decent shirt. I had no time for breakfast--I was too busy cursing my room, my family, and the gods which rendered me helpless to the clutches of disorganization and lethargy. As usual, I took everything out on my parents, who in turn brandished their most lethal weapon of mass destruction: kindness. Loyal to their origins, the state from which Gandhi hailed, they never reacted violently to my tantrums, choosing instead a path of peace that rendered obsolete any of my concerns. They passively accepted everything I said, and even felt bad for me, before promising that they would build my dresser over the weekend. Their kindness angered me more and I told them I didn't want a dresser. I just wanted conditions to stay miserable for some time so that I was justified in lashing out at the world.
NJTransit proved to be a reliable factor in creating cruel and unusual conditions. The bus was late, and as it started raining, we found ourselves stuck in traffic. The woman in front of me was yelling about her local car dealership. My Sherlock Holmes mystery conceded to the complexities of this woman's life, detailed so clearly for anyone on the bus who had the slightest interest.
I rapidly limped to the E train, only to find the doors close in front of my face. My knee throbbed under my own weight, only reminding me that my new job was a sad excuse to stop working out. The E train arrived 10 minutes later, and, like cattle, we were herded onto the train by the forces of responsibility, obligation, and habit.
Many of the side streets by my office have been closed off for the United Nations Millenium Development conferences, and so as I stepped out of the Subway, I was again shuffled through arbitrary matrices crafted by the NYPD.
I finally neared my building. I stopped at the cart by my building, run by an old Italian man who always says "thank you" to me in Hindi. Instead of the usual small, I ordered a medium coffee with milk, and could barely manage a smile from my immobile lips. The wrinkles around his eyes creased with concern. "One muffin for you, my darling. Just for you." For the first time since I awoke, I felt my own heart beat. I was suddenly conscious of myself, of my own breath, and the slowness of the persistent sunlight, which parted the clouds that had hung heavy during my morning endeavors. I sipped my hot coffee and clutched my muffin as I waved to the security guard inside the building.
The first email I got in the morning was from an agency contact informing me of a favorable decision for a constituent. There was a resolution, some hope, for an economically and physically disabled woman with whom I had been working all summer. I immediately called the constituent to relay the good news, and I could hardly comprehend her words of gratitude as she heaved sobs of happiness.
I felt pretty accomplished. Before 10:00 AM, I got a corn muffin from an old man and blessings from an estranged lady, her face anonymous but her life familiar.
When I got home, I ate Lebanese food with my family. The fattouche was stellar, and the falafel was pretty subpar. I kept staring at all of them. My grandfather read aloud the menu for the entire restaurant to hear; my grandmother and mother sat in fits of giggles; my father was trying to compare all the dishes to Gujarati dishes for easier access. My sister was there in spirit--she kept texting me her misery in SAT class. No one made any sense. I forgot about the morning's fuss, mainly because of the chaos of dinner. I smiled again, as I smiled with my free muffin and my favorable case.
It was one of those days when you heave a sigh, ruffle your bangs, and say with a smile, "Life isn't half bad."
Sunday, September 19, 2010
no drama, just life.
I secretly want to be a Bollywood actress, and dance in the rain and fall in love and fight bad guys. In fact, sometimes I listen to songs, English or Hindi, and create makeshift music videos in my head. Pain, confusion, loss--it all seems bearable when it is accompanied by a background score. But then the song is over, the iPod runs out of battery, or we just grow up, and the beautiful tragedies we have woven are dispelled, rendered obsolete by the cold reality of life, which happens backstage. There is no drama. There is no poetry. Pain isn't beautiful. It hurts. And as much as we have made ourselves out to be the tragic heroes of our Romantic histories, we're just people, without a background score or a rain machine or any hint as to what will happen next. We just are, life just is, and everything else follows.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Woes of a Working Woman
I oscillate between two different worlds 5 days a week. Every morning, I sit at the cold granite counter in my kitchen and eat plain oatmeal with fruits and nuts, while my grandmother laments about the seeming lack of milk in my diet, and my parents discuss office politics and Tuesday night free movies. I make my lunch, I aimlessly search for shoes before deciding to wear the same black flats once again, and then my mother drops me off to the bus station. I used to pretend to read on the bus, but I have now come to accept the inevitable, and just keep extra tissues to wipe off the drool once I reach Port Authority.
The earth shakes once the bus makes its final stop. There is a thundering of footsteps, of wheels, of a sudden tension and speed. The walk to my office is only about 25 minutes, but my 65 year old knee usually prefers the Subway. Like cattle, we all cram into one train; the really experienced travelers manage to read the newspaper above everyone’s heads and rest their Starbucks coffee comfortably on someone’s elbow. The 5 minute walk from the Subway to work is filled with very distinct types—middle aged workers from Jersey; unattractive and skinny European models; tourists with fanny packs and an illusion that Third Avenue is the place to be.
My work is wonderful. I get to interact with all kinds of people—the sad, the grateful, the crazies, the powerful. My day revolves around service, but is colorfully peppered with death threats and free cupcakes. As wild as my job might seem (the cupcakes are insanely delicious), it is the actual time I spend outside the office and outside my home, in a lingo, where I find myself in a suspension of reality.
Two weeks ago, as I was walking through Port Authority to catch the E train, and someone aggressively taps me on the shoulder. A lady with copper curls started walking in step with me, and in a deep southern drawl said, “Seriously, though, this country is just so obese! I mean, I just look around and see all these fatties. You know what I mean? I guess I could say I am one of them but seriously, what is with this country? I mean, that is why everyone has diabetes!" She laughed and then walked ahead of me. The woman was not fat, and that was our conversation in its entirety.
Since my grandmother is here, my family has been more active and involved with each other than usual. My grandmother yells about the termination of naptime after I graduated Kindergarten (ideally I should be bringing my sleeping bag to the office); my mother simultaneously asks about my pending marriage (I should settle down at some point relatively soon) and my future ambitions (I should not be domesticated and strive for excellence in my career); my father barks about my tangled hair and agrees with my mother on her contradictory advice (I won’t go far with this marital bliss stuff if I don’t brush my hair). My sister is the only seemingly normal one, but the very fact of her functional existence thoroughly perturbs us, so she gets scolded by default. In the midst of all of this chaos, I try to find some peace on the bus. Unfortunately, NJ Transit seems to have also gotten the memo to wreak havoc in my life.
There was one day when I was particularly tired. A plague had ravaged the office, and 5 or 6 people were out with various mystery illnesses. My left eye had been burning and secreting mysterious clear liquid all week, and my knee was reliably acting up. I assumed I was dying, or at least coming down with a cold. My family was in Virginia Beach, so I walked to and from the bus station. Coupled with phone calls reassuring my family that I was alive, filled to the brim with calcium, and taking naps during staff meetings, I was mentally and physically exhausted.
The one day I left work slightly early, for fear of catching some Bubonic strain of yellow fever mixed with pink eye mixed with sun rashes, I came home exceedingly late. The subway was crowded until someone farted and inadvertently kicked off 30 people at the next stop. While this was convenient for my nonexistent personal bubble (which continues to burst as I commute to work with toothless singers and greasy wife beaters), it aggravated my left eye even more. My contact was dangerously sliding up, and my vision kept blurring. I was to meet a friend for dinner in Ridgewood, and desperately needed to get home to pee, take out my contacts, and wash off the stench of underground bodily gas.
I raced to Gate 163, where the bus had stalled for some time. I let out a sigh of relief as soon as I dropped into my seat. A few minutes after the bus left Port Authority, the driver pulled over and parked on the shoulder. She got out of the bus and spoke on her cell phone for about ten minutes. She got back on and told us we had a flat tire, the second one today, and that we would be shuffled to an arbitrary parking lot where we would get on to the next bus. “And I don’t think that bus will be air-conditioned.”
I wanted to call my friend to tell her I would be late, but my phone had died. I didn’t have her number in my work Blackberry, so I tried to email her. The screen went blank about five times before I could finally send her a miserable one-liner: “Bus has flat tire. FML.” My iPod also died before Bruno could finish telling me about the beautiful girls all over the world. My left eye continued to break down, and so reading was out of the question. I stared out in silence until I finally fell asleep.
I was woken up in Paramus. An old Russian man with bad breath was sitting next to me, incessantly poking me. He asked me if the bus was express. We had been on the road for 45 minutes; Port Authority was far behind us. I said yes. And then as I attempted to doze off again, he sustained a conversation with me until I got off at my stop. Then I walked home, ate a handful of wheat crackers that tasted like the box, washed my face, and ate Thai food with my friends.
Yesterday, my iPod was quite functional, but the passengers who elected to sit next to me were not. The first man had just caught the bus about 30 seconds before it left. He was sweating heavily, and sat down right next to me—right on top of my open purse. He said excuse me after he sat down, but continued to deform my purse. With some difficulty, I pulled it out from under him. His cologne was overpowering. My face broke out in rashes and I pressed my face against the dirty glass. He got off after about thirty minutes. I was then alone, and listened to music in peace, thinking of nothing. The bus emptied as it neared my house. When we were about 15 minutes away, someone came down and slammed onto the seat next to me. The person was incredibly close, and I turned to see an old, fat, sleeping man to my left. A strong beer lingered in his breath, which blew out hot and heavy into my face. His legs were sprawled and his hairy arm effectively disintegrated any shred of personal bubble I thought I had left. I was squished into the glass; my headphones knocked uncomfortably into the window as he kept leaning into me. With one final snore, the man fell asleep into my lap. I was too stunned to be disgusted, and then too afraid that I would miss my stop. I sat there in silence, and sent incredulous text messages to all my friends. I held the phone over his head as to not disturb his slumber.
Though I seem to be in a constant state of transit, running from mode of transport to mode of transport, hurriedly shoving slow walkers (seniors included) aside, cursing MTA and NJTransit, I find myself at a complete standstill as I leave Manhattan. I always take a window seat on the right side of the bus, so that when we drive along the river, New York transforms into a frieze. The world pauses, I pause, and together we stop and stare at the dynamicy and vibrancy of grey steel. And every day I close my eyes and smile to whomever is watching, happy that I am still very much a part of such a beautiful city.
The earth shakes once the bus makes its final stop. There is a thundering of footsteps, of wheels, of a sudden tension and speed. The walk to my office is only about 25 minutes, but my 65 year old knee usually prefers the Subway. Like cattle, we all cram into one train; the really experienced travelers manage to read the newspaper above everyone’s heads and rest their Starbucks coffee comfortably on someone’s elbow. The 5 minute walk from the Subway to work is filled with very distinct types—middle aged workers from Jersey; unattractive and skinny European models; tourists with fanny packs and an illusion that Third Avenue is the place to be.
My work is wonderful. I get to interact with all kinds of people—the sad, the grateful, the crazies, the powerful. My day revolves around service, but is colorfully peppered with death threats and free cupcakes. As wild as my job might seem (the cupcakes are insanely delicious), it is the actual time I spend outside the office and outside my home, in a lingo, where I find myself in a suspension of reality.
Two weeks ago, as I was walking through Port Authority to catch the E train, and someone aggressively taps me on the shoulder. A lady with copper curls started walking in step with me, and in a deep southern drawl said, “Seriously, though, this country is just so obese! I mean, I just look around and see all these fatties. You know what I mean? I guess I could say I am one of them but seriously, what is with this country? I mean, that is why everyone has diabetes!" She laughed and then walked ahead of me. The woman was not fat, and that was our conversation in its entirety.
Since my grandmother is here, my family has been more active and involved with each other than usual. My grandmother yells about the termination of naptime after I graduated Kindergarten (ideally I should be bringing my sleeping bag to the office); my mother simultaneously asks about my pending marriage (I should settle down at some point relatively soon) and my future ambitions (I should not be domesticated and strive for excellence in my career); my father barks about my tangled hair and agrees with my mother on her contradictory advice (I won’t go far with this marital bliss stuff if I don’t brush my hair). My sister is the only seemingly normal one, but the very fact of her functional existence thoroughly perturbs us, so she gets scolded by default. In the midst of all of this chaos, I try to find some peace on the bus. Unfortunately, NJ Transit seems to have also gotten the memo to wreak havoc in my life.
There was one day when I was particularly tired. A plague had ravaged the office, and 5 or 6 people were out with various mystery illnesses. My left eye had been burning and secreting mysterious clear liquid all week, and my knee was reliably acting up. I assumed I was dying, or at least coming down with a cold. My family was in Virginia Beach, so I walked to and from the bus station. Coupled with phone calls reassuring my family that I was alive, filled to the brim with calcium, and taking naps during staff meetings, I was mentally and physically exhausted.
The one day I left work slightly early, for fear of catching some Bubonic strain of yellow fever mixed with pink eye mixed with sun rashes, I came home exceedingly late. The subway was crowded until someone farted and inadvertently kicked off 30 people at the next stop. While this was convenient for my nonexistent personal bubble (which continues to burst as I commute to work with toothless singers and greasy wife beaters), it aggravated my left eye even more. My contact was dangerously sliding up, and my vision kept blurring. I was to meet a friend for dinner in Ridgewood, and desperately needed to get home to pee, take out my contacts, and wash off the stench of underground bodily gas.
I raced to Gate 163, where the bus had stalled for some time. I let out a sigh of relief as soon as I dropped into my seat. A few minutes after the bus left Port Authority, the driver pulled over and parked on the shoulder. She got out of the bus and spoke on her cell phone for about ten minutes. She got back on and told us we had a flat tire, the second one today, and that we would be shuffled to an arbitrary parking lot where we would get on to the next bus. “And I don’t think that bus will be air-conditioned.”
I wanted to call my friend to tell her I would be late, but my phone had died. I didn’t have her number in my work Blackberry, so I tried to email her. The screen went blank about five times before I could finally send her a miserable one-liner: “Bus has flat tire. FML.” My iPod also died before Bruno could finish telling me about the beautiful girls all over the world. My left eye continued to break down, and so reading was out of the question. I stared out in silence until I finally fell asleep.
I was woken up in Paramus. An old Russian man with bad breath was sitting next to me, incessantly poking me. He asked me if the bus was express. We had been on the road for 45 minutes; Port Authority was far behind us. I said yes. And then as I attempted to doze off again, he sustained a conversation with me until I got off at my stop. Then I walked home, ate a handful of wheat crackers that tasted like the box, washed my face, and ate Thai food with my friends.
Yesterday, my iPod was quite functional, but the passengers who elected to sit next to me were not. The first man had just caught the bus about 30 seconds before it left. He was sweating heavily, and sat down right next to me—right on top of my open purse. He said excuse me after he sat down, but continued to deform my purse. With some difficulty, I pulled it out from under him. His cologne was overpowering. My face broke out in rashes and I pressed my face against the dirty glass. He got off after about thirty minutes. I was then alone, and listened to music in peace, thinking of nothing. The bus emptied as it neared my house. When we were about 15 minutes away, someone came down and slammed onto the seat next to me. The person was incredibly close, and I turned to see an old, fat, sleeping man to my left. A strong beer lingered in his breath, which blew out hot and heavy into my face. His legs were sprawled and his hairy arm effectively disintegrated any shred of personal bubble I thought I had left. I was squished into the glass; my headphones knocked uncomfortably into the window as he kept leaning into me. With one final snore, the man fell asleep into my lap. I was too stunned to be disgusted, and then too afraid that I would miss my stop. I sat there in silence, and sent incredulous text messages to all my friends. I held the phone over his head as to not disturb his slumber.
Though I seem to be in a constant state of transit, running from mode of transport to mode of transport, hurriedly shoving slow walkers (seniors included) aside, cursing MTA and NJTransit, I find myself at a complete standstill as I leave Manhattan. I always take a window seat on the right side of the bus, so that when we drive along the river, New York transforms into a frieze. The world pauses, I pause, and together we stop and stare at the dynamicy and vibrancy of grey steel. And every day I close my eyes and smile to whomever is watching, happy that I am still very much a part of such a beautiful city.
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