Banquet-Hall Meat Markets (Conclusion)

Where did I leave off in the Indian Engagement party?

Oh yeah…the grannies were lamenting the fact that I’m not as young as a fetus…

…Shortly thereafter, I ran into some fellas.

I had just left the women’s bathroom, after trying unsuccessfuly to free my hoo-haa from the sari…where was the opening?  Maybe my mom had snuck some shackles onto mine, as a preventative “whore” measure.  Needless to say, peeing was not an option, so after one quick trickle down my thigh (oops), I held it in and tried to focus on the party.

I couldn’t really eat anymore (due to the risk of “pee explosion”), so I started to walk around the hall, admiring the ceiling architecture (yes, I’m that lame).  In doing so I didn’t realize where I was going, and the next thing I knew I was standing at the back of the hall, right near the kitchen entrance.

That’s when two of the staff rushed out.  They were a couple of fair-haired gents, with Eastern European accents.

As they came back around with a stack of plates, I smiled at them both…seperately.  That’s right, I was playing off of their masculine jealousy.  It was working, because the next time around the first blond said “hi” and the second one said “Cool party huh?”…

…It was exhilarating.

This is probably not what the grannies envisioned, but there I was, spending two hours at the back of the hall, befriending a couple of sexy dish-boys.  It was a pretty bold thing to do, as I knew there was a chance of being beaten with curried drumsticks (those grannies can be violent).

But I didn’t care…I laughed, I arched my back (for boob 3-D imaging purposes), and I had myself a hell of a time…

…As the night stretched, on, I could feel that I was moments away from the ultimate question:

“Can we give you a kiss?”

Just as I prepared myself to scream out “Yes!”, I could feel my mother approaching (I have a 6th sense for that).

Indeed she was, and by the time she got within hearing distance, I began to ask the boys about dessert.  Because it involved food (and my interest in it), my mom believed it all.

So no kiss, no dessert…just another day as a double-agent.

(but I am sooo gonna crash the next hot event at the banquet hall…)

Banquet Hall “Meat Markets”

Though the end of ”Indian Wedding Season” brings an audible sigh of relief, it is much too closely followed by ”Indian Engagement Season”.

I went to my first of these engagement parties last night…

[If you haven't been to an Indian Engagement, picture a banquet hall, a large buffet, loads of Indian grannies, etc.]

…As we rushed to get ready, my mom piped in with the ”sari” suggestion.  That’s a sexy concept, but what you really get is jewel-encrusted fabric that highlights all your “problem rolls”.  Rolls aside, mother insists on pimping me out at these functions.  And so I complied, with every bit of nervousness that you’d expect from a ”peek-a-boo” outfit.

Once we arrived and surveyed the hall, I was hit with a rush of calm:

-Of the unmarried chicks, eighty percent of them were younger/skinnier/prettier than me (this meant that I could fade into the background and eat six plates of food).  The other twenty percent were blocking off the samosa station, trying their best to avoid the light (’cause that’s what you do when your mom won’t let you wax your upper lip…I know because I’ve been there…ahem, that’s enough hairy nostalgia for one day).

I grabbed a plate of food with some Vodka and Seven (“I mean just 7up mom”), and took an empty seat at our table.

This table of ours was filled with familiar grannies.  These were the cuties I’d nestled with in childhood, the ones who would always pump me full of Indian sweets.

Today they didn’t look so nice.

They asked my mom if I’d met a decent boy yet (uhh…no).  That of course was the intro to their “it’s a tough world” speech.  The speech relates to age, and as the grannies themselves said, I no longer seemed like a “fresh Punjabi girl”, but instead like a “lady” who hadn’t been picked yet.

Wow…no one’s ever called me ”unfresh” before (that means “old” right?).  In fact I’ve always done well with avoiding the sun, but at twenty-seven, there’s going to be a laugh line or two.  So forgive me if I don’t still smell of “womb”; maybe next time I’ll splash myself with amniotic fluid…

…I thought the highlight of the night would be the self-esteem smackdown from the grannies, but alas, I even met a fella or two…

(I’ll save that for my next installment)

RED ALERT On The Husband Search…

I’m just a single girl in a messy world, looking for a little bit of lovin’. 

That’s a big enough challenge, but my spicy (Indian) roots call for a little more work.  This falls in the realm of fending off my parents, who live and breathe the arranged-marriage dream.

There are ups and downs of course (see here), but at the moment I’m free and frisky.  What impedes my freedom are those ugly parental triggers, those syrupy tales of “arranged marriage” bliss.  These are the stories that screw me over, and goodness gracious, I just uncovered a fresh one…

…It started as a couple of brownish girls, living in a “westernized world” (i.e. one foot in the curry, another one in the vodka).  We were the Sisterhood of Travelling Saris, and together we would find our men, just like the white chicks do!

A strong allegiance no doubt, but as in most female friendships, we (she) flipped on the bitch-switch and it was over.  I hadn’t thought of her in years. 

And then, in true (awkward) Facebook form, she added me as a “friend”.

That’s when the truth came out: she’s married to a brown dude who looks like her horny uncle…and she has a baby.

Uhhhh…

Now it’s not that I don’t feel happy for her…no wait, I don’t.  I don’t feel happy for her because she’s screwing me over.  It’s that wondrous “Indian Ending” she scored…she’s making me look bad.  For this reason alone, she is dead to me.  So are you listening?  I want nothing to do with your drooly kid or your thick-haired mocha husband.

So she’s out, but there is always the chance that my parents will see the pics (they used to be friends with her parents, and they know how to use the Internet…a deadly combo).  All I know is that if mother sees the pics, the “baby” conversation will drive me insane.  I mean really, how many times can your mom say your eggs are old?  Do I need a certificate that states they haven’t fossilized?  *sigh*…And did I mention I’m 27?  It’s true, but much like canine years, Indian age increases exponentially (right now I am 63).

So what I need is a new Indian friend.  Someone I can compare myself against.  Maybe a Punjabi crack-whore-chick…is there a number I can call to rent one? (men, I am looking in your direction)…