Hiding From “Arranged” Outcomes…

I thought that my sister’s engagement party had gone well enough (no sexual harrassment, plenty of samosas had), but little did I know that I was being tracked, in a “meat market” kind of way. 

In the latest pursuit, there was an eligible male at the party.  I guess I caught his eye, so his sister told his aunt, who told a matchmaking granny, who told my mom’s friend, who told the newspaper boy (we got off track for a sec), who told a six-year-old, who told my mom.

Or something like that.

It was almost like a game of broken telephone, when you consider all the various filters.  And by the time the “man tip” (huh?) finally reached my mom, she was setting me up with a goat-boy who lives up the hill and sells insurance.  Or maybe it was a 30-year-old network engineer, who’s six feet tall and very well-mannered.

So I guess this means I should marry him (???).  No of course not silly, Indians aren’t that crazy! I should only meet him over tea with the families present.  Then we’ll be allowed to date for an hour.  Seven to ten days later, a proposal will come via telephone.

(I’m already squealing with excitement…can you hear me from my cage?)

So when is the date for this loaded cup of tea?

Well, I’m not sure, because I’m currently unavailable.  You see I’ll be “engaged” in some weekend volunteering (best excuse…ever).  At the time I was only doing it to improve my image, but now it has a purpose!

Volunteering or not, I must avoid families and tea at all costs.  Especially when my mind is so consumed with “the guy”.

Oh yes, “the guy”…where did I land on that again?  Well I’m not sure, but something tells me it’s time for some Seduction-101 (…does anyone have a manual I can borrow?)

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…)

Am I Not “Woman” Enough?

I was dragged to Sears the other day.

It was all at my mother’s insistence: “Just a quick stop to pick up a shirt for your brother”, she said.

Fine.

Once the pre-packaged “Sears Brand” dress shirt was firmly in her grasp, I noticed her inching her way towards the escalator.

“Uh, mom?  The exit is on the ground level”.

“I know, I just have to look at a kettle they have on sale”.

Oh…holy…hell.

Ask me to paint you a picture of hell, and you won’t see any fiery pits or a muscular red-skinned Devil; instead I’ll draw you a grid of the “Housewares” section.

The small appliances…the miles of cutlery…the (gulp) dishes; these are my triggers for self-mutilation.

According to the chicks on television though (which are the obvious benchmarks for realism), buying crap for your house is supposed to be fun.  Not only is it supposed to be fun, but it’s supposed to be addictive.  Whether it’s the crazed, twitchy-eyed woman stocking up at the “Sale of the Year” (Advertising), or the chicks on the sitcoms swapping their wedding gifts (and purchasing ten more items along the way), women love their house-related products.

But why don’t I love them too?  It’s yet another reason why I strongly suspect that I’m twenty-percent “man” (I’ll reveal the rest of the clues another time).  My gender confusion is an awkward topic, and it’s making me a little bit worried.  It’s just that…when I find a man and I finally lock him in…what if I’m expected to buy all this crap?  I don’t want to seem like a “can’t do” wife right away (I’ll save that for later), but I honestly don’t have a knack for this garbage.  In fact, I hesitate to say that I refuse.  No wait, correction: I can probably handle the purchase of bed sheets (as I need to know which ones I’d like to roll around in), but that is the rare exception. 

So what’s the damage? Am I suddenly “unmarriageable” now?  And before you answer, let it be known that I was raised to clean the house from age nine (thank you very much).  But spending hours and hours in the Housewares section, while I melt from the heat and my sweater scratches my skin and I can’t decide on a casserole dish so I shove the nearest fork in my eye?

Too much.  In fact, just leave me to buy the comfy pillows, awesome couch, cuddly “blankie”…and top-notch home entertainment center.

Sooo…who’s the man that’ll take care of  all the household goods?…I need you please.

Man-Search Progress: My Accomplishments

There’s a time to be a pessimist (like last time), but there’s also a time to massage your own shoulders as a personal reward (please don’t tell me you’ve never massaged your own shoulders before; I do it one at a time with eyes closed, it’s very relaxing).

The topic of course is my search for a man, and all that I’ve done to better myself since January 2008.  I’m fully aware that my soul-mate is currently lost at sea, but soon he’ll find his way to my warm and comforting Indo-Canadian shores.

In the meantime, I carry on with my self-administered massage, and reminisce fondly on some measurable triumphs…

…I used to wear a lot of mascara.  Correction: I used to apply three kinds of mascara each morning.  One as the “primer”, one as the “curler”, and a final one for the “volume effect”.  One day I had an epiphany: three tubes of mascara (at once) is a hurt to the environment.  With this new and conservative attitude, I reduced my application to a single tube (with a double-wand of course).  We all have to grow up eventually, you know?

…I used to eat too much cake (a well-documented problem of mine).  Some nights I used to think that cake was a substitute for love, but then it occured to me: if I can’t even shove this cake up my “fun box”, where is the pleasure?  Where is the satisfying post-copulation sleep? (it’s more like waking up at 3am and realizing your “poo schedule” is suddenly out of whack). I still eat cake from time to time, but now that I realize it’s not the same as a boyfriend’s junk, my diet is a lot more balanced.

…I used to have a problem with getting too close to “taken men”.  I wasn’t an adulteress by any means, but anytime I’d see a hunky man in the street, I’d sidle up beside him and “accidentally” hold his hand (I learned that trick in 2005, when a guy used that move on me in a New York City night club).  It would only last a moment, but it often led to trouble (like when the girlfriend was standing right next to him).  Now that I’ve learned that there’s someone for everyone (right?, right?), I no longer need to grab strange men in the street (these days a simple “hand graze” across a cute man’s bottom is enough…)…

…So there it is.  You’ve heard my accomplishments loud and clear, so go right ahead and pat me on the back (remember: it’s the one and only time I’ll let you touch me on my blog, so I strongly encourage you to savour it).

In the end, can we ever really know when the thing called ”love” will punch us in the gut?  Probably not, but personal growth brings us one step closer to the goal. 

“Love yourself, and love will follow”. 

I’m pretty sure Oprah said that once (or something similar, followed by an Oprah “scream”), so how can I go wrong?

Bring it Cupid; bring it, bring it, bring it.

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…