Looks can be very deceiving. Unfortunately, whatever impressions people get about me from the frazzled state of my bangs truly speak volumes about my personality, my behavior, and my currently frazzled state of mind.
Two weeks ago, I thought I should get a haircut to look presentable for all the meetings and interviews and appointments that I have to have to secure a socially acceptable future (apparently Neverland does not exist). One week ago, I burned my bangs, which are now so short and frayed that it will be impossible to get a haircut without scarring my forehead. I was taking notes by candlelight, for the soothing smell and ambience, on the Convention on the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women, and got a text message from Patrick. It was a picture of a cat with the text, "hey there frenchie!" I wanted to reply with an equally nonsensical message, and tried to take a creepy picture of myself behind the candle, hoping that my face would be aglow.
I heard a crackling sound, as though something were burning. I leaned in closer. I couldn't see anything but heard the crackling sound grow louder. I shrugged, took the picture (twice, because the first one didn't come out well), and sent it to him, with the message, "can't wait to punch you in the face! miss youuu." I continued to do my homework. 15 minutes later I went to the bathroom.
I saw mysterious brown bits in my hair when I looked in the mirror. They looked like dead grass. I pulled one out, and saw that I had in my hand what looked like clumps of limp hair. I yelled out in shock and disgust. And suddenly, that putrid smell of burning consumed my nose, my lungs, my flesh, and I realized that that crackling sound had been my bangs on fire.
I look like a cross between Albert Einstein and Kelly Osbourne. And I have not gained the fame to pull off a look of electrocution. I am the ordinary New Yorker, student, girl, all first impressions gone to ashes.
If I don't find a job, I won't be able to blame it on the economic recession. I will, however, blame Pier 1 Imports' line of buttercream vanilla fragrance.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
I never turned six years old
Last night, I decided to renege on all responsibilities and obligations (does my GPA truly matter?) and go down to the East Village to eat couscous in celebration of Lindsay's birthday. The couscous was delicious, small in quantity, and expensive. Everyone wore shiny bangles and eyeliner, and the small restaurant was dimly lit and red and crowded. I ate, I smiled, I chatted. But all I wanted was a piece of caramel.
I don't remember when I discovered caramel, but I have not grown since that one moment. I am still five years old (or seven, or ten, or whenever I first experienced that sweetness). Like everyone else, I pretend to be a grown up and pay my credit card bill and read the Gotham Gazette, but in reality, all I want to do is eat caramels on my front steps in the summer.
When Bianca and I left the dinner last night, we decided to head home to finish some homework. We both needed some candy (her candy of choice was Riesen.) On the way to the F train, we stopped at a Rite Aid, which had already put bars on the windows. The guy in the store told us it was closing in 5 minutes, in hopes that we would turn around and leave. Instead, we raced around the store, breaking a sweat, looking for the goods. We found lots of easter eggs and nail polish, but kept running past the candy aisle. "Why the hell do easter eggs get their own aisle?!" Bianca was screaming and I was flailing around the store. Everyone was staring at us. We thought we were beautiful. They thought we were criminally insane.
Once in the candy aisle, we scrambled through all the piles of candy, rummaging through the bins and the hanging bags, until finally we realized that what we were looking for was right before our eyes. And then we ran to the counter. The cashier had resorted to banging against the cash register instead of tapping her long fingernails. Bianca's credit card had to be swiped 5 times before it registered. Everyone was waiting for us to leave. Our mouths were watering, our foreheads were drenched in perspiration. And as soon as we ran out of the store, they turned off the lights.
We ripped open our bags of candy as soon as we stepped into the frigid night. And then all the purple people in the East Village and the wind and the cigarette butts converged into one single bite of bliss. We held hands as we crossed the street and walked underground, so we could catch our train home.
I don't remember when I discovered caramel, but I have not grown since that one moment. I am still five years old (or seven, or ten, or whenever I first experienced that sweetness). Like everyone else, I pretend to be a grown up and pay my credit card bill and read the Gotham Gazette, but in reality, all I want to do is eat caramels on my front steps in the summer.
When Bianca and I left the dinner last night, we decided to head home to finish some homework. We both needed some candy (her candy of choice was Riesen.) On the way to the F train, we stopped at a Rite Aid, which had already put bars on the windows. The guy in the store told us it was closing in 5 minutes, in hopes that we would turn around and leave. Instead, we raced around the store, breaking a sweat, looking for the goods. We found lots of easter eggs and nail polish, but kept running past the candy aisle. "Why the hell do easter eggs get their own aisle?!" Bianca was screaming and I was flailing around the store. Everyone was staring at us. We thought we were beautiful. They thought we were criminally insane.
Once in the candy aisle, we scrambled through all the piles of candy, rummaging through the bins and the hanging bags, until finally we realized that what we were looking for was right before our eyes. And then we ran to the counter. The cashier had resorted to banging against the cash register instead of tapping her long fingernails. Bianca's credit card had to be swiped 5 times before it registered. Everyone was waiting for us to leave. Our mouths were watering, our foreheads were drenched in perspiration. And as soon as we ran out of the store, they turned off the lights.
We ripped open our bags of candy as soon as we stepped into the frigid night. And then all the purple people in the East Village and the wind and the cigarette butts converged into one single bite of bliss. We held hands as we crossed the street and walked underground, so we could catch our train home.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Observer Blog--Senioritis et al.
I now write for the new Observer Blog; I contribute stories about being a senior (contracting senioritis, avoiding talk about the future, wishing away my senior thesis).
Check it out!
http://observerblog.wordpress.com/2010/02/19/senioritis-symptoms/
Check it out!
http://observerblog.wordpress.com/2010/02/19/senioritis-symptoms/
Sunday, February 14, 2010
insight from anonymous
This was the last line of a letter from a NY constituent sent to Senator Kirsten Gillibrand's office:
"I realize that the State of New York is broke. I feel it's pain because I'm broke, too."
I am not sure whether to cry or laugh.
"I realize that the State of New York is broke. I feel it's pain because I'm broke, too."
I am not sure whether to cry or laugh.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
technological breakthrough
I just figured out how to add images to my blog posts.
The button was right there. I just didn't see it.
By the end of the day, I will add loads of new pictures to old postings.
Stay tuned.
The button was right there. I just didn't see it.
By the end of the day, I will add loads of new pictures to old postings.
Stay tuned.
Monday, January 25, 2010
if all else fails, there's always Dunkin
Patrick's 21st birthday marked his entry into the legal world of substance abuse, as well as the end of ogling at the free wine served at Law School events. Always in want (in need) of an excuse to party, we decided to celebrate with extravagance, style, and glamor, especially since his birthday also happened to fall on the First Weekend of the Spring Semester, the Last First Weekend of our college career, and the one year anniversary of Obama's presidency. We were going to go to the Boom Boom Room, an exclusive lounge that proudly boasted the high cost of its drinks, which supposedly made people "forget that recession even exists." Since we were all well aware of recession's presence in our lives (the extra $0.25 on the Subway fare forced us to curtail Pinkberry consumption), we decided to refrain from buying anything at Boom Boom Room. We were going to go there and sit on a comfy couch, where we could watch people spend money, and simply feel elite.
Though I had called in advance to confirm with an arbitrary British man that reservations were not required, Patrick and I found ourselves waiting in the harsh cold, watching tall Swedish women and men with jewelry walk in. The British man on the phone had been right--reservations were not required; Boom Boom Room operated by invitation only. We then invited ourselves to the bar across the block, so we could pee.
By that point we had met up with some of our other friends, who had only ventured into the meatpacking district because we had promised them a Red Carpet night. Everyone was cold, hungry, and underage. People dispersed--some went to a generic Irish pub, others went back to Fordham, and Patrick, Bianca, and I went to a lounge called "Honey." There were about 5 people inside. We sat down, looked at the menu, were once again cognizant of the financial crisis, and walked out.
We were on the verge of surrendering, completely disheartened and embittered by the gloating wind and the high end, celebrity life that seemed so out of reach. We walked to the end of the block, tired, cold, and ready to hail a cab back to Fordham. We passed by a Dunkin Donuts, and we all intuitively slowed down. I was staring at the empty room, glowing pink and orange, eliciting the fragrance of artificial sweetness and happiness and home. "I mean, they will probably give us free munchkins because it is so late. They are going to throw out stuff before they close, anyways." This Dunkin was 24/7.
The man behind the counter was brown, from some place on the Indian subcontinent. Partly due to evolution, to a biological development, and partly due to observing my aunt in Indian markets, I was immediately consumed by a desire to fight for cheaper hash browns. I glanced over at Bianca, who seemed to have acquired the same aggressive instinct. She told him she was from Delhi; I told him I had only $1 (I had just withdrawn $60). As expected, he immediately fought back, showing us the computer in which he had to punch in the prices, telling us he was limited by Corporate, and simply refusing to listen to reason. It came out to $2.81 for 2 orders, but he "threw in" a few extra fritters, so that the three of us would be satisfied.
Some random white guy walked in and decided to carry out a prolonged conversation with us, though we were to hungry to respond. While Bianca and Patrick humored him, I started talking to the Dunkin Donuts man. As with all Dunkin Donuts men, he was in a state of shock upon discovering I was Indian. He argued with me, telling me I was only half. When I managed to convince him I was Indian, that I was Gujarati, that I was barely conversational in Hindi, the instinct to fight faded from his face. He went to the back and brought out three muffins for us, each warm and toasted.
He asked me if we would sit and eat. I immediately obliged, and we all sat down to feast upon Dunkin. He came over to us and began speaking in Hindi; I understood everything he would say, but Bianca was the only one able to respond. Patrick continued eating his muffins.
The man was from Bangladesh; his entire family was still in Bangladesh. He was so proud of us for going to college; his job didn't pay enough. It was cold in America, and he was alone. He was surprised that we didn't live with our parents. He didn't understand why I couldn't respond fluently in Hindi. He laughed at us. We responded, between mouthfuls, with unsure smiles. He spoke as if he hadn't spoken in months. Soon the table was scattered with muffin wrappers and hash brown containers, and drunk people started coming in to satisfy their munchies. "Wait, wait, please wait. I will be back." He ran off to take people's orders, and then came back to us with three hot chocolates.
He stared at Patrick, who quickly got over his disbelief and shock to start drinking the hot drink. He asked us, in Hindi, from where we picked up "this one." We laughed and explained that it was his 21st birthday, that he is a close friend of ours, that he isn't a random boy from the street. I had the fleeting inclination to assert that his being white doesn't, and shouldn't, necessarily mean that he is nothing more than a stranger; but when I looked over at Patrick, at the way in which he seemed to be nothing more than a hungry deaf-mute, I knew that I was connected to the Dunkin Donuts man in a way I could never be connected to Patrick.
As we considered leaving for home, he told us to wait once again. He came back with hot sticky buns. "I work Friday, Saturday, Sunday. You visit me Sunday nights." We agreed. We finally got our invitation. It wasn't the Boom Boom Room, but it was something much sweeter. We bid him farewell, and held onto each other as we stepped out into the black night. The streets had emptied, the winds had softened, and there was a noisy silence that followed us to McMahon Hall.
Our room was littered with clothes and shoes, as we had been unsure how to dress to impress the celebrities at the lounge, and started off the night by violently ravaging our closets in search for something we knew we didn't own. Exhausted and crashing from a sugar high, we collapsed onto our beds, amid short dresses and sparkly vests and cheap make up, and immediately fell asleep, as the celebration officially came to a close.
Though I had called in advance to confirm with an arbitrary British man that reservations were not required, Patrick and I found ourselves waiting in the harsh cold, watching tall Swedish women and men with jewelry walk in. The British man on the phone had been right--reservations were not required; Boom Boom Room operated by invitation only. We then invited ourselves to the bar across the block, so we could pee.
By that point we had met up with some of our other friends, who had only ventured into the meatpacking district because we had promised them a Red Carpet night. Everyone was cold, hungry, and underage. People dispersed--some went to a generic Irish pub, others went back to Fordham, and Patrick, Bianca, and I went to a lounge called "Honey." There were about 5 people inside. We sat down, looked at the menu, were once again cognizant of the financial crisis, and walked out.
We were on the verge of surrendering, completely disheartened and embittered by the gloating wind and the high end, celebrity life that seemed so out of reach. We walked to the end of the block, tired, cold, and ready to hail a cab back to Fordham. We passed by a Dunkin Donuts, and we all intuitively slowed down. I was staring at the empty room, glowing pink and orange, eliciting the fragrance of artificial sweetness and happiness and home. "I mean, they will probably give us free munchkins because it is so late. They are going to throw out stuff before they close, anyways." This Dunkin was 24/7.
The man behind the counter was brown, from some place on the Indian subcontinent. Partly due to evolution, to a biological development, and partly due to observing my aunt in Indian markets, I was immediately consumed by a desire to fight for cheaper hash browns. I glanced over at Bianca, who seemed to have acquired the same aggressive instinct. She told him she was from Delhi; I told him I had only $1 (I had just withdrawn $60). As expected, he immediately fought back, showing us the computer in which he had to punch in the prices, telling us he was limited by Corporate, and simply refusing to listen to reason. It came out to $2.81 for 2 orders, but he "threw in" a few extra fritters, so that the three of us would be satisfied.
Some random white guy walked in and decided to carry out a prolonged conversation with us, though we were to hungry to respond. While Bianca and Patrick humored him, I started talking to the Dunkin Donuts man. As with all Dunkin Donuts men, he was in a state of shock upon discovering I was Indian. He argued with me, telling me I was only half. When I managed to convince him I was Indian, that I was Gujarati, that I was barely conversational in Hindi, the instinct to fight faded from his face. He went to the back and brought out three muffins for us, each warm and toasted.
He asked me if we would sit and eat. I immediately obliged, and we all sat down to feast upon Dunkin. He came over to us and began speaking in Hindi; I understood everything he would say, but Bianca was the only one able to respond. Patrick continued eating his muffins.
The man was from Bangladesh; his entire family was still in Bangladesh. He was so proud of us for going to college; his job didn't pay enough. It was cold in America, and he was alone. He was surprised that we didn't live with our parents. He didn't understand why I couldn't respond fluently in Hindi. He laughed at us. We responded, between mouthfuls, with unsure smiles. He spoke as if he hadn't spoken in months. Soon the table was scattered with muffin wrappers and hash brown containers, and drunk people started coming in to satisfy their munchies. "Wait, wait, please wait. I will be back." He ran off to take people's orders, and then came back to us with three hot chocolates.
He stared at Patrick, who quickly got over his disbelief and shock to start drinking the hot drink. He asked us, in Hindi, from where we picked up "this one." We laughed and explained that it was his 21st birthday, that he is a close friend of ours, that he isn't a random boy from the street. I had the fleeting inclination to assert that his being white doesn't, and shouldn't, necessarily mean that he is nothing more than a stranger; but when I looked over at Patrick, at the way in which he seemed to be nothing more than a hungry deaf-mute, I knew that I was connected to the Dunkin Donuts man in a way I could never be connected to Patrick.
As we considered leaving for home, he told us to wait once again. He came back with hot sticky buns. "I work Friday, Saturday, Sunday. You visit me Sunday nights." We agreed. We finally got our invitation. It wasn't the Boom Boom Room, but it was something much sweeter. We bid him farewell, and held onto each other as we stepped out into the black night. The streets had emptied, the winds had softened, and there was a noisy silence that followed us to McMahon Hall.
Our room was littered with clothes and shoes, as we had been unsure how to dress to impress the celebrities at the lounge, and started off the night by violently ravaging our closets in search for something we knew we didn't own. Exhausted and crashing from a sugar high, we collapsed onto our beds, amid short dresses and sparkly vests and cheap make up, and immediately fell asleep, as the celebration officially came to a close.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
we're just numbers
I may soon be deported. Well, maybe not soon, because I am not yet done with my senior thesis, but definitely by midterms next semester. Hopefully, the State Department will ship me off via Jet Airways, because they have a wide range of movies and complimentary drinks.
Since I have rarely been carded after turning 21 (though still retain the face of a pre-teen), I have not been constantly looking at my license. It expired the last day of 2009, and I did not notice till the beginning of this week. Scared of local government agencies, I asked my mother to come with me to the DMV in Oakland, and we headed over there before she went to work. Everyone in Oakland was friendly. They smiled as they called me over. They smiled as they took my documents. And they smiled as they rejected me.
Apparently the name on my passport ("Rucha Desai") differs from the name on my expired license ("Rucha A. Desai"); my Social Security card wasn't much help, because it not only read "Rucha Abhay Desai," but also declared me as an immigrant, not valid for employment. They needed all the documents to read the same thing. And they wouldn't base a name change off of a passport; they wanted my naturalization papers.
My old passport claims my name to be "Rucha Abhay Desai." I figured that 3 years ago, when I was applying for my new passport, which excludes my middle name, I was in that phase of trying to find myself, define myself, discover myself, or some other psycho-therapeutic process described in an old volume of O. I guess I wasn't sure with what name I identified myself, and needed to explore the depths of my soul on a government document.
The U.S. government is not so sympathetic to soul-searching. I went back the second day, without my naturalization papers, but with my old passport, in hopes that they would see reason, or at least understand the mid-teen crisis that led to my name change. They rejected me once again, this time without smiles. It was my naturalization papers or nothing.
Funny thing is, it is nothing. My sister was born in the United States. My parents have naturalization certificates. I still have my green card, and a Social Security card that portrays me as an illegal immigrant.
Apparently, when my parents applied for naturalization, I was too young to "elect" citizenship, (yet old enough to rediscover myself) and so they presented various other documents to prove their relation to me in order to get me naturalized. Thus, I don't have these papers. I'm just piggy backing off of their citizenship.
When I was waiting to update my Social Security card, at the Social Security Office in Glen Rock, I found myself among old women, Italian American mobsters, and families. Everyone had a number. No one had a name. The woman talking to her daughter in Russian was a only a few digits different from the man talking to his friend about the Yankees game. The security guard flipping through the Sears catalogue was as anonymous to the U.S. Government as I was. My endeavors to re-identify myself, re-discover myself, surrendered to 8 powerful digits arbitrarily assigned to me years ago. I wasn't human. I was 123-45-678, and even that was compromised by a discrepancy between names.
In order to finish some paperwork and life-altering chores at the DMV, I will not return to Fordham till Tuesday night. The only problem is, I seem to have misplaced my student ID.
Since I have rarely been carded after turning 21 (though still retain the face of a pre-teen), I have not been constantly looking at my license. It expired the last day of 2009, and I did not notice till the beginning of this week. Scared of local government agencies, I asked my mother to come with me to the DMV in Oakland, and we headed over there before she went to work. Everyone in Oakland was friendly. They smiled as they called me over. They smiled as they took my documents. And they smiled as they rejected me.
Apparently the name on my passport ("Rucha Desai") differs from the name on my expired license ("Rucha A. Desai"); my Social Security card wasn't much help, because it not only read "Rucha Abhay Desai," but also declared me as an immigrant, not valid for employment. They needed all the documents to read the same thing. And they wouldn't base a name change off of a passport; they wanted my naturalization papers.
My old passport claims my name to be "Rucha Abhay Desai." I figured that 3 years ago, when I was applying for my new passport, which excludes my middle name, I was in that phase of trying to find myself, define myself, discover myself, or some other psycho-therapeutic process described in an old volume of O. I guess I wasn't sure with what name I identified myself, and needed to explore the depths of my soul on a government document.
The U.S. government is not so sympathetic to soul-searching. I went back the second day, without my naturalization papers, but with my old passport, in hopes that they would see reason, or at least understand the mid-teen crisis that led to my name change. They rejected me once again, this time without smiles. It was my naturalization papers or nothing.
Funny thing is, it is nothing. My sister was born in the United States. My parents have naturalization certificates. I still have my green card, and a Social Security card that portrays me as an illegal immigrant.
Apparently, when my parents applied for naturalization, I was too young to "elect" citizenship, (yet old enough to rediscover myself) and so they presented various other documents to prove their relation to me in order to get me naturalized. Thus, I don't have these papers. I'm just piggy backing off of their citizenship.
When I was waiting to update my Social Security card, at the Social Security Office in Glen Rock, I found myself among old women, Italian American mobsters, and families. Everyone had a number. No one had a name. The woman talking to her daughter in Russian was a only a few digits different from the man talking to his friend about the Yankees game. The security guard flipping through the Sears catalogue was as anonymous to the U.S. Government as I was. My endeavors to re-identify myself, re-discover myself, surrendered to 8 powerful digits arbitrarily assigned to me years ago. I wasn't human. I was 123-45-678, and even that was compromised by a discrepancy between names.
In order to finish some paperwork and life-altering chores at the DMV, I will not return to Fordham till Tuesday night. The only problem is, I seem to have misplaced my student ID.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)