SUPER-Embarrassing Moment #3: Only Fools Rush In…

I preface this entry with all things ”LOVE“.

As I write this, I’m listening to my future wedding song, i.e. “Can’t Help Falling In Love” (and of course it’s the Elvis Presley version! (seriously I love this song)…Swoon…don’t worry, I’m inviting you all to “Romi’s Big Day” ).

As you read this post, I encourage you to listen to Elvis, so here ya go:

 

Alright then, let’s get started…

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Love.

It might just be the most two-faced emotion in the world.  It can bring you your greatest joy, as well as your toughest pain…in the end, love is a nasty bitch.

And how does this treachourous dance even start?  It doesn’t take a lot (or so I’ve learned), and most often, it begins with a little crush…

***

…When I was 12, I experienced my very first crush. He was a dreamy All-American fella, with a hint of Jimmy-Dean-ish rebellion.

I’d known him for 3 long years, a time that had been peppered with verbal and physical assault (of the mutual variety).

It was childhood animosity at its finest .

I had never really thought of him in any great detail (except in relation to punching), but he was starting to grow and blossom.

In his current state, he had recently grown 4 inches (and of course I mean “G-rated” height vs. “X-rated” length, you sick sick bastards…) .  His jaw-line was coming in nicely, slowly assuming a rigid and angular form (my favourite ). His hands had also grown, changing from the grubby little child-hands that grossed me out, to those rugged “look at me I’m in a band and play guitar” type-hands.

Needless to say, he was nothing short of “delicious man-boy”…this was all very new and exciting.

Now when I first truly noticed I’d fallen for the boy, it kinda went like this:

-The class was in line at the teacher’s desk, so she could grade all our quizzes one-by-one. He was standing directly in front of me, in a big blue sweatshirt with a “Wolverines” logo on the front (I guess the “Michigan Wolverines” are a football team, but fuck it, I hated football then and I still friggin’ do…).

-As I stood behind him in line, I started to take him in, inch-by-lovely-inch. From his dirty blond mane of-”you should’ve shampooed that yesterday“-hair, right down to the 5 or 6 freckles on his nose; he was beautiful. He was also wearing some musky drug-store cologne, and I won’t even pretend I wasn’t loving it . As I leaned in closer (to take a deeper sniff of his “essence”), the back of my hand brushed his sleeve, and THAT’S what really killed it:

-THAT was the very first time, I became all…“weak in the vagina”.

Magical.

Now even though I was obviously smitten, there was ONE glaring problem in this “we’re gonna fall in love and get married” plan:

-He had a girlfriend.

Yes, he was courting some All-American girl, who had grown all her boobs by age 9 (wtf?), and was now running around with GI-NORMOUS ”floaties” (had she lived in 1912, I know she could’ve saved the Titanic, I just KNOW IT!).  She also wore make-up, which I would NOT be getting into for another 6 years (mom’s defense: eye-shadow=whore). 

So basically I was fucked (not in a good way), which meant I had to sit back, and slowly bide my time.

I decided to keep a low profile, and maybe do some blossoming of my own in the meantime…

Fast-forward 2 years later, and suddenly I was in high school (I know, TWO years later, boy do I work fast (shut up)) .

Anyhoo, with two years of development under my belt, I had changed in the following ways:

………

???

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Not to be a tease, but this story’s pretty long, so I’ll post the conclusion later on in the week.

And that leaves us with the following questions:

-What happens to our lovesick fool? 

-What sort of crushing embarrassment befalls her?  Is it the overt, more physical kind? Or the subtle, more emotional kind that eats away at her, until many years later she jumps off a ledge?  (Feel free to mull it over … )

My Arranged Marriage: Progress Report

As you may recall, I recently decided to get married (in that classy “arranged” kinda way). 

I was hoping to be engaged by December 1st, sooo…wtf?

Well I got a bunch of hits on my profile, so it wasn’t that.

 Oh, and in case you were wondering…

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Profile for SpicyCakes41:

Height: tall (but not so tall that it’s emasculating)

Weight: like a Bollywood actress

Face: like a Bollywood actress

Skills: laundry-with-a-smile, shoe-polishing, making tandoori chicken, mending husband’s shirts, speaking softly, etc.

Extras: warm and welcoming uterus; good for 5+ babies…

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So again, wtf?

Perhaps it was the strength of my physical/domestic assets…was it a little too much for the fellas???

I couldn’t figure it out, and I was almost inclined to shut-down PLAN: Arranged Marriage.

But then I found it:

-My saving grace

It came in the form of this story, where an Indian man got married to a grade-A bitch (of the canine variety). 

That’s right, decked out in an orange sari, this bitch’s dream came true (i.e. the dream of “human dong”).

Before it became official, the family reviewed the bitch, as is custom in Indian culture (Is she a virgin? Is she carrying fleas? Is she likely to stray? etc…).

Once she received the stamp of approval, the couple exchanged vows, surrounded by family and friends:

I KNOW, doesn’t that picture leave you speechless? 

“Arranged Marriage transcends species“, what a concept!

In other words, there IS hope for Romi yet! 

So forget human males, the population of animal dudes is probably 1000x greater!  And like hellllooo…talk about variety eh? I’ve got the ENTIRE Animal Kingdom to solicit now; lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

I should probably begin by spamming my personal profile; I’ll start with the “big ’n trendy” Zoos, ’cause I only want the top-notch “captives” (and between you and me, I sure wouldn’t mind a little ”elephant”…mmm…)

So wish me luck, and let’s say engagement by…January 1st, ’08?  

I’ll update you then with good news or bad news… 

Why Arranged Marriages ROCK—The Top Ten Quotes That Swayed Me

This post is blazing right out of me, and much like diarrhea, I ain’t gonna fight it.

My name is Romi, and I am of Indian descent (not the “casino” kind, but the “elephants/saris/cab-drivers” kind).

My parents were born in India, but I popped out of mother’s vagina HERE—in beautiful syrupy Canada.  This basically means a couple of things:

#1: My parents expect me to be a nice little Indian girl, like the ones from their native tribe

#2: I’ve spent my whole life being influenced by Western culture (sometimes for better, sometimes for worse)

The most important thing I can do in life, is marry some Indian dude, with super-wicked stats (lotsa money, good family, good genes, good values).  Once this is done, I can turn into an ethnic baby-making-machine, thus fulfilling my spicy destiny.

Since my parents don’t understand/believe in dating (as they associate it with sluts/white people (…sorry) ), my future will come in the form of an arranged marriage (like this one below).

 (look how happy they seem…is that how my future will be?)

Now since I’m already 26, the clock is ticking loudly (side-note: according to “brown years”, my ovulation days will be over by age 28).

All this pressure is making me very nervous.  If anything, I’ve always considered myself to be a passionate, free, and open-minded person; so why all these restrictions?

I just don’t get the “arranged marriage” concept, or at least…I didn’t get it. 

That’s right people, the winds have finally changed, and it’s all because of THIS.  It’s a touching anecdote, where an Indian woman tells me her story, and here it is in a nutshell: she grew up in India, she was “chosen” by some rich-ass Indian/American, she married him on the 3rd meeting, she banged him (awesome), she moved to Manhattan, and she lived happily ever after.

Wow.

If that’s not enough, she left me with a bunch of inspiring quotes. 

So here they are: The Top Ten quotes on why I should get ”arranged” (complete with my enthusiastic reactions ).

(once you’ve read them, tell me what you think: Should Romi get an arranged marriage?  Should you?)

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Why Arranged Marriages ROCK—The Top Ten Quotes That Swayed Me

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#10:  There was something about his demeanor, his soft, lilting voice, and the pleasing way he interacted with my family — frankly, we all fell for him.

I am ALL about my family falling for my dude.  That’s right, “familial orgies”; complete with high tea, soft whispers, and baby oil.  Yeahhhh…..

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#9:  One week later, his mother called my mother, and by the end of the phone call, we were engaged.

You mean…we can get our moms to propose for us? That is SUCH a weight off my shoulders; seriously, I am NOT very good at talking to dudes directly; thanks mom!

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#8:  Shouts and hugs were exchanged throughout the neighborhood — you’d have thought I’d won an Olympic gold medal.

I’ve always felt a void in my life, saying to myself: “I think I’m happy in my life, but am I making my neighbours happy too? What do they want?”  Well now I know how to make their dreams come true; Olympic medals all around!

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#7:  On my wedding night, a sense of calm finally washed over me, as I made my leap from bride to wife (armed with the Kama Sutra, which my cousins had downloaded onto my PDA as a gift).

I have always been nervous about having “relations”, but if marrying a dude of my parents’ choice means a downloaded copy of the “Kama Sutra”, I say “YES”!  A thousand times yes!

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#6:  I eyed his walk-in closet, courageously moving his suits into a smaller armoire. Judging from what remained, I had married an avid golfer, skier, and board-game player.

I like surprises, and nothing would surprise me more than finding out my husband’s hobbies AFTER we get married.  Five points for mystery!

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#5:  My husband bought me fashionable, sometimes sexy clothes, and we tested each others’ boundaries.

I have never worn sexy clothes before; I’m excited for my husband to buy me some.

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#4:  It was just like dating, only we were already married.

Why didn’t I realize this before?  It’s all the joys of dating, but you never have to go into “why won’t he call me?”-mode, ’cause you’ll already have him ”locked-in-for-life”.  Sucka!

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#3:  Slowly, I was getting to know my husband, even starting to fall in love with him.

WHAT!??!?! Does this chick mean to tell me I can “fall in LOVE” with my arranged marriage!?!?!?  Do you know what that means for a hopeless romantic like me???  WOW, arranged marriage = “You’ve Got Mail”…I am SOOO friggin’ excited

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#2:  Although my husband doesn’t always agree with his opinionated and selectively liberated wife, he openly expresses his love

I’ve only ever been interested in being “selectively” liberated (all of you already know this); so if I can be THAT, and still find a man who expresses his love, then colour me ecstatic!

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#1:  I discovered that having an arranged marriage was a great icebreaker, and my social circle mushroomed each time I retold my story.

Okay, THAT right THERE puts it over the top.  Honest to goodness, nothing means more to me than expanding my circle of friends, so if I can attract the masses by telling the world how I “married a stranger”, then sign-me-fucking-up!

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Alright then, if you’re reading this Mom and Dad, I’m ready; now get your asses to MarriageExpress.com, and find me a frickin’ prince!!

 

Thoughts On: Indian Weddings, Abercrombie, and Slutty Sports-Anchors

I’m recovering from a weekend of over-eating and digestive problems, so I’m just gonna sit here and spill out the thoughts in my head, with no real purpose or lessons (“spill out” was the first thing that came to mind (see “digestive problems” reference)).  This is probably my laziest and lowest-effort kind of blog post, so I may have to make it a regular thing (though the quality of my work will inevitably suffer (oh well, it’s not like you bastards are paying me to read this…and if you were…boy would you be a bunch of suckers!)).

Alright then, let the spillage begin (gross)…

1st ”Hmmm”…

SO…at the place where I work, we get free cake a lot.  It happens each month to celebrate birthdays on our floor, it happens when someone’s leaving, it happens when someone’s crying and needs to feel better, overall: plenty of opportunities for free cake. 

Now when it comes to me, I LOVE cake, so you think that I’d be thrilled with an office that’s one big “cake-orgy”.  In a normal world, I would be, but here’s the problem: these cake-events are always run by “Marketing people”.  Now the Marketing folk are FINE by me, and we work together daily.  Basically, we’re all best friends, so don’t expect any gossip. 

Technically though, I’m not in the Marketing department; I work for Advertising.  Officially speaking, Advertising is defined as an ”arm” of the “Marketing Octopus”.  I find that to be an insulting analogy: why the hell am I only a stupid arm?  If being “an arm” is all I’m valued for, then why don’t I chop off everything except my left arm, and come back to work as “Romi The Arm“?? Would they like me better that way? And if they’re gonna compare my job to an animal’s body part, why can’t I be an elephant’s trunk? Or a bull’s GIANT testicle? (do bulls have giant testicles? I hope so, or I don’t wanna be one…).  Either of those options would be way more kick-ass than ONE out of EIGHT swirly arms….

Stupid octopi. 

So back to my problem: any cake-events we have are run by the Marketing people, and though we’re welcome to “help ourselves” to the leftovers in the kitchen, we’re never actually notified of the initial “cake-celebration”.  And what does this mean? It means that EVERY time the Marketing people are cutting the cake in a boardroom (and rubbing it all over themselves in a sexy fashion), I’m toiling away at my ant-infested cubicle, with NO idea that a cake-fest is happening! (and yeah, my cubicle has ants, ’cause I always eat crackers and chips and granola bars and shit at my desk…and I get crumbs all over my cubicle…and I don’t clean it up…and our low-paid cleaning staff is highly ineffective…all of THAT = ants).

I wouldn’t even care about getting stuck with leftovers, if there were ever any left to begin with!!!  But NO, all I ever see is a cardboard sheet where the cake used to sit, and a few lonely morsels of devil’s food chocolate. 

My most recent “cake-letdown” occurred last week.  This time, all that was left was the lining of yellow frosting, that bordered what was once a glorious vanilla masterpiece.  

Sigh…

So I stood there and stared at the frosting, for probably a whole two minutes.

I wanted it. 

Since no one was in the kitchen, I decided to scrape all the frosting with my fingers, as a nice “3 o’ clock pick-me up”.  With that first scraping motion though, I noticed that the frosting was crusty; it must’ve been sitting out for a while.  I stopped scraping, ’cause that’s where I draw the line.

I ate 6-packets of Splenda instead. 

Anyway, I hate “office cake-days”…

2nd ”Hmmm”…

SO…last week, I was riding the subway with some work friends.  As we arrived at the busy “shopping mall” stop, in walked a super-nerdy dude, with a large-sized bag from Abercrombie and Fitch.  Of course, the bag wasn’t the biggest hint of where he’d been; the most obvious sign? He reeked of “young-man cologne”.  This tends to happen when you stand in an Abercrombie and Fitch store  a.k.a. “cologne capsule” for more than two minutes. 

My friends and I began staring at the nerdy-Abercrombie dude in a very inquistive fashion; what the hell had he been doing at Abercrombie? 

I think there’s a common understanding that only a certain kind of clientele is welcome at Abercrombie and Fitch.  One of my co-workers put it best: He told us that he’d been at Abercrombie a few weeks back.  All he had wanted was a new pair of jeans, but since he wasn’t all “super-young” and “sultry”, the staff wasn’t really “feelin’ him”.  He asked if he could try on some jeans, but the workers simply stared at him and said “it doesn’t fit”. He tried to persist, but the cologne kept making him dizzy.  Eventually, one of the Abercrombie workers managed to kick him out, with the strength of his flip-flop-clad right foot (by the way, WHY do Abercrombie workers wear flip-flops? Seriously, I’m trying to buy clothes, I don’t wanna see your fucking toes).

As my co-worker friend tried to pick himself up (and shake off the dizzying “cologne haze”), he could hear an angry voice in the distance; he doesn’t remember the exact words, but it sounded like ”go back to Sears asshole!”

As for “super-nerdy dude”, I’m not sure how he managed to shop at Abercrombie; maybe he’s a hot-shot producer, and he offered every worker a guest-spot on “The Hills”?

I hate Abercrombie and Fitch…

3rd ”Hmmm”…

SO…have you ever noticed that female sports anchors on SportsCenter (or SportsLine, or SportsNet, or whatever the hell) are all hot and slutty these days?  I’m not sure if it’s a Canadian sports-thing, or a worldwide epidemic.  In any case, whenever I see some broad on a sports show, she’s always wearing a tie-up sweater or a low-cut “discotheque” shirt, whilst flipping her highlighted hair, and batting her glued-on eyelashes, as she tells me the latest on the MLB wild card race.

I’m not gonna lie, this kinda pisses me off. 

Back when I was 12-15 (and sorta figuring out if I wanted to be a boy or a girl), I would live for the nightly sports shows, so I could get all the latest on my beloved (but crappy) Leafs.  Every night, I’d find comfort in the TV-arms of my female-sportscasters.  I don’t mean that in a gay kind of sense, but the way they would sit there, in their frilly blouses (buttoned-up to the neck)…and large boxy blazers…with a minimal amount of eyeshadow…and a hint of nude lip gloss…it was like they were my “sports moms”, teaching me everything I needed to know!

And now, many years later, it’s like my “sports-moms” all got fired, forcing them to work in small-town strip joints, where “old lady night” is the hottest ticket (it’s either that or “tranny-nite”, you decide).

The worst part is, my “sports moms” got replaced with the “bitches and ‘ho’s showcase”,  night-in and night-out!

I only really noticed this a short while back, when I was out for a meal with some co-worker friends…There we sat at the restaurant, with a TV screen in the background, cued to some Canadian sports channel.  At one point they cut from the 24-hour Curling, so they could show us some friggin’ MLB highlights.  That’s when a sports-slut came on screen.  The second she appeared, the 5 dudes at my table started elbowing each other; they had lost their ability to say actual words, so instead they just grunted softly, with a horny glaze in their eye.  It was absolutely disgusting.

Once it was over, the dudes starting talking all at once, describing their favorite aspects of sports-slut; they even knew her by first and last name.  When I inquired further, I realized that my co-worker dudes know ALL the sports-sluts by first and last name, they even know which athletes the sports-sluts have slept with (I guess that’s what Canadian sports-sluts do).  One of the dudes let me in on a term that’s attached to sports-sluts, or any type of slut for that matter: a “town-bike” they’ll call her, ’cause almost everyone in town’s had a ride…hahaha.  As much as I don’t condone “sports-slut love”, I kinda like that term.  I have to say though, it’s a little too small-time for my life-goals.  Like if I was described that way, I’d wanna be a legend: “Hey look, there goes the city bus!”….yeah, that’d be cool.

But wait, I’m getting off track…

So yeah, the thing I hate most about sports-sluts, is that they’re moving in on other people’s territory, by trying to be more than just HOT.  Like why can’t a hot girl just be hot? Why does she have to know about sports TOO, and put all the sports-moms out of business?

I have a similar dis-taste for funny hot girls.  Anytime I hear about a new funny hot girl (whether a celebrity or a regular one), I feel like I’m gonna throw up. 

I’m not saying I’m a comedienne or anything, but humor’s all I got.  I mean seriously, do you think it’s easy having a hunchback, a lazy eye, and man-hands?  Humor is my LAST attempt to trick dudes into boinking me.  And BELIEVE ME, it ain’t easy, ’cause the only dudes who are willing to like you for your personality, are either blind, or in jail. 

And then these funny hot girls come along, and I’m like wtf?  It’s like those giant discount book stores, killing the charming book shoppes (watch “You’ve Got Mail”). 

So yeah, sports-sluts and funny hot girls; I hate them…

I’d like to keep on writing, ’cause I’m starting to get riled up.  Unfortunately, my over-eating ways are catching up with me, so I won’t last for too much longer. 

4th ”Hmmm”…

Speaking of over-eating, I went to a wedding yesterday.  It was a wedding rooted deep in my culture: a big-ass Indian one.  If you’re not familiar, it’s the kind with wicked food and avant-garde dance moves. 

So when the bride and groom cut the 10-tiered cake (complete with candied flowers and pink icing), my heart lept. 

I wanted some. 

And hey, not to get off topic, but what the hell does cutting a cake “hand-in-hand” with ONE knife have to do with getting married?  Call me bitter if you like, but it’s pretty lame.

ANY-HOO, once the bride and groom were finished with the cake, they wheeled it off out of sight.

That pissed me off, ’cause I was craving a giant slab.

Usually when they wheel away the cake, they bring it back after dinner, and hand out the pieces for dessert.

I waited, but it never happened.

Now I was SO pissed off.

Eventually, I succumbed to the available dessert: some “black-forest-cherry-filling” bullshit.  It might have been considered a cake to some, but I know the difference, so don’t even get me started.

As we were leaving the reception, I saw someone’s empty dessert plate; it was covered in pink frosting, just like the one on the wedding cake.  Then I discovered a SEPERATE dessert station, complete with an empty cart, where the wedding cake USED to be…

Dammit.

And in case you were wondering, NO, I did NOT lick the frosting off the stranger’s plate (but I wanted to).

Okay, so now that I’m utterly pissed off and wanting to throw up (for various reasons listed above, in addition to just over-eating), I’m gonna call it quits for this post.

Hopefully, I won’t be as cranky next time…or maybe I will be, and why the hell not? It’s MY friggin’ blog…right?

RIGHT.