The End of the “Year of the Chick”

Today we end the chapter called the “Year of the Chick”.

So did the year turn out as I had hoped?

Well, let’s see…

…I gave myself a year to find man.  Once I had him hooked, I would vault my way past arranged-marriage pressure…right?

Not exactly.

What I’ve realized now is that finding a man is only the beginning, and even though I’ve come that far, I don’t exactly see a prince.  What I do see before me is a screen full of bits, bytes, jpegs and smileys. 

Mix it all up, and you have yourself a ”cyber dream man”.  Maybe it wasn’t what Disney had in mind, but holy hell I have fallen fast.

As for the tricky matter of the parents, I won’t mince words: I’m screwed.  I guess I saw it coming, ’cause even when you find a man, you can’t tell your folks until he’s ready to buy you for a dozen cows.  I’m not really sure if my Internet man has a dozen cows, nor am I sure if he’ll offer them up for a lifetime of Romi “ass”.  If that’s not expensive enough, he’ll have to pay a surcharge of a dozen goats (penalty for being a white guy).  Meanwhile the “parental-approved” bachelors keep piling up…

…So there’s a lot that hangs in the air, and it always will…until I meet the cyber guy for real (or until I’m drugged and wed to someone else).

And when we do eventually meet, I wonder what he’ll think.  I wonder if he’ll run at the very first sign of my bedtime drool (sorry, it’s a problem).  Or perhaps he’ll find it odd that I sound like a valley-girl (moreso than I do on the phone), even though I’m wayyyy super-smart.

All these things, all this excitement…all these reasons to projectile vomit.

If there’s one thing I finally know, it’s that the image in my head of  a knight in shining armour (like the one who rescues damsels on his big white horse),  is at last officially shattered…

…and I couldn’t be happier.

On a final note, 2009 will NOT be the “Year of Cyber-Love”, or anything similar to that.  I know I’d have a lot to tell, but I really need to woo him in private now (surely you understand). 

As for my blogging ways, I’ll be back in a couple of weeks, but with something a little different. 

Until then, this tired chick needs a little “R & R” (but please end the year with a bang on my behalf (and yes that pun was intended)).

PS:  To everyone who’s joined me on this horny, idealized, pathetic, and amusing ride…thanks.  Thanks for your advice, your opinions, your laughs, and even for your quiet reading.  Wow…now I’ve just puked on my laptop from being so cheesy (does anyone have a cloth and some disinfectant?…)

Indian Engagement: Post-Game Report

My sister’s official engagement weekend is over, and though I’m relieved, I’ll say that I’m a little bit sickened.  I’m not particularly sickened by anything that took place (i.e. there wasn’t any sexual harrassment as I’d feared), but the amount of oil and sugar and carbs and chicken I consumed over the weekend, well it all adds up to an irritated poop-chute (after all this time of writing a blog, that is not an uncomfortable admission).

So I’ve never been part of any sibling ”wedding stuff” before, which means that all throughout I found myself feeling important.  When people weren’t observing the star of the show, they were watching my every move.  Add that to my successful attempt at curling my hair with a “straightening” appliance (big win for a girl who has a rat’s nest for “bed head”), and let’s just say that I was swimming in attention.

If there’s a downside to this (and there is), it’s that Indian people can’t be trusted with the offering of attention.  Their attention towards unmarried (and old) Indian girls is suspicious to say the least; it’s peppered with scheming, dipped in a matchmaker’s sauce, and topped with obsessive garnish.

In yesterday’s events, I was constantly squirming away from the (surprisingly) sturdy grips of wrinkled grannies.  But to no avail.  At one point a granny demanded that my sister pat my head three times like I was a dog.  So she did.  Which means that now I’ll be married a lot quicker, according to the granny. 

I also discovered that the groom’s side of the family consists of a lot of males…unmarried males.  My parents haven’t made the connection yet (they’re still sighing from their “OH MY GOD our daughter is engaged!” orgasm), but my aunts and uncles haven’t missed a beat.  Of course when I say “aunts” and “uncles”, I mean any adult friend of my parents (that’s right, In “Indian” world, no effort is required to earn those titles).  That’s a whole lot of people wondering if I should marry some random brown dude just ’cause he’s single. 

In response to their suggestive opinions, I simply stuffed my face with samosas, though knowing all along that emotional eating won’t fix my life (which is why I threw it up later…Haha, only kidding children.  Don’t eat and purge).  I suppose I could have talked to the dudes, but in standing within earshot of their thoughts on politics, luxury cars and being corporate snobs, I felt that the samosas were more deserving of my thighs (which is where they comfortably rest now).

So what does all this mean?  Well I got dressed up, ate a lot of food, and am now the starring subject of several “Arrange-A-Life” outreach efforts.

Maybe I should’ve gone with the “try to look as ugly as possible” approach (nah…I like staring in the mirror a little too much).

For now I will simply cross my fingers, and hope that I find someone cool on my own.

Year of the Chick: one month left…

PS: Strange that I didn’t mention my sister, since it was in fact her engagement, but we all know who this blog is really about.  I’ll still throw her a bone, as in…she looked really pretty and happy, okay? (*sigh*). 

PPS: I believe I promised a picture.  So here is what I wore, and here is how it looks to curl one’s hair with a straightener.

Indian Party Time, Comin’ Right Up!

So here I am, three sleeps away from the event of the century.  Well actually the “official” event of the century will be my sister’s July wedding, but the first-runner up is Saturday’s engagement party.

Judging by the bustle in the house, the relatives who’ll fly in (and stay with us all weekend…and dirty up the bathrooms…sigh), you would think it was the engagement of a Bollywood Princess.  Well a Bollywood Princess my sister is not, but because she is forever the “first daughter”, the entire world is already up in arms for the occasion (which may I remind you, is a party hosted in our humble home).

As sister of the future bride, I’m not exactly feeling the grandeur of it all.  Instead I’m busy grappling with a personal issue…like the one that relates to my fancy Indian dress…

…I decided on the green and gold Indian dress last month.  It came from a pile of dresses that my mother had brought from India during a visit.

So when picking it out a month ago, so dazzled I was by the golden flecks, that I neglected to actually try the thing on.  I know that sounds a little Grade-A stupid, but the dress had been tailored to fit my measurements. 

So why is the thing so friggin’ tight (and in all the wrong places)?

And speaking of measurements, they were taken from a “previous me”, who was ten pounds heavier at the time.

So again; why is it so friggin’ tight?!?!?!

I suppose it’s the bias of the Indian tailors.  Like I’ve been to India twice, and most of the girls have those spindly figures characterized by “light village eating”.  The tailor must have thought that my numbers were a joke, and thusly corrected them to Indian-Barbie size.

Which is why I’ll be turning to the laxatives now (how much can you “expel” in two short days?  Come on colon, don’t let me down…).

As I await the inevitable laxative response, let me end with a final thought:

-Part of me wants to look ugly for the occasion, and part of me does not.  If I jack up the “ugly vibe”, no weird uncles or second cousins will leer…but what will become of my ego?  If I look all hot on the other hand, my ego will feel like a kid at a candy store, but can I stand the potential harrassment?

I liken this conundrum to a child being told: “You can have all the candy you want, just go on over to the man in the windowless van”

So where’s the van?…

PS: If I make it out alive from this weekend, I will share some tales in true explotative form (but the jury’s still out on whether I’ll share a picture…)

Man-Search Progress…

There’s no sense in having a year-long goal if you aren’t even going to track its progress.

“Year of the Chick” is in no way exempt from the rule, so I ask myself: how’s it looking, with only eight weeks left to go?

Well “Plenty of Fish” is a dud, I haven’t found a date at the grocery store, and it’s difficult to show any cleavage when you’re wearing a winter coat (yup, it’s chilly in the city).  And then there’s my sister’s engagement party.  We’re three weeks away from the main event, and my Indian garb is already good to go.  It’s dark emerald green, with plenty of gold embroidery (“If there’s not any gold embroidery, it might as well be a “Canadian dress”", says mother in a snippy tone).  I’m fine with the blinding gold, and I even have a shot at looking better than my sister (oh please, do you really think I care if it’s “her” day over mine? ).

There’s always a down-side though, and here it comes in the form of a digital camera.  That is…my parents will be taking lots of glamour shots before the party.  It’s all so they can find “the one”…you know, “the one” that should be my profile shot for the dreaded arranged marriage website (my account goes live in January).  If you think I should be keeping it casual, let me just say that a t-shirt and jeans for your picture is bad.  It makes you seem too “Westernized” and independent, and the last thing you want is to drive away the ”cash cows” (i.e. Indian engineers, brain surgeons and the like)…

…I’ve actually been thinking about my arranged marriage profile.  If I let my parents have at it, the page will be filled with all things “I love taking care of in-laws when I’m not busy heating my uterus for optimal reproduction”.  But then again if I put in an honest fact like “writing”, it will likely transform into “cooking tandoori chicken” the second I hit “save”.

So what’s a girl to do?

Well all this assumes that I’ll fail in my quest to find “Mr. Right”.

If we go by this post alone, then yes, maybe I will fail, but what about the good stuff?

Well that’s the part I’m excited about; it’s the sum of all parts that captures the last ten months…you’ll be so proud!

But I think I’ll save “the good” for next time, ’cause goodness is always worth some extra spotlight.

So until then, love and be loved…